大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War website by Sarah Powell of Bradford Libraries on behalf of Cynthia M. Light and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

I was born in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, on July 12, 1931. I came to live in Bradford when I was six, this was when Mum married my step-father. We lived in a few areas of Bradford and moved to West Bowling in 1938.
I had lots of friends in the area. In the thirties the children all played together, the only division being age groups. Then our lovely young world had a jolt when we heard on the radio Mr Neville Chamberlain declare we were at war. To children, this didn鈥檛 mean a great deal, but some of my friends were able to give graphic details of war which they had gleaned from their grandparents who remembered the Great War of 1914-18. Some of the things I heard I told to my parents, and I was told war was never 鈥榞reat鈥�.
I remember getting a letter (I believe from school) regarding evacuation. My parents decided I should become an evacuee. We were evacuated far quicker than anyone expected. In September 1939, I was a pupil at Ryan Street School. Our meeting point for evacuation was Woodroyd School, West Bowling. The day was bright and clear when we assembled with our parents outside the school. Most children had haversacks, with a luggage label showing their name attached to a pocket, and we each had an enamel mug. There was a Corporation bus (double decker) waiting to take us on our journey, and two lady teachers to take charge. During the journey, a rumour spread that we were going to the seaside (many years later, on our way to Morecambe, I recalled this childish rumour and wondered if it came to someone鈥檚 mind as we passed Busby鈥檚 store on Manningham Lane).
We finally arrived at our destination, hot and very thirsty, and were led into a large school hall. At the head of the hall were two long trestle tables with, I think, eight ladies sat there, and we were told they were the billeting officers for the area. There were lots of ladies waiting by the wall who had come to collect their evacuees. Then the room was empty apart from Elizabeth and I (we had only met that morning, but as children do, Elizabeth and I said we would become best friends). As we sat waiting for our hosts, so many thoughts passed through my mind 鈥� would we be sent home, as nobody wanted us? (Mum鈥檚 last words had been: 鈥淏e good, do as you are told and remember your manners, and make me proud of you鈥�!) Biggest thing was, where were we? I was beginning to feel homesick and wanted to cry, but when I looked at Elizabeth, she seemed to be enjoying the fuss the officials were making, with 鈥渉ave a biscuit鈥�, 鈥渄o you want a drink of water鈥�, and 鈥渢he people you are to stay with will soon be here鈥�. Sounded reassuring 鈥� but not when you are homesick and fighting back your tears. Then through the door came a very nice-looking man and woman. To an eight year old, the only word I knew to describe them was 鈥榩osh鈥�. Lengthy discussions were taking place at the trestle table, with heads shaking.
After what seemed like an eternity, the billeting officer and the lady and gentleman came over to Elizabeth and I, and we were told the couple were Mr and Mrs F. Hudson of Queens Road, but where and what town we didn鈥檛 know at that stage. When we got outside there was a car parked, and we were amazed to be led to it and ushered inside. This was a culture shock to Elizabeth and I, as the only cars we saw in West Bowling belonged to doctors.
We only had a short journey to the Hudson鈥檚 home. This was a large stone semi. The Hudsons said we should call them 鈥楿ncle Frank鈥� and 鈥楢unt Lizzie鈥�, and we were staying at Queens Road, Ingrow, Keighley. Aunt Lizzie said she would make a meal and then we would unpack, and finally write to our parents to let them know we were safe. Uncle Frank wrote to give them an idea of what type of people they were (my mother kept this letter for sixty years, and I think when she suspected her life was almost at an end, she destroyed various papers).
Life was happy at Ingrow, and Elizabeth and I were lucky to be with the Hudsons. I don鈥檛 recall going to school during my stay, but Aunt Lizzie kept us busy 鈥� there was 鈥榙igging for victory鈥�, 鈥榤ake do and mend鈥�, and the weekly letter home.
My parents wrote each week and I received the occasional letter from my grandmother. One week, there was no letter from home. Childish thoughts ran through my head 鈥� didn鈥檛 Mum and Dad love me any more, perhaps they didn鈥檛 want me. Aunt Lizzie said that most likely the letter was lost in the post. A letter came a few days later, and I was sure the writing was Dad鈥檚. One evening, both Aunt and Uncle told me I had a baby sister, and the reason for not receiving a letter was that Mum had been very ill in hospital. Once I was told the news, I started fretting to come back to Bradford, and after a short while I came back home. Really I had been very lucky staying for six weeks with such kind and generous people.
A few weeks after my return, the postman delivered a parcel for me 鈥� it was a book, 鈥楾he Pilgrim鈥檚 Progress鈥� by John Bunyan. The inscription on the flyleaf read: 鈥楾o Dear Cynthia, In memory of her stay at Ingrow, 1939, Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Frank鈥�, and at the bottom of the page their name and address. I鈥檝e had this book for well over sixty years, but so far I have never been able to 鈥榞et into鈥� the story.
So many things had changed in the six weeks I was evacuated 鈥� I could not go to school as troops had been billeted in Ryan Street School, and the chapel over St Stephen鈥檚 Road was being used as an army mess. In the next few months, I was sent to school at Odsal Open Air School, then Low Moor Church of England School. Dad and I used to go every Sunday to the allotments in Bowling Park to buy fresh fruit and vegetables. I was amazed the first Sunday we went to the Park, as I found the lovely drive had two lines of parked army lorries and ambulances.
My mother鈥檚 eldest brother came home on leave, after the evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk. Uncle Fred was in the Corps of Military Police (a big change from his civilian job of a coal miner). I thought he was wonderful, and recall walking very proudly when we went to the shop for sweets.
Probably in 1940 we were issued with gas masks. The one for Mum and my baby sister was a very large oval shape, with a place for the adult and one for the baby. Mine was a replica of Dad鈥檚 鈥� probably a smaller fitting. My sister鈥檚 gas mask was changed periodically 鈥� she had one with a long 鈥榯runk鈥�, and then a junior version of an adult鈥檚 gas mask.
Our cellar ceiling was reinforced with metal girders because the cellar was to be our air-raid shelter. Anyone who occupied a semi-detached house had an Anderson shelter built in their gardens. The shelter was igloo-shaped with brick supports on either side of the door, corrugated metal, and the back of the structure was brick. Many of the shelters were still in use in the 1950s and 60s, and in good condition. They were mainly used as garden huts, however I did know a lady in the 50s who cooked in her shelter!
My generation was young in the early war years. There were changes after September 1939, some nice, some unpleasant, but people were somehow different and everyone did their bit and all pulled together. Bradford was bombed a few times, fortunately not badly like the poor souls caught up in the London Blitz. But with mothers being good housewives, capable of making a good hearty meal from very little, fathers who worked hard and long hours, and love and comfort in your home, you felt that nothing that horrible man Hitler and his cronies did could shatter your world.

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