大象传媒

This story was entered onto the Word War 2 website by John Warner on behalf of Mrs Margaret Beattie and Mrs Doreen Peters who fully understand and accept the sites terms and conditions.

At the outbreak of World War II my sister and I were six and four respectively. Early on she remembers being on a walk down Pennance Road, with our Mother, by the railway bridge, and seeing two planes over Falmouth Bay, the larger one tailed by a smaller silver one, the sun making its鈥� metal glitter. Then the siren sounded, the walk was hastily curtailed, and the parent beat a hasty retreat up to Western Terrace, taking refuge inside the Falmouth Tennis Club, dragging the little girl with her, very conscious of the sense of danger. How else would have entered a private place of residence without permission!

Our elder sister, already engaged, decided to go ahead with her marriage in the spring of 1940. My sister and I were to be the two young bridesmaids; she remembers us being taken to the dressmaker in Gyllyng Street to be fitted with our dresses, short ice-blue silk, hair bands of pink rosebuds, white socks and ankle strap black patent shoes, carrying posies of violets. No long dress or bridal veil for our sister, and just an ordinary homespun reception back at Trelawney Road after the church ceremony. But a great deal of merriment apparently, with our Uncles filling the pockets of the presiding minister with coconut haystacks (without his knowledge) and then 鈥渄iscovering his thefts鈥� as he was about to leave the table, teasing him, and for long afterwards.

This said minister, the Rev Norman F Gibson, had come to replace the previous minister the Rev L A Fereday who, at the outbreak of joined up to become a padre to the armed forces. The Rev Gibson quickly endeared himself in the hearts and lives of 鈥渉is flock鈥�, both young and old alike, but especially us young children. In the days when people didn鈥檛 lock their front doors when they went out, my mother always knew who had called because he put the kitchen chairs up on the table. His way of leaving a calling card!

Our parents attended Sunday evening services, leaving us with our grandfather who we 鈥渆ntertained鈥� by putting on impromptu 鈥渃oncerts鈥�, diving in and out of the chenille curtain behind the door as if it were real scenery. We subjected him to non-stop singing, dancing, reciting; poor man, he must have been bored to death just waiting for peace and quiet.

Then the raids began, Falmouth Docks a prime target. My sister remembers in the bay window and seeing the bombs raining down from the sky. Our father pushed her down on the floor and covered her head with a cushion to muffle the impact of the explosions. Our elder brother, looking out of the back bedroom window, saw the newly-weds house in Merrill Place getting hit. He and Dad ran up there, and thankfully they were safe, having taken refuge under the table, but the ceiling had caved in and smashed her wedding present tea set to her lasting regret.

Panic again set in. It was decided among family members that mothers with young children went out in to the country to live. There were some cottages available at Bissoe, so transport was arranged one evening to take us out there, leaving the men folk behind. Father had his work to go to, and the boys their apprenticeships, they had not yet been called up. It felt very strange out at Bissoe 鈥� the house smelt damp and musty, and we were without our familiar much loved books and toys. My sister pleaded for her much loved Enid Blyton 365 Bedtime Stories to be brought out, but it never arrived. It must have gone for salvage, because it was never seen again, and she mourns for it still! There was nothing to do and no one to play with under the mulberry tree. Visits to Hicks Mill Chapel and Mrs Moyles鈥� village shop could not compensate for what we missed. It was very taxing for our mother too, who had to leave us at once a week to go back into Falmouth to cook and clean and sort things out for Dad and the boys. We couldn鈥檛 say it out loud but we all hated the situation living in the country was not our scene at all.

Then a German bomber lightened his load in a near by field! That was enough for mother. If she was going to be killed it was going to be at home in Falmouth! A van was hired, and we piled into the back of it, along with Auntys鈥� canary, and happy and so relieved we left to see the war out in our own surroundings. We would take our chances with all the air raids and bombings, taking refuge under the stairs in the gas cupboard first of all, and then in the Morrison shelter which virtually filled our front room. Our school having been bombed had been re-located from Webber Hill to Emmanuel Baptist Sunday School, so we went there. We knew it well, and our teachers were the same familiar faces that we always knew 鈥� Miss Burt, Miss Kelway, Miss Chater, and Miss Gooch.

The blackouts went up in our windows in Trelawney Road. No chink of light allowed to escape in our house. Dad was an ARP Warden. The boys were in the forces, we were safe at last, and sisters together still.

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