Last year saw the centenary of what is probably one of the more unusual Lin(d)field anniversaries, when Henry Lindfield of Brighton became the very first motorist to die from the injuries he received in Britain’s first fatal car crash. Accompanied by his 18 year old son, Henry’s car smashed into a tree at Russell Hill Road in Purley, Surrey. He was rushed to Croydon General Hospital, but died the following day.

All the main details of the accident, which happened on February 12 1898, were reported in the ‘Evening Argus’ of Brighton, where Henry had his home. As usual for this period, the article was particularly thorough:

"A sad fatal accident occurred on Saturday to Mr. Lindfield, a gentleman, of 42, Montpelier-street, Brighton. Mr. Lindfield, accompanied by his son, Mr. Bernard Lindfield, a young man of 18 or 19 years of age, was driving a motor car from London to Brighton. They had passed through Croydon, and at about two o’clock were descending a long hill, the machine running of its own impetus.

About half way down the hill the car began to sway, probably owing to the action of the brake, and at that time the son happened to remark, "I believe the bag has fallen out." Directly afterwards the vehicle became unmanageable, and swerving round on to the path ran through a light fence of barbed wire and struck against a tree with great force. Unfortunately one of Mr. Lindfield’s legs came between the motor car and the tree, the result being that it was completely smashed just below the knee. The son was thrown from the vehicle. He escaped practically unhurt, and finding his father jammed against the tree at once obtained assistance.

Mr. Lindfield was removed to the Croydon Hospital, where his injuries were found to be so serious (the main artery was shattered) that the three surgeons who were in attendance came to the conclusion that the only possibility of saving his life was by amputation of the injured limb. This was done, but after the operation Mr. Lindfield remained unconscious, and yesterday morning at about nine o’clock he died. Mr. Lindfield was able, just after his admittance to the hospital, to converse with his son, and to give him some directions in case he should not survive. The deceased gentleman, who was only 42 years of age, leaves two sons and a daughter to mourn his loss, for whom the greatest sympathy is felt. Mr. Lindfield was well-known and highly esteemed in Brighton, and the news of his untimely death will be received with very great regret by his many friends.The motor car which Mr. Lindfield was driving was a two-seated one, which he had just purchased. He took considerable interest in motor cars, and had on the previous Saturday brought another one, which he had also just purchased for private use, from London to Brighton, but on that occasion, it may be remarked, he was accompanied by an engineer."

The accident was also reported in the ‘Croydon Times’. Henry was apparently a ‘retired builder and contractor’ who lived at Lynton House, 42 Montpelier Street, Brighton. We now know from his birth certificate that he was born in Hampstead, Middlesex on November 21 1855, son of Thomas Lindfield, retired builder and his wife Elizabeth. During the 1870s, Henry married Laura Louisa Isom, and their son Bernard was born on July 3 1879 when they were living at 24 Albert Street. Henry’s occupation on the birth certificate is given as "gentleman". Following in his father’s profession, Henry was obviously doing well for himself; to own a motor car in those early pioneering days of motoring was a sign of wealth.

According to the article above, Henry and Laura had other children, another son and a daughter – certainly there were further births registered in the district of St. Pancras (notably Frances Jane Lindfield, registered in the 2nd quarter of 1881; Mira Edith Lindfield and Stanley Lindfield, registered in the 3rd quarter of 1883; and Sarah Lindfield, registered in the 1st quarter of 1884.)

On the anniversary of the tragic accident, a certain Mr. Porter of the safety group Roadwatch organised a prayer vigil at the spot in Russell Hill Road, at the junction with Purley Way, to "remember the half a million people who have died on Britain’s roads over the last century." A report in the Evening Argus also stated that he was trying to trace any descendants of Henry Lindfield. I have no idea whether he succeeded, but it would be intriguing to know. Assuming there are, do they actually know of their unfortunate ancestor’s untimely end, which has made him such an unenviable statistic? Certainly there are many who would argue that the motor car has, in many ways, been the scourge of the 20th century. Incidentally, although Henry was the first motorist to die in a car accident, he wasn’t the first person to die in a car crash. That dubious honour belongs to Bridget Driscoll, of Croydon, south London, who was knocked down by a car on August 17, 1896. According to a report in ‘The Times’ of August 12 1996, the coroner at the inquest into Mrs. Driscoll’s death "expressed the hope that such a thing would never happen again." (!!)

