大象传媒

No arrangements had been made for schooling so our days were spent in this huge adventure playground; the hills behind became Everest and the Matahorn, and we were the daring mountaineers, eager to conquer the highest peak. We could skim stones across the lake or take command of the little boat as fearless pirates of the seven seas (due to the size of the boat and the vast number of pirates, more than once we had to abandon the sinking ship, only to spend the rest of the day trying to re-float it before Tommy Roberts got home from work).

It would be wrong to suggest that it was all play; Mrs Roberts was no fool, she wasn鈥檛 going to run around for us and get nothing in return. We were each given little jobs to do. I had an interest in the farm animals so after about an hours training I became the herdsman for the farms three cows, two calves and the few fattened cattle. Little Philip, Teddy and his sister were in charge of the churns and the other girls had to feed the chickens, collect the eggs and tidy the bedrooms. These jobs were the least we could do in return for such generous hospitality but Mrs Roberts always returned from town with some kind of treat as payment for us, sometime it was cakes and sometimes little sweets. Saturday night was the special night; after an early 鈥榗ats lick鈥� we would cross the bridge to the bus stop and jump on the bus for the twenty minute journey into Llamberis for a night at the cinema. I remember well all ten of us crying through Proud Valley starring the great Paul Robeson.

-oOo-

If there was a downside to our life at Penlynn Farm, it was Tommy Roberts; apparently Tommy had served in the First World War and had been wounded. These days he worked at the slate quarry in Llamberis. Each Thursday Tommy would catch the 4.30pm bus from the quarry back to Penlynn. He would get off at the bus stop and run like mad across the bridge. Mrs Roberts would have his best clothes laid out for him, he鈥檇 have a quick wash, get changed and then rush out to get the bus to Caernarfon. Once in Caernarfon he would collect his war pension from the main post office and then promptly spend it all in the local drinking dens. He would catch the last bus home and roll in as drunk as a lord; every time, for some reason, there would be a violent row, the language would turn the air blue. All we could do was huddle together hoping against hope that no harm would come to Mrs Roberts. The next day he would be back to normal and act as if nothing had happened.

After a few weeks we heard some awful news; a teacher from our school had called to tell Mrs Roberts that arrangements had been made for us to attend the local school. The freedom that we鈥檇 experienced, the huge adventure that confronted us everyday was now to be taken away, and the news came as a big shock!
A couple of days later we reported to the local school, it was like going back in time, we could hardly believe it: we were expected to write with slate pencils onto sheets of slate, even to us, coming from a poor background in Liverpool, this seemed like going back to the dark ages. Welsh was also the first language in the school which made us feel even more like outcasts but all we could do was to knuckle down and try our best.
A man arrived at the school to fit us out with raincoats and clogs. He had large boxes of different sized items; one by one we started trying them on. The coats were made of a thick canvas material; they had a double row of buttons across the chest and a large wrap around belt. Looking at the others, I saw six short Philip Marlowe type detectives and although I had yet to see myself in a mirror, I was convinced that I had taken of the persona of the great Humphrey Bogart.

The clogs tended to spoil the Hollywood glamour look as they were quite heavy and cumbersome, I just couldn鈥檛 see Boggy walking around Casablanca in a pair of these; we were instructed by the man to take our clogs to the local cobblers to have new irons fitted every few weeks. Whatever we really looked like in our new outfit, one thing was for sure, nobody else looked like us, everybody knew who we were, you might as well of stamped the words 鈥榚vacuee鈥� on our forehead.

We were eventually moved to another school in the village of Dineolin. Each morning we would have to walk over the mountain to get to the protestant church where the school was held As we were Catholics, a special mass was set up for us in the local snooker hall at Dineolin to compensate for our C of E Education; this meant yet another walk across the mountain on Sundays but this time it would be walking on an empty stomach as you had to fast before taking Holy Communion. There was however, some good news for those of us who took Holy Communion; we would be invited back to the local doctors for a full breakfast 鈥� eggs, bacon, black pudding, fried potatoes, and all served up by his pretty young maid. Suddenly, we all became born again Christians, welcomed into the fold by the good Doctor Marron and his hearty breakfasts.

-oOo-

Despite now having to attend school, we still managed to have many memorable days. One that stands out in my mind was the annual harvest. At that time, farm machinery was very limited so all the local smallholders would have to help one another gather in the harvest or help to cut the hay. We would do our bit by helping to turn the hay and rake it in; if you were lucky, you got to lead the horse around the field. Mid morning the farmers wife would come into the field and shout 鈥渢ea up鈥� and laid out on a rug would be a sumptuous feast, strawberry jam sponges, Welsh cakes, meat pies and tea served up in the posh cups that never saw the light of day apart from at harvest time. My mother always advised me that 鈥渨hat you can鈥檛 eat you should put in your pocket for after鈥�; I followed her advice to the letter. At the end of the day, we would sit in the hedge and listen to the stories that the men told as they smoked and drank cider from the big stone flagons.

