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Evacuation Day — Friday 1st September 1939

I was eight years old when we were evacuated. We met at the school with our labels tied to our coats, gas masks and a small bag of things to amuse us on the journey. With mixed feelings of fear and excitement, we set off on the long walk to the station. People came to their doors to wave goodbye to us. Some parents walked with us although they had been asked not to. Neither we nor our parents knew where we were going. It was not until we arrived and were billeted out that they were notified as to where we were.

We arrived at Hassocks. The journey had been long and slow — it was back in the days of the steam engine. We were taken to a hall where we were given something to eat and drink. It had been pre-arranged with the families as to whom we would be staying with. When the billeting began, we were taken in groups to our destinations. We were the last to leave. There were fourteen of us in total — ten boys and four girls. The girls were the furthest away nearer to Burgess Hill, a few miles from Hassocks. We arrived at two farm cottages, tired, frightened and wanting to go home.

Dorothy and I were in one cottage and Doreen and Vera were next door. It was very strange to us — there were oil lamps and candles as there was no gas or electricity — but Mr and Mrs Worcester (later to be known as Aunty and Pop) were very good and kind to us and we soon settled in.

In contrast, the ten boys were altogether in a beautiful manor house called Clayton Priory. It was about a mile away from where we were staying. I will never forget walking along the tree lined drive and seeing a large white house with green shutters. It was lovely - my 'Manderley'. We had gone to see our younger brothers and cousins who were staying there. They did not put brothers and sisters together, I don’t know why.

Life as an evacuee

The first day was strange. Our foster parents had three children of their own — two teenage boys and a daughter who was still at school. Mollie and I became close friends (later she married in 1945 and I was bridesmaid at her wedding. She also named her daughter after me). They also fostered two other younger children. There were a lot of people in the small cottage but we managed.

There were a few days before we started school so we played in the fields and it was nice to have so much freedom. In London we had played in the streets which must have been very quiet with all the children away. It must have been an awful worry for the parents.

On the Sunday, my Uncle came to Hassocks to see where we had been billeted to and to check that we were alright. My parents went to Salford (near Guildford) to see my younger sister who was only two at the time. She had gone there with the nursery school. The Matron and nurses all went with them and they stayed in a large red brick house in its own grounds. My sister stayed there until she was five years old.

When we started school we had to walk a few miles to get there — the school bus would not take evacuees. We took a short cut through the fields and over styles and were exhausted by the time we arrived. The boys from The Priory had a much longer walk than us. Then at lunchtime, we had to walk from Hassocks to Keymer for our dinner. My brother, who was only five years old and not strong, collapsed and was taken to hospital where he remained for a short time. Eventually, a school bus was provided for the evacuees but we still had to walk about a mile to the pick up point.

We were lucky that our parents were able to visit every Sunday. Other parents came with them. We would assemble in the field and the boys from The Priory would come down. They were happy family days and we were sad when our parents had to leave. The first Winter of the war was a harsh one. We had never seen so much snow and had great fun.

After a while though, evacuees began drifting back to London. At the time, this period was known as “the phoney war” because so far, there had been no attacks on London. I remember a couple of incidents did happen in Hassocks though whilst we were away.

A low flying plane went over one day and we were cheering and waving at it when we realised it was a German plane! We dived under the hedge and it passed. On another occasion, a plane crashed about two or three fields away. We went to see the wreckage and after that incident, we went home to London. My sister remained away though and we visited every week. My father was a good man who loved children and they loved him. They all called him ‘Uncle Ted’ including my sister.

London in the blitz

In terms of bombing, there was not much happening in London when we first got back. We would go to the shelters when the siren went and come out when we heard the all clear. We did not have an Anderson Shelter — we only had a back yard as there was a saw mills at the back of the houses that was dangerous in case of fire. Instead, we shared a shelter with my aunt, uncle and cousin who lived further down the road. My dad and uncle fitted bunk beds and made it as comfortable as possible.

One night, we were in the shelter and the all clear sounded so we went back to our houses. Once inside, my dad thought he heard a plane and went to the window to see if he could see anything. He saw a bomb as it whizzed through the air - he shouted to us to get down under the beds. I will never forget that night. He took us back to the shelter, making us stay close to the wall and shielding us as we hurried along. When we got there, my aunt was standing outside saying “it’s my mother”. We went into the shelter but my dad and uncle went with my aunt. It was her mother’s house that had been hit and she became the first person to be killed in Bermondsey.

