大象传媒

I wasn't really far from home. Humshaugh is barely twenty miles from Newcastle. But when you are six years old, separated from mother, friends and family, it might as well have been a thousand miles.
My mother had tried to extol the virtues of being 'out in the lovely countryside' where, she said, 'You'll be safe from the bombs.' I recall feeling aggrieved that I was being removed from the fascination of the war--all the searchlights streaking the night sky, the wail of sirens, the boom of guns.
All the members of my school were scattered around rural Nothumberland, and I had the bad luck to be esconced in the home of the Scotts.
'What a delightful cottage,' my mother told Mrs Scott, a lady with a thin pale face, tight lips and thick lensed glasses.
It would have been delightful if my mother had stayed and it had been a holiday.
But she couldn't stay---and it was no holiday.
There were hens caged in one corner of the garden which might have been interesting. But on my first day I was warned to stay away from the hens. No reason---just stay away from them.
Behind the cottage was the thick, rich greenery of a scary looking wood which I viewed with great anticipation of exciting exploration. But no!
Mr Scott was a hefty dour man with wild black hair and eyes to match. Early in my stay he loomed over me, in the garden as I keenly eyed the promise of those trees.
'Make sure you keep out of the woods,boy. They're my business. You understand."
I understood all right. I understood the black scowl he wore, but more than anything I understood that this was going to be my personal war. Hitler seemed a much more appealing prospect than the Scotts.
In no time I was into the routine of trekking the half mile to the village school where the local kids mocked the evacuees. There was also a routine of mealtimes around the cold Scott table, where no talking was allowed and a pink lint slice of processed meat and a piece of bread was the staple evening diet.
The Scott had a little daughter,Sarah, who had just learned to walk. She was the brightest aspect of that house.
Every two days I became used to being dispatched to the local supplier of hen corn. Half a stone of hen corn for over half a mile is quite a carry for a six year old.
Then there was the large milk can which I had to take to the local farm every other day to have filled. That was so heavy that I could hardly lift it onto the kitchen table when it was full.
One day when I struggled back with the can little Sarah was toddling about near the back door. She always greeted me with the warmest welcomes I ever received in that place even though I couldn't understand a word of her infant babblings.
I had my usual struggle lifting the can onto the kitchen table and had just reached my bedroom when the crash, splash and screams came from the kitchen.
Somehow Sarah had managed to pull the can of milk down so that the liquid had poured all over her and over the kitchen floor. The Scotts, their faces masks of disgust, were quick to blame me. And I suffered ten minutes of being told how stupid I was.
Out in the garden I felt crushed and full of self pity at having to take the blame.The woods were right there in front of me.Trees seemed to hold out comforting arms and, without really thinking about it, so badly needing consolation, I plunged into the shelter of those towering branches.
Immediately I felt safe and protected and soon I was dashing through the brush, wildly and delightedly kicking up leaves, squealing with delight when a rabbit darted out of cover and ran ahead of me before disappearing under a log.
In spite of my new found elation I knew I had to be back in time for tea so reluctantly I made my way back to the garden, being cautious to ensure no one saw me emerge from the trees.
In the cool of the front room the table was set and I kneeled on a chair and gazed down the lane willing my mother to appear. I heard Mr Scott come into the room, then I jumped as his voice boomed, "Boy, have you been in the woods?"
Nervously I slid off the chair, staring up at his cold glaring face as I frantically shook my head.
"Don't lie to me boy---look."
And he pointed to my socks which were wrinkled round my ankles and there, all over the surface of the wool were little tell tale balls of goose grass.
"They only grow in the woods, boy. You think that's funny?"
In spite of the situation I couldn't help smiling at this silly little give away.
I was ordered to get my tea and go straight to bed. "Next time I'll take my belt to you."
Even so, as I left the table and headed for my room his hand swung a slapped my around the legs.
I lay in my room as it darkened, suppressing the tears, cursing Hitler, cursing the Scotts, even briefly cursing my mother for abandoning me in such a place.
When I slept that night I dreamed that a large brown bear came out of the woods and stood growling and clawing at me through my bedroom window. When I woke up in the morning the bed was wet---something that had never happened to me before and Mrs Scott found something else to be angry about.
At school things were little better with the local kids always keen to have a go at me. One afternoon I was lined up at teacher's desk waiting to get my work marked and the boy behind me gave me a push, causing me to reach out for the desk to save myself. But all I managed to do was knock a box of coloured chalks onto the floor and found my self stamping the scattered chalks into the floor as I danced to avoid them. The class howled with laughter. Miss Sword, the teacher kept me back to clean up, and the Scotts got at me for being late home.
I just had to get away. My Dad had told me that it was time to be brave so that when my mother did visit I would cry but be unable to tell her of my misery. Albert Finn, a boy posted at the nearby farm went missing and every one said he had run away home. One night, out of school I turned right instead of left, down to the main road, and longingly watched the army wagons pass on their way towards Newcastle. Oh, if only I was bold enough.
One afternoon I heard the Scotts talking in the kitchen. They were talking about a little girl who had been missing from class
for a few days. And suddenly they had my attention---
"Had to take her all the way to Newcastle---doctor just couldn't shift it here." Mrs Scott was saying.
"Stupid thing for her to do though," Mr Scott rumbled."Getting a stone stuck up her nose."
Quietly, but tingling with suppressed excitement, I slipped out into the garden.
Diligently I picked up several pebbles and small stones from the pathway and then scurried behind the hen-house.
For several frustrating minutes I applied small stones into either nostril, but they were either too big and hurt or two small and slipped straight out. At last, with much pressure I got a smooth pebble to stick.
Exuberantly I dashed for the cottage door, to recount the terrible fate that had overtaken me. But such was the eagerness of my charge that the stone dislodged and lay shining and bloodied on the step at the entrance.
Defeated I sat down to mope once more.
Then one day my father paid a surprise visit when I was at school. He had just gained his release from the Merchant Navy after his ship was bombed and was working on overhead power lines. His work had happened to bring him to a location just across the fields from the school.
I asked, no pleaded, that since he was home now could I not be. His broad hand smoothed back my hair. "You know we want you home, son," he said. But that was all.
When school restarted I couldn't get it out of my mind that my father was working just across the fields.
As soon as we were released I went to the rear of the playground climbed onto the wall from where I could see a lorry and workmen climbing aboard. Desperately I yelled and jumped down into the field, recently cut and thickly stubbled.
The lorry began to move away and I found myself crying as all hope seemed to be running away with it.
There was a strange noise behind me and, apparently attracted by the sounds of my sobbing, a line of young chicks were running behind me. Believing I was being chased I became even more frantic, so desperate that I stumbled and fell full length among the stubble which stabbed like nails into my exposed flesh.
And then I was being lifted by strong hands and I had to rub my tear blinded eyes to see my father, his face lined with worry and concern. "There'll be no more of this, son." he said as he hugged me to him.
The next few days are vague but my mother and father came together to collect me to take me home, back to their security, and the blind confusions of my positive feelings about the war.

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