Another day that I remember vividly was when Teddy and I went for a walk around the lake; we came upon a dead sheep. Her belly was all bloated so we were convinced that she was carrying a lamb. Curiosity got the better of us, so we set about a crude caesarean operation to see if the lamb was still alive. A sharp piece of slate became our scalpel and in no time an incision was made, sadly the lamb was dead. Having said that, I鈥檓 not sure what we would鈥檝e done with it had it been alive!

-oOo-

Mrs Roberts had been aware for sometime that a lot of us were continually scratching ourselves. One bath night the cause of the scratching became evident. We all had dry skin blotches all over our bodies. At once Mrs Roberts got in touch with the district nurse, her diagnosis was instant 鈥� scabies! Mrs Roberts was despatched to the chemist with a prescription and came back with a large bottle of calamine lotion. The lotion however, had little effect as the scabies spread all over our little bodies; days and weeks went by but the itching and scratching showed little sign of easing off. Finally Dr Marron was called. 鈥淣ow then my lovelies, lets have a look at you鈥�. After close inspection Dr Marron took the decision to send us off to the cottage hospital.

We were all packed off to the hospital where we were submerged in calamine lotion baths. Once out of the bath, we鈥檇 have to stand around until the lotion was dry. We would walk around looking like another Hollywood hero 鈥� Lon Chaney in Frankenstein! This treatment lasted for several days but eventually we were deemed fit enough to return to the farm and back to our daily duties.

-oOo-

One day Mrs Roberts announced that we鈥檇 be going on a day鈥檚 outing, the destination was to be a secret. We boarded the bus full of anticipation, the bus took us to Caernarfon where we transferred to a train; we still had no idea where we were going. It was a complete surprise to us when the train drew into Central Station; we were back home, home in Liverpool. The trip had been possible due to the recent lull in the bombing of Liverpool. Mrs Roberts had managed to glean certain information from us and so she knew that the number three bus would take us to the Dingle, just a short walk from where we lived. We were only able to stay for the day but it was such a happy day for us all. Mrs Roberts had arranged the trip through the goodness of her heart; little did she know that despite the joy we all felt, it would have a very negative affect on our lives. We returned after a very long day, all of us tired and worn out. That brief spell at home meant that from that moment on, nothing in North Wales could be substituted for our real home and our real family; the pangs of homesickness were now stronger than ever. No more did those rolling hills look like the great-unconquered mountains of Nepal, the pirate ship became just a tired old boat and the seven seas just an ordinary lake. Thankfully, we didn鈥檛 have long to wait before we started being shipped back to Liverpool in ones and twos: I was one of the last to go so at least I had the benefit of having Mrs Roberts kindness all to myself.

When I left school I really did sail the Seven Seas, having signed up as a seaman. I would write to Mrs Roberts telling her of my real life adventures and describing all the wonderful places I had visited.
Many years later, after I鈥檇 married and had children of my own, I returned to Penlynn Farm. Tom had sadly died, his old war wound finally getting the better of him but Mrs Roberts was there, still her same old self. Hugs and kisses all around and a sumptuous tea produced from nowhere. The farm by now was finished but the cow sheds and haylofts were still there, only now they provided a home for Bobbie and his wife.
I sat there listening to Mrs Roberts reminisce, I looked around the room and it took me right back to that happy time as an evacuee. I noticed little things that hadn鈥檛 changed in all that time: there on the shelf was the little butter mould, which ejected the butter into its perfect shape, complete with a beautiful swan imprint. Despite its age and being riddled with woodworm it still symbolised to me all that was good about Penlynn Farm.

After several hours and lots of chat we said our final goodbyes, not knowing if I鈥檇 ever see this woman again. It was a difficult moment saying goodbye to someone who had such an influence on your life, someone who gave us light when all around seemed darkness.
My wife and children all thought that Mrs Roberts was a wonderful lady, she was indeed but she was more than that, she was an angel, my guardian angel.

I鈥檓 sure that if there is a heaven, Mrs Roberts will be there, once again looking after all the little children, whilst poor old Tommy 鈥�.. Well he鈥檚 probably flying around in his best suit with Watneys Beer stamped on his wings.

-oOo-

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