Evacuation

EVACUATION

My late father wrote this in 1993 after he visited with my brother David, the village to which he had been evacuated in 1939.

“Look David, there’s the church of Collier Street Village and on the right the school. Turn left in front of the church. That is Harker Street, the house is at the end on the right. Yes, that’s the one with a tiny window at the side of the house, sun shining into the loft on this day, a sort of dormer bedroom.” This was Collier Street Village to where I was evacuated on Friday September 1st 1939.

“All you kids line up. Keep away from the edge of the platform. Make sure you have your labels around your neck, check your gasmask and luggage. Wait for the train to stop before opening the doors. Smith you can’t take your dog” bellowed the master-in-charge.

Evacuation from London had started at Plumstead Station. I was seven , nearly eight and it was exciting. Trains to Maidstone, Kent, only 30-40 miles away from home and then coach to the village. Not too far from Mum.

Four of us were billeted with Mr and Mrs Trimmer. We lived in a semi by a hop field. George, the twins and I walking down the street with our cases and bags, feeling excited.

“Come on George keep up, you are eight, the oldest of us, we are nearly there,” I said.

“That’s the house, 52.” “Hello, boys” said the lady at the gate”. We went into meet Mr and Mrs Trimmer who we were to be billeted with when war was near.

“Your bedroom is up the stairs,” she said. Mrs T was large with two fangs sticking up from her bottom jaw. Mr T was small and insignificant.

We were shown up these rickety stairs to the loft with two double beds and acutely sloping roof. When you sat up in the morning you banged your head. There was only one small window at the side of the room.

“Saturday mornings you scrub the floor.” Mrs T told us.

Sunday September 3rd 11 a.m., war was declared on the radio. The sirens sounded, dogs brought in from the kennels in the garden. Everyone had brandy and water including the dogs.

On Saturday mornings, the old girl went shopping in Maidstone about eight miles away. When she came back about one o’clock, we had to meet her in the village at the bus stop. It meant about a half-mile walk down the lane, which had a stream on the left hand side.

When she got off the bus, she gave us the shopping bags, which we had to carry while she went to the pub, until closing time about 3pm. She came home well-oiled. Picked up Mr T by the lapels and shook him, shouting “Why haven’t you put the shopping away you lazy hound?” I had never seen anything like it.

The cockneys were down from the East End of London for the annual hop picking. After school we would go and help, but they didn’t give us anything. We soon learnt to put leaves in the canvas skips.

“Hey stop that! Here’s a penny to go away” they said. We earned a few pennies that way. Looking at the school, all I remember was playing rounders. The church was so clear in my memory. Just past the houses was a green lane on the left and a small stream running down the left side.

Yes, there it is. I remember walking down the lane when I felt homesick.
This lane led to the pub, but where is it? I called in at some farm buildings at the sort of junction. Having made some enquiries, I was told that the pub was a little farther on but is now a house. Sure enough we found it. The bus stop was there when the bus pulled off the main road. The house certainly looked like a pub.

Yes, that was it 54 years later.

Note

My grandmother visited my father at his new home a few weeks after he was evacuated. My dad had been pleased that he had not been made to wash during his stay. My grandmother was appalled at the state he was in and the couple with whom he was staying. She promptly took my father back home, thinking that London during the Blitz was a safer option than leaving her son in Collier Street with Mr and Mrs Trimmer.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.