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My First Evacuation.

Chapter 2.

Each morning, after breakfast, the day’s activities would begin. It was, of course, the long school summer holiday. One of my confederates, we will call him Donald, who I remember well because I still have an old school photo with him on it, had a bit of a thing about foxes. Yes, school photos did exist even in those primitive times before WW II, but back to the foxes. Whether any of us would have recognised a fox, even if we had tripped over it, is a matter for conjecture. Notwithstanding this, since Donald wanted to hunt foxes and he was the self-appointed (and undisputed) leader of our little pack, then hunt foxes is what we did. I seem to remember that at some stage he consulted the farmer as to the likeliest places where we might draw a fox. I would love to go back in time as a fly-on-the-wall and listen to whatever conversation ensued. I was a rather reticent 6 year old and was thus never a party to such discussions or involved in the planning (if any) of these forays. According to Donald we were always close on the track of something, but whatever it was we never actually saw it.

There was no fraternisation between the boys and the girls. We hunted the fox and they did whatever it was that girls did — we really weren’t interested. We saw very little of them at all. My only significant memories of the girls’ existence relate to the cacophony that emanated from their room at bedtime; they just couldn’t shut up. It was here that I first learned, although I didn’t consciously realise it until much later, of the female propensity for demanding the last word.

We certainly got plenty of exercise in our ongoing and unsuccessful pursuit of Brer. Fox. We always kept to the fields. There seemed to have been a lot of excavating going on. I have no certain knowledge as to what these long continuous trenches were for. I have often wondered since if they were embrionic primitive off-road tank defences. We, however, didn’t allow such minor details to stand in our way. It is an unsurprising consequence of their presence that I took up rock climbing later on. I have no doubt that we returned for lunch extremely hungry and extremely dirty.

The only animals that I recollect were the chickens. They obviously regarded us with extreme suspicion and treated us very much as they would have treated the foxes — they kept well out of our way. On occasions, and if we were very good, we were allowed to take our turn at helping to collect the eggs. In modern terminology these were free- range chickens, laying free-range eggs and supervised by a free-range (and very large) cockerel. In the terminology of the time they were normal chickens who did not always oblige by laying their eggs in the boxes provided for them and frequently preferred the most inaccessible parts of the hedge bottom. Small people were often much better than big people at gaining access to these prizes and I suspect that the girls also got their turn at this particular pursuit. The very first part of this job was learning to tell the difference between real eggs, as laid by hens, and the pot eggs put out in the nest boxes to encourage them! This was not a dairy farm — so there were no cows. My adventures with cows came later, on a subsequent trip, and about 250 miles away.

There was a large roadside meadow alongside the farmhouse, but this had been requisitioned for use by the army: a topic to which I shall return later. The farm was primarily horticultural - producing vegetables for the table. During our stay the runner bean crop became ready for picking. I have no recollection of whether we volunteered or whether we, like every able-bodied person in the vicinity, were co-opted. Horticulture at this time was very labour intensive, but only in short bursts. Whichever way it was, after a morning’s concentrated fox hunting we now, in the afternoons, found ourselves in the field picking runner beans. The little people picked the beans lower down and the big people, now without having to bend their backs, picked those that were higher up. We could eat what we liked — there were also turnips, carrots and peas. There was absolutely no problem with getting 5 portions of veg. every day. Eating them raw was not only a novelty, somehow it seemed to be so much more daring. It probably did us good as well.

Whether or not we were paid for our labours I do not know. We certainly didn’t see any remuneration. Indeed, it never occurred to us to expect any. It was all too much fun to worry about little things like that. As it turned out, Pocket Money, at this time, became a bit of a contentious issue. I am not saying that there was any deliberate dishonesty but there was a complete cock-up. Evacuee, or refugee, situations do not, by their nature, allow for detailed advanced planning. Whoever was in charge no doubt had a lot more important things to think about than the matter that we are about to consider. However, it has stuck in my mind for around 65 years so it must have had some impact. Our parents, when they had packed us off into the wide blue yonder with no idea of where we were going or of when they would see us again — if at all — had given most of us some pocket money. As a result, and in the early days after our arrival, the sweet counter in the little corner shop in the village became a very popular destination. I am not claiming that the owners were making their fortune, but there is little doubt that our presence would have been having a very beneficial effect on the takings.

This circumstance produced a very swift backlash. The lady in charge of ‘operation evacuee’ locally, one of the junior-school teachers I think, though she might have been a local billeting officer, instructed the rest of the teachers, apparently, to relieve us of our wealth and then dole it out to us in small quantities weekly. This, at any rate is what we were told by our teacher. We were each left with a small amount, 9d. as I think I can remember in my case, for the current week, and the rest was taken. Notes were made of the amounts standing to the credit of each of us, but no receipts were given. Well, you don’t give receipts to 6 year olds, do you? We were promised a weekly allowance thereafter.

I have to concede that there was probably nothing much wrong with the theory, only the practice. This, I think, is where I lost any budding faith I might have had in teachers. The promised weekly allowance of spending money never materialised. This was, in fact, the last that any of us saw of our pocket money until we came to move on at the start of the new school term. At this time we were told that all unspent money would now be returned to us. I was fairly forward for my age and could both count and read. I knew exactly how much money I should have to come back — I didn’t get it. I am not complaining — I merely observe it as a fact.

