Actor and writer John Bartlett whisks us back in time to the eccentric, ‘wondrously wayward’ life of Hampshire publican Dick Luff.
The Queens Head, in the outwardly tranquil township of Sheet, is situated at the edge of a small triangular village green. But calling this little patch of land, with its magnificent celebratory Victorian Jubilee Tree, a village green, is stretching credibility somewhat. In years gone by, the sheer length and severity of the bend at the top end of the triangle caught many unwary travellers by surprise. This was all before the Petersfield bypass ended its glory days. Serving only a handful of residents, the road is now a dead end and the multitude of misadventures and upsets are a thing of the past.
I am not sure exactly how old the Queens Head is, but judging by the architecture, I should imagine it was built in the early to middle part of the nineteenth century. That said, the beams in the old public bar could be much, much older than the outward appearances of the building would suggest and may well be remnants of an older construction. Certainly, by the height of Victoria’s reign, the Queen’s Head was a feature of the landscape. So much so, that in 1866 an inquest was held there, concerning an aged gent who had collapsed and died on ‘Rams Hill’. I can only surmise that the verdict of ‘death from natural causes’ was achieved in record time and drinks all round, was the next item on the agenda!
There have been people living close by the river Rother since the earliest of times, indeed the village or hamlet was first mentioned in a charter as early as 70 AD. The Domesday Book provides the next datum point concerning the growth and importance of the community, or lack of it. By 1373, the modest collection of watermills returned £9.00 in tax and by 1526 this tax burden was shared by 16 persons. However, by 1798 the land tax collected from Sheet had risen to the giddy heights of £11.18s.6d, which, allowing for inflation, seems like a reduction!
My association with the Queen’s Head began when I was thirteen years old. Prior to this, my parents had itchy feet and were very fond of moving around the ‘Home Counties’, a case of the grass always being greener. This of course, necessitated a frequent change of schools. As I was late starting the third year at Petersfield Secondary Modern School, I was introduced to my latest set of classmates as, the ‘New boy’. I was kindly directed to share a desk with the form captain who was instructed to look after me. Tony and I quickly became firm friends, a friendship that was to last for over forty years until his untimely death at the age of 55. But that, as they say, is another story.
Tony was the son of the incorrigible and notorious Dick Luff, who was at the time, the incumbent landlord of the Queens Head. Being the son of a farmer, Dick was a countryman through and through. He wasn’t particularly tall, slightly portly, with a strong ruddy complexion and medium to light brown wavy hair. Invariably, he wore a light olive green, tweed jacket, and setting the look off was a waistcoat that had probably seen better days. His front teeth were slightly worn from his pipe, which hung permanently from his mouth. It turned out they weren’t his own teeth as somebody once grabbed the pipe and as it was whipped away, a set of front dentures came with it. Dick was always into something or other, his trays of cracked eggs, or cracks as he would call them were infamous. In a conspiratorial fashion he would sidle up to you in the bar and say, ‘Want any cracks?’
I don’t know where he got them from, but he always gave the impression he was doing the recipient a great favour when selling a tray.
As young ‘shavers’, my new friend Tony and I spent a lot of our early teenage years in and around the pub. In those days, before any alterations had taken place, the interior of the Queens Head consisted of two bars: the public, and the lounge. Prior to the mid-seventies this was a fairly common configuration, as up until then most establishments had not suffered the ignominy of ‘modernization’. There was one peculiarity and useful diversification: the Queens Head was also home to the village shop. Situated on the left-hand side of the building, the shop was the sole domain of Tony’s long-suffering mother, the indefatigable Beth. Whilst there was access from behind the bar, the shop had its own designated exterior door. Today, such is the march of time and progress, there is little evidence of either shop or door ever having existed.
At one time, to the rear of the pub, there was a small hall which could primarily be used for functions, weddings, funerals, and dances. More often than not, the live music was frequently provided by the pulsating rhythms and raucous notes of Selmer Sound, a local pop group. All that has since been swept away and the hall is now used as a restaurant space.
Along with most hostelries of the period, the toilets were located outside, tacked onto the far end of the hall. This was all to change when a billet-doux filtered down from the EEC stating that all pub toilets should be located inside. Not all venues could accomplish this without major restructuring of the fabric of the building, so it caused a certain amount of resentment in publicans and punters alike, and was generally regarded as an assault on our culture. Nevertheless, moving the toilets inside was achieved during subsequent refurbishments.