Although only 42 years of age at the time of his tragic death, Henry was already a widower, having lost his wife in 1893 at the age of 45. The administration of his estate, with a ‘limited’ will, was granted to Percy Benjamin Edward Isom, retired bootmaker, presumably his brother-in-law. The probate value of his estate came to £4230 16s 10d, a fairly substantial sum for the time.

Of course, driving at the turn of the century would have been unimaginably different to anything we take for granted nowadays. Not only were the roads badly made up, but there would have been an incredible amount of mud about, largely produced by the vast numbers of horses conveying the predominantly horse-drawn vehicles of the time. Another consequence was the large number of hobnails from horse shoes causing frequent punctures. And then there were also the practical difficulties involved in driving the cumbersome, heavy machines in these adverse conditions.

The Daily Mail was the only national newspaper to report the story in an article on February 11 1998 entitled "In memory of the man who found the car can be a killer." An interesting fact they managed to discover was that Henry was "agent for one of the newly formed motor companies of the day, International Cars." They also assert that "he was probably worried about whether the vehicle’s batteries would last all the way. Maximum range before recharging tended to be only 25 miles . . . " But going back to a Brighton Herald report of the Inquest (dated February 19 1898), the car "was worked by petroleum ignited by electricity." An engineer had driven them to Hammersmith before Henry took over, no doubt confident there would be few problems, especially as he "had driven the car two or three times" previously. The verdict of "Accidental Death" was returned at the inquest held at Croydon Hospital on February 14.

We may know little about Henry’s descendants, but we do know something about his predecessors. As mentioned before, his parents were Thomas and Elizabeth Lindfield. Thomas married his mother, Elizabeth Chorley on 28 April 1855 at the parish church in Bethnal Green. When Henry was born, they were living at 19, Stanhope Street, Hampstead, St. Pancras. This was his father’s second marriage as he is shown on the marriage certificate as a widower. In 1839, according to the Times of 2 October, "Thomas Lindfield, junior, Stanhope Street, Hampstead Road, builder . . . " was to appear before the Bankrupt’s Court. This suggests that his father was also called Thomas.

From our index of wills and administrations (Linfield and Lindfield Wills and Administrations 1858-1920 from the Calendar of Wills at Somerset House by Alan Lindfield, 1995) we know that Thomas Lindfield died on 27 May 1867, at the age of 75 – presumably Thomas’s (and Henry’s) father. According to the marriage certificate, Thomas’s father was William Lindfield, gentleman; Elizabeth’s father was John Chorley, engineer. A possible match for his parents would be William Lindfield of Patcham, Brighton (born 1764) who married Mary Miles at the parish church of St. Nicholas, Brighton on 23 September 1788.

Incidentally, we have in the Group archives part of an indenture dated 11 February 1825 between William Raddon (of the first part) of Sidmouth Street, Thomas Lindfield (of the second part) of Beaumont Place and Thomas Griffiths of George Place (of the third part).

This indenture is concerned with land in "the parish of St. Pancras in the County of Middlesex fronting west on York Market" and in "the east by an intended Mews." The lease, to William Raddon, was for a period of 98 years land was situated in the the Regent’s Park area. Unfortunately, the missing portion of this document means we only have some of the details.

As something of a footnote to the tragedy surrounding Henry’s untimely end, our former President, Eric Linfield, contacted ‘The Guinness Book of Records’. Unfortunately, their reply was most unhelpful and rather imperious: "this proposal is not currently suitable for publication". I would have thought it more interesting than the record for eating the most baked beans with a cocktail stick, or the person with the longest finger nails in the world! It would seem that the ‘Guinness Book of Records’ is more interested in the bizarre and sensational these days, which is a great pity.