Apparently, so our teacher told us, the list with all of the details of our various financial statuses, had been lost. It had been decided that the only thing to do was to share out the money between us. There were winners, and there were losers. As it happens, though far from rich, I was one of the losers. I had innocently handed over all of my money. The biggest winners were those who had thoughtfully only handed over a small part of theirs. You didn’t think that 6 year olds had it in them, did you? Don’t believe all that the psychiatrists tell you - in fact, don’t believe a single damn thing that they tell you about young children. Young Donald was not only winning, he was winning by enough to make up my deficiency (which he did) and still be winning. I haven’t seen him since the middle of 1940 but I daresay he got on!

How our host, the farmer’s wife, managed to keep track of all of the clothes for so many children I really have no idea. All of the items may well have been labelled, I can’t be sure, but even keeping track of all of the names must have been a nightmare. In fact, I have a very strong suspicion that she didn’t, (keep track that is) and that if we needed it, and it fitted, we wore it, regardless of who actually owned it. This suspicion is partly based on a vague memory of an inspection of my wardrobe by my mother some time later during which her attention was attracted to an item of clothing which she was quite determined could not possibly be mine and was most certainly not going to remain so! Fashion was not something that impinged on to the minds of 6 year olds in those days, so we really didn’t care. I still don’t, but then I’m very strange, as you are all, no doubt, already coming to realise.

The highlight of our stay at the farm, which also included all of the other refugees scattered about the village in other farms and houses, was the farewell party. We actually didn’t know that that is what it was. The news of our impending departure hadn’t yet been broken to us. I can’t remember the precise details, but I suspect that we were still a week or so from leaving. At this distance in time I am uncertain as to whether the local children were also invited. You will remember my mentioning the meadow that had been taken over by the military. It was not a large encampment. It consisted of two wooden huts and a number of soldiers. I cannot recollect much in the way of equipment, but then owing largely to the political incompetence of the 1930s the army didn’t have a lot of equipment! An Anti-Aircraft Gun, a Barrage Balloon or a Tank would definitely have been remembered. As it happens, and as the war progressed, I did have the dubious privilege of getting quite close to a working sample of each of those three items — but not here. The lads, with whom we fraternised regularly in spite of strict instructions to keep away, decided to throw a party for us.

It was a perfectly normal scenario really. We were instructed to keep away from them, and they were instructed not to encourage us. Neither side, of course, took the slightest notice of the instructions. The meadow was on one of our normal fox hunting routes, and obviously, at night, the foxes would investigate the huts (after all, chickens lived in huts). We, therefore, passed as near to the huts as may be and, as I have deduced since, if the officer’s back was turned we got chatting with the soldiers. They had real guns! These they endeavoured to keep well away from us, but boys will be boys and we were fascinated. We knew very well who was in charge, and just how far we could go and when. Well, 6 year olds are expert in such matters aren’t they? Protocol, however was, apparently, to be relaxed for the party. It would appear that this was only so, however, at the very local level.

It was to be an outdoor party. It was all scheduled to start in the early afternoon. The trestle tables were set up. The chairs were set ready. Balloons and all of the festive party trimmings were out in abundance. Remember, shortages and rationing hadn’t set in yet. My immediate friends and I had already arrived. After all we actually lived on the farm. Those from further afield were just beginning to trickle in when the panic started. Some ‘brass’ from further up the army’s endless hierarchy had decided that that afternoon would be a good time for an inspection. They were actually on their way. Neither you nor I, then or since, have seen a party, including the children, cleared away and hidden so completely, so thoroughly and, above all, so quickly. What is more to the point, as subsequent events showed, it was done without any noticeable damage or spoilage.

With the eventual departure of the ‘brass’, the party was set up once again. We all came out of hiding, and foregathered once again in the meadow. We were a couple of hours late and dusk eventually overtook us but it was all a memorable success. I seem to remember that instead of having the games first and then the tea, we had the tea first, before the food spoiled, and games afterwards for as long as the light lasted. I have often wondered since just how many of that troop survived the war. I think that they probably enjoyed organising and staging this little event as much as we enjoyed being entertained and fed. It would have been a welcome break from their routine and a chance to forget what they knew was coming and of which we had absolutely no comprehension. It really was a ‘good do’.

The reason for our impending move was quite simple. Wars may come and wars may go but education has to go on regardless. There was not a school in the immediate area that could cope with us. Therefore, as the new term arrived, we had to be uprooted and relocated to an area where there was a school that could cope with us. It must have been well into September when we finally left. I really do not have the slightest idea how long this idyll on an unknown Bedfordshire farm lasted, but it could only have been a very few weeks. I do not even recollect, if I ever knew, the names of those who so kindly hosted us. What I do know is that it was a glorious time for us whilst it did last. All good things inevitably come to an end and the time came for us to depart. We were travelling, it must be remembered, complete with, more or less, a full quota of teachers. Not a few of these were fresh out of retirement, mobilised to replace those teachers already facing a new life (or death) in the armed forces. All we needed additionally were the classrooms and associated back-up facilities. The fateful day arrived, and once more we were on the move.

There are memories that are in sharp focus, and others that are extremely vague. There are still more that I can only deduce what must have actually happened from what little of any surrounding events that I can remember accurately. I can remember assembling for the departure. This is when the pocket money was returned. I can remember some of the journey - which was not a very long one. We travelled in a charabanc; well, actually, a number of charabancs, but I’m unsure how many. Charabanc - now there is a name to conjure with. If you are under 50 it is not a word that will ever have been a necessary part of your vocabulary. At that time, however, coaches were still pulled by horses. Horseless coaches were called charabancs. We disembarked, as we later learned, in Sandy, at what was to become our new school. Half an hour later Henry and I were getting acquainted on a strange doorstep, and cheerfully awaiting the arrival of the doorstep’s owner.

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