´óÏó´«Ã½

I was the youngest sibling of ten. Mother was born in Bow in the East End of London; my Father was born in Deptford; and I too, was born in No.1, Comet House, Comet Street Deptford, SE 8, so we were all true Cockneys by birth.

In 1939 my father went into the armed forces. What regiment? We think it was the 7th Hussars. He was wounded at Dunkirk and was honourably discharged in 1942.

Then, would you believe, he joined the Merchant Navy and got torpedoed. That was on the February 21, 1943. (His name is now on a memorial.)

The war was hard for us. I was just a baby — born in 1940 - so I never knew much about our time in London. Because of problems between my mum and dad, we moved to live with my grandmother. That was in Manchester Road on the Isle of Dogs, in the East End of London.

My grandmother's house was hit by a doodlebug, and mum and all us boys were evacuated to Wales. Brother David and I were always with mum in a cottage in Llandesillio. Our older siblings were put in different homes. Eldest brother George (now deceased) went with Mrs Harris; Albert and Lily went to Mr and Mrs Jones. Ronny went with another Mrs Jones (who had a farm). He had a whale of a time, by what I have heard. Joan was put with someone who lived in the village. Peter was put down in Clynderwin near the railway station (I think Mr Jones was the station master at that time and Peter stayed with him and his family).

So you can understand how fickle-minded we all were. One day we were all one big family; the next we were split up. We never lived together as one family ever again.

In 1945, the six of us had to go into a home in Pembrockshire and the rest went to London. George and Albert went with my grandmother. Lily went into a vicarage in Lewisham as a house-keeper under Vicar Rob. It wasn't until 1946 that we came back to our new home in 62, Launcelot Road, Downham, Bromley, Kent.

We hear so much about the Welsh people, but I can say that it was Wales where we sheltered from the war — the land of the ever-open door. When we get back to town once more we shall always think of dear old Wales. They looked after us well and treated us with nothing but kindness.

I am English and very proud of it, but I am also very proud to have been evacuated to Wales. I have been back. Most of the old ones are now in their everlasting sleep, but there was a few left to speak to, like Skill Harris. We went in Easter of 1999 to see him and his wife. We were made so welcome.

His wife remembered me as the small three-year-old with the snotty nose and the scruffy shirt and trousers - when she asked me, 'What are you looking at?' and I said in my Cockney brogue, 'Nuffink!'

I remember the man next door who used to cut our hair out in the street. Also, when we did see Alan and Ronny, how they pushed me in an old pram and turned me over in a ditch and broke my leg. And on how I was a pest in the school that is still there. I took some photos of it last time I visited.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.