WW2 Peoples War - My Aunty Mary's Wartime Memoirs

THE SECOND WORLD WAR
By Mary Lawrence
I was 17 when the Second World War started and lived at Peckham Rye with my parents — I was also engaged to be married to Fred, my fiancé. It didn’t come entirely as a shock when Neville Chamberlain (the then Prime Minister) announced on the wireless (there was no TV then) that we were at war with Germany. There had been unrest between us and Germany for the past year and Chamberlain had come home from a meeting with Hitler waving a piece of paper with Hitler’s signature on it, saying it would be ‘peace in our time’.
I had the same feelings and emotions as everybody: I liked going out, enjoying myself — going to the pictures, going dancing, having a crafty fag, talking about boys, falling in love - all the things you do at that age. But from that Sunday, my life was going to change drastically. Fred (as I shall refer to him from now on) and I had made arrangements to visit my sister on that Sunday morning. Fred had an old 1929 Austin Seven, so after Chamberlain’s speech, we set off. About half way there — half an hour after war had been declared — we heard the awful wail of the air-raid warning siren. We were stunned and frightened, imagining all sorts of things. People were running about, not knowing what to do. Policemen were blowing whistles and telling us to get to the nearest air-raid shelter or take cover.
Being young and foolish, we decided to carry on. We arrived at my sister’s place to find her and her husband with gas-masks on and gloves handy in case poisonous gas was dropped. We didn’t have our gas-masks with us — everybody was issued with one and you were supposed to take them everywhere with you. Babies went into a sort of box, which could be carried around, to keep them protected. After about an hour, the ‘all clear’ sounded, nothing had happened — it was a false alarm. Little did we know, that siren going was to become a very familiar sound.
After that, began a period which was called ‘the phoney war’, at least as far as we were concerned. On August 11th 1940, Fred and I were married. The vicar who married us was a very nice young man, putting meaning into the service, and he gave us a talk about ‘give and take’ in marriage and not letting the sun go down on a row or argument without making up. Some time later, he was in the scouts hut with two other men when it received a direct hit in a bombing raid and all three of them were killed.
A week after our wedding day, the daylight bombing raids began, with the target being Croydon Airport. After a while, the Germans had lost so many planes that they switched to night-time bombing. One day, I’ll never forget — it was a Saturday morning — my mum and I were in our back garden and we heard the sound of a plane and knew it was a Jerry. There was no air-raid warning — this plane had got in under the barrage balloons. It was so low and as it swooped over our heads, we saw the pilot in his leather helmet and goggles and a black cross on the side of the plane. He seemed to be looking straight at us; he went on to Lewisham, where he dropped a bomb on Woolworth’s, killing about 200 people — most of them women and children. It was devastating — I never knew how he managed to get to London without being detected.
The barrage balloons were a grey, fat, sausage shape with fins and they were secured to the ground by a cable, which men turned to bring them lower or make them higher. A lot were up all the time, but in an air-raid a lot more would go up; the purpose of them was to keep the Jerry planes up high so they couldn’t pick out their targets so easily and they also kept them in range of our anti-aircraft guns.
When the bombing began in earnest, everyone had the option of having an air-raid shelter: an Anderson for outdoors or a Morrison for indoors. The Anderson was the safest and my dad made a very safe shelter at the bottom of our garden. It was nearly all underground, with a load of earth on top and a huge blackberry bush covering it all. We had a mattress down there, some spare food and drink and some candles. It was to become my sleeping place for a long time — and also my baby’s, when he arrived. He never went to bed in his cot upstairs, I’d put him straight down in the shelter when it was his bedtime — even if the siren hadn’t gone, as I knew it would later. It saved waking him up and rushing to the shelter when the warning did go. At the front of our house was a railway line and during the war, there was a mobile gun on it during an air raid, firing at the planes. The noise was horrendous: as well as the sound of the bombs screaming down and the explosions, there was this huge gun letting rip.
In the Blitz, indeed during the whole war, we had a blackout — no lights must be showing anywhere; people had to hang black curtains up at their windows. Even if only a chink of light was showing, an air-raid warden would be knocking at the door telling you a light was showing. Cars could not have any lights, no torches could be used — total blackness, so that the Jerries wouldn’t know where they were.
At night, I would often go out of the air-raid shelter for a breath of air and the Jerries would drop flares to try and see where they were. The area would be lit by a bright glow as the flare floated down — it was quite eerie.
My sister had a close shave one night: the house next door had a direct hit — she had stayed indoors that night, wanting to sleep in a proper bed for a change. A big walnut wardrobe in her bedroom crashed down on her baby’s cot, trapping him. In a way, it saved him from falling debris; the wardens got the baby out and he was unharmed, except for being covered in dust — as she was also. Her house was uninhabitable for a time, so she went to the country for the rest of the war.
At one period of the Blitz, the sirens went at 6 o’clock every evening and the all-clear at 6 o’clock very morning. This went on for weeks and weeks without a break. Most people slept underground every night: the bombs dropped incessantly, but Hitler couldn’t get us down. Coventry was bombed, for the factories making tanks etc, Plymouth, Swansea and Southampton because of the docks, to name but a few places. They all took a terrible battering, killing hundreds and destroying most of the cities, but the civilians carried on. A special bond sprang up between us Londoners — everybody tried to help each other, people were friendly to strangers, they looked out for each other, it’s a shame it didn’t stay like that after the war ended.
After a bad night of bombing, the streets would be littered with shrapnel, which came from the shells our soldiers were firing at the planes. I collected many pieces — some quite large. Once, I picked a bit of dog mess, mistaking it for shrapnel — I soon dropped it, as you can imagine!
The City of London was set alight by incendiary bombs one night. It was the biggest fire I have ever seen, the sky was a brilliant red, the docks getting it very badly. Although the incendiary bombs weren’t as explosive as the ordinary bombs, the damage they did by fire was immense.
During the very bad night-time bombing, we slept under a shop my father-in-law had at Victoria. He had made a room under the pavement — it was a store-room really. We slept there for months. Once, we were going to Streatham, where my father-in-law lived, for a bath and to wash our hair, when we were caught in an air-raid and had to take shelter on Clapham common. It was crowded with people — all singing — and we joined in. Close by was an anti-aircraft gun, firing away at the Jerries overhead. We were trying to drown out the noise that was going on outside.
As the crow flies, Peckham isn’t far from Kent, over which the Jerries used to come on their way to bomb London and it was very usual to see a dog-fight going on between our Spitfires and their fighters, wheeling about and firing their guns at each other — the Spitfires had 8 machine guns. There were losses on both sides, but the Spitfires saved London from a lot worse bombing — as Mr Churchill said: “never was so much owed, by so many, to so few “.
The bombing had to be seen to be believed. Fred was on a course at Walthamstow, he used to cycle back and forth, from there to Peckham. His route took him through the Elephant and Castle district and he did this for a while. He got home as usual one evening and that night there was a very bad air-raid. The next morning he went on his usual journey to Walthamstow, but when he got to the Elephant and Castle, he just couldn’t recognise a thing — it had been completely flattened. It was chaos — hose-pipes everywhere, firemen putting out fires, people being dug out of bombed buildings. He didn’t know which way to go — that gives you some idea of what London looked like in the Blitz.
My own experience of being blown down a shelter by a bomb, causing me to lose my first baby was harrowing enough, but not compared to what a lot of Londoners had to suffer — death of their loved ones and some were maimed for life.
Because the Germans lost so many planes, instead of bombing us, they began their onslaught with ‘doodle-bugs’. These were unmanned jets — a flying bomb; the distance they covered was governed by the amount of fuel they held. We had no warning of these unheard of things, so we were unable to take shelter. They were long, with flames coming out of the back, when the engine stopped, they dropped like a stone, doing untold damage and causing lots more loss of life. How much more could us civilians cope with?
This went on for months, meanwhile the Germans were inventing something even more evil — the V-2 rocket — to try and bring England to its knees. I stood the bombs and the doodle-bugs, but these latest unmanned missiles really got me down. They were long, like telegraph-poles and were launched in Belgium or Holland, they went straight up in the air, out of range of our fighter planes, into the upper atmosphere, so we had no warning they were coming. They dropped straight down and the first we knew was when they exploded. They did more damage than any bombs or doodle-bugs, as people couldn’t take shelter; thousands were killed in their beds; they came day or night, killing 200 to 300 people at a time. My nerves went to pieces at that time: worrying for my baby, my family, about being buried under piles of debris. Luckily, these terrifying things didn’t go on for long, as the launching sites got over-run by the British army and the war was nearing its end.
So, after nearly 5 years of bombing we could begin to think of living a normal life again. As I said, I was 17 when it started and 23 when it ended, so I lost six years of my youth. Like millions of others, I was lucky to come out alive — with my baby. I didn’t lose anyone close to me, but to live through the Blitz is something I won’t forget till my dying day.


