大象传媒

As told by Donald Wharf

The sequence of all the momentous events that occurred in the last days of August seem patchy and somewhat unclear to me now - but an awful lot happened so quickly. Briefly, and purely in factual terms, the month ended up as follows: the school summer holidays came to a halt, I was given a black rubber gasmask and told that, as war was about to break out, I was going to 'live in the country'!

The morning of Friday, September 1st, saw the pupils of Central Park School file through the gates with an escort of teachers, then march towards Upton Park station. We all carried parcels or cardboard boxes that held at least one change of clothes, plus one or two other essential things which in my case was some of my toys. My gasmask was also contained in a box, a smaller one strung round my neck, which kept getting caught on the buff-coloured label, pinned to my jacket lapel. It all seemed unreal, like a horrible dream, as all of us stumbled along, while our mothers stood lining the opposite pavement - some waving, but some of them crying.

We travelled by Underground train to Paddington; quite a long journey itself, being eighteen stops on, what was then, the old Metropolitan Line. Our train was jammed packed with hundreds of children - lots of us having to stand - so not surprisingly, many were sick due to stress and the overcrowding. I remember that one of the younger teachers, not looking too well himself, tried to force open a gap in the doors, in order to let some more air in. Unfortunately though, he didn't succeed and a lot of the children around me slumped to the ground at our destination, distressed and very unhappy.

I will never forget standing dazed and bemused on the forecourt of Paddington station. Noise and confusion, black smoke and steam - all of it had its effect, but strangely, I also felt very alone in a world going horribly mad. That was, of course, in spite of the fact that the station was virtually full, mostly with East End evacuees with labels and gasmasks like me. But that was the way I felt at the time - maybe some others did too - while lots, who were similar in age to me, just put down their boxes and cried.

We arrived about lunchtime in Shrivenham, Berkshire, where, yet once again, we were counted, then taken in buses across the town to some sort of school for dispersal. After a sandwich-type midday meal and a period of time to recover, we all had to strip and stand in a line to be seen by an elderly nurse: mainly, I think, to ensure we were clean and free from the dreaded head lice. Later that day as we laid out our mattresses, neatly in rows on the floor, two little girls who had disappeared, walked in wearing very large headscarves. One of them stopped, then turned round and ran while the other one stood with her head down. Both, it turned out, were in total disgrace: they had nits - the eggs of the head lice - and according to someone who knew the two girls, the nurse had just shaved all their hair off. None of us children slept near them that night; hardly a kind thing to do, but at least, I remember, I felt very sorry - for them, I might add, not myself.

The following morning brought chaos again, but this time it wasn't for long; I was put on a bus with a party of 'Infants' and told I was going to Bourton. Bourton turned out to be just a small village, two or three miles down the road, but it seemed like the edge of the world to me, and a million miles from my home. Our arrival was greeted with curious looks from the locals, especially the children, most of whom rarely, if ever, saw strangers, let alone ones wearing labels! We, on the other hand, stood unabashed but resembling a flock of lost sheep as we stood on the roadside, looking around, while the teacher in charge checked our names. Next, we were 'paired' - or given a partner - and told to remain where we were: I was paired off with a boy that I knew, called Henry, from Central Park School. After a while we were both led away by a bustling but well-spoken lady whose face, I remember, was partly obscured by the brim of her very large hat. Henry and I didn't say very much as we dolefully followed behind her, vaguely aware that the road we were taking was leading us out of the village. Then, rather more than twenty four hours after leaving our homes in East Ham, we were there, on the doorstep of what some would call, a substantial Edwardian house: the official home of the Station Master - and his formidable wife.

First, we were formally introduced by the bustling, and large-hatted lady who told us that Mr and Mrs Hacker would be in charge of us now. They were our guardians, she told us both, and their home was to be our 'billet'. Old Mr Hacker remained in the background, eyeing us both up and down but his wife, on the other hand, made it quite clear that as long as we stayed there with her, she was the boss, and happy to have us, as long as we stayed well behaved!