As a recently signed up member of the Lin(d)field One Name Group and cousin of Barry Linfield, Membership Secretary, I received with interest Vol 6, 1 December 1997 of LONGSHOT which contains the details of my late father, Frederick Roy LINFIELD, Lieutenant RNR, both in the service records by Alan Linfield (Page 8) and in the Royal Naval Patrol Service by Arthur G Lindfield (Page 41). This has prompted me to jot down a brief historical background to the Linfields of Southern Africa.

Frederick Roy Linfield was recruited into the British South Africa Police, Southern Rhodesia in 1934 where he served in Salisbury (now Harare), Selekwe and Gwelo, leaving the Police Force on completion of his initial three year contract in 1937. In the same year he married Alice Gabriel who he met in Gwelo. Alice was the daughter of William Gabriel of Scotland, who had travelled to Africa as a soldier in the Cameron Highlanders regiment under Lord Kitchener, arriving in South Africa, from service in the Sudan, to participate in the Anglo-Boer War at the end of which he settled in South Africa, joined the Police Force, retiring as a Detective Chief Constable.

On 6 December 1937 Frederick Roy and Alice’s daughter, Pauline Mary, was born and on 27 February 1939 I was born and named Gabriel William Roy Linfield. We were both born in Bulawayo.

When World War II broke out in 1939 Frederick Roy, who was at the time working in Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia, contacted the Admiralty (being a member of the RNVR) and was subsequently called up for active service.

Due to Southern Rhodesia being a land-locked country with no direct access to the sea it was decided that Alice, my sister and I would move to Durban, South Africa, to be more accessible when Roy was given shore leave. This we did in 1940.

When Roy was reported killed in action in the Mediterranean in 1942 Alice remained in Durban where she had a job with the Admiralty. However, in January 1949 she returned to Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia to re-establish a home and future for her family.

Alice never remarried and finally died three months after her 90th birthday in 1994. Pauline Linfield married in 1958 and has three daughters and six grandsons, all living in South Africa.

I married Merle Denis Beets in 1962 and we have two sons, Roy and Wayne. Roy has a daughter, Andrea, and two sons, Dean and Bradley. Wayne has a daughter, Tracey, and a son, Sean.

This branch of the Linfield family still resides in Zimbabwe.

My cousin, Bill Linfield, of Harare, Zimbabwe, joined the Group last summer when he and his wife, Merle, visited us. I asked Bill if he would write an article on his branch of the family, which he has kindly done. It follows this introduction. However, Bill is a modest man and has not included much about himself, so I have taken the liberty of trying to rectify the situation.

Bill’s father, Roy, was my father’s brother and I first met Bill in the 1950s when he came to Europe as a teenager. However, I did not get to know him properly until my wife and I together with my two daughters, Kate and Caroline, stayed with him and his wife in Zimbabwe on holiday in 1992. We had a tremendous time, particularly as Bill flew us by light aircraft to many places throughout the country. One such flight took us over Victoria Falls and I can say that this was of the greatest experiences of my lifetime.

However, I digress. Bill himself was born and brought up largely in Zimbabwe and was one of the few locals to join the British South Africa Police, as it was then known, in the 1950s. Most recruits came out from the UK. He rose to be a Superintendent (I believe) and one of his jobs was Protection Officer to Ian Smith during the time he declared UDI in the 1960s. Bill learned to fly whilst in the Police so when he retired, prior to Independence, he took up flying as a career. He now works for a multi-national construction company, flying people all over Africa. He is also Commandant of the Police Air Wing in Zimbabwe which is a volunteer force who assists the Regulars with problems such as game poaching.

Recently, Bill took delivery of a new aircraft for his employers but had to collect it in Germany. He and the aircraft’s former owner then flew it from Germany to Zimbabwe, landing in various out of the way places en route. I think this would be a good subject for another article!

