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I was 13 when the war began. An only child, I lived with my parents in a 3 storey terrace house in Lewisham. They owned the house, but always let one floor. The only time we spent away from London was for a two week holiday bed and breakfast on the Isle of Wight.

I was a pupil at Blackheath High School, GPDST, one of only 3 scholarship girls in the form. Because we were non-local authority, the school made private evacuation plans and we left for Tunbridge Wells the day before everyone else, to be housed by parents and friends of the High School there. It was all very bewildering as I had never been away on my own before, but I was comforted to see Woolworths as we drove through the High Street.

On arrival we were sorted out and I went with two younger girls to a large Edwardian house, still decorated in dark greys and blues, with every surface covered with pictures and photos — 40 of them in our bedroom.

Whilst we were in bed there was a big argument below — our hostess had not told her elderly husband that we were coming, and he refused “to have any part in separating children from their parents.” So we were sent back to school the next day.

My next house was an even larger, detached house with a semicircular gravel drive and big rooms with parquet floors (a new feature to me) and impressive windows in the lounge that pushed right up, and you walked through to a metal balcony which led down to a large garden. Things were fine until Guy’s Hospital came to Pembury, with all its young graduates who paid more than we did, and possibly provided husbands for the two young daughters of the house. So we were sent back to school.

My third billet was at a smaller, more comfortable house, where there were young children, and it was lovely. All was well until an older daughter, who was a teacher, wanted to come home. After 4 glorious months it was back again.

This time I was sent to a house of ordinary size, but as the owner was 80+, it was looked after by his “younger” sister of 70+, and his older sister was living there — it was a bit of a shock! Added to that, he had two maids, one for cleaning and sewing, and one for cooking. So there was I, child of a gas engineer and a mother who “did” for the local vicar, sitting at table, being served by a maid! I suppose it was a lonely time, but they did their best, and I just accepted it all. I stayed there for 3 ½ years, until I went to College at 17.

Looking back, it was an odd experience. But I learned a lot of lessons about how other people lived and conducted themselves, and this would never have happened had I stayed at home all my life. I became more able to live away as well. These have proved invaluable as I have grown up and moved into different places, and met different people in my adult career.

This story was entered on the site by Melita Dennett on behalf of Peggy Nicholson. Peggy fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

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