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(For full story refer to ‘Our Life-Saving Cat - Ref. A2879526)’)

(The story so far ... my family and I had been bombed out of our home and at age 6 my mother and I were transferred from a rest centre to a mothers and children home in Surrey). Now read on...

We arrived at this establishment at night, and it was not until daylight that I could see we were in a small house in a park; from our garden we could see across this park to a much larger house. On reflection now, I believe we were in the lodge of a ‘grand’ country house, on the outskirts of Woking. On arrival, at night, I was immediately separated from my mother, who was taken to the large house. This upset me, but worse was to come. I was taken by some ladies into a large bedroom where children were already asleep in their cots. In very dim conditions these ladies proceeded to undress me, which I resented – only my mother had ever done this before. I well remember resisting furiously as they insisted I remove my Liberty Bodice, and eventually removed it for me. Something of a tearful fight ensued, as I protested that my mother had always insisted I keep this on during the night. For younger readers I should explain that this garment was a fleecy vest-type garment which buttoned at the front. It was kept on all night during times spent in damp shelters and was very important to keep children warm and dry. I was told to keep quiet as I would wake the other children, as I continually asked to see my mother.

When dawn broke I could see the other cots, all occupied by very young children – just toddlers really. A woman, who seemed like a nurse, came in and introduced me. Surprised at my age, she announced to all the others, ‘Look, we have a big girl with us now, she will look after you’(!) I was flabbergasted, feeling desperately in need of some looking after myself. But this was the pattern. I was told I would not be seeing my mother until the next week. All the children were only allowed to see their mothers for a few hours each Wednesday afternoon, when the mothers had to take us out. We could not visit each other’s houses at all, even though we were only walking distance from each other. A week seems like an eternity to a small child, but I endured it better than the others. The little children cried a lot at this separation, and one or two were real problem cases. When I asked why these ones were so difficult, it was explained to me that they had been pulled out from the rubble of their bombed homes, and one or more family members were dead under the rubble. Thank goodness being a mature type of child, I quickly slipped into the mould of nanny to these young children, playing with them, and did my best to comfort them when they became very distressed. I can remember clearly walking around our small garden with them and looking wistfully across the parkland that separated us from the large house where our mothers were housed, and telling them that it wouldn’t be long till next Wednesday when they would see their mums for a few hours.

To this day, I cannot comprehend how the authorities felt that separating us, without warning on arrival, and then depriving us of the only comfort left to us, was an appropriate way to treat young children who had just endured the trauma of being bombed out. To separate little children after such traumas was like a refined form of torture, with our mothers so near and yet so far. It was as though we were being punished for losing our homes. Hitler could scarcely have been more cruel. It seems to me no better than the workhouses of old where husbands and wives had to live separately. I appreciate that in the war, space was short for these children, but, for example in my case, they could have had the kindness to let me sleep with mum until daylight before explaining the separation. And as this was 1944 the authorities had had five years to organise something more humane. I feel that whatever the need to separate us for lack of space, it could not have been necessary to limit ‘visiting time’ in this way; we could have walked across the park to the big house on a daily basis. I think it was extreme mental cruelty for young children, and I have often wondered how many children had future health problems relating to this trauma.

I soon discovered our mothers fared little better, since on top of the separation, they were very badly fed, and always hungry. Later, mum told me one day she wandered down the wrong corridor in her house and found the matron with a larder door open. Having worked in butchering, mum instantly recognised (as she told me) such things as York hams, and other delicious meats and foods which the mothers had never seen. Obviously, these items were being supplied in good faith by the American Air Force, and diverted to those running the establishment, either for their own use, or perhaps to the Black Market. Permanently hungry and distressed, my mother spent her time searching for a private billet and after a month or so of this horror she took me to a house in Woking where we lodged for a few weeks only, as that was pretty ghastly too, in other ways. Finally, an old uncle took us into his home in Diss, Norfolk, and we were so glad to get there and live in a civilised way – I even re-started school. I often wondered how long the other little children had to stay at the USAF home, if their mothers were not so enterprising as mine.

P.S. By a strange coincidence, a similar scenario was repeated for me in 1947 after we had organised a return to living in Bermondsey (in 1944). I was attending an out-patients clinic at Guy's hospital in 1947 when, by chance, I was diagnosed as suffering from Rheumatic Fever. I was immediately taken by ambulance to Royal Waterloo Hospital, just south of Waterloo Bridge. I was admitted as an in-patient and - once again - instantly separated from my mother and sent to a children's ward. I stayed there for several weeks and the only 'contact' with family (apart from letters) was on Sunday afternoons, when we were allowed to stand on the outside balcony for a few minutes to wave to our families on the pavement below! This was not an isolation ward, and children were suffering from a wide variety of conditions (e.g. it was the first time I had seen Chorea - popularly known as St. Vitus Dance). My Rheumatic Fever also was not catching. So there was no medical reason for this separation. Once again, I had not only to deal with my own misery, but to comfort the little ones who cried for their mothers, especially after the Sunday 'waving' session. It seems it took a long time for the Governments to wake up to the fact that when children are in the midst of trauma, either of bombing, or illness, they need the comfort of their parents. By (I think) the 1960's (or 1970's) mothers were admitted to stay overnight with children who were having an operation. So things have finally improved, but one young specialist to whom I related these details was amazed to hear of this antiquated practice being in place in a major London hospital as late as 1947.

(Now return to original story, Ref.A2879526)

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