Both Bill’s sons are successful farmers, however they live with the constant threat of the loss of their property if President Mugabe pursues his declared policy of breaking up large acreage and redistributing it.

I have always been fascinated by the science of archaeology. Many years ago I even participated in a dig, in the city of Chichester. To be more precise, I spent some weeks in the Summer of 1974 and the Spring of 1975 helping with the excavation of the Roman baths in Tower Street, with an old school friend. As volunteers, we received the princely sum of 1 per day and shared communal accommodation in a house in nearby Crane Street, which also served as the nerve centre for the whole operation.

As short term participants, we weren’t allowed to do anything terribly exciting, which was quite understandable in the circumstances- though a little bit disappointing! At the time, the Tower Street excavations were heralded as the largest ever to take place in Chichester, involving the removal of some 1,300 cubic metres of soil by hand to reveal the several layers of occupation down to the Roman level. This was a classified ‘Rescue Excavation’ in advance of the ultimate development of the site as a multi-storey car park. It is interesting to observe, however, that the proposed development has still not materialised, and, hopefully, never will as the intrusion of the motor car is at last being resisted, especially in town centre locations.

My first job on the Tower Street excavation was certainly a memorable one – two of us had the task of digging out an old Victorian cesspit! My fellow worker on this occasion was a senior police officer who appeared to spend all his available free time on archaeological digs. What we found was fairly mundane and uninteresting: broken pottery, plenty of oval shaped soda water bottles, the odd Victorian ‘Bun’ penny, all discarded rubbish from long ago. We kept the old bottles which came from a local firm and were of value to bottle collectors. Once the cesspit was cleared of its detritus, we dismantled the internal walls to enable further excavation below (no doubt to some of the more interesting parts!)

Looking back to those days, there is little doubt that the site director, Alec Down was one of those rare people with an innate ability to inspire and motivate. He was a no-nonsense professional, completely dedicated to the job but able and willing to share his knowledge with all of us. On rainy days, he would alleviate the boredom of washing finds in the pottery room with an illuminating talk on the Roman occupation, often interspersed with some of the many anecdotes of a colourful and eventful life. When I recently rediscovered the notes he sent to all prospective volunteers, the following comments exemplify the man I remember: “Please DON’T volunteer if you are a dillentante type who thinks that archaeology consists of tickling a mosaic with a small brush and looking dedicated and /or hairy. It isn’t like that at all – except perhaps on television.”

It certainly wasn’t anything like it, for most of the time we were carrying heavy buckets to a conveyor belt which removed the soil off site. Nevertheless, it was a worthwhile experience, and I still remember the excitement of finding a Roman coin; such finds are an important way of dating the different layers. What was particularly fascinating about the Tower Street dig, despite the fact that the site was riddled with Medieval and Victorian cesspits, was how the several layers of occupation were all investigated down to the Roman level. In other words, the purpose of the excavation wasn’t simply to discover the Roman baths, but to record the totality of human activity on the site for over 2000 years. The northern part of the site had been occupied by a pub called ‘The Fighting Cocks’ from at least 1808, and before that it had been used as a Poor House for the Parish of St Peter the Great. The site had also accommodated the Royal Lancastrian School from 1811, which was finally demolished in 1974. The area east of the school building was the playground, with a number of 19th century cesspits below. During the excavations, several scholars’ slates were recovered, many with their owner’s name scratched upon them.

As for the Roman Baths, without going into any detail, it is estimated that they covered some 5,500 square metres. Unfortunately, since large quantities of the building stone were robbed during the Norman and medieval periods, interpretation of the evidence has been difficult. But three main periods of construction and alteration have been recognised: Period A (Flavian):

Period A (Flavian): Comprising a number of hot rooms, which were fired from the north end, there was another room (still lying beneath Tower Street), which was probably fired from the west side. Period B (Mid to late 2nd century):

Period B (Mid to late 2nd century): During this period there were a number of alterations and additions. A number of tepid rooms appear to have been converted to cold rooms – certainly the hypocausts were filled in and a mosaic and tesselated floors were laid on substantial foundations. Period C:

Period C: Considerable alterations appear to have taken place, but problems of interpretation have arisen from the presence of medieval bell founding pits and other disturbances of the site. Nevertheless, there are indications of a possible change of function. Municipal baths were not immune from changes in bathing fashion, and no doubt alterations of the existing premises would have been carried out to accomodate other types of bathing.