Outwardly, one might be forgiven for thinking that the current configuration of the Queens Head, is as it has always been. In reality, the original lounge bar only took up approximately half of the available ground floor interior space. Two internal walls dissected the room, creating the bar on one side and the shop on the other. The gap or corridor between the two rooms, conveniently, created a substantial hatch bar.
Like a stage set, and typical of the era, the usual paraphernalia adorned the bar area, optics, mixers, bottled beers, handled glasses or jugs as they were called in those days. Small bottles of Underberg, which was a supposed hangover cure, were displayed on a mock gun belt. To represent cartridges, each bottle was carefully wrapped in brown paper, reminiscent of something a seventeenth century musketeer might recognize. In addition to the Underberg gun belt, there were packets of peanuts attached to a card. Printed on the card was an image of a slightly provocative, scantily clad young lady who slowly revealed herself with every purchase. No doubt, a 1970s marketing ploy to sell more peanuts, which would certainly be frowned upon today!
An assortment of Harlequin chairs and small tables were dotted about the room, a seldom used upright piano rested against one wall, a window on another, and the fireplace took up the remaining wall. In the great scheme of things, the lounge bar itself was unremarkable, but oh what plots, schemes and jolly japes were hatched within those four walls.
As far as I am aware there have always been two entrances to the front bar. The door from the street has remained the same but the other one has been re-sited to the far corner of the room. This relatively new doorway is situated immediately opposite, what used to be referred to as the Public bar. The old entrance was positioned on the reverse side of the chimney breast, but during the alterations of the 1970s, this was sealed off with studwork. Latterly, additional changes extended the wooden bar still further, so that it now meets the edge of the chimney breast. The resultant alcove, where the doorway once was, has now been reopened again with a stable door and shelf to the side. Sadly, during the 1970s refurbishments, to match the newly installed half glazed lounge door, the old sturdy, ‘ledge and brace’ door to the public bar, replete with its satisfying latch click, was also changed. Fortunately, the old door was re-purposed and now lives on in one of the cottages overlooking the village green and notorious bend in the road.
The original internal entrance to the lounge was a pivotal factor to one of the many, many stories associated with the wondrously wayward landlord, Dick. Until the licensing laws changed in 2005, essentially opening hours harked back to wartime England, surprisingly not the Second World War but the first! The supposed temporary restrictions were brought in to make sure the workforce were sober enough to keep our industries going in ‘our time of need’ and, therefore, were relatively restrictive. During the week, closing time was 10.30 and 11.00 on Friday and Saturday. However, this was not always the case as, within reason, different authorities were able to impose their own set of restrictions. West Sussex, for instance, did not allow the extra half an hour at weekends. If we were drinking further afield, this often-meant piling into a car and racing back across the border into Hampshire for last orders.
Whilst the old licensing laws might be regarded as draconian, on the plus side, they helped to create a warm, friendly atmosphere, as most people were out for a drink at the same time. With a paltry two-hour window of opportunity, this was never more so, than on a Sunday lunch time, when pubs generally tended to be packed. Occasionally I was invited to a ‘prayer meeting’: an illicit, secretive gathering of local landlords, held in a participating pub, an hour before the official Sunday opening times of 12.00 until 2.00. This was always a very jolly occasion, made even spicier knowing that it was a reverse ‘lock-in’ and quite illegal. For members of the in crowd or chosen few, lock-ins were quite common. Of course, the wily Dick was one of the landlords who avidly subscribed to prayer meetings and, it has to be said to late night drinking for a select number of his regulars. As far as Dick was concerned it was all part of the bigger picture and endless task of hoodwinking the authorities!
Whilst it was well known within the community that certain pubs entertained after hours drinking, usually the local constabulary chose to turn a blind eye. Occasionally, however, rookie cops up from Portsmouth, trying to make a name for themselves, would attempt to make a conviction. On one such occasion, with lights dimmed, Dick was, as usual, ‘entertaining’. Suddenly the convivial atmosphere was broken by loud banging on the locked front door, followed by a curt and authoritative: ‘Come on Dick, open up, we know you’re in there!’
Thinking quickly, Dick ushered the furtive late-night drinkers down the steep steps behind the bar and into the cellar below. Once they were all out of sight, Dick drew back the bolts on the front door, allowing entry for the ‘strong arm of the law’.
The two young officers quickly ascertained that their quarry had fled. With as much authority as could be mustered, one of them retorted. ‘We know they’re in here somewhere Dick!’
‘Sorry, I don’t know what you mean,’ came the lame reply.
‘Well, let’s just have a look in your cellar then, shall we!’
