A true story from 1976, by Mae Harry, from ‘Now, Then And In Between,’ A Miscellany Of Writing, produced by Warminster W.I., 1994:
The Well
It was the hot dry summer of ’76, and one late evening I was out in the garden, putting the precious bath water round some of the shrubs, as hosepipes had been banned for many weeks. We had bought this cottage, formerly part of the Longleat estate, some four years before. It was over two hundred years old, and had been just a “one up – one down’ but a previous owner had added to it, and we had spent a busy couple of years improving the inside. Once this was done we were able to begin replanting much of the garden, laying out areas of shrubs and small trees. However, there were still some parts we hadn’t tackled, but I said they were our bit for nature conservation.
As I came out with the second bucketful, I noticed an old man standing by the gate. He was sucking a clay pipe, and despite the hot weather he was wearing old brown corduroys and a striped, collarless shirt. He nodded, so I stopped and said “Good evening.” He touched his cap, and said “Good evening to you ma’am,” so I commented on the heat and the lack of rain. He endeared himself to me by admiring the changes we had made to the garden, and mentioned two or three plants which would do well in our soil. I asked him if he knew the area well.
“I’ve been around these parts a long time,” he said.
“We’ve only been here four years,” I told him. “We came from Bristol. It’s so different here, beautiful surroundings, and it’s so quiet and peaceful.”
“Aye, tis that,” he said, “Even now.”
I suddenly realised it was nearly dark, and said I must get on with the watering, explaining I was using up the bath water.
“Don’t ee use the well now?” he asked. “It hasn’t run dry, surely?”
“What well?” I said. “We don’t have a well.”
“There’s a well down at the bottom there.” He pointed to a corner just beyond the driveway to the garage. “It always has at least a couple of feet of water in it. You have a look, my lass.”
I said I certainly would, and he would be welcome to call in for a cup of tea any time he was passing. I gave him our name, and he said “I be John Horseman, and thank ee kindly, ma’am.” He went off down the lane, and I finished my task, pondering the possibility of another water supply.
The next morning, while it was still cool, my husband and I decided to see if there really was a well. We hacked away at some brambles and nettles, and found there were a couple of big stones, holding an old, thick wooden lid in place. With some difficulty we levered it aside, and there was indeed a well, and I could see the glimmer of water at the bottom. When my husband came back with a bucket and rope we found it was deep enough to nearly fill the bucket, despite the drought, and he soon constructed a pulley to help raise the precious liquid.
We cleared the area properly, and for the rest of the summer we were glad to use it to augment our spare domestic water. Some of the annual flowers shrivelled and died, but the shrubs survived and so did the trees, even if they did shed their leaves early.
Although the houses were fairly scattered, I asked around the neighbourhood to see if anyone knew the old man, but nobody knew the name or recognised the description. I hoped he might call in again and kept a frequent lookout when I was watering the garden, but I never saw him. I even checked the telephone directory to see if there were any Horsemans in my area. I drew a blank – still some old people don’t bother with a phone.
The garden established itself over the next couple of years, and we often used the well if we wanted water that end of the garden, to save carrying from the house. My husband made an ornamental feature of the well, and put a seat for me nearby where I sheltered from the east wind.
Three years later we had an unexpected windfall when my husband’s godmother died, and left him ten thousand pounds. After pondering the merits of a new car or a special long holiday, common sense prevailed and we decided to pay off the mortgage. In due course we received the deeds, and we studied the faded copperplate writing with interest. One entry stood out.
From 1873 to 1902 the house was owned by John Edward Horseman, estate worker.
I never really knew who the old man was who told me about the well. My husband insisted he must have been the son or nephew of the original John Horseman, but if he knew the area so well, why did nobody know him? Personally, I think that John Edward, who had once lived there is still around, keeping an eye on his beloved garden.
Danny Howell adds: The house that Mae Harry and her husband lived in, in 1976, was at Dry Hill, Crockerton.