大象传媒

When the war started I was just 7 years old living with my parents (Mother was 27, father was 37) in an old victorian terraced house in Whitehall. My father was in a "reserved occupation", i.e. he was an engine driver for the L.M.S., and was therefore not in the armed forces.
I was lucky to have a paternal grandmother plus an uncle and aunt living in the same road as my family; also maternal grandparents living in Oldland Common, Gloucestershire. As was more usual in those days I also had extended family living in Keynsham, Oldland Common and Bristol.

My first memory of the war was on Sunday evening, November 24 1940. Mum and I were travelling home on the bus from grandmother's house in Oldland Common (a usual Sunday event for us because my father was usually on shift work). An air raid alert had been given but Mum decided to complete the journey home to be with my father. It was quite frightening because flares dropped by German planes were lighting up the sky. When the bus reached Kingswood it was stopped by wardens because the road had been damaged. We were taken to a surface shelter just off the main road where we spent time until the all-clear sounded. It had been decided that it was not possible for us to return to Bristol so Mum and I, together with others in the same difficulty, were taken to the local church vicarage where we were cared for. I am told that a warden carried me to the vicarage because in the graveyard a bomb had exposed bodies or bones. Not a pretty sight. We were looked after well, but we were frightened. The next morning we were able to find a bus back to Redfield, where we then walked to Whitehall. In the meantime, my grandfather had been very worried and had travelled to Bristol to see if we had returned home safety the previous evening. He met my father, who was also looking for us and they, of course, were very concerned. Coincidence being what it is, at that moment Mum and I turned the corner into our road and everyone was happily reunited.

The other strange coincidence on that date, 24 November, was that as a young woman, newly married, my husband was killed in an explosion at a garage in Bristol, along with about 10 others.

My father, at 47, died unexpectedly of acute influenza/bronchial pneumonia on 30 November 1949, so we are superstitious about that month.

In April 1941 I was evacuated to Cornwall with my school, travelling by train and singing patriotic songs. I don't remember any of us being worried at the time but we were very curious as to where we were going and to whom.

My friend Barbara and I were lucky to be billeted with a Cornish family in the village of Mitchell. We were there for about 8 months, after which we returned home. It changed our lives to some extent. The family we were with consisted of Father (farming), Mother (at home), 2 adult daughters (one a land girl and one at home) and 4 adult sons. One was in the Grenadier Guards, one in the Coldstream Guards and the two younger ones at home working on the land and being members of the local Home Guard.

Barbara and I each had our favourite 'boy' in the Army and we were happy when they came home on leave.

The house was a large, detached 'farmhouse' with a lot of land around it. The only loo was at the top of the garden. Luckily the weather was good during our stay! We were able to pick flowers, vegetables, and we loved looking at the hens and their young chickens to whom we gave names. There were occasional air raid warnings but nothing much happened. We were called out of our beds and we slept on blankets on the living room floor, underneath an enormous heavy wood dining table.

We were taught to make proper Cornish Pasties, and learned to like plain good food.

We attended the local church, 3 times each Sunday. After the evening service the family walked to the next village (Summercourt) and back.

We occasionally travelled in a neighbours small horse and cart, great fun.

As an occasional treat we sometimes visited Truro or Newquay.

It was one of my jobs to go each morning to the other side of the road where the local small village post office sold papers. I can't remember the paper (possibly Mirror?) but we all looked at the well-known cartoon about 'Jane'. We had local concerts in the building (upstairs) and sang one song which seemed to me, at a young age, to be quite naughty. I think it was called "Yes, my darling daughter".

My mother and Barbara's mother visited us a few times and of course we wrote to each other. My mother, unknown to me at 8 years old, had been pregnant but unfortunately the baby died at 2 weeks of age.

It was after that event that Barbara and I were collected in December 1941 and taken home.

We lived through many air raids in Bristol, usually sharing a neighbour's Anderson shelter. We actually had our own concrete surface shelter in our garden but it never felt as safe as the Anderson. In any case, the neighbour was a railwayman, the same as Father, and it was nice for the two families to keep each other company. We shared many birthdays in the shelter. One of our treats was fish and chips from a local shop which seemed to stay open all hours. Father would collect the meal on his way home from his 2-10pm shift.

In spite of the lack of sleep, rationed food, and fear, we still had to go to school and work for our Scholarship. Most of the teachers at the time were female and strict. The young men were mostly in the forces. Probably more by good luck than anything I passed the exam and attended the local grammar school.

In 1943 my mother presented me with a brother and he often had to sleep downstairs in his cot because we still experienced air raids. Because there were 11 years between us I think I felt very motherly towards him.

During this time we did not have holidays as such - and certainly not abroad! In the local park we attended a Fairground during the holidays. We loved the "Moon Rocket" - thought it was very fast.

I left school in 1948, having taken a Commercial Course in the grammar school 6th Form. By this time my father had been having health problems which necessitated a major operation. Because we didn't know if he would survive (he did, but died of something else in 1949) I did not go on to University. I don't think I particularly minded, then or now.

The war ended in Europe, of course, on 8 May 1945 and in our street, as in others, we held a large party.

The feeling of "all being in it together" and helping each other, had a profound effect on us. Neighbours were neighbours then.

I expect I am a standard old-age pensioner but I can't help thinking that the feeling of unity we shared then doesn't exist any more. More's the pity.

As a family we kept in touch with our hosts in Mitchell over many years, exchanging Christmas cards, etc. and occasional visits. I think only one is left now (as at last Christmas).

I feel sorry for evacuees who were unhappy away from home. Barbara and I were very lucky; our family were great. An additional bonus, of course, was that we came to love Cornwall. We go back each year.

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