大象传媒

This is another story I inherited from my mother, describing her experiences in the war. It is a story she often told me, so that I can vouch for its accuracy at least in general terms, though the details and the family history with which it starts, are beyond my knowledge -

Way back in the eighteen-seventies, in a little Romanian village, my great grandmother collected down from her own ducklings and goslings, in preparation for the time when my grandmother should be a bride. For every bride was given such home-made bedding as a wedding present, and in due course my grandmother received two handsome quilts and two handsome pillows.
My young grandparents emigrated to London in 1885, but whatever the English weather they meant to sleep warm, for with them came those huge puffy quilts and pillows, resplendent in white starched cases, and edged in lace.
When my mother eventually inherited the bed I鈥檓 afraid we children treated it with more affection than respect, and found it splendid to romp on.
We grew up and married, and Hitler鈥檚 war came, and the family was dispersed.
It began for us on Friday, September 1st, when long lines of school-children with their teachers marched away from their homes to the evacuating trains, and Lewis, my husband, went off with his school to Northamptonshire. Two days later, I and my baby set out to join him. As I left our lovely little house, I looked back sadly, as so may others must have done, and wondered when and if I would see it again. With bulging rucksack bending my back, suitcase in hand, pushchair loaded with baby and parcels, I started out at dawn, arriving at our temporary flat in Rushden just as Chamberlain鈥檚 voice on every loud-speaker dashed our waning hopes and announced that this time war had come.
Uprooted Britain settled down to wait for the blitz. It came.
Then our family had two strokes of luck. A week before Lew鈥檚 call-up, we found a house we could rent in Rushden, and managed to move all our furniture to it; and that same week we succeeded in letting the ground floor of our London house to help pay the mortgage.
Next week a landmine just missed my mother鈥檚 house in London, some distance from our own. Though her roof collapsed, by some miracle her home remained virtually intact; but the contents had to be moved at once - and there was our own London house with three empty bedrooms, ready and waiting.
Mother had been evacuated to Worcestershire with my teenage brothers, but neither she nor I could go to London to supervise the move. She was immobile with arthritis, and my baby had gone down with measles, but the two boys with unbounded teenage enthusiasm undertook to tackle the job.
Loaded with instructions - to bring back as much as they could carry, to leave before black-out, or immediately if the siren went earlier - they arrived in London to find every removal firm had urgent waiting lists and depleted staffs, who smiled and commiserated and advised them to join the long queues at the Council Offices. But those boys managed to stop an 鈥榦ld rags鈥� man and pay him to help them with his horse and cart. With much muscle and energy, and dashing back and forth, by evening they had crammed Mother鈥檚 home into those three bedrooms, from floor to ceiling, from chimney to door. Weighed down with suitcases they returned triumphant. They were very pleased with themselves.
The war got into its stride, and the miserable years dragged on. Lew was posted far away to qualify as an ammunition examiner.
Heavy bombing ranged all over Britain. Each night we searched the sky for the distant red glow that would show us that once again London was going up in flames. Even from the middle of Northamptonshire, that red glow had been discernible in the shattering May raids of 鈥�41. Evacuee children that poured into the town swelled our weary classes towards unheard-of sixties. And we too were carrying our children to damp shelters through the noisy nights. The school at which I taught was wrecked, and I was now teaching a class stranded in the Scouts鈥� Hall.
And then the letter came - and I knew at once what must have happened. The back of the envelope bore the name of the London house agent who had found our tenant and collected our rent. My mind raced - had I really expected my house to escape in that inferno? And the tenants - what of them?
With shaking hands I tore open the envelope, and this is what I read:-
鈥淒ear Madam,
Your tenant, Miss Cobb of 90 Castlewood Road, has been complaining for some months about the locked second bedroom. I would not have bothered you, but she is now threatening to contact the Sanitary Inspector unless, by Saturday next, you come to London and deal with the moths.鈥�
Yours truly,鈥�.鈥�
Moths? In the middle of the biggest blitz the world had ever known, she was worrying about moths!!
Everyone to whom I showed that letter was as outraged as I was. On Saturday I鈥檇 go to London and say so.
It was hard to find a baby minder for as early as six o鈥檆lock on Saturday morning, but having arranged this, I began to wonder how I would be able to get into that second bedroom, stacked as it was from ceiling to floor, from chimney to door. And how in the world would I manage to shift so much furniture? I needed a man.
My husband was now in Egypt, and even my young brothers had been
called up and scattered - but my brother Joe was still in England, his embarkation leave postponed. With luck, he was still at Catterick Camp in Yorkshire! I sent him an urgent letter, begging him to ask for leave to help me on Saturday.