Dick noisily led the way down the wooden steps. The drinkers, now fully aware of the approaching policeman, had the presence of mind to retreat around the corner of the cellar, up the alternative, second flight of steps and back into the bar. Taking his time, Dick also ascended the second set of steps and let the mystified policemen out via the back door.
With nothing to be done, other than to scratch their heads and mutter to themselves, ‘They’re definitely in there somewhere!’ they climbed back into their panda car and disappeared into the night.
Amounting to nothing more than finding boundaries and pushing them a little, Dick had a long and distinguished association with the law. There is a saying that says, always keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I wouldn’t say that Dick went out of his way to intentionally break the law, but he certainly saw the main chance and took it, when it arose. On one occasion, Dick and some carefully chosen guests from the clientele of the Queens Head, were invited to a Policeman’s Ball in Winchester. The trip called for a minibus and, on the night in question, the merry band set off from the pub in fine fettle. The evening was a great success but eventually, when the boozing and dancing was coming to an end, it was time to make the journey home. Understandably, as they had a reasonable distance to go, they decided to leave just before the last dance. They said their goodbyes to the boys in blue and with a final wave, left the dance hall. On their way out they were obliged to pass the cloakroom, and there, all lined up on a series of pegs were rows of policemen’s helmets.
The temptation was, of course, far greater than could be endured, which is why Dick received a call from a very senior police officer early the next morning. ‘All right Dick, very funny, I’ve got half my police force out on duty improperly dressed! There’s no point in denying it, bring ‘em back!’
It took only a split second for Dick to reply. ‘If you want them, you come and get them!’
A squad car was duly despatched to retrieve the missing helmets, and another minor victory was chalked up to the ever-growing mischievous list of Dick’s misdemeanours.
Nestled in the shadow of St Peter’s Church, the old police station in Petersfield is a reasonably handsome building, which incidentally also boasted a sign, very similar to a pub sign. I once heard a story linking Dick, the police station and The White Horse at Priors Dean (a former haunt of the renowned poet, essayist, and novelist Edward Thomas). The old seventeenth century pub is a remote, white, squat building with a charming rustic interior. Approaching the pub via Steep and then on up Stoner Hill, there is a prodigious signpost standing in the corner of a field. However, the actual pub sign, which should be merrily swinging from the ornate iron frame is missing and has been missing for as long as I can remember. Local folklore, for those in the know, would have it that, probably back in the 30s or 40s, Dick and some of his cronies pinched the sign from the back of a tractor and exchanged it with the sign from the police station. Apparently, the police retrieved theirs, and swiftly re-hung it. However, the White Horse never saw their pub sign again. Not long afterwards the pub became known as ‘The pub with no name’ and has remained so ever since. Of course, this is a fanciful tale as Dick was born in 1921 and the sign was missing a good many years before that, as testified by the Edward Thomas poem of 1914, ‘Up in the Wind’. However, it makes a good yarn nonetheless, and one which could so easily have been attributed to the youthful Dick. At the very least, purely based upon his reputation, to circulate such a story stands testament to the measure of the man.
… Did you ever see
Our signboard?” No. The post and empty frame
I knew. Without them I could not have guessed
The low grey house and its one stack under trees
Was not a hermitage but a public-house.
“But can that empty frame be any use?
Now I should like to see a good white horse
Swing there, a really beautiful white horse,
Galloping one side, being painted on the other.”
“But would you like to hear it swing all night
And all day? All I ever had to thank
The wind for was for blowing the sign down.
Time after time it blew down and I could sleep.
At last they fixed it, and it took a thief
To move it, and we’ve never had another:
It’s lying at the bottom of our pond.
…
There is no distinction now between the public and lounge bar at the Queens Head or generally in any public house, these days, but at one time, the social divide was certainly marked. In the main, with a devil may care attitude that never the twain shall meet, the villagers preferred the public bar and left the would-be middle-class drinkers to carouse in the lounge. The public bar clientele used to be regarded as being tricky but to be fair this is more a reflection of the times, rather than a judgement on the hard working, honest souls, who frequented the public. They were the epitome of the character Hodge in Gammer Gurton’s Needle or Everyman in the play of the same name. There was a general feeling of pride and a sense of self-righteousness, and a right to be treated fairly, on the basis that they were no better or worse than the next man. If Dick was a minute late on opening, they thought nothing of rapping on the door. This attitude was replicated if the bar staff remained resolutely in the lounge bar, where a few sharp taps with a coin might be required to gain their attention.