Acknowledgements:
Alan Constable
Peoples War

WW2 Peoples War - Family Life In 1942

November 1942 : Walsall, West Midlands, United Kingdom

My Mother had just returned from queuing at the local greengrocer for at least an hour and a half (not that she knew what she was queuing for). Rumour had it they had some oranges but as usual, by the time she made it to the head of the queue, they had run out anyway. All was not lost, as while they waited the ladies would have a great time with a good old chat about the state of the war, whose sons and whose daughters had gone missing, who has received the dreaded telegram and how many Yanks the ‘floozy’ down the road had been entertaining that week! We used to stand outside her gate and meet the American Soldiers with, “Got any gum, chum?” They would always find something, either chocolate or chewing gum. They always looked like film stars to me, good-looking and very smart — no wonder our girls fell for them. Every Saturday night they would visit the Town Hall for dancing to Joe Loss and his band, singing to Ann Shelton, jitter-bugging and turning the place alive! Rumours were ripe and most were very scary, the latest being that German Paratroopers had landed in Kent and would be in The Midlands by the weekend! On the way back from the greengrocer’s, my Mother would have called in at the butcher’s for a large bone. Stripped of its meat, she would then go on to boil it for several hours with vegetables and pearl barley for our evening meal — a sort of meat-flavoured soup. Ration books and identity cards were necessary for living, so everyone just got on with it. In fact, there is no reason why we should not be issued with identity cards today as we all have a national insurance number - what’s the difference?
We would sit around the dinner table with my Dad, when he returned from work around 6.30p.m. After our evening meal we would all listen to the radio, and the programme would be interrupted by special messages for the Secret Agents abroad, things like, “The doves have settled in for the night”, and the very ominous Lord Haw-Haw, which began with “BER BER BER BUM”, (thumping music), “Germany calling, Germany calling.” This was meant to scare, and it did! We listened in complete silence, and he would tell of the glorious wins. You could see the depression in both Mom’s and Dad’s faces.
Dad was a leather-strainer during the day and a fire fighter at night with the National Fire Service, based at the local Arboretum, in the Grange Playhouse. Very often, he would be on duty all night, standing in for the local Fire Brigade who had been sent to help out in the Birmingham Blitz. My Aunt Winnie was bombed out of house and home in ‘Brum’ several times, but thanks to the Salvation Army Volunteers, who were absolutely fantastic people, she managed to pick herself up and start again. None of us had a great deal so it was easier to start again in those days.
It was Dad’s night off and we listened to the radio shows like ‘Tommy Handley’ with ‘I.T.M.A.’ (It’s That Man Again), or ‘Wilfred Pickles’, ‘Name That Tune’ with Violet Carson at the piano, who, after the War, went on to be the famous Ena Sharples in ‘Coronation Street’. Then the accumulator would run out of electricity, so that would be that. By nine o’clock we would go to bed (and what an ordeal that was!). By this time the living-room would be lovely and warm, so we undressed downstairs, got into our nightclothes and made a mad dash for upstairs which would be freezing cold. My Brother and I slept together for warmth, with old blankets and an old Army greatcoat. Mom would put a house-brick in the oven for a couple of hours, wrap it up in an old towel and place it in the sheets at the bottom of the bed — it worked a treat, and was great for warming your cold feet. Going to bed was a challenge, but waking up the next day was horrendous, and with only your face and nose above the blankets they would feel like icicles! We would often sit up in bed and write our names through the frost on the window, (inside, not out). My wife, Joan, now reminds me that it used to form some wonderful patterns on the window like crystals. Joan’s family had the same cold problems as thousands of others. With our toilet being downstairs you dreaded having to go in the night, but inevitably you would, and you would have to use the ‘Gerry’ or the ‘Guz-under’ (the pot), and it was awful. I remember Mom ‘slopping out’ every morning for years, and yet now it’s considered inhuman for our criminals to ‘slop out’ in prison!
The dreaded fear of an Air Raid was all too often realised when the awful screaming of the siren began to howl over the rooftops. Mom and Dad would grab us in our blankets to take us down to the Anderson Shelter at the bottom of the garden. It was pitch dark, and inside, the musty smell of damp earth greeted you at the door. We would all sit on the teak-made bunk beds supplied with the shelter. We had no lights for we had Air Raid Wardens going around bellowing to people who had candles down the shelter with them, “Get that bloody light out!”
This particular night was a beautifully clear and the stars shone like jewels in the sky, complemented by a full moon. As children, we could feel the fear and tension our parents were suffering. Mom said, “I hope this raid isn’t the German Paratroopers.” Dad replied, “You women and your rumours”. After an hour or so, which seemed like an eternity, we heard the unmistakeable step of Army boots coming nearer. Our garden path consisted of a gravel base, and as the steps got nearer, they changed to a gravel crunching sound. Mom, who by now was scared to death, said “Bill, I think it’s them!” At that point, my Dad who kept the garden tools in the shelter, picked up the garden fork, leapt out of the shelter, held the fork in front of him, and in a menacing manner he shouted “Who is it? Speak or you will get four holes all at once.” With a few expletives, a man dressed in an Army overcoat with huge boots and a haversack at his side shouted at the top of his voice, “Hey Bill, it’s only me”. Uncle Jack had been on the night shift at the local Copper Works, and had just popped home during his break to collect his ‘snap’ and a bottle of tea in an old milk bottle (the poor man’s flask). He had just popped in to see if we were all safe. My Dad collapsed with relief on the turf outside the shelter, and Mom was physically sick! I have got to say, had the garden fork have been a gun, poor Jack may now be dead!
In the distance, we could hear the familiar drone of German aircraft. They had a peculiar sound, as if ‘off and on’. We knew they were coming again, louder and louder as they drew nearer, and then all hell was let loose as an aircraft came into view. There was a huge searchlight. It was sited on Bailey’s farm two streets away. Us kids had watched all day as the Royal Artillery set up the light with the massive guns alongside. When the light caught a plane in its beam, the guns opened up, the ground shook beneath us, the noise was deafening. Birmingham was nine miles away, even less as the crow flies and by this time, the leading aircraft was pounding the city. You could hear sounds like huge thumps, not explosions, just heavy thumps, with a glow in the sky liken to a roaring bonfire on a vast scale. The prime target was Witton, particularly the I.C.I. Factory. Hundreds of men and women from this area travelled there every night for the evening and twilight shifts, making bullets and bombs. It took them about half an hour’s journey by Midland Red buses (or as we called them, “buzzes”). The courage of these people in this factory was unbelievable, with very few taking time off work for sickness or family problems.
I remember a particularly nasty medicine called ‘Fenning’s Fever Cure’. It looked like gin, and was diabolical. Another nasty remedy was a bread poultice. This consisted of a slice of bread wrapped in Comfrey Leaves (a wild plant found easily in the hedgerows) put in a linen cloth and held over a steaming pot until the bread was soppy and boiling hot. As you lay in bed feeling sorry for yourself, probably with a chest infection, you would soon know when the poultice was ready. You could hear Mom dashing up the stairs (she had to because it was so hot she could hardly carry it) singing at the top of her voice, “Here comes Rose with a red hot poultice, she slaps it on and takes no notice!” The skin on your chest would peel for three days, but at least your infection would be gone.
I hated Saturdays. The day would actually start well with a slice of bread toasted on the coal-fire and covered in beef dripping (lovely and hot with a salt and pepper dressing). But every Saturday was the day of the dreaded coke run (coal with the tar and chemicals removed, leaving a slow-burning, porous coke nugget). Just as soon as we had enjoyed our last morsel of toast, Mom would issue our marching orders to go to the gas works. The mission would be to take our wheelbarrow to collect our ration of 1cwt of precious coke.
As you turned the corner by the old St. John’s Church into Pleck Road, we were confronted with the daunting vision of a two-abreast queue snaking down, past the pub, round the corner, up Prince Street, up to the gate and right down the long drive — hundreds! (it appeared like hundreds) in the queue, the hated queue. It only moved every few minutes, so judging by the amount of people in front of me and our Billy, we were going to be there for HOURS! How the Gas Board treated us left me scarred for life. There was only ever one man serving and one man taking the money and they had the manners of pigs (no, that’s unfair to pigs!). It was scandalous really with the amount of people that needed to be served. I wanted to scream at the top of my voice, but I was just a child, and in those days, you had to be seen and not heard. That’s what I like about the younger generation; they’re so idle they will not be ‘dumped on’ by anyone.
By the time we had struggled home with the coke, Mom would flip a coin to decide which of us went back near to the Gas Works for a fish and chips lunch. I always seemed to lose the spin. Mom always favoured Billy so I think she used to fix the toss! Again, there would be a queue that would snake all around the shop and out of the door — never in my entire life did I ever see it any different, it was always full. Just as you finally got to the front and went to open your mouth to place your order, you would be interrupted by the screechy voice of Mrs. Rollingson with “you’ll have to wait for chips, they have only just gone in.” I often felt she did this in spite, just to me, to make me wait all the longer. Many times I would be left near to tears.
My queuing experience made me vow that I would never stand in a queue ever again. Even to this day, I would rather walk away and do without, than stand in a queue. I am the first one to complain bitterly to our local DIY store. There are six tills at their disposal, but even on a ‘Wrinklies Day’, (10% off for the over-60s), you can expect to see a queue of thirty or so people with only one till working! I am sure the owners of this chain of stores could save a fortune on tills that are never utilised. I estimate that they cost about £3,000 each so they could make a saving of at least £15,000 in my local store alone!
