Evacuatiom

CHILDREN SENT TO BATLEY FOR SAFETY

Boys and girls find themselves in a strange land

Big red buses, looking strangely out of place in the quiet side streets, lined the roads by our school in Kingston-upon-Thames. We all scrambled into them, carrying assorted precious bags and battered cardboard suitcases. Our ever present gas masks getting in the way as usual they thumped against our bodies. We were all suitably tagged with luggage labels, tied to our coats , bearing our name, address and date of birth.

Babies cried, younger brothers and sisters cried, mothers cried as they waved goodbye. We did not cry. We were much too excited — anyway seeing grownups in tears was an excitement in itself. We were going to the country, or the seaside, to get away from the bombs. I was fed up with bombs and dragging my bedding down the garden to the air-raid shelter every night, I was fed up with the noise and the streets with great gaps in them where the bombs had fallen. Even the cat used to carefully carry her kittens off to the shelter at the first wail of the siren.

During the first years of the war we had lived near Croyden Airfield and had an “Ack Ack” gun at the end of the road which kept us awake all night. I used to add to my mother's troubles by refusing to go to the shelter, hiding behind the settee muttering, “I hate blasted Hitler, damn and blast him.” Such words from a 7 year old scandalized everyone. “Where did the child learn such language ?” In the morning we used to collect shrapnel from the shells.

The girl next door hid behind the settee as well. She was in the ATS, working the winches for the barrage balloons. One day the wind was too strong for her and she lost her balloon. As it went sailing off towards the Continent, she fled home to her Mum, closely followed by the Military Police who escorted her, weeping copiously, back to camp.

Preparation for evacuation started with a medical by the school doctor. We all had to line up in our knickers and vests — in public — well, in front of each other and the teachers. I was mortified, then I had to take my vest off — actually it had to be forcibly dragged off me. Exhibitionist might be, but I drew the line at semi-nudity in front of a man! Doctor or not, I showed him a blister that had appeared on my arm but he ignored me. I made such a fuss about things that this often happened.

Packing did not take long, our few possessions would look pitiful to present day children. Most of the evacuees had brown paper parcels or carrier bags. Some even travelled without a change of clothing, yet we were leaving home for months or maybe years. Nobody really knew.

My younger sister Susan and I had a new doll each, not a proper doll made of china with sleeping eyes, but a rotten old cloth thing with a painted face. I was not impressed.

After our journey in the convoy of buses up to London, we arrived at a huge station. Children, children everywhere, crying, laughing, shouting, silent, boisterous, fighting. We filled the station the station with a noise like hundred of chattering starlings.

Great engines belched steam and acrid smoke over everything and everyone. Grimy little faces became
streaked with tears, parcels got lost. Gas masks became even more irksome.

Most of us decided that, country or not, evacuation was beginning to lose its attraction. At nine years old I had been put in charge of Susan, who was just six. Susan was one of the crying children.

Order was somehow achieved out of chaos. Adults shepherded us onto the waiting train. We were given cartons of milk to drink. I had never seen a carton before and promptly spilt my milk in my efforts to open it.

We all began to sing, “We don't know where we're going till we're there.”

We did know that we were going to the country — or the seaside, Probably Cornwall or Devon, Mummy had told us. We had a book at home, full of pictures of Cornwall and Devon. I'd spent hours reading it. Boy — was I in for a shock.

It was dark when we arrived in Batley, Yorkshire. I peered round. Didn't look much like the pictures in the book to me. Huge black grimy buildings, cobble stones that bit through my sandals. All very bewildering.

We were taken to a Civic Restaurant for a meal and then to Hick Lane Methodist Church, where we were to spend the night. Horror! We were Roman Catholics. Sixty years ago we had to ask permission to attend a service in a non-Catholic Church. Now I was expected to go to bed in one !! A real denominational dilemma for a tired and puzzled little girl.

To add to my troubles, I had started to feel hot and itchy.

We slept on mattresses on the floor. Rows and rows of us, filling the Church. Children from London as well as ourselves. A kind lady helped us wash, tucked us in and even kissed us goodnight.

She helped us write a letter home and added a reassuring note to mother, telling her all was well.