Somehow, the house appeared bigger inside than it had done when viewed from the road; even its contents looked big and well built, including, I thought, Mrs Hacker. The very long garden, though, really surprised me, not just because of its size, but the fact that the railway was almost part of it - over the fence at the end - where the track and the footbridge as well as some sidings looked very inviting indeed. Not only that, but as both of us stood there - Henry was still by my side - an engine, enveloped in huge clouds of steam, was pushing and pulling some wagons, then shunting them all into different positions - still one of my favourite sounds! Nobody else shared the Hackers' home - no children, for instance, or grannies - so bearing in mind we were out of the village, very few people came by. That meant, I realised right from the start, that whether we liked it or not, Henry and I would do well to be friends just in order to live there together.

* * * * *

War was declared the very next day, on Sunday 3rd September. I can't remember the special announcement broadcast by Neville Chamberlain, so probably we were given the news by Mr or Mrs Hacker. I can, however, remember that evening when, very soon after our tea, Henry and I were sent to the kitchen and told to write home to our mothers. Naturally, that was the right thing to do but almost before I'd sat down, Mrs Hacker came in and started to tell us, precisely, the things we could say. That was the first, but by no means the last time I felt the desire to rebel. Then, when she told me to 'start it again', having read what I'd actually written, I threw down my pencil and stormed up the stairs, refusing to write any more!

The next day, on Monday, our 'courier' returned - the one with the very large hat - and took us, this time, to the old village school: another unwanted 'adventure'. All of the other evacuees were there by the time we arrived, most of them full of improbable stories, mainly regarding their billets. After a while, Mr Berry appeared: a teacher from Central Park School, who none of us 'Infants' had ever met, but we knew that he came from East Ham. He told us that we, the evacuees, would stay in the same class together and, for at least the foreseeable future, he would be there as our teacher.

* * * * *

My hostile reaction to Mrs Hacker, regarding my 'libellous' letter, had started an almost daily feud that was slowly to get out of hand. Sometimes, I think I enjoyed the whole thing, but Henry most certainly didn't; he played the 'good boy', so unlike me, he kept himself well out of trouble. When I look back though, I still can't accept that I was entirely to blame; I think it was mainly a kind of excuse to get at the 'powers that be' and anyone else who, to my way of thinking, was keeping me miles from my home.

Roughly a month after Henry and I had arrived at the Hackers' household, I blackened my already tarnished name with an escapade down on the railway. Steam trains, like ships, were exciting to me so, usually straight after school, I'd rush off, alone, to the railway line and rummage about in the sidings. Often I lost my entire sense of time if a shunter was there, working hard, or an engine driver - perhaps on his break - consented to show me around. As for my escapade: that was quite different - it happened, in fact, late at night when I knew that the Hackers had both gone to bed and were, probably, drinking their cocoa.

Henry, who slept in the same room as me, was also in bed - and asleep - when I dressed myself quickly and crept down the stairs and on through the house to the garden. Then it was easy: just straight down the path to my favourite playground - the railway. Standing there, belching out thick smoke and steam was a shunter, all ready to go, looking as if it was waiting for someone but not, I imagined, for me. That was, however, quite hard to believe when the driver, who knew me quite well, put out his hand and hauled me aboard, to join him, high up on the footplate! Feeling as never before in my life, I suddenly felt we were moving. Next, I was actually helping the driver to pull on the great heavy levers, one of which - sticking up out of the floor - sent us juddering off, in reverse. Then, I remember, I yanked on the cord that let out a blast on the whistle..... just as we passed by the darkened house where the Hackers, I hoped, were asleep!

Shunting, I thought, was a marvellous job; it didn't appear to be work but more like a game of hunting for wagons, then lining them up into rows. This all continued for roughly an hour but then, at the driver's suggestion, I climbed down the ladder and jumped to the ground when we finally stopped near our garden. Somehow I managed to steal through the house for the second time, quite undetected; luckily, not even Henry woke up as I clambered once more into bed. Tired, but unquestionably very elated, I laid there until, in the end, sleep overtook me, while in the distance the goods wagons clattered and clanged.