When did the baths cease to function? The coin series ends during the last quarter of the 4th century, but the systematic robbing of the building during the post Roman period effectively destroyed all floor levels. Therefore there is no firm evidence to answer this question. In all probability, the run down was quite slow, in keeping with the gradual decline in town life generally. The major robbing most likely occurred during the late 11th and early 12th century when the Norman Cathedral was being built a few yards away.

But I digress; the main reason for writing this article is to reveal two interesting archaeological finds which were made on land belonging, firstly, to my grandfather, Arthur Linfield and secondly, to my uncle, Jim Linfield. In the early Thirties, my grandfather moved with his family from Worthing to live in Thakeham, West Sussex, presumably to be close to the nurseries there which were being expanded as the old Worthing nurseries were gradually sold off for building development. They were living at South Hill Farm, and it was whilst digging a private swimming pool in the grounds, that some exciting discoveries were made. The excavation revealed Saxon pottery (probably sixth to eighth century), as well as fragments of Roman tiles, which suggested to the archaeologist who visited the site, Eliot Curwen, that they had found the site of a Saxon cottage. A partly polished flint axe was also retrieved. Soon after his visit, he sent the following letter to my grandfather:

16th March 1934                             1 ST. AUBYN ST, HOVE

Dear Mr Linfield,

My son and I have examined the pottery and taken British Museum opinion on it, and the result of your excavations and our enquiries turns out very prettily. The black pottery proves to be Saxon, and there is no doubt that you have excavated over the site of a Saxon dwelling. Whether the Roman tiles were brought from Hardham for use in the Saxon building or not, one cannot be certain, but their overlying the Saxon pottery at least carries this suggestion. The pottery of a lighter colour from a higher level is early medieval.

In connection with your discovery it is interesting to note that the word Thakeham means ‘Thatched Homestead’, and it is a pleasing conceit to think that you have hit upon the homestead that gave its name to your village. Indeed, what pleasanter site could have been chosen?

Now as to the axe. This is an instrument of peculiar interest. In the first place it appears to be made from chert which comes from a place called Broom, which is on the River Axe, down west. In shape and some characteristics it is typical of what we call the mesolithic period, the period which immediately preceded the neolithic. The polish is, however, a characteristic of neolithic work, and is not normally found earlier. The combination of the mesolithic shape and characteristics with the neolithic polish makes it not only of interest but of value from the point of view of the inference to which it gives rise, helping us to realise the overlapping between these two important periods.

We shall hope to bring all your objects over to you one Saturday in the near future, and then I am going to ask you to be kind enough to allow some of the black pottery and this axe to find a place in the County Archaeological Museum at Lewes, where they will be open to examination by the student. (Annotated ‘Yes’ in the margin).

We would like, with your permission, to write a description of the site and the finds for publication in “The Antiquaries Journal” of London. (Annotated ‘Yes’ in the margin).

Would you please let me know the width of the excavation, that is to say, the north-to-south measurement? (Annotated ’12ft’ in the margin).

With kind regards, and many thanks for letting us see these interesting objects and your excavation, Believe me, Yours sincerely, Eliot Curwen.

Now to the other interesting discovery. Towards the end of the Second World War, my uncle Jim and a partner bought Hillbarn Nurseries in the parish of Sompting, near Worthing. It was subsequently purchased by the main family business and put over to mushroom production. However, during excavation for foundations in October 1946, a hoard of bronzes was unearthed by a mechanical excavator at a depth of some 5 feet in a valley bottom.The following is taken from the official report by E. Cecil Curwen.