Dad worked until 1pm on Saturdays so would always be back home by the time I returned with the fish and chips. Soon after we had enjoyed the feast, the next assault would unfurl. “Come on then”, Dad would say, “get the bikes and sacks out of the shed”. We’d then set off to Bentley Hall Estate, on the grounds of the historic family of The Lanes (Lady Jane had escorted King Charles to safety from the battle of Worcester.) The Hall, by this time, had been knocked down the family seemed to have abandoned the site. Many small mines sprang up by people trying to mine enough coal out of the ground to keep there families warm, we had some very severe winters during the War years, with 1947 being one of the worst winters on record, several hundred people gathered there on a Saturday picking coal-chippings from the slag-heaps discarded by the army of Pit Men. Some got killed attempting to dig their own mines. I was told that a huge seam of coal runs through this country deep in Kent, coming nearer to the surface in Warwickshire and Staffordshire, and going deep again further north. When contractors built the M6 motorway, it cut through Bentley (now Junction 10) and at only 10 feet deep they were pulling up pure coal. Hundreds descended on the site and the police had to be called.We would return home late on Saturday afternoon, tired and dirty, and with a few bags containing bits of coal. We would then mixed it with the coke to make enough fuel to last the week, it wasn’t good fuel, bits of slate known as “cracker” would sit in the fire, become hot and then spit red coals all over the hearth going off like firecrackers hence the name “Cracker”.
One day Mom and I were standing in the garden. It was a lovely peaceful day, but then we heard one solitary aircraft flying low and fast. We could see that it was German. My brother, Billy and all the other children were in school. Our garden ran onto the school perimeter and I could clearly see the pilot’s face grinning at me. He was laughing and strangely he looked very Chinese to me. Mom was screaming at him, “Please, not the school, God, not the school!” The bombs fell crazily from the plane’s open doors. We watched helplessly as they fell, and we saw the flash. Something suddenly picked us both up and flung us at the back door. It really hurt, and I started crying, but not because of the pain, because Mom was so upset, and it seemed I was crying in sympathy. Later on, Lord Haw-Haw said on the radio, “Today we have bombed Birmingham Gas Works.” They had not. They had bombed Walsall. Amazingly, not one person was lost. Several houses were demolished but each one was empty as the people were all out working and helping the War effort. The Gasometer was gone, but the Gas board deserved it, I have no sympathy, if only because of those accursed queues only one person slightly injured. When we heard Mom and Dad discussing that it was the Gas Works, Billy and I both thought “great, great, no more queues!”
Sunday was the unofficial slaughter day because the Ministry of Food Inspectors never worked on a Sunday. If you had managed to conceal a pig on your premises (we all had something) and it was ready (fat enough), Sunday would be when the poor animal met its fate! The Ministry men would preside over an official slaughter to examine the conditions and procedures (hygiene etc.) then on behalf of the State, take half of the animal away “because of the rationing” (I really would love to know what actually became of that meat.) The unofficial way would mean the total spoils for the breeder. The perpetrators would grab the pig under cover of darkness but the poor animal would always give them away as he would let the whole world know they were about to kill him. The screams would be dreadful, and Mom would simply comment, “there’ll be some pork about tomorrow”, and sure enough, after a few days, we had pork for dinner! And of course my favourite pork dripping on toast with loads of salt and pepper — fantastic, my mouth waters at the very thought!
We had a hundred or so chickens, with registered customers for eggs, and half a dozen cockerels. They were Rhode Island Reds, nasty beasts that always attacked you when you went in the pen to collect the eggs. One particular Cock, Bruce (after the boxer, Bruce Woodcock) would grab hold of the back of my leg, which was especially painful, because I wore short trousers. When our customers requested a bird for Christmas dinner, he was top of the list! That bird had lumps off me. When I stood in the bath, filled with just a drop of water, plucking all the birds ready for the table, I kept telling him how he had brought it on himself, and how he was going to die regretting it! Plucking was a terrible job. All the feathers would get up your nose, especially Mom’s and mine as we had the biggest ‘hooters’ but gutting was worse and oh, the smell! Dad would kill about 20 birds in a session over the drain in the yard using a sharp knife. Sometimes the head came right off and when he let go the poor bird would do a lap of honour around the yard with its head in the drain singing, “I ain’t got nobody!” It’s a wonder Bill and I never had nightmares. I once watched Mom skin and clean a rabbit that Uncle Jack had caught at the back of the Copper Works that morning. It was rabbit stew for dinner that night with pearl barley and dumplings — fantastic!
Bill Clements, my best friend’s Dad, was a lorry driver who frequently went to Liverpool Docks with goods and when he returned, he would always have acquired a block of chocolate the size of a large biscuit tin. When he pulled up outside his home, our tribe would descend upon it with axes, saws, hammers, chisels, anything that may have cut through it but it was as hard as concrete. You could hit it with a huge blow from an axe, only to remove a tiny morsel of chocolate. It took hours of hard labour to reduce it to nothing. It tasted of cocoa, and wasn’t all that sweet. God only knows if it was fit to eat, but none of us lot came to any harm (except for the hammered fingers) so it must have been OK.
Our entertainment was mostly in the street. The gaslights left a lot to be desired, and the only effective light was immediately under the lamp itself with pools of blackness between, which made it ideal for ‘Hide & Seek’. Some games would go on for hours, like ‘Tip Cat’ a game played in the dark, in our case a combination of hide and seek whoever became nominated by eeny meeny minny mo system, would have to be in the circle, the striker would take hold of the handle similar to a broom stick striking the tip quiet hard on the end, because of the shape, similar to a huge cigar shaped at each end, when hit it jumped up in the air to be hit again by the striker projecting it several yards away, whilst the retriever chased after it to bring back to the circle everyone else in the game disappeared behind garden gates privet hedges, anywhere out of sight, with the poor retriever having to discover us, the first one caught was the next in the circle, then the Tip cat would be hit again. There would be football in teams, with the top half of the street playing the bottom half. Inevitably someone would get kicked a bit too hard, or pushed, followed by an obligatory fight. The girls would play Hopscotch, Rounders, or Group Skipping. We never had to worry about being run over, as we had no motorcars on our estate with the exception of Mr. Humphries. He wasn’t allowed any petrol so he would get his car out on a Sunday morning, clean it, and put it away again. The only vehicles using our street belonged to the Co-op or horse & carts delivering bread, milk, coal or grocery. After 5.00pm you would never see a vehicle in the street until the next morning when the milk was delivered. Bread wasn’t wrapped up, and you would often see a loaf of bread on the doorstep, open to ‘all and sundry’ that may fall upon it. The family would arrive home, take the bread in and use it without a second thought.
Our local ‘Copper’ lived in the street and if he caught you ‘up to no good’ such as scrumping (stealing apples from someone’s trees), he would give you a ringing belt around the ears, and you never told your Dad because he would have given you another one! Our Copper’s patrols were done on pushbike.
It was a Monday and I hated Monday’s too. This day was dedicated to the chore of all chores — washing! The very thought of it raises the hair on the back of my neck and my palms go clammy and damp! Mom would start the day at the crack of dawn. Dad was lucky, he could run off to work but we weren’t so lucky and even if it was a school day, you had to perform chores before and during school and on your lunch-break. Only near death could get you excused from washday duties. The previous week’s ashes had to be removed from the fire, newspapers had to be wrung together like wringing a wet sponge and laid at the bottom of the fire-box with several dry selected bits of firewood placed over the paper. Then you would attach a light and stand back. The boiler was made of a cast iron pot about 18 inches in diameter and about 18 inches deep, mounted in brick and dominating a huge chunk of the kitchen. It would be filled with water to the maximum and when you opened the chimney flue-box fully, the flames would roar up the chimney, soon boiling the water into cascades of steam into every room of the house, with every window and door or aperture open to the elements, regardless of the weather. Sometimes it was freezing and the whole house would look like a station platform waiting for some huge express train to leave. There was a hive of activity of stoking, prodding with the boiling stick, dangling the ‘Rickets’ blue bag until it disappeared, stirring, lifting, tossing, sheets, shirts, pillows, socks, nighties and knickers. There was no sanctuary from the pain, nor peace or tranquillity. Mom would occasionally appear amidst a fog of steam, near the sink, dowsing sheets from the boiler to the tap, rinsing, prodding and squeezing. We would interrupt the proceedings to request food — no chance — “Get yourself a carrot to scrape, that will keep you going” she would retort, so we would slip into the pantry for a slice of bread and butter, cut like a door step and smothered in Bee Top brown sauce. We needed to build our strength up for the next step, which was more of an experience than a task.
Mom would introduce you to the ‘Maid’ — a stick of a young thing, with a head liken to a castle-top, with handles for shoulders, made of soft wood, standing up to its neck in the beer barrel she had acquired for a tub. I could just about peer over the top into its murky depths. She would demonstrate with great vigour how to beat the living daylights out of our laundry — you would slap your hands on the handles and set it going up and down like a Navvy’s jackhammer! The momentum would take over, and sometimes it was difficult to stop! I did not know which was worse, maiding or wringing a huge handle attached to two large wooded rollers known as the mangle, which had gears and cogs, all at eye-level to me! Mom would spin these with great gusto, and on command, you would attempt to attach yourself to the handles, whilst in a fair old lick of speed, sheets would disappear into one side and come out the other, releasing gallons of water in the process, and all the time these cogs and gears would rumble just past my nose, teeth into teeth, with the smoothness of a Rolls Royce. By the time Dad was due home from work, wash day may would be drawing to a close. On a nice day the sheets would be cascading down the garden like the sails of a regatta but on a bad day, slung across from corner to corner of the living-room with the rest of the evening like being on board a tea-clipper with the full rigging above your head!
Uncle Ernie acquired an American Red Indian motorcycle with long handlebars like steer horns. It had running boards for footrests, which ran the whole length of the bike. It was a noisy beast. One day he invited Dad to get on the back for a ride, so having accepted the invitation, Dad cocked his leg over the saddle with Ernie giving the accelerator some ‘wellie’. The noise and vibration were enormous. At the split second that Dad placed both feet on the road to adjust his seat, Ernie let the clutch soaring off like a Boeing 747! Time froze for two seconds then gravity kicked in depositing Dad on his ‘pride’ with a bump. Ernie went 15 miles before he had to pull up in traffic outside Burton’s window (the tailor’s shop) and saw that he was alone! This was quite a shock and he worried all the way back to the point where he actually lost Dad. Poor Dad never did get that ride!
