One of our ongoing projects is a history of Watford Meeting and our researchers have unearthed the first report to monthly meeting following the recognition of Watford as an “Allowed Meeting” in 3rd month 1902. The meeting grew rapidly as a result of successful ‘poaching’ –

“This increase has continued up to the present time, and it has been accompanied by a steady stream of removals of Friends from London and other Meetings including one with the station of Recorded Minister.”

In 1903 a piece of land was purchased in Derby Road and a new Meeting House, with classroom and other offices was set up.

Jumping ahead 104 years, in 2006 we were again celebrating the completion of a new meeting house. [In 2009] we are [again] a growing meeting and we are grateful for this. Most of the newcomers come through personal contact and others come to find out what we are about and like the atmosphere. Watford continues to be blessed with an active children’s meeting.

Upholding group continues fortnightly, holding in the light any who request this. There is an active circle dancing group. Wednesday group meets twice a month for sharing, caring and ‘doing things’ together. A stimulating bible study group meets alternate Sundays before Meeting for Worship. We have a monthly shared lunch, sometimes followed by an invited speaker, sometimes discussion and, once a year, a walk ending at a convenient café.

[As we go forward the following areas need our attention:]

• Outreach and the possibility of Quaker Quest: these plans are now a reality and what we do next depends on its outcome.
• Environmental issues, as a meeting or in conjunction with other local groups: in terms of the meeting house itself we continually bear these issues in mind: in terms of the issue generally we need to be more focused.
• Awareness of local and international needs and what we can do to meet them: again this is an area where we have probably made little progress and needs more thought.
• 

Power Shift gathered 350 16-25 year olds from all around the UK (and a few from abroad!), including several young quakers, between 9-12 October at the Institute of Education in London. The weekend focused on the development of personal stories: styled on Barack Obama’s grassroots election campaign. Essentially it involved getting people to talk about their personal journey to caring about climate change, and linking it to the ‘story of us’ and ‘the story of now’, in terms of acting immediately and collectively. There were also many very good speakers and workshops and stalls. We also performed a ‘flash mob’ dance on the monday, which was the highlight for me: you can see us performing on parliament square to the greenpeace activists who had climbed parliament the night before on the Guardian website here.

Owen Everett

Being true to seed
Is long slow germination
Patience, not hard graft.

Ruth Shadwell

Two brothers, Bill and Gilbert, pose confidently in this photograph I hold. They are showing us their new bikes, with their carbide lamps to show the way – in the dark they did not know was waiting for them.

In ten years time Bill was to “leap into cleanness” with Brooke and millions of others. He was killed on 1 July 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme, when 20,000 men were machine-gunned to death on that one day.

Gilbert did not “leap into cleanness”. He hesitated, remembering that he was a strict church-goer. That August, he cycled to church as usual, and was met by the vicar, who asked him if he was going to join up like his brother, and help defeat the dastardly Hun. Gilbert said “No, Jesus never carried a rifle . In fact he said ‘put up your sword’”.

The vicar, astonished, preached of duty, protecting your sister from the rapacious Boche, and, most of all, pointed out that God was on the side of the British, for had they not brought civilisation and God to the peoples of our great Empire?

The next time Gilbert went to church it was for Matins, the service he loved. It was a glorious morning, bedecked with the words of Herbert and the bible of King James. He saw ancient stone, carved lintels, a Norman doorway, the glowing glass, the square tower with its clock ticking away the time, the yew-tree sequestered in the comfort of the remembered past, and began to doubt. Should he defend this scene, this sweet especial scene, with the offer of his life?

He knelt on the worn hassock, bowed his head, and felt the church-born ambience flow through him. It was as though he floated there, suspended in a limbo of his own.

Then “How great thou art” echoed from wall to wall in the organ’s defiant voice.

He got up, walked down the aisle lost in a trance.

At the door stood the old vicar, with the good of his congregation at heart. His cassock was pure white, ironed by his wife that morning, on his chest two Boer War medals. He shook hands with each member of his flock, bending forward over each offered hand.
But when Gilbert came up, the vicar’s face changed, hardened. He withdrew his hand, sharply and obviously.

Gilbert stood stock still, speechless. He saw the others turning aside, avoiding his eyes. He felt empty inside, and so alone. Stumbling away, he knew what he must do. He must be wrong to think those conchie thoughts. His mind ploughed on.

Next day he volunteered, burying his doubts.

Later, he too was buried, at Paschendale. The vicar, when he read the paper, said a prayer for him.

The bicycles lay untended in the shed, never to be seen again.

Geoff Bould

I was not in a hurry. I was being careful. Everybody told me I should be careful – ‘at my age’ they added, very carefully. So I was very careful. But it happened none-the-less. I wasn’t doing any harm to anyone. I was minding my own business. But it happened.

The sun was out, shining benevolently on me and the rest of the world. I was coming home from the library, carrying a book on being careful in old age. How not to bend down, stand up, turn around, look up, look down, for fear of falling. Not much left to do, I thought. Nevertheless, I carried on, carrying my years lightly before me, and my past somewhat darkly. I wavered now and again, but that’s to be expected, I thought, when the stairs are steeper and the policemen younger. It’s all the same to me, I said, reprovingly, to myself.

Then I came to those steps. I knew them well. Stone they were, with a pretty fair handrail, much admired by all who passed by. Of course, they didn’t need the handrail in the first place. But everything was normal. The steps were dry, a slight haze lit the air; a cricket ball would swing, I thought.

Then, in a trice, a moment, a nothingness, I dived forward like an Olympic diver, hands out, perfectly poised for a racing dive. Only this time there was no water. Perfectly executed, I would have thought, if I could, which I couldn’t.

I picked myself up (there was no-one else to do it) and looked at my grazed hands as if to blame them for the fall. Then I blamed the steps, giving them a kick for their bad behaviour.

Then I blamed the sun and the shadow on the step halfway up. I had tripped over a shadow. How clever was that?

Geoff Bould