大象传媒

Ronald Northend, whom I interviewed at his home in Hemlington recently, was born in Middlesbrough in 1933. At the outbreak of WWII he and his older brother, William Harold, were living with their grandparents near the old slaughterhouse in Borough Road.

On the morning of 5th September 1939 鈥� two days after war was declared 鈥� Ronald and Billy went off to Marton Road School as usual. But it was to be no ordinary day; it was one, which was to change their lives.

鈥淎bout 20 of us we called into the hall鈥�, said Ron. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 remember any girls among us. We were all given a brand new flat cap, a box containing a gas mask and had a label with our surname on it attached to our coats.鈥� Then, without a word of explanation, the boys were formed into two lines and marched off to a spot outside the newly built Constantine College. Eventually a bus arrived and they all got on. Then, without so much as the opportunity to say a word of farewell, the bus drove off.

All Ronald and Billy had were the clothes they stood up in and their gas masks.

The first stop was Helmsley, where they were given a cup of cocoa. After their names were called, some of the boys got off. (As no one had told him the purpose of the journey, Ronald wondered anxiously where his schoolmates were going.) The final destination was Malton. Everyone left was taken into a hall and seated. More cocoa was served while they waited, and waite - and waited. Finally Ronald heard someone asking, 鈥淲here are the Northend kids?鈥� Ronald and Billy made themselves known and were introduced to a man with an impressive handlebar moustache. 鈥淵ou are going with this gentleman鈥�, said an organiser in very definite tones.

Once outside, Ronald and Billy discovered their next mode of transport to be a horse and cart. In it they travelled another eight miles to Norfolk Lodge Farm, in the village of Brawby, which was in the then North Riding of Yorkshire. There, in the care of kindly Mr and Mrs Stonehouse and their six children, Ronald and Billy were to spend the next six years as evacuees.

At the village school, which was divided into juniors and seniors, Ronald and his brother were nicknamed the "'Vacs" by the local children. Ronald, who aged six was in the juniors, recalled his teacher: 鈥淗er name was Mrs Empson. Her husband was the local bobby. He got drunker than anyone else on Saturday nights!鈥� The only other teacher in the school taught the seniors, including eight-year-old Billy.

Back in Middlesbrough, out of school activities for the boys had been somewhat limited. 鈥淎ll we did was play football in the back arch,鈥� said Ronald. It was a very different story down on the farm. They were given all manner of chores to do. In time, Ronald could turn his hand to grooming a horse, milking a cow, plucking poultry, collecting eggs, in fact almost the full range of agricultural jobs, to say nothing of being able to make a clip (or proddy) mat and trimming the wicks of the oil lamps (which were the only form of lighting.)

There were, however, one or two tasks not to his liking. One was castrating a bull calf, something he found so literally distasteful that he only did it once.

Not that it was all work. On Thursday evenings Mr Stonehouse sent Ronald over the hill to the local vicar for a half-hour piano lesson. (And, if he found out that Ronald had been elsewhere instead, he administered a gentle "clip around the ear".) One of his daughters also received piano lessons from the vicar and, in due course, she and Ronald provided the evening鈥檚 entertainment playing duets on the family鈥檚 piano.

Ronald was never paid for doing the chores. 鈥淵ou were expected to do them. That was the way in those days,鈥� he said, 鈥淎nyway, it kept our minds occupied.鈥� In fact the only money he saw during the War was earned singing carols on Christmas morning. 鈥淵ou could only do it on that day. If you were the first carol singer at a farm 鈥� what they called a 鈥榝irst footer鈥� 鈥� you got sixpence. All the rest got pennies. So we all rushed from one farm to the next to try and be the first one there. We must have covered miles!鈥�

If money was in short supply 鈥� and of little use in any case - food was not. While people in the towns and cities survived on meagre rations, there was always plenty of good food for the boys to eat. Almost everything they consumed was either home grown, home reared or home made. (Ronald fondly recalled Mrs Stonehouses鈥� homemade bread, butter, and as for her black pudding, made in the pan鈥�.)

Even in such a relatively remote spot, the boys knew there was a war on. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know where they came from,鈥� said Ronald, 鈥渂ut Wellington bombers used to fly very low over the farm heading east towards the North Sea. At night we used to sit on the fence at the back of the farm and count them going out. We got up early the next morning to count them coming back.鈥� Seldom did the numbers match. 鈥� We suddenly realised why we were there.鈥�

With no radio, television or telephone, the only way the boys kept pace with the War鈥檚 events was by reading a newspaper, which Mr Stonehouse got once a week. The manner of its delivery remains a mystery to Ronald. 鈥淲here he got it from, I still don鈥檛 know. He sat reading it all day, and no one else could read it until he was finished with it. Then we鈥檇 read all about the landings at Anzio, the Italian Campaign, D-Day...鈥�

It was while reading his newspaper one day in 1944 that Mr Stonehouse had a narrow escape. Ronald explained:

鈥淢r Stonehouse could only keep two sons of military age working on the farm, so to avoid being called up, the others registered to work on other farms. His youngest son, Ben, did join some form of organisation, which entitled him to wear a khaki uniform. I don鈥檛 know what it was called. It wasn鈥檛 the Home Guard. I think it was called something like, 鈥楾he Country Guards.鈥�

Ben had not only been issued with a uniform, but was also entitled to carry weapons. Ronald takes up the story again:

鈥淥ne night Ben brought a machine gun home. He set it up on its tripod stand on a table, with the barrel facing a window, and began cleaning it. All of a sudden the gun went off - BANG!鈥�

The bullet smashed through one of the panes of glass, narrowly missing Mr Stonehouse, who was sitting beneath the window engrossed in his 鈥榩aper Suffice to say that, after a few well-chosen words with Ben, gun-cleaning was confined to the barn.

Around that time Ronald got to know some Italian POW鈥檚, who were based nearby. They were allowed to work on the farm whenever Mr Stonehouse needed extra help. 鈥淚t always seemed to be the same ones that came. Some of them could speak English and I got talking to them. They would tell me about the War, and how glad they were to be out of it!鈥�

He no longer has it, but one of the Italians made a ring for him using one of the old fourteen-sided threepenny bits.

Just as Ronald and Billy had received no warning of their departure from Middlesbrough, they had no inkling of their impending return there. Mr Stonehouse had not forewarned them of the day in September 1945, as he put them on the weekly bus, with instructions to the driver to let them off at Helmsley. Once at Helmsley they were collected and taken back to their grandmother (their grandfather had died in 1942) in Borough Road.

The War was over.

Ronald reflected that Mr Stonehouse had done the right thing. 鈥淲e had been there a long time and he had treated us like his own sons. There wasn鈥檛 time for any tears.鈥�

Perhaps more than a few tears had been shed that day by the Stonehouse family.

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