On Friday afternoon, the classroom in which I taught was quiet in drowsy heat, when the door half opened, and the headmaster Mr Lawrence poked in his head and asked me to step outside. I don鈥檛 know how I got to that door - for I鈥檇 caught sight of the dreaded orange envelope in his hand, and all I could think of was my husband. Mr Lawrence shut the door after me, and handed me the telegram. His usually friendly face was expressionless, but he said, 鈥淚 opened it in case I had to break bad news to you. It doesn鈥檛 seem to be - perhaps you can explain it.鈥� I read it then. It said:-
鈥淢eet Castlewood 9.30 Saturday. Bring sulphur candles. Rumanian heirloom. Joe.鈥�
So those boys had stuffed our family heirloom into the hot stuffy second bedroom! That valued relic of great grandmother鈥檚 dowry was so old, so deep and soft - Mother had always been on the watch for moths. Joe was probably right; it must have succumbed.
The relief was too much. I leant against that door and giggled helplessly, and through it all I saw Mr Lawrence鈥檚 questioning face. Deliriously I stammered, 鈥淢-m-moths! M-m-moths in the bedding!鈥�
He was not amused. 鈥淵ou do know Rumania is an enemy country?鈥� he said. I did my best to explain those Continental quilts, but I know I looked felt exactly like a spy (with a code message!) caught red-handed.
Two lads were sent for sulphur candles, but evidently in that house-proud little town no room ever needed fumigating, and no one had even heard of them.
It was a difficult journey to Castlewood Road in smouldering London - an unexpected morning air raid - hosepipes blocking roads, diversion signs, smoke and dust and debris, fire engines speeding. I wondered how prompt Joe could now expect me to be. But surprisingly, the Underground flowed smoothly past scenes of the night鈥檚 platform occupation, and at 9.35 I stood once again in my own well-loved street. Here and there the skyline showed gaps, but the trees were in full leaf, the sun shone on the familiar front gardens, and even if the hedges were unkempt and the road dusty, this was still my own cherished home ground.
But there was no time for nostalgia. There stood my brother at the gate. On this hot June morning he looked decked out for the frozen north - long heavy khaki overcoat, thick battle dress, crammed khaki pack pulling down one shoulder, and a long heavy bulging white kitbag leaning on the gate beside him.
His greeting was hardly brotherly.
鈥淢oths!鈥� he said witheringly. 鈥淒id you really think they鈥檇 give me compassionate leave for moths? The only reason I鈥檝e managed to get here is that we鈥檙e posted to Wiltshire - travelled down all night - had to carry all my kit - stood in the corridor with this load - and I must report in by midnight. Broke my journey to come here - all for a few moths- so let鈥檚 get on with it!鈥�
He heaved the kitbag on to his shoulder and staggered up the path.
I noted the unfamiliar curtains, and knocked at my own familiar door. It was opened by a complete stranger. I greeted her coldly. Then my eyes rose to the white haze hovering over her head. The ceiling above her was alive, the walls were busy with grey and white traffic climbing up in straight and slanting lines.
鈥淵ou see,鈥� she said, 鈥淚 couldn鈥檛 stand it any longer.鈥�
In silence we walked up those stairs through a moving soft-winged mist. The landing window was wide open and the traffic in and out seemed equal. From under the door of the second bedroom, battalions marched.
We said nothing, felt unable to speak.
Joe unloaded himself of kitbag and haversack, took off his coat and battle top, stripped to his trousers and vest, and put the clothes over the banisters - a mistake.
We unlocked the door - and slammed it shut again. Then my young brother - only three weeks a corporal - took command. 鈥淪ulphur candles!鈥� he demanded.
It was lucky that the lady downstairs was so well stocked with them. With wet handkerchiefs over our faces Joe forced his way into that room. Then piece by piece he pulled out Mother鈥檚 treasured furniture. Out came her upholstered chairs eaten to their wooden frames, out came her settee shredded to the springs, out poured a torrent of coloured scraps that once were glowing velvet curtains.
Out of the landing window on to a bonfire they all went. Grimy with dust and smoke, I stood there, garden fork in hand, heaping memories on to the flames. All I needed was horns and a tail -
Shortly after mid-day Joe鈥檚 head appeared at the window. 鈥淩eached it!鈥� he said. 鈥淗ere it is - all that鈥檚 left of the bedding!鈥�
Out of the window he shook the folds of what looked like a pale yellow sheet of delicately patterned lace. One of the Rumanian quilts, it dropped into the garden in fragments. And the moths rose in a mushroom 鈥�.
All day we burnt remnants of linen, carpet and upholstery, while neighbours came to the back garden fences, eager to tell their war stories - not bomb stories - moth stories. We were not popular.
The afternoon advanced. There came a sudden banging on the front door, and the Air Raid Warden stormed in. 鈥淥ut with that fire!鈥� he shouted. 鈥淚t may not be black-out time yet, but I want that fire out now!鈥�
Dirty and exhausted, we dowsed the fire, leaving an incredible mess in the garden for that long-suffering, much-maligned tenant.
We were scrubbing the room when the siren went, and to the splendid accompaniment of a barrage of our own guns, we reached the station before the first bang.
Despite the raid, I caught my connection without incident, while my over-burdened brother travelled to Wiltshire, standing yet again in a packed wartime railway carriage. He did manage, however, to struggle out of his overcoat, and as he did so, a cloud of white wings billowed out and sailed to the ceiling, Such were the good manners of the Englishman in those days, he says, that though all eyes rose as in one movement, nobody said a word.
Slowly every eye came down again to the newspaper headlines below. In one-inch black capitals they proclaimed -
B R I T A I N C A N T A K E I T !

Joe says he knew then we鈥檇 win the war.

FRANCES HOFFMAN

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