大象传媒

"This story was submitted to the site by the 大象传媒's Peoples War Team in the East Midlands with Dorothy Keetleys permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions"

I married, and in October 1938, my first daughter was born. There was only one possible name for her of course 鈥� Jean. I was changing her nappy and listening to the wireless when there came the voice of Neville Chamberlain with an uplifting message after his meeting with Hitler 鈥淚t is peace in our time鈥�.

We were living in Knutsford when his grave announcement came, 鈥淲e are at war with Germany鈥�, followed immediately by the sickening wail of the air raid siren. A false alarm, as it happened, but we weren鈥檛 to know that. Numb with dread, I was certain that German bombs were already seeking out our ancient little town and my darling baby. The sound of the breaking glass eventually caught my attention. Little Jean had been busily crawling to the glass cabinet, taking out stemmed wine glasses, one in each small fist and crawling back along the parquet floored hall until the glasses snapped. This was her third journey 鈥� so that siren had cost me six cut glass goblets.

With the outbreak of war we were urged to 鈥淒ig for Victory鈥�, so up came the lawn out of the shrubs and I was working on the land last. We moved to a bungalow in Lower Peover, a rural spot beyond Knutsford, where there was a large garden. Up came that lawn too. There was an outside tub toilet which, when emptied into trenches in the garden, helped cultivate the most splendid vegetables I have ever grown in my whole life. I was in my element!

Evacuees arrived. My first was a boy from Manchester, wearing a name tag and a square gas mask. He cried night and day for his Mummy 鈥� he was only a child. His Mummy cried for him night and day too, until she came back and took him home. He still had the apple and block of chocolate given to each evacuee! As I had my husbands two children from his first marriage, there was not a lot of room in the bungalow, but when the WRVS brought a van load of children from Liverpool鈥檚 much bombed dockland, I agreed to take one. Two brothers were brought to me and I hadn鈥檛 the heart to separate them. They were left at my gate together with a pile of army blankets. The blankets carried a host of fleas, and the boys carried head lice and scabies. Billy, aged twelve, was a gentle and loveable lad. Walter, two years younger was not. A thief and liar, he vandalised my precious garden, urinated over the sitting room furniture and up and down the walls 鈥渢o make patterns鈥� and kicked and swore at me when reprimanded. Billy was as upset as I was at his brothers behaviour.

After several months, a bus load of mothers came to visit their progeny. Billy and Walter met their mother at the gate, Billy offering a delightful bunch of wild flowers he had gathered that morning. The lady looked stunned. Ignoring the flowers, 鈥渨here are the shops?鈥� were her first words. 鈥淭here aren鈥檛 any here鈥�, Billy told her. 鈥淚 want some fags鈥�, she complained looking fearfully round at the surrounding peaceful fields, I butted in, with the suggestion that she tried the local pub, only a couple of field lengths up the lane, whilst I brewed a pot of tea and put out cakes (made with out ill spared rations). But the woman seemed rooted to the spot. 鈥淲ot d鈥檡er do ere?鈥� she moaned, 鈥渋t鈥檚 like a lost place鈥�. Billy quickly enthused 鈥淚t鈥檚 lovely Mam, there鈥檚 fields to play in and trees and the farmers lets us go in and help鈥︹��. But Walter shouted him down. 鈥淭here鈥檚 nothing to do I hate it ere. I wanna go home with you鈥�. Slowly they set off for the pub, returning talking ten to the dozen, Walter grinning Billy obviously upset. Before she got through the door, their mother was shouting 鈥淎nything the kids got wrong with em they got here鈥�. I looked at Billy for enlightenment. 鈥淭he itch鈥� he explained shamefacedly 鈥� scabies. I turned back to their mother 鈥淭he boys told me their family had it鈥�. Big mistake. 鈥淲ell they haven鈥檛鈥� she screamed 鈥淚鈥檓 not leaving em here to be treated like that鈥�. There鈥檚 nothing here anyway. It鈥檚 not fit for folk to live in a place like this, no shops, no houses, no nothing鈥�. I sighed. 鈥淵ou must admit that the country air has put roses in their cheeks鈥︹�︹�� I began. Billy took his mothers hand 鈥淟et me show you how nice it is鈥�, he begged. 鈥淏ut you can get yer things together. I鈥檓 taking you ome鈥� said the lady. And so she did. And every night of the raids over Liverpool, when we heard the drone of heavy bombers overhead, and saw the glare that flashed in the distant sky, I thought of the many children taken home by town-loving mothers, and wondered whether gentle Billy was safe.

My next evacuees were Hughie and Angela, the son and daughter of a dear friend from Jerseys Grand Hotel, who was now married and living in London. Angela was born the day after Jean. My friend and I have merry memories of late pregnancy when, kissing goodbye, our tummies met with a bump whilst our faces were still well apart! Hughie was two years older than Angela. Shortly before Christmas, I took the five children on the weekly bus to Knutsford, then on to Manchester to see Santa Claus in Lewis鈥檚. After briefly shopping we visited the restaurant for lunch. We each chose from the menu , I noticed that Hughie seemed flushed; on closer inspection I saw the tell tale rash behind his ears. Measles! What to do now? How could I possibly disappoint the children at this stage? They all ate heartily before we visited the busy, crowded grotto, and after seeing Santa travelled home on the busy crowded buses. I just prayed that not too many children caught Hughies germs. He wasn鈥檛 at all ill with his measles, and was out playing in the snow a week later. But it was a different story with Jean and Angela. When they caught it they were very ill indeed. I took their cots into the warm kitchen to nurse them. It was there that every night we heard the drone of heavy bombers, the crump of the distant explosions, and saw the reflection of terrible fires in Manchester and Liverpool.