Arguably the old public bar is by far the more atmospheric of the two bars and certainly feels as if it is much older and more authentic than the re-furbished lounge bar. The uncarpeted floor is made up of black and red quarry tiles, worn in places from the general wear and tear of the many hobnailed farmworkers boots from years gone by, that have done their bit to make the floor slightly uneven. Supported by two wooden pillars, a heavy beam holds up the floor above. The furniture is still made up of old benches, scrubbed wooden tables, both large and small and a few other sticks. Accessed through a doorway via the lounge and not much bigger than a hatch bar, the actual bar itself, curves around to sit against the wall.
The dart board has always taken pride of place in one corner of the room. Owing to the restricted height, the beam above it exhibits many scars of wayward darts, which found their way there, by over exuberant players. Ole ‘Enry as he was known, was not one of them! I suppose all sportsmen have their own eccentricities but Henry Goodchild, (Father to David Goodchild or Nipper to his friends.) was certainly a sight to behold. To begin with, Ole ‘Enry would approach the oche with a degree of circumspection. Once satisfied he was standing exactly in the right place, then the pantomime would begin. First, he would raise the dart to his eye level, then in an arc he would swing his arm downwards before swiftly raising it again. This was followed by what can only be described as, a bob. On the rise, with his eye firmly fixed on the target, his head would suddenly whip round, then like a skilful comedian executing a perfect double take he would let loose his ‘arrer’. Whatever might be said about the way he played, he was no mean darts player, as more often than not, he would find his mark.
Back in the late sixties and early seventies, not being a player myself, I am not sure how good, bad, or indifferent the Queens Head dart’s team were. However, there were certainly many matches at ‘Home’ and jolly jaunts ‘Away’. Not wishing to waste an opportunity, especially in the early days, Dick would often tag along. ‘Nipper’ used to tell of one such outing for an ‘Away’ match. After a convivial ‘wetters’, the darts team climbed into a minibus and then headed off into the wilds of Hampshire. Bitterly cold, there was a dusting of snow on the ground. Piercing the gloom, in a great sweep of diamonds, the cloudless night sky was lit up by countless stars. Arriving at the pub, the team tumbled out of the minibus and with much rubbing of hands, made their way towards the welcoming lights of the enemy’s home pub. Uncharacteristically, Dick seemed to be bringing up the rear of the party. Once inside, the players looked around for their figurehead, but Dick was nowhere to be seen. In a long line, the opposing team were propping up the bar, to a man their heads snapped around to scrutinize the incomers. Suddenly, Dick, brandishing several sprigs of Christmas holly, burst through the door. The landlord had only just finished decorating the pub and had left the spare holly outside intending to dispose of it later. Before anybody realised what was going on, with a deft swipe, this way and that, Dick belaboured every available backside of the opposing team. Uproar ensued which was only placated by Dick announcing, ‘Drinks all round!’
Occasionally, somebody might tinkle the ivories, and the clientele in the lounge bar, would burst into song. This was always great fun but unfortunately, owing to the lack of material, also predictable concerning the limited repertoire. Tony, not the greatest of singers, could be relied upon to give us the ‘Engineer’s Song’. If you could coax ‘Nipper’ out of the public bar, he had a number of songs which he sang with gusto. ‘With my Hands on Myself’, ‘Old King Cole’ and ‘My Cock-a-doo’ being some of them. These songs were mainly drawn from the ‘Halls’ or the rugby fraternity but nonetheless, made for an enjoyable rumbunctious evening. George Money, an elderly countryman, always with a feather or flower in his hat, was a regular at the pub. He lived by the village hall, in one of the cottages just across the green. George certainly had the reputation of being a fine singer, but maybe he was just too old or maybe the repertoire was not to his taste, for regretfully, I never heard him sing. I am sure that in the decades before my time, ‘singsongs’ were a regular occurrence at the Queens Head. On a quiet day, absorbing the atmosphere of the public bar, one can only imagine how it might have once been.
Dick didn’t ever go out of his way to be outrageous, opportunity always seemed to present itself! Whilst never keeping a ‘rowdy house’ there was always a feeling of anything goes. So perhaps it was not surprising that the clientele always managed to rise to the challenge. I remember on one occasion, as if walking the dog, Chris Duffett thought nothing of leading into the lounge bar, the largest goat I have ever seen. Dick wasn’t phased in the slightest, not even when it pooed, and scattered rabbit-like pellets all over the floor. This was swiftly followed up by a torrent of pee and, as if by way of a finale, it then scoffed a packet of cigarettes that had been left unattended on the bar.
