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I grew up with the belief that everyone had a Cello in their cupboard. It took the harsh realities of war to teach me that people had other things in their cupboards, like clothes even. I wish I could say that we were poor but happy, alas that’s just for the books, we were poor and miserable like most of our neighbours. You certainly could leave the front door ajar; there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could nick.

Being evacuated was a real eye-opener for all of us snotty-nosed, sharp and inquisitive London kids, the only thing was, after you’ve cried and grizzled all the way from London on the train, some joker arranged for the locals to choose the child they want to foster for the duration. My sister was soon chosen, she wasn’t just amazingly beautiful but she was also thirteen, which made her a very useful age to help around the house. My brother soon followed her, not because he was beautiful, but because he was a crafty little git, who could charm the birds from the trees when he wanted to. They were yet to discover he smoked too, he was ten, swore, and ducked out of school when something better turned up, and he had one of the most phenomenal rages I have ever seen. This finally left me, and two other little snivellers. I was eight years old and my gas mask in its box had made a bruise on my bum. Bang, bang on the journey as we went, forbidden to remove it. Some well meaning and kindly soul had given each child a carrier bag containing a few rations and a whole bar of Cadburys chocolate; I feel the joy and comfort of that bar to this day. Eventually since no one was left to choose us we were taken to the homes of people who had only tentatively had offered to give a home to an evacuee.

It was a large country house with a small grey lady who seemed positively ancient to a small child. It was so quite there, it was a culture shock to me, who grew up having to shout to be heard, in a house that had two up and two down and kept the elements from eight people, father, mother and six children. I cried myself to sleep, who’d known nothing grand or great, but had always known the warmth of other peoples nearness, slept alone and lonely, scratched by starched sheets that crackled as I turned over. I draw a veil on the next week. Except to say this poor woman, who’d so kindly taken me in, could stand me no more, and after a week I was moved on. I tried to find that house years later when I went back with my children but I was unable to, I just remember the name of Champernaum I think it was.
I was next to be the guest of a family, the same people who kept the huge key to the great Norman church close by. I had some wonderful times there, lovely memories, I learned about the country ways, and grew to love the woman who cared for me. She was a dressmaker who made me clothes from oddments, and it was her remark to my brother, that I was a pretty little thing, that caused me to actually see myself for the first time.

My mother visited me once in three and a half years, but I bore her no grudge, I always knew she hadn’t any money but had my best interests at heart. Dad was still busy, getting drunk, and wouldn’t have missed us if we’d never come back, I’m sure. My mum wrote to me, and I packed primroses and violets and moss and sent them to her, with the help of my carer.

My sister had a story all her own, which she never spoke of in her life-time, which was to be tragically short. But I pieced together the bits later, and shall in tribute to her memory, draw a veil over the events, suffice it to say my mother made her one and only visit, and smashed the man over the head with her gamp and promptly took my sister home. This left my brother and me. Now as I was very afraid of my brother’s bullying, I would have been better on my own…. time quietens the memory, I know most children were unhappy and many of them tried to get home under their own steam, some even succeeded, though we spoke of them in whispers, (and great admiration), most of us just endured it and hearing of the constant nightly bombing, knew not, whether we were orphaned, or if the hovels that we called homes would be there on our return.

After all we had become accustomed to clean beds and decent clothes, and even shoes without the customary cardboard in. Oh how it stained our socks yellow in the rain. In due course though, dad did buy leather and mend them, I watched him many times, very quietly, his temper was always uncertain, and marvelled at the mouthful of nails taking one out at a time, then bang, bang, new soles! New shoes only went to the eldest, after that they were handed down one to another, I owe my obsession to new shoes to this, I’m sure. Today I’ve got about fifty pairs, such compensation!

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