Uncle Jack, my Dad’s brother, was a very easy-going fellow, in fact as half-soaked as you can get. He and Aunt Lill had a motorcycle combination. Having no children (of course I never knew why), they had a few ‘bob’ between them and on Sunday mornings, Jack would disconnect the sidecar from the bike chassis for cleaning purposes. Now, only two steel-set screws secured that bike to the side-car in a tubular frame, made by Swift of Walsall and it was top of the range. One Sunday afternoon they set off to go to Kinver Edge. Everything started out very smoothly with Aunt Lill (who was a bit of a snob) sitting like The Queen behind the Perspex screen. It was only when Jack was accelerating away towards Wolverhampton and they were approaching the first ‘Y’ junction, that things went horribly wrong. At first nothing seemed untoward, the side-car was upright, but as Jack proceeded towards Kinver Edge, Aunt Lill headed off towards Dudley! It was only when the axle dropped that Lill became aware of the sparks that were dancing around the cockpit and a distinct smell of burning. She travelled for quite a way, poised on one wheel, which was driven by the momentum and Jack was totally oblivious to the situation! Eventually, all was well — well nearly. Lill didn’t speak to Jack for weeks, and the bike was never ever used again!
Jack joined the R.A.F. He was in a bomber crew as a Sergeant Bomb Aimer aboard Lancasters. He went to do the full tour of duty and I understand he undertook almost 20 operations. I was very proud of my Uncle Jack. Aunt Lill went on to become an Ambulance Driver. She also enjoyed the company of Yanks, which went down very badly with my Mother who had been brought up in a very strict regime. We often heard Mom and Dad discussing her antics while Uncle Jack was away at War. Things came to a head when one Saturday night, Mom and Dad popped into town for a drink. Unfortunately, Lill, a very good-looking woman, was in the company of American Soldiers. Now my Mother had flame-red hair, with a temper to match, being a Watkinson of Irish decent. She stood the situation until she reached breaking point, and then finally snapped. She flew across the room, taking a number of chairs and tables with her and had landed quite a few punches before the Yanks knew what had hit them. This was nothing new for Mom, as when she lived with her brothers, she would fight as hard as any man. Anyway, mayhem ensued, with our poor Dad trying desperately to pull Mom out of the chaos, as she was involved in a tirade of abuse, with “slut” being top of the list and punches were being thrown left, right and centre. Eventually, calm was restored when the Licensee threw both Mom and Dad out of the pub and to add insult to injury, they were now barred for life! Both women never ever did speak to each other again and Aunt Lill looked the worse for wear for quite some time!
Dad said he never liked that pub anyway. He complained that it was highly unlikely that you would be served unless you were a regular customer. The Licensee would not actually refuse to serve you, but according to Dad, he would serve everyone around you, leaving you in the middle of a crowd feeling like a ‘mug’. If you did get served, you were only offered the ‘smackers’ which was beer that was drawn off the pumps and tap trays — the slops! After the War, Dad went out of his way to pay a visit to this particular pub. Now, beer was plentiful and Licensees were ‘breaking their necks’ to serve you. Dad went into the pub, told a tale of friends following him and then went on to order a large tray of mixed drinks. When he asked how much the round was and received his reply, he promptly told the Licensee to “stick ‘em” and reminded him of the times he had stood at this bar trying to get served and how he had waited years for this moment! Dad said look on the Licensee’s face made his day!
Scientists today are debating ‘cloning’. The women of 1942 were all ‘cloned’. Every single woman I remember looked the same — about 6-7 stone in weight (because a lot of them gave up their food to their husbands and children, even though they were already rationed) They wore a blue, green or patterned wrap-around overall, with no make-up or nail-polish and of course, the stereotype head-turban. The effect of the War certainly made them look like ‘death warmed up’. The head-turban was a square scarf, folded diagonally across the corners. You would take both ends in each hand, tie a knot on top of the forehead, leaving the corner draped over the head, tuck in the ends, fold the corner back off the forehead and there you had it — the headdress worn by the entire population, from factory girls to housewives to land girls. That’s how they looked, all the same, everywhere. Only on Fridays or Saturdays would they ‘doll themselves up’ with lipstick and Pond’s Cream, put on their best dresses and wash their legs with a solution of sand and water to make believe they were wearing stockings. When their legs had been painted and dried, a girl friend would take a soft lead pencil and from bum cheek to heel, scribe a straight line down the back of each leg. These were ‘poor girls’ nylons’, which became a bit of a problem if it started raining on the way to a dance, but most times, did the trick!
The exception was the ‘floozy’ down the road, She was not a clone and there was no overall for her. She only wore pencil-slim skirts with proper nylons, large blouses with huge sleeves, painted nails and always make-up — never without make-up. Blonde curls billowed out over her shoulders and she would have a big American ‘fag’ in her ‘trap’ — she was a ‘cracker’. Women hated her and men dreamed on! When collecting her Jimmy from school, no one ever spoke to her. All those ‘knives in her back’ must have been painful! Men would always give her a smile and hold open the door, if only to have an excuse to watch her walk away and the Butcher always found her a bit extra. I used to play with her Jimmy at their house and it’s funny, he never had Monday’s washday blues and I never did see her ‘red cardinal’ the quarry tiles in the kitchen like my Mom did!
The food cooked for our chickens consisted of boiled potato peelings in a large saucepan, mashed and covered in a very fine powder known as ‘meal’. The smell of the brew was enough to put you off your dinner, but the fowl loved it. When the meal-bag was empty, mom would wash it and then hang it out to dry. She would then slit the sides and lay it out flat. For weeks she had been bullying everyone into cutting old pieces of cloth into 6 inch strips or even old suits, skirts and anything heavy and woolly. Cutting would bring up the blisters on your fingers through having scissors too small for the job. We would all spend hours cutting on the dining-table — having said that, everything was done on the dining-table, because that’s all we had — the scrubbed white table with four chairs, an old battered piano (Dad could only play “Begin the Begin” which he had taught himself parrot-fashion, the rendition was murder!) and a clothes cupboard with the radio mounted inside it by Dad. Getting back to the cutting, when Mom had had enough of this coarse material, she would then take a huge sewing-needle with a really big eye, pass the 6-inch strips through a hessian sack about half way and pull the material through one side. When she had totally covered the sack with cloth, she would sew another sack over the top of the first one. When she turned it over, you would have these strips of material facing upwards. It was called ‘bodging’. Bodging a rug — a sort of shaggy rug story!
Clinic day was always on a Wednesday. We had to have a bath and put on our best clothes to visit the nurse and then she would make you take them all off again, look in your ears, up your nose, down your throat and in your hair for nits. She would look at your teeth and nails for those telltale signs — calcium deficiency, or lack of white blobs on your nails. Some of the nurses were most unpleasant, and their fingers were always freezing cold. One was particularly unpleasant. She never wanted the job but the Ministry would not just send her the money! Her face was always like thunder and she handled us like dirty dressings ‘at arm’s length’. Anyone could see that she really hated the job — she issued pure orange juice, cod liver oil, malt extract (waste from beer), at the rate of one spoonful per day (no wonder we went on to be ‘boozers’ being weaned on it) and American dried egg powder that made fantastic scrambled eggs. It was beautiful stuff, but that cod liver oil, oh! we loathed it! One tablespoon per day was bad enough. Mom would always lace it with condensed milk, which made it taste sweeter than honey.
Aunt Nance was a beautiful woman with the heart of a Saint and she would speak to the ‘floozy’ with no problems. Aunt Nance always saw the good in everyone and she had nothing, in fact her house was worse than ours, but even then, she would invite you to share in what little she had. Being the eldest, Nance was ‘Mother’ too. Grandad was injured badly in the 1916 War and his scars left him in constant pain but when able, he would clean windows for pennies. Grandma made Nance follow him everywhere so that when the customer paid for the windows, Nance would beg for the money to buy bread or grocery. If he managed to keep the money, he would go straight to the pub and stay there until the money had gone, or he was ‘Blindo’. To make matters worse, Grandma was as bad. Given the chance, she would get as drunk as him. Both of them kept my Mother’s family on the verge of living in the workhouse and inevitably, Grandad’s war injuries killed him not long afterwards. It was this ‘having nothing’, the constant poverty that drove Aunt Nance to watch every penny. She would only do her shopping when the shops were about to close. She would walk down to the market, at the end of the day when traders would be getting rid of their stock at ‘rock bottom’ prices and finally, giving it away rather than taking it back. There were no fridges or cold stores in those days and all the stock had to go on a daily basis. Then she would walk back. Walsall would be about a 3-mile trip, but like all of us then, she walked everywhere.
My Father’s family was not much better off, so both our parents understood how it was to have nothing. That generation appreciated the small things we all take so much for granted now. Our parents brought us up in a relatively modern council house (as all my relatives managed to do) and all through the bad years, I was so proud of them — Mom’s brother and sisters, husbands and wife.
With the accumulator fully charged, we could stop the roar of the London traffic to “Buy some violets, lovely violets”, have tea in the Palm Court Hotel, send a record request to a Force’s sweetheart via John Metcalfe or Cliff Michelmore, listen to “We’ll Meet Again” by Vera Lynn, or even learn to dance with Victor Silvester. Mom and Dad sent for the course. For each dance you would receive brown paper templates of someone’s feet! They would roll back the bodged rugs and lay flat the paper cut-outs and wait for Silvester to start the lesson. The men would tread in the gents’ steps and the women in the ladies’ steps — it was a sight for sore eyes, with a couple of grown-ups holding each other in front of the radio, feet together, apart, listening to the tempo, stepping forward and back and we could hear Dad complaining, “Step out Rose, you won’t lose anything!” Later, they would go on to dance to Henry Hall and his dance night. They entered a competition in the Church Hall for the Quick Step and won first prize, which was a wall mirror. We had that mirror years. Personally, I preferred Paul Temple with his Flying Scots music.
