You'll Never Guess What, Mum

One hundred years ago my grandparents walked with their daughter eastwards from their home near College Road.  They, like many others, were engaged in an afternoon walk into the countryside.  They passed the school on the right, which Winifred attended. A couple of side roads on the left had been prepared but only sparsely built along.  From there the family walked along the hedge-lined fields; the recently-sold Beaumonts on the left, and Little Cell Barnes and Beastneys farms on the right.  There was no Ashley Road then, nor Drakes Drive, although the family could see smoke from the chimney of the brickworks in the distance, and there may have been a farm worker busily occupied in one of the fields.

The former entrance to Hill End Hospital today; the gates have
gone but the Lodge to the right.

Eventually they arrived at the junction with Hill End Lane.  Both of these roads were covered with crushed roadstone to fill in the wheel ruts and pot holes.  If it had been a summer day a passing cart or motor car would have thrown up a cloud of dust, but on this early spring lunchtime the damp road surface clung to their shoes.

Had they not been locals, my grandparents might have been surprised to come across a vast constructed site ahead known as the Hill End County Asylum, but they had watched its buildings  grow out of the ground for the past ten years, and new ones were still appearing.

To the right of them was the lodge building, the home of the site engineer for the asylum.  This impressive little dwelling still exists, of course, though it has undergone one or two less sympathetic alterations.

The asylum entrance one hundred years ago, the lodge to the right.  Courtesy ANDY LAWRENCE COLLECTION

Beyond the striking entrance drive and its globe-topped gate pillars – one of them ivy covered – it was possible to spot Hillside, the home of the hospital clerk or steward, and behind that Keeling, where the medical officer lived.

The family did not enter the asylum grounds, but watched respectfully as a photographer placed his camera-topped tripod in the roadway and studied the scene ahead.  His subject was no series of structures thrown up quickly and cheaply.  The walls were sturdy and capped with stone, the property protected with tall railings, and electric lamps powered from the establishment's own generators.  No other street lamps had been installed within half a mile.

At that moment along the road from Tyttenhanger Green came three young boys who attended the same school as Winifred.  One might have expected that on their own adventure in the locality the youngsters would have been boisterous, chatty, welcoming the opportunity to show off in front of an audience.  But this event was different.  They knew that, given a chance, they could pose in the scene and see themselves in the local shop later as picture postcards were sold.  Mum, you never guess what.  We were walking round by the asylum and we got our photograph taken by the man in charge of the postcard camera.

On that day the story was made by these three young boys.  Courtesy ANDY LAWRENCE COLLECTION

Of course, one hundred years later, I don't know whether the family did encounter the photographer and the boys outside the hospital; we don't know whether the boys came from Tyttenhanger Green; nor do we know they attended Camp School.  We know nothing about their demeanor, and of course we have no idea of their names.  The opportunity offered to them on that day enabled all three to appear on every copy of that postcard sold – and even on this blog version across the internet in the 21st century; it is a little personal publicity they would not have dreamed possible.

However, the quality of the negative does mean that a family somewhere might recognise a relative.  We are presented here with three boys of around twelve, ten and eight years old.  They might have been brothers, relatives or friends.  On that day they made a story – this story – which they are certain to have passed on to their parents, their class mates or their teacher.  If they had any sense they will have persuaded their parents to buy them a postcard – just to prove to whoever challenged them in the playground that they weren't telling a fib! Honest!