SQUIRE Cocks was a legend in his own lifetime - and, quite probably, in all of the lifetimes that he lustily created.
He was lord of the manor in Middleton St George and, although he died more than 110 years ago, his name lives on: there's the Fighting Cocks pub, named after his emblem and the Cocks Memorial Homes, named after himself.
However, much more than his name lives on.
Henry Andrew William Cocks died on November 8, 1894, aged 89. He was unmarried - but he had several female "friends". In fact, it is said that he built identical houses for two of them on either side of the Methodist chapel in Middleton One Row.
His ancestors, the Killinghalls and the Pembertons, had ruled the Middleton district for about six centuries. Their base was Low Middleton Hall, but bachelor Cocks was the last of the line. Well, the legitimate line, anyway.
He was very generous. It was his ironworks industry that created the modern village of Middleton St George (MSG). He gave money to the village school, to the new church of St Laurence (1871) and to the old church of St George - in 1888, he installed a window there to the memory of his parents, Elisah and Patience Cocks, and in 1889 he built a bell tower.
And he was generous with his affections.
"This bachelor Squire Cocks has been an almost legendary character in the village," says a 1950s history of MSG. "He owned practically all the land in the village at the time of industrial expansion and building dues had to be paid to him.
"He was largely responsible for the building of the first Middleton Ironworks in 1864, and one episode is described when the ironworks had one of its periodic setbacks, and the men were idle, he employed them at a rate of 1/9d-a-day to build up the river bank at Low Middleton, to prevent flooding.
"Squire Cocks is said to have had numerous natural descendants, but on his death, the manor lands and farms were split up and sold."
How numerous his natural descendants were is shown by his will which he wrote on July 29, 1893. He named two executors: Thomas Metcalfe Barron (the respected mayor of Darlington in 1890 who has a street named after him) and "and my reputed son Henry William Graham of Whessoe, farmer".
Mr Graham was left £1,000, as were "my two reputed sons, Charles Robinson of Home Farm, Low Middleton, and Arthur Robinson of Oak Tree Farm, Middleton Saint George". There was another £1,000 "to my reputed son Henry Wilkinson of Middleton One Row, postmaster".
Then there were his girls. He left £2,000 each to "my three reputed daughters, Harrietta Eliza (or Henrietta) Graham, Louisa Graham and Patience Matilda Graham, children of my friend the late Margaret Ann Graham of Middleton One Row".
Another beneficiary was Wilmot Warmington, "son of Mrs Sarah Warmington of Lower Church Street, Tetton Hall, Wolverhampton" who was left £500. We can but guess how the wonderfully-named Wilmot Warmington fits into the Cocks family tree.
In total, that is three reputed daughters and four reputed sons - five if you count the mysterious Wilmot Warmington. There were no conditions attached to their inheritances, but a sixth reputed son was clearly not so trustworthy.
The will says: "I give all the household furniture and effects belonging to me and in the possession of my reputed son Frederick Robinson of Killinghall...to his wife Mary Robinson absolutely."
The same £1,000 was left to Frederick, but it had to be invested and the income paid to him quarterly. It is as if Squire Cocks didn't trust Frederick with any size of a lump sum.
The will goes further. "I declare that if the said Frederick Robinson shall become bankrupt or do commit, suffer or permit any act, default or thing whereby the said income shall be wholly or partly aliened or incumbered, the said income shall cease to be payable to the said Frederick Robinson."
Should Frederick get into debt, or be fined, his money would stop. Instead, it would be paid directly "for the maintenance or otherwise for the benefit of his wife and children".
Even his father seems to have realised that Frederick Robinson, who lived in the terrace beside the ironworks in MSG, was a bad lot.
Elsewhere in his will, Squire Cocks left £200 to his housekeeper Alice Slater "as an acknowledgement of her kindness and attention to me", and £10 to each of his domestic servants.
He donated to the Church of England all of the tithes that had been paid to his family for the last 600 years. This allowed the Church to improve the standard of living of the vicar of MSG.
And £200 was left to the trustees of the Wesleyan Chapel at Middleton One Row.
This is especially interesting for village gossips. The chapel, which has been a private house since 1985, was built in 1872 with identical houses on either side of it.