A special treat was to go to the cinema as a family this particular night did not turn out so nice! Mom came up with a brilliant plan to cope with the transport arrangements but the trouble was, Dad wouldn’t know anything about them as he had gone to work. There were no mobile telephones in those days and you could only use the phone-boxes in life or death situations. It was arranged Dad would go straight to the Savoy where he would meet us in the ‘cheap’ seats leaving his cycle at work, we were taking his sandwiches. Mom’s plan was that one of us would go down to Dad’s factory, Hanford Greatrix Leather Works and collect the bike so it would be ready for his use the next day. We duly reported to the ‘copper’ on the gate in security who promised faithfully that he would tell Dad that we had his bike — well perhaps he would have done, had his shift not changed! The police were called and they turned up (try that today for a bike). On investigation, it was agreed that the bike had been stolen. In the meantime, we are all in the cinema craning our necks to spot Dad. He was busy with the Police and out of the goodness of their hearts, the ‘coppers’ gave Dad a lift home in a lovely shiny Wolsley 12 (imagine that today!) All the neighbours were glued to the windows shouting “police, police!” One ‘copper’ suggested that we have a look in the shed, just in case. Dad’s heart missed a beat as he caught a slight glimpse inside the shed. “You’re never going to believe this”, he said, as he let the shed lock slip away, revealing his bike in all its splendour! Both the coppers left shaking heads in disbelief. By now we had left the cinema and were on our way home with Mom, who was fuming in the belief that Dad had forgotten. Dad was contemplating murder, how could she do this? He came home long after us, when we were tucked up in bed and he was little worse for wear. Although we were in bed, we were not asleep and oh what a row! As I saw it, all Mom had to do was apologise, but no, she was the one most upset. Dad had “ruined her night” — typical woman!We had some fine cinemas, the best being The Savoy or The Gaumont — they were both on a par really. My wife, Joan and I went on to have our Wedding Reception at the Kenmare Gaumont Restaurant in 1957. There was red carpet all around and plush red seats and we sat down to a chicken salad meal with a prawn starter. There were sixty or so guests, “an arm and a leg” by today’s standards — must have had more money than sense! Goodness knows what our Nance would have said about spending so much money.
One day, Father decided to paint the parlour and said, “Go to Wilkes and fetch me a ball of whitener”. Wilkes was our local shop that sold everything from firewood to sweets, cigarettes to paraffin and candles to cucumber. If you could think of it, Wilkes would have it. A more miserable pair you would ever wish to see in your whole life. Mrs. Wilkes had frizzy hair standing off her head as if she had received an electric shock and never wearing make-up. She was just straight up and down and always wrapped up in a ‘pinny’. Mrs. Wilkes would never serve a child. It didn’t matter how long you had waited, it would only be when a grown-up would say, “this child is before me” that she would acknowledge their existence (Mr. Wilkes was just as friendly). “A ball of whitener please? She handed it across to me wrapped up in an old newspaper, which was quite heavy to carry all the way back home. When I finally got back, Dad dropped it in a white enamel bucket, began to break it up with a knife, added water and as the ball got smaller, the bucket got fuller of distemper. Using a whitewash brush, he started painting the walls and when several coats had been applied, it would finally be left to dry. He would add a cloth-dye to the remaining solution to change the colour and soak an old tea towel in it. Then he would mould the tea towel into the shape of a dog’s bone and holding it loosely in the palm of his hand, roll it over the nearly painted white walls. The dog’s bone shape would raise a pattern — ‘stippling’ it was called; The poor man’s wallpaper!
Being of Italian descent, Norman Diccico talked ‘a lota lika thata’ and was Walsall’s answer to the Mafia. He rode around on a fridge fitted with wheels and handle bars for steering, a sort of fridge cycle. Norman would shout, “Geta ya isas, lavoley isas.” He travelled all over the place and must have covered miles. In the winter, he pushed this heavy cart a mobile cooker. He would trundle down Stafford Street and park this flaming fire-bucket onto his pitch outside the New Imperial Cinema. It was coal-fired and had about five drawers containing potatoes. Around Christmas, he would sell hot chestnuts too. A fantastic smell would drift down the street and the salted potatoes with charcoal skins tasted out of this world, for just three pence a bag. He would stand there for hours in all weathers, shouting, “Geta ya lovoley roasta tatas!”
Dad said, “Pop up the road to the ‘witch’ at Wilkes and fetch me two woodbines.” Yes, two ‘fags’ were two-penny halfpenny each. “Don’t let her fob you off with them stinking ‘pashers’, if she has no ‘woodies’ you can tell her to stick the funny stinking fags”. Dad, Jack and Uncle Ernie all smoked John Player’s Navy Cut, (when they could get them) in fact when they were smoking them, it looked just like a frigate or a cruiser coming in to dock! Everyone smoked; when you visited the cinema the air would be that thick, the projector would cut huge beams through the dense smoke blankets. A chorus of coughing in tune with the symphony of blowing noses would accompany the film from start to finish. On the upstairs level of the first morning bus the poor conductor would be almost consumptive. You would see some old chaps nearly bursting blood vessels in their throats, but who still refused to put the fags out. On foggy days the smog would drop like a stone, stick to your eyelids and your mouth would look as if you had been eating liquorish. It was dark and dank, there was coughing and choking and in my opinion, the whole bus should have been driven to the nearest decontamination unit but of course, it would only have to turn around at the terminus ready for the next lot. We are today told to avoid passive smoking, but there was no passive smoking on board these double-deckers, it was down right deliberate!
You could walk to town past Mr. Woo’s, the Chinese Laundry who specialised in stiff collars, starched and white as snow. It was one penny per collar. He worked from a tiny little shop, with steam clouds rolling across the footpath and he was always open. As we passed, we’d sing the George Formby classic, “Oh Mr. Woo, what can we do? Mr. Woo`s a window cleaner now”. All mens’ shirts came with a loose collar fitted by a front stud and a rear stud, officially known as ‘the back stud’. To emphasise how most men would describe them, you needed fingers like pincers to fit them and then when in place, if the starch didn’t chaff your skin red raw, the studs slowly but surely almost choked you to death! What a pain they were.
Carrying on past Pellari’s Ice Cream Parlour and Confectionary, their peanut toffee was unbelievable (if you had enough sweet coupons) — sheer bliss! I remember going past Dance’s Coffee Shop, where roast coffee-beans were ground in a machine in an open window and where huge roasts of beef and pork lay piping hot on trays of gravy and crackling, for sandwiches made in Heaven. There was also home-made bread with stuffing — a mixture of aromas that sent you into ‘seventh heaven’ (despite the slightly unhygienic exposure to the flies).
Occasionally we would dine out. Freddie’s Oyster Bar, who did beautiful fish and chips with a round of bread and butter served on a plate with a cup of tea. It was fantastic — to our family this was The Ritz! One Saturday, Father was drooling over a dressed crab and he went out of his way to collect one. Visualising it with a sprig of watercress, his mouth watered at the mere thought. On arriving home he placed the crab on the cold slab in the pantry and retreated down the garden to clean out the chickens. Several hours later, Mom went into the pantry to prepare Dad’s tea. She sighed, “It’s his fault,” he never shuts the door behind him. I’ve told him before but he’s always the same”. Mom poured fuel on the fire that was already raging in my Dad. Apparently, the cat had sneaked in the pantry and purloined Dad’s dressed crab! The cat was now in a very precarious position, but with the full protection of my Mom, she shouted, “It’s no use blaming the cat, it’s only natural!” However, my Dad was wishing the poor cat several unnatural occurrences!
Travel was not encouraged, in fact, posters everywhere asked, “Is your journey really necessary?” Only service personnel travelled extensively. Corridor trains were being introduced but the straight-through carriage type was still in abundance, with ten seats either side of a carriage. On a long journey you would have to have a very strong constitution to hold out for the whole trip. On reaching the destination, there always appeared to be a gentle move towards the toilets but with a definite sense of urgency. Young servicemen would relieve themselves ‘en route’, which was a very dangerous procedure at 60mph!
Big white fivers, pound notes, ten shillings, half crowns, florins, bobs, pennies, three-pennies and Joey’s farthings. The average wage was four pounds and ten shillings. A loaf of bread was four and a half pence; a pint of beer was a bob and a penny and you could get a ride on a bus for a penny. You could take out life insurance with ‘One Penny Policies’ from ‘The Man From The Pru’. A gentleman called every Friday night for two pence. He was a towering man of six feet plus, in a smartly tailored suit and tie — a perfect gentleman. He covered his round on a huge cycle made by Raleigh of Nottingham. I understand he had over 2000 clients and his mileage on that bike all over Walsall must have been outstanding. You could tell he was a gentleman as he always removed his bicycle clips on entering the house. This man commanded respect by his very nature and Mom and Dad always treated him so. Doctor’s Panel Cover for the whole family was only six pence per week. Clothes obtained by practical checks, (yes “checks” not “cheques”) were also six pence per week. ‘Save Now Buy Later’ checks would be issued when you were in credit. Most shops displayed signs reading, ‘Practical Checks Taken Here’.
A visit to the Doctors, however, would only be as a last resort. Our doctor was a huge man. Dr. Llewellyn reeked of whisky, with a bedside manner similar to that of a raw recruit in the Army and his Sergeant Major! The Waiting Room was painted dark brown, lit by a very low lamp. Everyone was cramped up on tight long benches, and all you could hear was coughing and barking (you always seemed to come out with more than what you went in with.) If the doctor looked in your ears, he would stretch them yards. Mom took me to see him as I had a nervous disorder, and quite often I would flinch. My whole body would react as if I’d been touched with an electric charge! “No, nothing to worry about”, came the terse reply, “It’s only ‘the tick’.” “Can’t understand that”, Mom said, “he never goes near sheep!” I still have it today, about once a day, even though the big man said, “He will grow out of it.”
Our Coal merchant delivered by the bag “Watch him”, Mom ordered, “count how many bags he puts in that coal-shed. I’ll swear he never put six bags in there last time. I’ve never trusted him.” This wassupplemented by our Coke ration and coal pickings
Growing up in the peace of the ‘50s’ was pretty wonderful compared to the dreadful ‘40s’. There was great music, clothes, food, washing machines, fantastic cinemas and films, the Windsor knot, drainpipe trousers and the ‘D.A.’ hairstyle, (a duck’s backside!). Prime Minister Harold MacMillan said, “We have never had it so good.” How right he was. Will the United Kingdom ever be the same again I wonder?