It was that Christmas eve that my groceries were delivered late 鈥� after 10pm. I think the driver had stopped at every call for Christmas drinks to give himself the dutch courage to continue along the dark country lanes. He dared not switch on even his permitted hooded lights, for the drone of the planes seemed incessant, and the Manchester bombardment seemed horribly near. I took in my order and wished the driver well. Minutes later I heard the boomph, boomph of two bombs exploding not far away. I learned that at the grocers next delivery the lady of the house ran out leaving her door open. The shaft of light was like a magnet, small as it was. One bomb scored a direct hit, demolishing the house and killing the woman and her children. The grocers van was blown across the road, but miraculously the driver was unharmed. The second bomb made a crater in a field where, said the farmer, he had always intended to excavate a pond for watering stock, and now Jerry had saved him the trouble.

Early the following morning, my husband, coming off fire watching duties in Manchester, heard that a bungalow in Peover had received a direct hit, killing a woman and some children. He immediately got permission to come home 鈥� if he could get there! This was Christmas day in the shambles of a heavily bombed city. Walking and hitch hiking, it took most of the day to reach home, find us safe, have a meal and return to Manchester. What a blessing it is to have a telephone in almost every home.

Early one morning I was awakened by the mysterious sound of a gentle repeated rattling, seemingly overhead. Puzzled, pyjamaed and mildly alarmed, I crept outside. The back garden was unnaturally dark. Looking up, I saw an enormous barrage balloon floating on the gentle breeze, dragging its heavy anchor chain over the roof. Had there been a stronger wind, doubtless we would have lost tiles or the chimney stack, but that morning no damage was done as the great monster slowly drifted away.

My brother Frank was a gunner in the Navy, serving on HMS Wolfe and HMS Southdown. This latter ship was several times mentioned on the radio for actions against E-boats in the north sea. We never knew where he was, of course, but if his ship put in for repairs or boiler cleaning (usually in Scotland), he might well make a surprise visit. Thus it was one hot summers day. Frank knew our address, but had never been to Peover. After foot slogging from Knutsford, complete with Kit bag, he turned into the first place of refreshment he found, the delightful small hotel named the Bells of Peover, standing almost in the churchyard. As soon as he walked through the door, the landladys greeting took him aback 鈥� 鈥淲e only serve officers here sailor鈥�. A group of RAF officers turned, glasses in hand to see what scum was being so addressed. As a man they shouted 鈥淗ere comes the Navy! What are you having sailor?鈥� The date was subsequent to the Naval capture of the 鈥淎ltmark鈥� and rescue of many prisoners, after which 鈥淗ere comes the Navy!鈥� echoed around the country at the sight of a sailor. Frank was never again refused a drink at the Bells and seldom allowed to pay for one!

Later Grandpa asked me to return to Bramhall. He had been very shaken when his Manchester offices were bombed and he was feeling his age. Although I was pregnant, my marriage was tottering as my husband was finding comfort elsewhere, my second daughter Kay was born soon after I moved into my old home.

With everyone expected to help the war effort in some way, I was asked to accommodate men from the local aircraft Maintenance Unit. (We were only a couple of miles from Woodford Aerodrome). I started with one such lodger, but before long there seemed to be beds all over the house. Mine was in the sitting room along with the piano, three piece suite and two daughters. Despite bombing worries, food rationing, clothing coupons and sheer hardwork, life took on an air of general hilarity. My lodgers were from Bristol (aircraft), Derby (Rolls Royce) and Yorkshire. Their longing for wives, homes and families was covered by a veneer of gaiety. We always seemed to be laughing. I did their laundry in my gas boiler and sink, put it through the mangle and in inclement weather dried it on an overhead rack in the living room. Everyone sitting around the fire suffered equally from the drips! I once inadvertently boiled a brown shirt with the whites. Dyes were not fast in those days.. their smalls were never the same again and I never lived it down!

鈥淢ake do and mend鈥� became the motto of the whole country. Darns and patches were nothing to be ashamed of in any class of society. To acquire odd lengths of silk from old parachutes in order to make underwear was sheer luxury. We darned and re footed socks, patched shirts and turned their collars, unravelled worn or shrunken jumpers and re knit the rugs from the scraps. It all seemed the normal thing to do. Less normal was the pre Christmas urgency for my lodgers, with no coupons for Christmas gifts. They each made wooden frames studded with nails around which they wound coloured lisle thread to form criss-cross patterns. I was required to stitch and tie each cross, after which the pretty gift mats were cut free. Seven nights a week those skilled aircraft engineers sat happily around the fire, winding, winding鈥� And sometimes I bought and boiled cod鈥檚 heads. After the meat was removed for fish cakes, the bones were dried, varnished and stuck to small safety pins to produce pretty brooches.

Eventually there came that urge to satisfy that old ambition, nursing, with the bonus of it being maternity work. The maternity home in question was the one to which obstetricians from miles around sent their most complicated cases. Today, these would be referred to great city hospitals furnished with specialised state-of-the-art equipment. In those days we coped with comparatively little equipment, but with great expertise and dedication on the part of the matron cum owner of the home. We never lost either a baby or a mother 鈥� or even and father, come to that! It was there, whilst on night duty, that I first saw and used a washing machine. And what a godsend it was, with all those empty nappies, nighties and wraps. I thought longingly of the hours it would save had I had one at home.

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