The following morning was totally different, as things usually are in the daylight. First, I discovered my colour had changed; my hands and my knees had turned black. Then, when I started to look round the room, I noticed my clothes were the same, then my pillow, which seemed even blacker still, apart from my sheets on the bed. I was in trouble, but more than just that, I couldn't think what I should do, so I ran to the bathroom to clean myself up and to hide, at least for a while. Almost before I'd had time to begin, I heard Mrs Hacker outside - but only for two or three seconds or so, then the door handle wobbled and shook as she entered and stood looking more than annoyed with the sheets and my clothes in her hands. All I could do was to tell a huge lie, when she asked for a good explanation: the truth would have caused even more of a row than the story I actually told her. Later, I learned what my punishment was: my bedtime, thereafter, was earlier and playing outside after tea in the evening was definitely out of the question.

Trouble was piling up daily at school, as well as with Mrs Hacker. All the conventional forms of behaviour that most of us learn when we're young, had left me, including respect for my teacher, 'old Blackberry' - that's what I called him! Often, in fact almost every day, he would order me out to the front, then send me to stand with my hands on my head, by the blackboard but facing the wall.

Once I remember, I did feel ashamed of a deed which was basically violent... The evacuee boys - which included me - had been building a very large dolls' house, intended for all the evacuee girls to play with while taking their lunch break. Work on this project was almost complete, having taken a good many weeks, using old cardboard boxes and pieces of wood plus lots of old Blackberry's patience. The last coat of paint had just been applied, which was red and still very wet, when I stood on a chair and promptly jumped on it - flattening it all to the ground. That was an act that, even today, I can't really understand: my instincts had always been largely creative - I'd never destroyed things like that.

My next misdemeanour was very different and nothing to do with the school, except that while making my way back home, with Henry, the episode started. Having just rounded a bend in the road, right in the heart of the village, we saw that the army had moved into Bourton - at least a small part of it had.

A detachment of soldiers had just taken over a cluster of very old buildings, some of them looking like derelict stables, built round a small cobbled courtyard. Naturally, we were excited about it and stood in the courtyard entrance, watching and wondering why most of the soldiers were filling up large sacks with straw. "Making our palliasses", one of them said - a crude kind of make-shift mattress - so we guessed that it wasn't a fleeting visit or simply an overnight stay.

Quite a few children had joined us by then, all from the same village school, but none of them actually stayed very long - then Henry decided to go. He thought it was late and that Mrs Hacker would probably be in a state, but also, I think he was feeling quite hungry and didn't like missing his tea. I didn't care though, I thought it was fun, so I started to help with the sacks and do what I saw all the soldiers doing - who seemed very friendly towards me. When, a bit later, a corporal appeared and said that their dinner was ready, he asked me if I'd like a cup of hot soup, assuming of course, I could stay. To me, it was just like a Royal invitation to dinner at Buckingham Palace, so I quickly accepted and followed him in to the 'cookhouse' - a disused barn - where I sat with the soldiers drinking my soup from a square-shaped, very large mess can. Time drifted on, then they started to sing and to tell, I thought, very odd jokes which were greeted with great shrieks of raucous laughter but I, of course, didn't know why.

Suddenly, there was a loud banging sound as the big wooden door swung open. That's when I saw it was dark outside - so I left in a bit of a hurry. Only a sentry was standing outside as I ran through the dimly lit courtyard but then, by the entrance, a figure appeared who I knew by the size of her hat! The 'Billeting Officer', as she was called, looked very relieved, but angry. Mrs Hacker, she told me, had phoned her to say, that she thought that I might have gone missing, adding, that Henry had said that he'd seen me, running around with some soldiers. Naturally, due to the time of day, she walked with me all the way home which, strangely enough, I didn't mind - so I gratefully held her hand.

My punishment wasn't too bad, that time: I was lectured by both of the Hackers, then sent to my bed, which I didn't mind - it was late and I felt very tired.

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