Tittle-tattle suggests that Squire Cocks footed the bill, and the houses were for his mistresses: Mistress Robinson on one side and Mistress Graham on the other.
This suggests that the accommodating Mistresses Wilkinson in One Row and Warmington in Wolverhampton must have had their own accommodation.
* With many thanks to Charles McNab for the will and Christian Duff for the photograph.
* If you have any information connected to any of the topics in this week's column, please write to Echo Memories, The Northern Echo, Priestgate, Darlington DL1 1NF, or e-mail chris.lloydnne.co.uk or phone (01325) 505062
Salutatry experience of sanatorium life
For 30 years at the beginning of the last century, Dr Stanley Steavenson ran an open air sanatorium in the grounds of Felix House, Middleton St George. The article a fortnight ago brought back memories for Darlington historian George Flynn, who was a patient in a very similar institution.
IN December 1954, diagnosed as suffering from a pleural effusion and suspected tuberculosis, I was admitted to the Cheshire Joint Sanatorium at Loggerheads, near Market Drayton. The long, uncomfortable journey from my home in a Pennine village was made by ambulance.
Upon arrival, complete bed rest was ordered and I was severely reprimanded when discovered doing a jigsaw puzzle. I was on level one of the regime, and any deviation from it was frowned upon, but I soon moved up through the levels:
1 Complete bed rest
2 Permitted to visit toilet
3 Permitted to visit bathroom and wash
4 Permitted to bathe unsupervised
5 Permitted to get up for meals
6 Permitted to get dressed and stay up all day
7 Prescribed 20-minute daily walk
8 Prescribed 30-minute daily walk
9 Prescribed 50-minute daily walk
Walks had to be taken in the morning and all patients had to have a 30 minute rest before lunch. The sanatorium was surrounded by pine woods and bird-watching from our beds was one way of passing the time.
All patients were prescribed three drugs, "Strep, PAS and INH" (the first was streptomycin but I never found out the proper names for the other two).
On "Strep" days, the patients lined up and dropped their pyjama bottoms (or trousers). The nursing staff then threw hypodermic needles into their bare buttocks, before attaching the syringes.
Some nurses had the knack, but others... I can still recall the pain!
"Strep" was a relatively new drug and one batch produced some unexpected results. One patient, a clergyman, lost all his inhibitions and expressed himself in particularly choice language. I, on Level Three, was discovered cleaning the windows of my cubicle and was severely told off.
When Santa visited that Christmas, I was given a hot water bottle. Never before - or since - has a present been more welcome. Our two-bed cubicles had louvred doors, and windows in the wall which opened onto a veranda. On more than one occasion, I woke to find snow on my bed.
There was no keyhole surgery in those days. If part (or the whole) of a lung had to be removed, a large curved incision from neck to the middle of the back was made. For some, often those who looked healthiest, it was too late for surgery.
The sexes were, of course, strictly segregated: men in one block, women in another, with the administration block between. Only on Bank Holidays, when those fit enough to be out of bed were treated to a film show, did we get together, the women patients sitting on the right-hand side of the hall, the men on the left. This rule applied even to the married couple who were both receiving treatment, although he was permitted to see her on Sundays.
Sundays and Bank Holidays were the only visiting days. Tea on those days consisted of one boiled egg, as visitors invariably brought treats and delicacies. It was unfortunate if you had no visitors.
Sanatorium patients had to be just that - patient. Once the adjustment to a slower pace of life had been made, it was bearable, apart from the separation from those you loved.
Children were not allowed to visit and I had to resign myself to not seeing my small daughter for at least six months.
For my visitors it was even worse. My wife, Brenda, set out at 8am on a Sunday to catch a local train and then walk a mile to the pick-up point for the special visitors' coach. A rural pub en route set aside a room and provided tea at lunchtime.
Visiting hours were 2pm-4pm, and then the long return journey had to be endured.
At the end of six months, two stones heavier than when admitted, I was declared fit enough to return home, although it was another three months before I was allowed to return to work.
I never regretted my stay at Loggerheads, because it gave me an insight into medical routine and an admiration for all branches of the medical profession which has remained with me throughout my life.
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