All was not well.

Burning up with fever, itching all over, homesick and feeling decidedly cheated (where was the sea?) I sat up suddenly during the night, forgetting where I* was, banged my head hard on some water pipes and added concussion to my troubles.

Next morning things seemed brighter. We were all eager to learn where we would be billeted — another new word. Mother had insisted that Susan and I stayed together.

My concussion had subsided to a dull ache and an interesting lump, and nice little blisters were appearing on various parts of my body. I thought it prudent to conceal the fact.

Gradually all the children were dispersed in the company of their host families. We were taken outside, together with several other children and put in an ambulance. (Heavens, someone must have found out about the blisters!), but no, we were being taken to our new homes. Susan and I were to stay with a family in the Carlinghow area.

The whole street turned out in curiosity to view the “Little Londoners”'

“Go on, say some London”, they kept prompting us. “Eee — don't they talk lovely,” they pronounced on hearing our Home Counties accents.

I became very irate at being called a Londoner, or worse a Cockney, Kingston at that time was a market town and we did not consider ourselves Londoners.

Susan was an immediate hit, small and dainty with huge “Betty Davis” eyes. She knew just how to charm people.

The miner with whom we were to live used to call Susan his little angel. I was a different proposition . Tall for my age and inclined to be bossy, red in the face and belligerent about talk of Cockneys. I must have been very daunting for our hosts.

After we had eaten — tea came without milk and was served in huge mugs (was there no end to these surprises?) - we awaited the arrival of our bedding which was to be delivered. When it finally arrived it turned out to be a canvas camp bed and a couple of hairy blankets. With the addition of sheets, we slept on this for the first night.

Susan cried, I cried and continued to burn and itch. By morning it was obvious to all that I had full blown Chicken Pox. I probably started a major epidemic after my night with all the other children in the church.

The following night, Hilda, the daughter of the house and a teacher at the local Catholic school, gave up her nice soft bed to Susan and me, and slept on the camp bed for the whole time we lived with them.

It was an act of great kindness, for she must have been most uncomfortable. I will always be grateful to her for it.

Batley was like a foreign country to us. All those Hills, mills and mines.

At school we were herded together with children from all over London and referred to collectively as “the evacuees” This never ceased to irritate me, a fact I loudly made known to all and sundry. We were ahead in lessons of children our own age and I was put into a class of 13 year olds, some of whom I helped learn to read. However, I was dreadful at arithmetic, which they in turn tried to teach me.

I continued to make my presence felt. I was fascinated by the piano in the front room and would not leave it alone.

I spoilt the dough for the bread by making a big handprint in it. When we were taken to Blackpool I refused to sleep in a bed with various large Aunts and insisted on sleeping on the floor. I fell over on the polished floor of the Tower Ballroom bringing down several couples.

When my hair was put into curling rags so that I would have “Lovely ringlets”I straight away took them all out and combed my hair with a wet comb.

Whilst playing at a friends house I fell and broke my arm. I concealed the fact from everyone until I quietly fainted at the breakfast table. I was left at the local hospital whilst the family all trooped off to Church (well it was Sunday).

Whilst I was waiting to be X-rayed, a young soldier told me all about a drunken night out that had culminated in a broken leg, and a woman regaled me with details of her recent mastectomy. That was the trouble with being tall for my age, I was always taken to be older than I was.

I was terrified of all things medical and i had seen a cinema warning that “foot and mouth”disease was in the district. I spent weeks sleeping with my head under the covers in case it crept up in the night and got me. How was I to know it was a cattle disease ?

By this time I was worried about Susan who had bad earache and was very homesick, so I wrote and told mother about it, and she came and collected her and took her back to Kingston. I think she decided to take me back when I greeted her with, “E Mam, I'm reet glad to see yer.”

In some ways I was sorry to leave. I would miss Molly, our host's niece, who was like a big sister to me. I loved the freedom of being allowed to play out in the street, and read Dandy and Beano , of which mother disapproved.

I think by this time our host family had had quite enough of me, so back I went feeling like and emigrant returning to his homeland. Back to the flying bombs, air raid shelter and, six months later VE Day and the end of the war.

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