Acknowledgements
jgards
Peoples War

WW2 Peoples War - Wartime Butcher's Boy-Folkestone

This is the 2nd part of Ivor Bail's wartime memoir. The 1st part, entitled "A Good Prospect" deals with his experience as an evacuee in Tintern.
These memoirs were typed by Fiona McNeill of the Folkestone Heritage Team and added to the site with the author's permission.

Homecoming
My return to my home at 88 Guildhall Street after evacuation to South Wales was brought about because I had reached the school leaving age of 14, and it was time to seek employment in Folkestone.
I had no idea what job I wanted to do, as opportunities were not great due to the wartime conditions existing in the town.
After some enquiries my mother found me a job with a local butcher who needed a delivery boy, and so it was I went to work for 'F.R. Hills Family Butcher', 31 Cheriton Road Telephone - 3436, for the weekly wage of twelve shillings and six pence (62.5p)
My job entailed delivering peoples' meat rations to their homes, mostly on Fridays and Saturdays. The meat ration being rather meagre it was only families who, using all their rations could expect a joint of meat for 'Sunday roast' a person living alone usually finished up with a small chump end of lamb.
Rations could be supplemented with liver or other items of offal, but this was always in short supply, sausages however were a food source more readily available. The sausages manufactured at 'Dick Hills' butcher shop and other butcher shops, due to shortages - contained a lot more rusk than meat, as opposed to today’s product containing more meat than rusk!
I was introduced to the art of sausage making, mixing meat trimmings rusk and seasoning, and operating a large mincer which needed turning by hand.
Meanwhile, all was not quiet in and around Folkestone, German aircraft made regular visits to town, flying in from France acros the Channel, keeeping low to the sea. Then suddenly swooping above the rooftops to drop their bombs on us. Often no air raid warnings sounded because the low and swift approach avoided prior detection.
These became known as 'Tip and Run' raids and it was believed the pilots were newly trained and sent across to gain experience on their first mission.
One morning in April, soon after the shop opened I witnessed my first 'Tip and Run' raid.
As I was arranging meat packages in my delivery basket, I heard the sound of air craft over head. Within seconds, several loud explosions occured.
Everyone in the shop ran to the doorway, and we could see a dense black, wide column of smoke incorporating red and orange tongues of flames, rising rapidly above the houses in the direction of the Foord Road area.
It wasn't long before we learned that the gas holder behind Bradstone Avenue in the 'Brickfields' was the seat of the fire, water escaping from the holder flooded people's houses in the avenue, regretfully one person was killed in this raid. It was a dramatic start to my days work!
Sundays saw me at Christ Church, singing in the choir along with other lads under the direction of the organist and Choir Master, Mr Jenner. I remained in the choir serving as Head Choir Boy until the fateful day on which the church suffered from one of the Lufftwaffe's 'Tip and Run' raids.
Sunday morning May 17th 1942, I was just setting out from home to attend church when the raiders swept in and dropped several bombs. After the explosions, the sky in the direction of Christ Church was filled with smoke and dust and hundreds of little white objects all fluttering in mid air. I didn't realise it at that moment but these were pages from the hymn and prayer books.
Reaching the church, I was confronted with a scene of grim devastation, the main body of the church was totally destroyed. Only the tower at the Western end was left standing.
Gravestones in the church yard having been uprooted, lay midst piles of rubble in the roads nearby, some hymn and prayer book pages still hung in the air above the ruins drifting gently along, never to be sung or prayed from again.
I met other members of the choir, and as we surveyed the dreadful scene we discussed how lucky it was the raiders visit did not come 20 minutes later, when the service would have been in progress and we and all the soldiers on church parade would have been inside.
Sadly the Verger Mrs Ansell, and an early worshiper lost their lives.
The tower has been preserved and remains as a monument on the site which is now a Garden of Remembrance". At the Eastern end of the garden an indentation in the lawn reminds me where the underground vestry we so often attended used to be.
The church services were transferred to Holy Trinity Church just up the road but were never quite the same for us choir boys.
Meanwhile, I was making steady progress in my role as butcher's boy learning a good deal about the trade and Mr Hills seemed well pleased, so pleased in fact that I decided having been in his employ about twelve months, I might be justified in seeking a rise for my efforts.
My request came as a bit of a shock to Mr. Hills and it took him two weeks before reaching a decision. After some deliberation with his wife, who managed the cash office, he awarded me a 2/- (10p) increase, bringing my wage to the princely sum of 14/6d (72.5p) per week - I went forth rejoicing!
I did not benefit from this wage increase for long because I was offered another job elsewhere and I left F.R. Hills to go to work at 'Worsells' the butchers No 3, The Old High Streeet Tel. - 3101.
'Worsells' was owned by the firm J. H. Dewhurst and my starting wage in their employ was a fabulous almost unbelievable 23 shillings (£1.15) per week. The manager Mr Arthur Matthews was a great boss and through his guidance and tuition I eventually reached the celebrated status of 'butcher's cutter'.
I learned, among other things, how to use the scales, which were balance scales, complete with highly polished brass weights. These ranged from 7lbs down to the tiny 0.5 ounce that hung on a piece of string to avoid loss. This little weight was flicked onto the scale pan using the attached string, just as the balance was on the turn consequently slightly increasing the price.
I also learnt butchers back slang, a away of conversing used in the trade in order to convey information on the shop floor without customers being aware of the topic.
The price of meat in those days was quite reasonable, leg of lamb 2d-3d per lb, though these were mostly boned out and used with pork to make sausage meat.
Talking of sausage meat reminds me of an embarrassing moment when I was sent to deliver 6lb of it to the Queens hotel just up the road.
On the delivery cycle where the basket fitted, were two wooden slats. Instead of using the basket for the short delivery I placed the sausage meat on these slats. Unfortunately, just as I approached the traffic lights at the top of the road they changed to red. Applying the brakes to slow down and stop caused my parcel to shoot forward onto the roadway and I neatly divided the contents into two separate 3 pounds of sausage meat having sliced it with the cycles front wheel.
Filled with dismay I hastily retrieved the damaged goods and continued the journey to the hotel. Descending the steps leading down to the kitchen, I made a half way stop in order to examine the two portions. Some sausage meat I discarded as it had suffered Dunlop tyre rash! Then uniting the two halves into 6 pound less about 3 ounces and roughly rewrapping the whole, I entered the kitchen trying my best to appear the innocent butcher’s lad. The chief Mr Sprenger greeted me with open arms as he desperately awaited this order. I returned to the shop bearing a feeling of guilt.
My delivery round took me about two miles out and around the Cheriton area of Folkestone, often through the duration of air raid warnings. But his didn't worry me a great deal as I subscribed to the general attitude existing at that time - 'If your names on it you'll get it where ever you are!'
The policy of J. H. Dewhurst during wartime was; goods must be paid for, cash on delivery, this rule to be strictly adhered to, and so I had to collect the money from every customer. Weekly or monthly accounts were no longer an option, just in case your name was on it, and you got it, and the firm didn't!
One Saturday afternoon, in August 1942 a number of enemy aircraft raided the town, dropping several bombs, one of which fell a few doors along the road from my home in Guildhall Street.
This bomb hit 'Funnels' Butcher shop and a dairy next door known as 'Gammons'. The dairyman Mr Fisher who was resting in the back room was unfortunately killed.
On the opposite side of the road 'Franklin’s' grocer shop suffered considerable damage. My mother, who worked in this shop, was at the time serving her own mother, they and others in the shop had a lucky escape but the luckiest escape of all was by a baby outside the shop in its pram. The blast from the bomb brought down the shops canvas blind, which enveloped the pram protecting the child from the flying glass and falling masonry.
Hearing the news I left my work place to visit the scene. Reaching my home, I found the front windows all smashed and, going inside, discovered my grandmother, the only occupant at the time busy clearing up the fallen kitchen ceiling. For a 92 year old she was coping very well, her comments on the situation and reference to 'Herr Hitler' I best not print!
On November 9th 1942 the enemy decided to operate their long range guns. Newly installed along the French coast, they opened fire about 8 pm. and bombarded the town causing considerable damage and casualties. Shells fell in the lower part of the town and around the harbour some exploding in mid air. This part of town became known locally as 'The Shelling Area'.
Shelling of Dover and Folkestone became a regular occurrence. Gun duels took place between our long range guns at St Margaret’s at Cliff and the Germans in the Calais area.
Once an engagement started it was impossible to know when it might finish. Even though there were 'shelling warnings' activated when the first shell landed, and the 'all clear' sounding if nothing fell after one hour.
The German gunnery officer was obviously wise to this procedure, and would fire another shell after about 1 hour 15 mins. So a lethal game of cat and mouse developed, similar to a heated argument when each person seeks the last word, except this was who fires the last shell.
Eventually, after the 'D Day' invasion by the allies, our troops overran the gun emplacements situated on the French coast, the enemy gun crews did their best to fire off their stock of shells before capture. Dover and Folkestone bore the brunt of this action.
The shelling on this final occasion started in the early hours of the morning and I was awakened by the first explosion but remained in bed, our dog 'Monty' took cover with me under my blanket. We were not to stay like this for long because a shell landed in the grounds of the clinic (Old Harvey Grammar School) next to our back garden. It demolished our large garden shed. At the same time, blast from the shell blew out my bedroom window depositing glass over the bed and into the room. 'Monty' fled, and I decided I ought to get up. I left my bed just in time to the sound of a second shell, which fell in almost the same crater caused by the first. Blast from this one, blew the complete window frame out of its setting and onto the bed, plus dirt dust and masonry.
I went downstairs to join my parents and sister and we all retreated to a large cupboard under the stairs, as this was considered to be the safest place in any house.
The shelling continued until first light and extensive damage was caused around the town. 88 Guildhall street suffered damage to the rear of the house, also ceilings inside came down.
Our neighbours next door, Mr and Mrs Saunders, inspecting damage to their property discovered a piece of shrapnel embedded in the walnut veneer on the front of their much cherished radiogram. They left it in place as a souvenir from 'Jerry'.
The next day Wednesday (D-Day + one in military terms) in the afternoon after work, I visited the seafront. Standing on the Leas promenade and looking across the Channel I beheld a most impressive sight.
Far out at sea were two aircraft flying parallel to the French coast, each in turn laying down a thick smoke screen. Close to our shoreline, a huge convoy of ships was underway. As far as the eye could see in either direction, there were cargo ships, escorted by warships, three and four abreast, many of these vessels flying barrage balloons.
This was a wartime scene of historic importance which I will never forget.
Having endured bombing and shelling up to this stage in the War, Folkestone now looked very much in a knocked about condition, with bomb sites and shell damage all over town. Adding to this the fact that many businesses had closed and moved when invasion threatened, leaving their premises boarded up, the picture was rather bleak to say the least.
However, in spite of the situation the townsfolk remained steadfast, and spirits stayed high.
There were many troops of all nationalities stationed in the town, the Navy had headquarters in the Royal Pavilion and Princess Hotels known as 'H M. S Allenby' under the command of Vice Admiral Round Turner. The Army, with British and American troops, occupied other hotels and houses vacated by the greatly reduced civilian population.
Two doors from my workplace at 'Worsells' above 'Burtons' the tailors the Americans ran a club for their troops entitled 'Do Nut Dug Out.' We supplied them with sausages and in return sampled their delicious 'Dough Nuts'.
On top of Burton's roof a group of our soldiers manned a machine gun, its purpose to shoot down low flying raiders. Although they fired once or twice, they never managed to fulfil their purpose, maybe other emplacements had more success.
Late one evening when I was at home, the air raid sirens sounded a warning, and plenty of activity soon took place.
Anti aircraft fire from guns on the hills and search lights sweeping the sky, caused my sister and I to go and observe events from her bedroom window at the top of our house, where we had a good view towards the hills behind the town. We saw what we thought were enemy aircraft under fire, and receiving direct hits setting them on fire. We assumed they were bombers heading for targets in land.
Next morning, the radio and newspaper gave vivid accounts to explain the nights action. What we had witnessed was the first attack by Hitlers V1 (Vengence One) pilotless planes, not only pilotless but minus a propeller to draw them along.
Their means of propulsion was a crude jet engine bolted to the rear of the fuselage, flames spurted from this unit and misled us when watching into believing our gunners had scored hits.
These weapons carried a nasty lethal pay load of explosives and were intended for London. When reaching the city, the engine would cut out due to fuel starvation, resulting in a descent to ground, sometimes in an acrobatic fashion, ending with a terrific explosion causing damage and destruction in all directions.
This travelling bomb became known as 'Fly Bomb', 'Buzz Bomb' or more popularly the 'Doodlebug'.
Although aimed at, and intended for London, hundreds were shot down overland and into the sea along the coast, particularly in the Folkestone area.
The 'V1' was followed later by the 'V2' a rocket propelled bomb also directed towards London. Having greater accuracy than the 'Doodle Bug'. Fortunately for us, Folkestone never received any, the nearest falling in the Maidstone area.
One afternoon I was on the Leas with a friend when approaching 'Doodlebugs' came under fire from American Anti-Aircraft guns and British 'Bofor’s’ guns.
We watched as the V1s flew into a box barrage, the air being peppered with bursting shells, shrapnel from the shells appeared to float down like feathers and land with a tinkley sound all around us. We took cover under the Leas Cliff Hall Balcony because we knew this red hot metal could give us nasty injuries.
As the barrage continued, the V1's flew through it and went on their way unscathed. Shells from 'Bofor's' guns had little effect on this aircraft, but American shells with higher explosive often scored direct hits bringing many down, mostly in the sea. Unfortunately, some American shells missing their target failed to detonate, returning to earth unexploded. One such shell from this barrage hurtled back, landing with a whooshing noise close to one of the gun emplacements. Burying itself deep in the lawn leaving a neat round hole marking its entry. As far as I know it remains to this day in the area of the Leas Bandstand.
My experiences as a working lad during these War years included many unpleasant events, too numerous to mention, unless writing a book, but I have put down some of the more outstanding in this short account.
At last, on May 28th 1945, hostilities came to an end, the day to be named V.E. Day (Victory in Europe.) Great celebrations took place, especially in the evening when troops and civilians gathered on the Leas. The Leas Cliff Hall was soon packed to capacity and the doors shut, but enterprising para troops secured a rope over the balcony and many more entered the hall by means of the rope, making the hall packed to over capacity.
High spirits in this rejoicing crowd led to cups, saucers, glasses and even seats being thrown over the balcony onto the lower seafront as everyone went wild.
Bonfires were lit along the Leas Promenade, bench seats and anything wooden were used to fuel them.
Returning home with friends, we picked up a life size effigy of 'Adolf Hitler' which I had constructed earlier in the day. We conveyed the 'Fuhrer' through the streets to the Leas and cast him onto the biggest of the bonfires there.
Huge cheers filled the smokey night air as the defeated dictator burned.
On August the 14th 1945 the Japanese in the Far East War surrendered.
This was as a result of an Atomic bomb the Americans dropped on the city of 'Nagasaki' on August 8th causing catastrophic destruction as great as the first Atomic bomb dropped two days before on 'Hiroshima'.
The 15th of August was declared 'V.J. Day (Victory in Japan) and once again the whole country celebrated.
Having survived these momentous Wartime events I had reached the age of 17.5 years which meant I was approaching 'Call Up' into the armed forces.
I decided to join the Navy in preference to waiting to be conscripted in to the Army, or possibly being selected as a 'Bevan Boy' (conscription into the coal mines) when I reached 18 years.
As it turned out, the Navy had no vacancies, but vacancies existed in 'The Royal Marines,' an important part of the 'Royal Navy'.
I applied and passed the necessary tests and medical for H.M. Royal Marines. On October 2nd 1945 I travelled to London and reported for final enlistment at 'Alhambra House' in Charing Cross Road.
The Manager of ‘Worsells’ (J H Dewhurst) at the end of the War, left to open his own butchers shop in Hythe which became a well known and successful business, before leaving he wrote me the following reference dated 12th September 1945;
[Telephone No 3101 3, High Street Folkestone, 12/9/1945W. Worsell Family ButcherProprietors: J.H. Dewhurst LtdPickled TonguesScotch and Southdown MuttonEnglish and Scotch BeefFamilies supplied with the very best quality on the most reasonable terms]
Ivor Bail has been employed by me during the past three years, during which time I have found him to be an honest, sober, willing and industrious worker, his character is of the highest integrity and his success in life regarded as certain. Arthur H Matthews (Manager).

