Scraps And Scribblings: A Sign of the Times The December 2020 story

by Richard Tearle

A SIGN OF THE TIMES

We said 'Goodbye' to Old Sam earlier today. None of us actually knew his surname before this morning. For the record, it was Scott. Sam Scott. Not that it particularly matters, but that is what will be on his gravestone when the stonemason has completed it. We all chipped in to help out his daughter who'd been struggling with the funeral costs alone.

We paid our respects to her, she smiled and thanked us. We left the scaffolding clad, square towered church. Then it was off to The Old Locomotive to drink to his memory.

He was old school, was Sam: raised his cap to the ladies, held doors open for them, never swore in their presence. He was also, to coin a cliché, a fount of knowledge. If he went on Mastermind, nobody could guess what his specialist subject would be. He called himself – with tongue firmly in cheek – a 'walking Time Machine'. He was too. In his lifetime he'd seen England win the World Cup, man walk on the moon, the Berlin Wall come down. The Kennedy assassination. When I say 'seen', he'd not actually been there and witnessed any of those or other events (unless he'd bought a ticket for the World Cup Final, but he'd never mentioned that he had), but they had happened during his tenure on this earth. Many other things too.

He was a regular in The Old Locomotive. Same time, same seat. We didn't really know him, but one night a few months back, he'd asked if he could join our quiz team. Well, Greg hadn't shown up (we learned later that he was sick) so we were a man down. What was to lose? As it tuned out, absolutely nothing for we actually won for the first time ever. We all bought him a drink after that and every time we saw him.

I last saw him about a week ago, here in the pub, sitting alone as normal. He looked well to me and was in his usual fine if somewhat cantankerous form.

'Notice anything when you came in?' he asked, head down and staring at the bottom of his pint. That was a sure sign that another wouldn't go amiss. I laughed to myself, ordered two pints at the bar and when they came, went over to him and sat down. 'Not especially' I replied.

'The sign, son. The sign.'

'Sign? Oh, the pub sign, you mean?' Now that he had mentioned it, I had noticed; the beautifully painted depiction of 'an old locomotive' (Rocket? Locomotion? Puffing Billy?) had been replaced with a plain grey board, the name of the pub stencilled on.

(Photo courtesy of dover-kent.com)

'Aye lad, I mean the sign. Oh, I know it was getting a bit weather-beaten, but they could have got it repainted. I complained to the landlord but he just said it was the brewery's decision and this new one was much cheaper.'

'Locomotion wasn't it?' I sipped at my pint. Clutching at straws because I'd never really looked.

Old Sam leaned back and sighed. 'Nay! 'Twere Rocket.

'Oh, well,' I shrugged.

Old Sam wagged his finger at me. 'You're missing the point.'

'And what point would that be?'

'Listen, son, pubs have been part of our heritage for centuries. Started with the Romans. They used to hang signs outside so the people knew where to get their drink.'

'Yeah, but that was because people couldn't read in those days,' I protested.

'Not the point. They tell a story, you see.'

'What's the story behind Loco – sorry – Rocket?'

'Where's the station around here?'

I didn't have to think. 'Just round the corner.'

'There you are then.' He leaned back. Triumphant.

'Okay,' I conceded, 'I can see the connection. But it's the name that gives the clue. Not the picture'

'But which 'old locomotive'? How do you know if there's no picture?'

'Granted, Sam. But does it matter?.

'Certainly it matters! Look: the pub down the road there. The George IV. Take away the sign and how will people in the future know what he looked like?' He didn't wait for me to reply. 'And just look at the artwork? As good a portrait as any you'll find in the art galleries. Some great painters out of a job, apart from anything else'

The glass collector did his job on our table and I asked him bring two refills.

When he returned and I paid him, Old Sam said, 'Ever heard of the Marquis of Granby?'

'Person or pub?'

'Both.'

I shook my head. 'The pub, yes, but not the person.'

Old Sam took a good long pull from his new pint. 'He was a general in a war. Can't remember which one. Scotland, maybe. Or Ireland. Anyway, whenever any of the men in his regiment were so badly injured that they had to retire from the army, he gave them enough money to set them on their feet. Many of them bought an inn and named it after their benefactor. That's why there's so many around of that name. Interesting fellow. They say that when he rode into battle his wig would fall off.'

I sniggered.

'One of those white, powdered things, you understand. Gave rise to the saying “to rush into something bald headed”, don't you know?'

Old Sam sat back in his chair. 'Walk around the town, lad, and keep your eyes open for a change. The Princess Alexandra, Duke of Marlborough, Lord Raglan. Did you know that after the Battle of Bosworth, landlords of any pubs called The White Boar repainted their signs to become The Blue Boar? Why? Because 'white' showed support for Richard III but 'blue' honoured the earl of Oxford, who was Henry's man. Didn't do to upset a new king. Now take The King's Arms, for example. Depending upon what the sign shows, you can tell when the pub was built, or which king they represent. Maybe both. Learn something about heraldry. The Masons Arms, as another example, and is pretty self explanatory. The signs nearly always show exactly what the heraldic design for the company of Masons is

'Alright,' I said, metaphorically cracking my knuckles. 'The White Hart?'

'Emblem of Richard II'. No hesitation.

(Photo by The Author)

'The Green Man?'

'Foresters. Or sometimes a pagan god. Or even Robin Hood. You pays your money …'

'The Alma?'

'From a battle in the Crimean war'.

'The Good Intent?' A name I recalled following a holiday in Kent.

(Photo by the author)

Got him! He'd hesitated. But my triumph was short lived.

'A ship. Proper sailing ship. All masts and sails. Possibly during the Napoleonic Wars, but might have been a trader. Like the Cutty Sark. Don't rightly remember off hand.'

I shook my head and smiled. 'You know your stuff, Sam, I'll give you that.'

'It's the signs, lad. Come across a new pub with a fancy sign and it makes me want to find out what it means. Encourages curiosity. Breeds knowledge. Not these new ones, though. Frog and Firkin. Slug and Lettuce. Ridiculous! What's all that about? Don't tell you anything. So many of the old pubs tell you something about the area, or the people who lived close by, or what sort of work there was. Anyway,' he rose from his seat, 'better be going or our Jeannie will be complaining that me dinner's been spoiled. See you next week?'

'Of course. Take care Sam.'

But of course I never did see him again.

Two things.

I'll never walk into a pub again without looking at the sign and wondering what the story behind it is.

And, I'll miss Old Sam. I really will.

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Ever thought about the origin or meaning of pub signs?

Or why the Elephant and Castle in London is called

The Elephant and Castle?

Richard gives a bit of an insight on Helen Hollick's blog.

https://ofhistoryandkings.blogspot.com/2020/12/pubs-and-their-signs-guest-post-by.html

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