This had been the start of the blitz and from then on, the raids got worse. At bedtime we went to the shelter and stayed there all night, coming out in the morning, wondering what we might find. We would lay there listening to the planes — if it was a smooth engine, it was one of ours but if there was a jolt in the engine, it was German. We would listen to the bombs flying through the air and wait for the explosion praying it was not our house that had been hit.

Bermondsey is near Tower Bridge in the heart of the docklands so we were heavily bombed. One night there had been a very bad raid in Canning Town I think. The survivors from there were brought to Keatons Road School. That night the school was bombed and they were all killed. My father was an air raid warden and was on duty that night. He came back to the shelter very distressed, stating that although he was a butcher by trade and was used to the sight of blood, he had never seen anything as bad as this. It was the only time I ever saw him cry.

The next night a bomb dropped on the shelter next door but did not explode. It travelled. They were digging in search for it and found it three days later beneath our shelter. We were able to get our things out of the shelter but could not use it again. My father decided then that we should go back to the country.

We had been writing to the family we had been billeted with since our return to London. They wanted us to go back to the country, so my mother, grandmother, brother and I went back to Hassocks. They gave up their bedroom for us, sleeping in the parlour themselves. As there was no electricity we had no radio or gramophones, just a piano which fortunately, my mother could play. That was the only form of entertainment. My father bought us bicycles which we rode to school — we went to Burgess Hill School because it was nearer than Hassocks.

My mother had a business in London so had to return every Thursday and stayed until Sunday. When my father brought her back they would also visit my sister who was still at the nursery in Salford.

We hadn’t been back in the country very long when my father was killed. It was a daytime raid. The all clear had sounded and he had gone back to work. There was a lady with her daughter in the shop who wanted something from the freezer. As he went to fetch it, he heard a plane and rushed back and pushed them under the counter. Unfortunately, he did not get underneath in time himself. Luckily the mother and daughter were not badly hurt.

They always dropped three bombs at a time. On this occasion, one hit the shop, another hit our neighbour’s house and the third dropped in the road in front of my Grandmothers house. Mr Smith, our neighbour was in the coffee shop having some lunch at the time. He told us later how the waitress brought over some apple pie that he had not ordered. Mrs Bourley asked him to eat it anyway as she had made a mistake. It was whilst he ate the pie that his house had a direct hit. He always said that Mrs Bourley’s apple pie saved his life. His house was at the back of my Grandmothers, if she had not come to the country with us, she would have been killed or very badly injured. It was Mr Smith whom came down to Hassocks with the bad news and took my mother back to London.

I found it very hard to believe that my lovely dad had been killed. My mother still had to go to London on Thursdays because of the business and I would go with her. I wanted to look for my dad. My uncle would take us to see my sister during these visits.

During these trips back up to London, we slept on a mattress in the shop parlour because we no longer had the shelter. Although we slept by the fire, we were cold with the draft from the window and door. To address this we rearranged the furniture. We put the table under the window and the mattress beneath it, our feet now facing towards the fire. That night they dropped an incendiery bomb in the saw mills behind us. The whole window frame came in and landed on the table, there was glass everywhere. If we had not rearranged the furniture we would all have been killed. It was the only ceiling in the house that did not come down. The whole shop front had caved in and we were trapped in the room with the saw mills ablaze behind us. Fortunately, neighbours knew we were inside and eventually got us out. Bill Bourley carried me out to his mother who was waiting anxiously, my mother alongside her. He put me in her arms and she put an arm around my mum and said “thank God you’re safe” and we all cried.

We returned to the country after that, our lives in turmoil. However, with the help of dear ‘aunty’ and ‘pop’, our guardian angels, we survived. Unfortunately, my mother did not like living in the country and in 1942 we moved to Brighton. My sister also came home that year and with our family almost complete, I found it very hard to believe that my lovely dad would never come home again. It left a big gap in my life that has never been filled.

I resented coming to Brighton — my heart was still in London with my dad. We didn’t even escape the bombs by being here. The beach was closed due to the threat of invasion and so could not be used. oThe house that we rented had been weakened through bombing. One night we went to bed and heard an almighty crash — the ceiling in the lounge had fallen in. The owners could not afford the repairs and so my mother was able to buy the house and that was the new beginning for the rest of our lives.

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