Acknowledgements
Kent Libraries-Shepway District
Peoples War

WW2 Peoples War - Memories Of The Lost Years 1939-1945

Memories of the Lost Years 1939-1945
Audrey Demers 2002

I was born in 204 Grange Road E13 in the home of my maternal Grandma and Papa, on the 10th March 1934, being the 6th child of Richard Albert Jones and Williamina Jones (née Watson). I lived there with my parents and siblings - Williamina, Mildred, James, Bernard and Edna until I was 3 years old when we all moved to 50 Desford Road E16.
My sister Rita was born here 18 months later and I remember crying at the bottom of the stairs for Mummy, who was giving birth in the bedroom, and being pulled back by some-one (a neighbour?).
I was holding Mummy's hand one day as we passed Hermit Road School, and remember saying I wanted to play with the children. We lay on little camp beds in the afternoon, and each day was given milk to drink, which I hated. When seeing the big grey barrage balloons in the sky I hid behind Mummy's skirt/dress as they frightened me. When I was five the world was preparing for war, and every day all the children would attend school, with their gas masks ready for evacuation. It was all very 'hush hush' and no one knew which day we would depart. The day eventually came and we all walked to the station with our parcel of clothes, gas masks, food and a piece of cardboard on string around our necks with our name on it. The date was Friday September 1st 1939, destination unknown to parents and children alike, this being for security reasons. The parents were notified after we reached our designated spot. Many years later I learned that some-one had seen the line of children leaving the school and had run to tell as many parents as possible ''The children are going''. Mummy had been shopping and had run with heavy bags all the way to the station, but missed us. My heart still aches for her, to think how she must have felt, not being able to say goodbye.
My two eldest sisters Williamina and Mildred were too old to be evacuated, as they were 17 and 19 respectively. Daddy would not allow them to go into the forces, so they both had to go into a factory doing war work. Mildred hated it as the other girls made fun of her being 'posh'. During the Blitz they often had to step over bodies and rubble caused by the bombings. Mildred and James told me the children at Silvertown School E16 who had not been evacuated were all killed, and the people whose houses were bombed all filed silently through the streets, carrying photos, a kettle, a jumper, or anything they could salvage from the debris, and all slept in the little tin church at the end of our road. Poor Souls.
James-Bernard-Edna and myself along with the other children all boarded a British Rail train (I don't remember the name of the station possibly Euston) and I wet myself because I was frightened. We arrived at Bletchington about 8 miles from Oxford and were taken to the village hall. In retrospect we were treated in a similar fashion to cattle, as the villagers came and looked us over and selected and rejected. Mummy and Daddy had asked for the four of us to be billeted together, but that was not possible, James and Bernard were chosen at once as they were big boys aged 12 and 10 years, and they went to live on a farm. Bernard loved it, but I don't think the 'muck' appealed to James, as he was a 'Little Lord Fauntleroy'.
Edna and myself were the last to be selected. Many people had chosen Edna, as she was a very sweet looking 6½ year old with lovely blonde hair and blue eyes, whereas yours truly was a plain red head with protruding red cheeks, who had sat all the time under a table wetting herself. I don't know how long we were in the hall but it was many hours. Eventually a Mrs Denton said she would take us, I think she considered it her 'Christian Duty'.
We were only with her for about a month, and we spent our time with her reading the Bible and being very clean. We then had to leave as she said she needed the room for her daughter, but I think the bed-wetting was too much for her. As soon as our parents were informed of our whereabouts they came to see us. Well not exactly they as Daddy had to work and was also on Home Guard duty. Mummy and Mildred came by coach as far as Bicester (approximately 10 miles from Bletchington) and were stranded until Mummy stopped a passing motorist who gave them a lift. They had no way of getting back to Bicester to get the coach home, so two young men with motor bikes who lived at the farm gave them a lift back. I still smile at my petite and ladylike Mother riding on the back of a motorcycle. When they arrived all that way from London, they were not invited into the house, but had to speak to us on the doorstep. Mummy could not believe her eyes on seeing me as when I had left London I had long ringlets, but Mrs Denton had cut them off saying, long hair was sinful. Mummy said my hair looked like Cinderella's dress at the bottom.
We went from Mrs Denton's house to a Mrs Taylor who lived across the village green. The second part of our ordeal had begun. Mrs Taylor had a daughter and grandchild who stayed there most of the time. There were very few men around as those between 18 and 40 had been conscripted into the forces. We went to the village school, which I enjoyed, but as we both still wet the bed we were continually thrashed.
One day whilst wandering around on our own we found some brown paper and string and Edna tried to roll me into a parcel and find a letter box large enough to post me home to London. Such innocent exploits of two little girls aged 6½ and 5 years. Another day whilst out the hem of my dress caught in my shoe and ripped completely off. Edna using her hand and spittle patted the torn edges in the hope it wouldn't be noticed. Arriving back at the house we were asked about the torn hem, and because we were both scared we replied that we didn't know how the hem had got torn. The branch of holly, which had brought into the house for Xmas, was then used to whip both Edna and I until blood was running down our arms and legs. We still didn't tell how the hem was torn accidentally.
The bed-wetting continued every night and I now realise how very difficult it was for them as the mattresses were made of flock and had to be shaken into shape every day. We went to bed every night and prayed to God not to let us wet the bed. One particular morning we awoke to find the bed drenched as usual, and Mrs Taylor was even more angry than usual. It was a shear icicle day and she shoved me first into the back yard - naked, and threw a pail of freezing water over me, then proceeded to break the ice in the water butt to throw at me. It was like shards of glass hitting my body and of course drew blood. The next-door neighbour banged on his/her bedroom window, so I was unceremoniously dragged indoors and thrown onto the kitchen floor where I cut my head on the flagstones and still sport the scar 60 years on. I can't remember Edna's punishment for that day. I really can't remember any nice days at Mrs Denton's other than at school.
During our time there one very unpleasant incident occurred. The telephone box near the village hall was smashed. Edna and I saw it and went to investigate and picked up several pieces of glass. That evening the village constable knocked at the door and I was accused and reprimanded, as a villager had told the constable that I had been seen running away from the broken box.
True - Looking but Breaking, even now the sense of injustice rankles, but then we were only ''those bloody Londoners'' who said throopence instead of threepence.
I next remember landing in the John Radcliffe hospital with a kidney infection. Mummy and Mildred again came but when arriving at Mrs Taylor's door she refused to tell them which hospital I was in. The Billeting officer was out, so they had to wait and follow Mrs Taylor by foot and bus to find me. The mind now boggles at such behaviour. In my kinder moments and thoughts I feel Mrs Taylor was not 'all the ticket' in treating a Mother and sister in this fashion.
I enjoyed my couple of weeks in hospital except I missed Edna. Although she was only 18 months my senior she looked after me as best as possible, and while we had each other we felt a unity against these people who were as alien to us as we were to them. I tried very hard and prayed every night not to wet the bed but when living with Mrs Taylor I confess to asking God to let her die, whilst asking to be good. I thank God he didn't answer my prayers on that subject, as it would be difficult to have that on my conscience now I am older. In excusing myself I was only 6-7 years old and very scared of her.
I'm not sure how many years we lived with Mrs Taylor, or our reason for leaving, but off again went these two little girls carrying their clothes, gas masks and heading for new territory - the far end of the village to Mrs Harris and daughter Christine. There was one bedroom divided by a curtain. In one bed was Mrs Harris and Christine (younger than myself) and in the other bed Edna and Audrey. Above was a small attic and down steep stairs one room that served all purposes. Each day two little girls Edna and Audrey would take pails and walk to the well about a ¼ mile away to draw water and carry the big pails of water back to the house, trying not to spill it. The 'toilet' was in the garden about 50 yards away. It was a deep hole dug into the ground and a wooden box like structure erected around with a hole cut into the top wood to act as a toilet seat. Some sort of acid must have been used to disintegrate our body waste and I was always afraid the waste would reach the top when I sat down. It was utterly primitive.
Inside the front door and across a narrow passage hung a curtain. Christine who was 'backward' would wipe her nose on it and the whole of this dark coloured curtain was speckled with glistening snot. It made me feel sick.
When not at school Edna and I would wander everywhere without any supervision and without any-one caring where we were. There was a very big house at this end of the village, at one time owned by Lord and Lady Velencia, then Lady Astor and The Baileys. During the war it was used by the BBC, and we had Christmas parties and our Brownie meetings there. Most people and of course tradesman went to the back entrance, but Edna and I with delusions of grandeur always insisted on mounting the steps to the front entrance.
