Bourne End's Famous Writers

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After Enid Blyton, the next best remembered literary figure to have lived in the locality, was probably Edgar Wallace, although he spent relatively little time here.

In 1928 he rented a home in Bourne End in order to be close to film studios in Beaconsfield, and in the following year he purchased ‘Chalklands‘, just off Blind Lane.

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It was rapidly adapted to Edgar’s taste and was to become a social centre for celebrities who flocked to his weekend parties.

He is seen here with friends on the river.

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I took a walk over there yesterday, the old house is now ’converted’ and the grounds filled with new (gated) houses and this was the only reference I could find.

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Edgar was born at 7 Ashburnham Grove, Greenwich (London), on April 1, 1875.

His biological parents were actors Richard Edgar (who never knew of his existence) and Mary "Polly" Richards, née Blair.

His mother, unable to manage, had the illegitimate boy fostered with George Freeman, a Billingsgate fish-porter and his wife. Known as Richard Freeman, Edgar therefore had a happy childhood.

On leaving school at the age of 11 he had a succession of jobs before joining the army at 18.

After leaving the army he became a journalist and in 1905 he first tried his hand at writing a novel.

His first effort was “Four Just Men” and was to be followed during the next 27 years by no fewer than 170 books and plays.

In 1931 he went to Hollywood USA to try his hand at scriptwriting. It was, however, not to last, for in 1932, on February 7, he slipped into a diabetic coma and died.

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His body was brought back to England and is buried here in the local cemetery off Fern Lane.

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I had been to the cemetery before, but not to look for Wallace’s grave.

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As I guessed, it was topped with one of the larger memorial stones, but surprisingly, there was nothing else on it but the name and dates.

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A quiet little cemetery, off the beaten track, but well tendered.

A narrow little path back down to the road .

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And then I spotted something in the hedge….a shaft of sunlight caught it.

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A vase “in loving memory” had been tossed there from a vandalised grave.

Thoughts and experience of many years

Are gathered from the field, like golden ears

Of grain, and milled, and pounded in the head.

Into the mixture, eggs and plums are fed….

Yea, meaty eggs, great plums of recollection

Are added to the beautiful confection;

And so, my friends, as you your places take,

Behold! The “knife of memory” cuts the cake!

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