大象传媒

One of most vivid memories of childhood occurred in the fifth year of my life, when Britain declared war on Germany. Until that time a narrow routine of sleeping, eating and playing was my way of life. Suddenly after only a few weeks of school my world exploded. Into it came new experiences, people, feelings, sounds, and label for me - "evacuee."

I cannot recall Sir Winston Churchill's speech, most of which was lost on my child's understanding and intelligence. But I can remember the tension of my parents, the drone of a voice and a stiffness that pervaded our room as the wireless relayed that historic occasion. Previously, unknown noises became familiar: the wail of the air-raid siren, the sound of aeroplane engines overhead, a voice crying "put that light out", even the staccato-patter of machine gun bullets became part of the pattern of life in the early days of the war. The bombing raids over our East Anglian coast line increased, buildings were demolished and lives lost and so for safety's sake, we were evacuated to the Midlands.

The day of our departure arrived; my brother, nearly six years my senior and I had said our "goodbyes" to our parents. My mother admonishing us not to cry, to behave well and remember our manners, waved us out of sight as the bus left the school gates and transported us to the railway station. There a large "monster' bellowing forth steam and smoke stood on the rails ready to pull the long line of railway carriages. At last children, school teachers, luggage and the ubiquitous gas-masks were aboard, with a shrill whoop the engine surged forward and a memorable journey had begun.

Our destination was Leicester and it could have been at the end of the earth, the little we knew about it; the furthest I had been was Felixstowe. The journey laboured on, with stories, community singing, and surprise sweets handed round to all by our teachers. The very same people who had only hours earlier had taught, reprimanded and punished us for our misdemeanours. Eventually the train stopped in the twilight at an immense platform. Into that twilight emerged five hundred tired, hungry and over-awed children. Even the "big boys" seemed to have stopped their boasting and scuffling.

Once more into fleets of buses, we were taken across this enormous city to the De Montford Hall, then into its dazzling brightly lit auditorium we were led to tables laden with food. I remember nothing of the meal, only the satisfaction of eating. Vividly I can recall the deafening sound of plates, children's chatter, and some atrocious table manners of these strangers across the table. The girls and boys were actually speaking with their mouths full of food! My Mother I knew would have had a lot to say about that; further, there were no "Please" or "Thank Yous". They would not have had anything to eat at our house.

After the meal and checking yet again we had our gas-masks and identity cards with us, a further bus journey reduced our numbers and took us to our night's destination.

I had been entrusted to my brother's care, with strict instructions to keep with him and do what he said. The duties of "big brothers" laid heavily on him, he intended to be a Mother, Father, and Guardian Angel rolled into one, for me. At a large school, where everyone appeared so much bigger and noisier than home, we were segregated into our sexes for bed. The girls were to enjoy the luxury of a camp bed, the boys two blankets, a pillow, and the floor. Now came our first big test and opposition to those in authority - my brother and I refused to be separated. Every emotion, known and unknown, fear, anger, indignant righteousness, and love we felt, as the Adults tried to coerce us into parting. But finally safe in big brother's arms, exhausted, dirty an tearful I fell asleep - on two blankets, a pillow, and the floor.

Next morning after breakfast and an attempt at walking, we were to be collected by our "aunts'. (These people had been directed and told how many evacuees they *must* take, not a happy situation). Needless to say, no one wanted or was keen to offer a little girl of five, and an eleven year old boy, a home. The "Aunts" filed past us ranks of children, choosing the clean, pretty or appealing child. I was the only girl left. I thought of the endless days that must be spent in the big empty, and gloomy, school with four boys and my brother, if no one wanted us.

Suddenly, a friendly voice asked "Would you like to come and stay with me?" "Only if my brother can come too" I said firmly. Unbelievably this lady agreed and, trustingly taking hold of the offered hand, I became part of a home, an extended family, and a city that for ever remains part of me.

That house became mine for the duration of the war, I returned to Ipswich at the end of the School years in 1945. Most of the time I was on my own, as my brother did not settle, and returned to Ipswich.

Every year I went back to Leicester for the whole of the School holidays and life with family and friends there resumed its normal, happy and familiar way. During my teenage years, letters were sent and received regularly, and birthdays and Christmas were marked with cards and presents. Later, my husband to be was introduced to the "Leicester family" and holidays and visits continued with many of the "family" becoming familiar with our beautiful Suffolk coastline and countryside.

Sadly, the family and friends are becoming fewer with the passing of time - it is now nearly 65 years ago. This proves for me, that even from War, some good can emerge.

Reproduced by Ipswich Museum with Maureen Kitson's permission.

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