Not far from 'The Big House' was the High Church with beautiful stained glass windows. Mrs Harris, Edna and I cleaned the church, and we were made to attend services morning and evening daily also Sunday school, where I earnestly prayed to go back to Mummy and Daddy and Edna would roll little balls of fluff from the kneeling mat and stuff them up her nose, whilst I presume also praying. On our weekends alone we had many little adventures, one being trying to push a barricade across the road. We must imagine ourselves to be child Samsons as the barricade was a massive tree trunk put to the side of the road; its purpose being to try to bring to a halt any invasion. Hearing men marching further along the road we thought it was the Germans coming, and as we couldn't shift the tree trunk we ran and hid in the ditch, but it was only the Home Guard practising.
Every year the Hunt gathered on the village green. The participants looked wonderful in their hunting pinks, but as soon as the bugle was blown and they 'tally ho'd' off we would scoot across fields to try to 'shoo' the fox away from the hounds. When walking through the fields one winter we came across a dead sheep (I think now it may have fallen against the electric fence). It was as stiff as a board, and we took off our coats to cover it and attempted to bring it back to life. Then tried to lift it to carry it 'home' - it must have weighed a ton. That same night Snowy (Christmas white rabbit) disappeared from the hatch in the garden, and in the pitch-black night (not a glimmer of light), Edna and I were made to climb over the wall into the field to look for the rabbit. We just stood there holding hands and calling his/her name as we were petrified to move, and also the field where we were standing was where Mrs Harris and others emptied their chamber pots. We were in our nightclothes, having been pulled out of bed so when we eventually were allowed to retire the beds stank even more than with the usual urine smell.
During one of these freezing winters we awoke one morning to the sight of hundreds of men camped in the field. They were Canadian soldiers on manoeuvres. We went amongst them to explore and it was great for us because they gave us chocolate and tinned fruit. I was sorry when they left as we often stole bread because we were hungry. In the small attic above our bed were sacks of apples, put there to ripen, and on going to bed we would creep and take an apple to eat, leaving just the stalks which we held in our hands all night ready to throw away the next day.
Summertime was fun as we helped the prisoners of war in making the haystacks. The prisoners all had circle patches on their clothing (I don't remember the colours). These patches were the 'shoot spots', in case they tried to escape. The Italians were given more leeway, but the German prisoners always had a guard nearby with a gun. They were very nice to Edna and myself and were among the few men we had any contact with.
We were told one day to meet the daily train as Daddy was coming to visit us. The station was a few miles away and we had to pass the gypsy camp, which made us nervous. Their caravans were lovely, all painted bright colours with massive wheels. As we ran past we saw this man walking towards us - we had dawdled and was late, or the train was early, it was DADDY. I don't know how long it had been since we had last seen him but I felt shy and held onto Edna's hand. She said, 'Let's walk past him and just say Good morning Mr Jones'. He replied, ''Do I know you two young ladies'' and we both cried, ''Daddy, Daddy it's us'', as if he didn't know. I was walking ten feet tall, absolutely bursting with pride, as was Edna. He was tall, handsome, wearing a suit, collar and tie, with an Anthony Eden hat, complete with a walking cane. The perfect gentleman, which he was in the truest sense of the word. How unfair it was to compare this knight in shining armour against the few men left in the village wearing dungarees and gum boots, milking the cows and toiling the land. It was one of those wonderful moments in life that ended all too soon, when he went back to London.
We were very lucky in our visits, as Mildred would come with a friend whenever possible, and Williamina would do the same with her friend. Mummy came for a whole week and at least Mrs Harris allowed her to stay, not like Mrs Denton and Mrs Taylor. It rained most of that week, but to us the weather was unimportant. The morning Mummy went home we saw the imprint of her shoe heel in the mud outside our 'loo'. Edna and I put little stones and sticks around the imprint to try to preserve it, and were very sad when the rain washed it away. During the days we would count the Bomber planes going out to fight, and count them coming back. If the numbers did not tally on their return journey we got upset, but sometimes the remaining planes would come struggling behind, so we were happy again. Whenever the BBC news came on the wireless, there was automatically complete silence, although I doubt if we understood what was being said.
Before bed in the dark evenings Mrs Harris, Edna and myself would read a chapter each of a book. Little Women being my favourite at that time. Then came the night when from the garden in the far distance we could see a huge red glow. Mrs Harris said it was London burning. I still am amazed that we could see it from all those miles away. Edna and I held hands praying that our parents and sisters would be safe. That night there were soaking wet pillows as well as the usual soaking wet beds.
During our stay with her Mrs Harris went away for a while to stay with her Mother in Kent. Edna and I packed our clothes and gas masks and went to Kittington, another village about 2 miles away. It was a massive house owned by a Mrs Budget who bred race horses and also kept greyhounds. We absolutely loved it there. 'This was more fitting to our station'. There were two Nannies to care for us called Nurse Amy and Nurse Barbara. There was running hot water, plenty of food, which we ate in the big dining hall, and each day we were taken for long walks. During this period we lived the lives of little ladies. All good things come to an end, and although we wanted to remain at Kittington Hall, back we had to go to Mrs Harris, plus gas masks, nametag and clothes.
The media nowadays portray evacuees as having a wonderful time, but I think these were in the minority. A few years ago Edna and I visited the British Museum to see the Evacuee Exhibition'. What happened to lots of the children was heartbreaking and made us realise how much luckier we had been than some. We were always getting thrashed and 'told off' and although never rude I had a habit of giving a 'LOOK', which I expect was insolent and bordering on contempt. I knew these people had no right to beat us as our parents had never once raised their hands or voices to us. So I would just stare and give the 'The Look'.
When I was approximately 9 years old I told Edna I was going to run away. As there was nowhere to run to, we found a big bush for me to hide behind. Edna went to tell Mrs Harris I had disappeared, and from my hiding place I watched Mrs Harris, Edna and Christine walking around homes looking for me, with me giving an occasional little wave to Edna. When it started to get dark, I came out of my hiding pace and let them find me, thinking that Mrs Harris would be so upset and yet pleased to see me, that she would never hit us again. Ha Ha thought was all wrong. She beat the calves on the back of my legs so hard with the copper stick that Edna had to help me walk to school on the Monday. My long socks kept falling down and I felt so shamed when the teacher saw these welts on the back of my legs. I was asked how I came by them, and said I had fallen over. Although they must have guessed what had happened, nothing else was said or done.
I guess we were two plucky girls as Edna took me to the Billeting Officer at the other end of the village and after getting the courage to knock on his door (because he had a big dog) I told him about running away and the consequences. He seemed shocked at the state of my legs, but told us to go back to Mrs Harris and be good girls. By the time we had another visit from London my legs had healed and like most abused children we were frightened to tell our parents - I don't know why. When we did go home to London and told our parents the things that had happened to us, they were terribly upset not to have known of our treatment, as they thought by receiving our monitored letters that we were happy.
In retrospect I don't believe Mrs Harris meant to be so unkind. I think the strain of Christine (who ended up in a mental institution), a husband away at war and two evacuees were too much for her to cope with. Lots of people took in evacuees as they were paid 7s 6d (our money?) for each child. That was a lot of money in those poverty stricken days. My two brothers both went home when they were 14 although we saw little of them as they lived at the other end of the village. There is much more I remember and much I have forgotten, but the six years of evacuation were ones of waiting and longing. I'm sure I gained many things from my years in Bletchington, but the overall feeling is one of loss.
I was 11 when the war ended May 8th 1945, but we did not manage to get home until just before VJ Day August 12th 1945, as there was so many children's homecoming to be organised. When the coach arrived to take us to the station and HOME, I did not even wait to say good-bye, but just ran and jumped onto the coach. I now realise how wicked my actions in doing so were, as we had spent all those years with Mrs Harris and she must have formed some attachment to us, as proved in later years, as she always wanted and did keep in touch.
Joy upon Joy we arrived HOME. We were not allowed to wander around at will, yet the new found freedom in belonging at times felt strange. I am most fortunate to have had two of the best parents, lovely sisters and brothers and the secure knowledge that I belong to a large family.
My six years in 'exile' taught me, to laugh at life, also have the stamina not to let the lows in life get the better of me. There is always a light on the horizon. There have been and are still many trials and tribulations in my life (as in all human life) but I think this is a wonderful world and thank God daily for allowing me to live in it.
Audrey Demers, 2002


LIFE
Mother Fate she laughs at me
Great joy she gives - then misery
But I laugh back into her face
I will not let her win the race
One day I'm down, then up I climb
With head held high, my dreams sublime.
I'll not give in without a fight
For joy in life is mine by right
Faith and hope conquer every trial
I'll face the future with a smile,
I'll allow fate to win when I'm 86
For Death will stop her mocking tricks

Poem by Audrey

Acknowledgements
Author Audrey Demers/BBC Peoples War