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This story was submitted to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ People’s War site by Wymondham Learning Centre on behalf of the author who fully understand the site's terms and conditions.

I was 7 years old in 1939. We lived in a tied cottage belonging to Cavick Farm, near Wymondham in Norfolk. There were eight of us altogether — six children (I was the third) and our parents, George and Alice.

Dad worked on the farm and often, when we woke up, we would come down to see new-born lambs in the hearth. He was a member of the Home Guard, but was usually too busy to participate. We attended Browick Road School but, as there was no transport and we did not have bikes, we had to walk there and back. When we were at school, mum would drive the baker’s pony and trap, delivering bread in Wymondham and the surrounding area but she would never work when we were at home. I remember the time when the wheel of the trap was entangled with an American lorry in Damgate Street, which, as everyone in Wymondham knows, is very narrow. The soldiers shouted at her a lot but she just sat still until they were able to lift her out. Mum also looked after evacuees for a few weeks at a time, when their mothers were having babies.

There were few food shortages as we kept ourselves supplied with vegetables and fruit from our large garden and all farmers received extra rations at harvest time and when the hay was cut. Dad would bring the box home from work. Now and then a joint would come with the laundry that mum would do for the odd soldier who was based at Cavick Hall.

There were three cottages in a row. Evacuees from London were living in the other two. The children from the three cottages would play together and watch the army manoeuvres. There were my brothers and sisters and the evacuees. I can remember some of the evacuees’ names — Peter Alick, Peter Watts, Ronnie Tan. They were staying with the Williamsons, who had four children — Sylvia and Bobby, and the twins Ann and Amelia who were born in Wymondham. Their cousin, Alice Keep, came to stay with them as well.

One day the soldiers were having a mock fight.Tanks were passing the plantation and the ‘enemy’ soldiers were hidden in the trees. The soldiers had bags of flour to throw at the tanks, which, once hit, were deemed to have been blown up. We all joined in as well and had a wonderful time hurling bags of flour at the tanks. The foot soldiers won, of course, as they had our extra help! Imagine, in those days of rationing when flour was so scarce, being allowed to throw it around.

In the middle of the war we had to leave the farm and we lived at Churchgate House in the town. It was large and suited our big family. My birthday falls on 7th May and on 8th May 1945 we had a day off school to celebrate the end of the war. There were fireworks in the market place and the Americans gave a party for local children at Hethel airfield. I ran home to ask permission to go to the party, but by the time I got back, the trucks had left, so I missed it. Sometime later on VJ night, I remember looking out of an upstairs window and seeing my parents disappearing down the street. I found out that they had gone into Middleton Street, where Arthur Raby, had dug up a sunflower and had built a bonfire around it.

Many of the evacuees had no home to go back to at the end of the war, so they did not return to London immediately. Our family is still in contact with the Williamsons, who became firm friends. Mrs Williamson used to return to Norfolk to stay with my mother for holidays. When Mrs Williamson died at the age of 91, we all went to her funeral in London. When my mother died, a car followed us to St. Faith’s Crematorium — it was Sylvia and a sister.

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