By and large, strangers to the pub were excluded from any buffoonery and simply ignored. Never more so than when two actor friends of mine were visiting, and an after-hours, soda syphon fight kicked off. Caught in the middle of the mayhem, my two friends sat in disbelief, as streams of soda water criss-crossed the room. The unexpected spectacle, reminiscent of a scene from Star Wars played out in front, behind and around them. Not unsurprisingly to us, throughout the battle, they remained totally unscathed!
Sometimes strangers or ‘passing trade’ were reeled in to participate in one of our favourite japes. On these occasions, rather than being ignored, these poor souls became the butt of the tomfoolery. Originally the Queens Head was a ‘Strong’s’ house. In the late sixties and early seventies, relatively small breweries were susceptible to hostile take-over bids from larger companies, a trend that continued but slowed down with subsequent decades. Inevitably, Strong’s were eventually bought out by Whitbread, a much bigger concern. There is a caveat to that as, in the past, Strong’s had taken over some smaller breweries themselves, but that’s neither here nor there. The upshot of the takeover was that Strong’s Country Bitter was out and Whitbread Tankard, was in, along with the obvious malapropism that went with it! It wasn’t a great beer by any stretch of the imagination, I always thought it was a bit thin and lacking in character. At the time, the country was gripped in a brewing turmoil, real ale or keg and the Brewers, who preferred keg, seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Whatever the merits of either side, what it did bring though was merchandise. If an unknown traveller happened to stop by and ask for a half. The response was nearly always “What do you want an ordinary half or a Hampshire half?” The unsuspecting customer, travelling through the vicinity, not wanting to offend and away from their home turf, would invariably ask for a Hampshire half. At this point, an oversized Whitbread advertising tankard would be produced, filled, and plonked down in front of the aghast customer. The tankard itself looked even more imposing, on account of the hollowed out, two-inch rim around its base. Irrespective of this deception, the tankard still held four pints. There was method to this madness, as invariably we would ‘help out’ in drinking the beer. This engendered goodwill, and as these would be ‘passers-by’ always came back, helped establish a wider customer base.
I have never had a local in the true sense of the word, but the Queens Head at Sheet is probably the closest I have ever come. It served as the central meeting point for ‘the Lads’ as we were known, and any pub sortie would always emanate and finish there for last orders and maybe the odd lock in. In later years, drink took its toll on Dick, especially in the mornings before he had time to settle his shaking hands with his favourite tipple. Everybody was fair game, including the likable, sagacious Dick. On Saturday mornings, about eleven, the pub was usually quiet, and my friend Pete and I would normally have the place to ourselves. Dick, pipe clamped between his teeth, probably feeling a little worse for wear from the previous evening, would growl ‘What can I get you?’ Knowing the state of Dick’s nerves, I would playfully opt for a Worthington White Shield. The baleful look of slight malice that passed across Dick’s face was a sight to behold. He knew, and Pete and I knew, that so early in the morning, successfully pouring a bottle conditioned, White Shield, was beyond his hand shaking capabilities. Nonetheless, with a slight twist of the wrist, the crown cap would clatter into the little plastic tray below the opener. With anticipation and bated breath, Pete and I watched closely as bottle neck and glass came into contact. The ensuing rhythmical clattering would certainly have given a Marines drummer a run for his money. About two thirds of the way down, with a flourish, Dick would flip the bottle upright and bang it down on the bar. Any sediment that had not already been disturbed, would be irretrievably mixed up with the remainder of the beer. Resulting in the whole sorry affair resembling a primeval muddy pool. After this entertaining display, ‘Mein-host’ would then turn to Pete and in a curt manner, ask him what he wanted. ‘A White Shield please Dick!’ came the quick, but predictable response. On reflection, after all these years, I’m not sure who had the last laugh. We had the satisfaction of watching Dick attempting to pour the beer but were left with a yeasty soup to drink or maybe it was Dick, who never had any intention of pouring the beer successfully at all!
Dick is long gone now, and I doubt if we will ever see his like again. He came from old solid farming stock, rooted to the soil, a dependable Hampshire man. He never missed a trick, a likable rogue, adored by some and disapproved of by others. On innumerable occasions when the evening needed lightening, with his soft Petersfield brogue, he would suddenly roar; “Bartlett, git out!” and with that he would take me by the scruff of the neck and frogmarch me out of the pub, around the outside and then back in again through the back door. Those fun filled nights at the Queens Head were truly special and as I say the closest, I have ever been to having a local.
Photo courtesy of John Bartlett.