The hoard consisted of:

1. The greater part of a bronze cauldron.

2. Sheets of bronze apparently derived from one or more larger cauldrons.

3. A ‘phalera’ or boss-shaped object of sheet bronze.

4. Seventeen socketed axes.

1. Unfortunately, the cauldron was badly damaged by the grab, although it was undoubtedly in poor condition prior to its discovery. Nevertheless, by measuring the surviving pieces, it was possible to produce a fairly accurate reconstruction. The external diameter of the rim was some 12.5 inches, and the internal diameter of the brim between 8 and 9 inches. The greatest diameter of the body of the cauldron was about 17 inches, and its height around 10 inches. This gives it an estimated capacity of just under 5 gallons. As for its construction, it consisted of seven overlapping strips or plates held together by rivets. There were also signs of repair work. The uppermost pair of plates were folded back to form the brim, whilst the rim was formed by rolling sheets of bronze into tubular beadings. Two ring handles (about 3.3 inches in diameter) were attached by means of staples of cast bronze fixed to the upper surface of the brim.

2. Apart from the fragments of the cauldron described above were some sheets of bronze from another source. There were five pieces from the basal plate of another much larger cauldron. The fact that one edge was pierced with rivet holes, some with rivets still in place, shows that the plate was derived from the destruction of an old cauldron. Another piece of sheet bronze, with most of the rivets still in place along one edge, had originally formed part of a plate from the widest part of the body of a large cauldron. Various cuts indicated that the owner had been using it to make repairs.

3. The boss shaped object had been hammered out from a thin single sheet of bronze. From a basal flange, it rose steeply to another bead, and then more gently in a steepening cone to a height of 4 inches from the base. The apex had been torn off. The author had seen nothing like it before, and could not commit himself to any serious guesses. However, he did make a comparison to the ‘breast discs’ found in the Llynfawr hoard, although they were much smaller. It has also been suggested that this phalera was a trapping for the forehead and breast of horses.

4. The highlight of the find was undoubtedly the 17 socketed axes. These all had a single loop, were rectangular in shape and appeared to have come from twelve moulds. Some were rough castings, with the blade widening only slightly to a straight but very blunt cutting edge. The rest had been sharpened to varying degrees by hammering, the effect being to flatten out the edge so that it resembled a curved arc.

My uncle presented the bulk of the hoard to Worthing Museum, where it may still be viewed today.

Among Curwen’s conclusions, the following is of interest:

“The hoard evidently represents the stock of a bronze-smith, which includes several rough-castings of axes from the same moulds, as well as odd pieces of sheet bronze derived from worn-out cauldrons. The complete cauldron may have been likewise destined for scrap, or it is possible that it may have been temporarily in the possession of the bronze-smith for the purpose of repair.

A date in the second half of the Late Bronze Age (say 750-500 BC) is suggested for the hoard by the wing-decoration on two of the socketed axes, and this relatively late date would be in keeping with the developed character of the handle-fittings of the cauldron, according to Leeds’s typology . . . “

Although this article digresses somewhat from the strict confines of ‘family history’, I hope it may be of interest. Incidentally, many of you reading this may actually be descended from the bronze smith above! I wonder why all these pieces were discarded at the time – we will never know.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

West Sussex Gazette April 18 1974 Chichester Excavations 3 by Alec Down (Phillimore, 1978).

Roman Chichester by Alec Down (Phillimore, 1988).

‘A Saxon hut-site at Thakeham, Sussex’ from The Antiquaries Journal (Being the Journal of the Society of Antiquaries of London) October 1934 (Vol. XIV, No. 4).

‘A Bronze Cauldron from Sompting, Sussex’ by E. Cecil Curwen from The Antiquaries Journal (Vol. XXVIII July-October 1948 Nos. 3,4).

Worthing Museum Publications No. 2 ‘A Guide to the Bronze Age Collection’ by AE Wilson, D. Litt., FSA.