大象传媒

My brother was six and I was eight when War was declared. There was the sombre announcement on the wireless and, not long after, the siren sounded. 'Under the dining room table, you two,' said my father. He pulled the curtains, and then went into the front room to do the same there. After a bit I crept out. My mother was sitting at the piano, tears trickling down her cheeks. It was scary.

We lived in Ramsgate, Kent, and Ramsgate was in the front line, only 28 miles from the French coast. Our beaches were soon to be mined and barbed wired.

With Hillbrow, my first school, behind me I was starting at St Lawrence Juniors. Now schools, we learned, were to be evacuated to the safety of the countryside, pupils and teachers.

But my father, who had fought with the Royal Engineers in the First World War, decided on an alternative; we'd go to Burnham-on-sea in Somerset, to stay with our grandparents - and our mother would go along with us.

So I was soon enrolled at a third school, St Margaret's, on the edge of sandhills, and with a view across the Bristol Channel. But not for long. Grandpa became seriously ill, and, anyway, there was talk of 'Phoney War'.

We weren't the only evacuees who returned home early in 1940.

But by May, 1940, things had changed for the worse. In Ramsgate Harbour the little boats were preparing for Dunkirk. The Germans were advancing. Invasion could be imminent.

This time Dad despatched us to Maidenhead, to be billeted with a widow whose son and daughter were both in the armed forces. No bathroom, privy at the end of the garden, gas mantles and candles for light. Big black kettle permanently on the grate so that only a few tiny flickering flames were ever seen. (This later became a family joke).

Mum kept us out of the way as much as possible. I enjoyed my school, Alwyn Road. Occasional reminders only of War - games of 'kick the bucket' on a bomb site, hunts for shrapnel when a plane crashed, the excitement of watching army manoeuvres.

Meanwhile my poor father, was coping alone with the horrors of the Battle of Britain. As a railway employee he worked long hours and he took his turn at night as a Fire Watcher.

After eighteen months at Maidenhead, it was decided that we should move closer to home. Old friends in Faversham agreed to share their house with us and, in November, 1941, I was a new pupil at yet another school, Ethelbert Road.

In the first week, I blotted my copybook; I forgot my gas mask and was sent off in disgrace to get it. Otherwise I don't remember much of Ethelbert Road. We children caught measles, chicken pox and mumps in quick succession. I then became seriously ill with bronchial pneumonia. My father's health, too, was deteriorating and my mother was to-ing and fro-ing between Faversham and Ramsgate.

So, after only three months, we made trek for home. But before we left I had to sit the 11 plus. 'Write about a Day in the Life of a Land Girl', was one choice of essay. Our host's daughter was a Land Girl; digging up mangel worzels was a topic I'd heard a lot about. I passed!

Ramsgate, in April 1942, was a battered, forlorn sandbagged town. Not a good place to be. Shelling by the Germans from the French coast was constant - as we soon found out.

As I was unable to take up my 'Scholarship' - Clarendon House County School was still far away in Staffordshire - I joined St George's School instead.

Night after night the sirens wailed and people hurried for shelter. Down the steps into Ramsgate's extensive underground chalk tunnels. Imagine our poor parents, having to wake us up, get us dressed - grizzling and protesting - and out into the blackout-dark street.

Our nearest tunnel entrance was in Cannon Road. People sat in rows on benches, facing each other, huddled in rugs, too tired and resigned to talk much. Mum would produce copies of the Childrens' Newspaper and Beano for us to read. From time to time a Warden might appear, to report on someone's windows being smashed - or worse. Then the All Clear would sound - and we would thankfully trudge home.

One night, I remember, we left the house and the sky to the west was glowing a fiery red. 'Canterbury,' said my Mother sadly. That must have been in June 1942.

Often after a disturbed night though, we would be allowed to sleep on in the morning, even it if meant us being late for school. I also suffered a lot from earache at this time and doubtless missed more school.

If the siren sounded during school hours, the teachers would hurry us down steps in the playground into the tunnel below. I remember we'd sing communal wartime songs... those poor teachers!

Then there were the Doodle Bugs... 'please pass over, don't drop on me,' I'd pray under the blankets.

In January, 1945, Clarendon House Girls' School at last returned. This meant, with my 11 plus, leaving St. George's. I rebelled. I didn't want to go. I would feel an outsider. It was one school change too many.

But, of course, I was made to go. I managed seven reasonable School Cert exam grades (O-levels) thanks to the dedicated teachers - all spinsters, all great characters. Then I left.

Seven schools in seven years. Not many evacuees can beat that, surely!

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Jenni Hern of the CSV Action Desk on behalf of A. J. Tate and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

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