´óÏó´«Ã½

It seems as yesterday, a grey cheerless March morning, when our school party was taken by coach to the station and off we set on the long train journey to Yorkshire - some Sussex evacuees.
The train journey seemed never ending - we talked, laughed, shouted and fidgeted and were pleased when the monotony was broken by the arrival of midday lunch in cans. The first course has long since passed from memory, but the dessert - rice pudding. It seems we all hated it and flicked it about the carriage until one bright spark suggested we get rid of it by tipping it out of the carriage window. However, it didn’t fly away into the wind as the train rattled along, but instead, the glutinous mass slowly trickled down the carriage door, as we hung perilously out of the window to watch it go. Other carriage occupants, seeing this decided on the same course. How often does one see a speeding train passing through the countryside dripping rice from its doors?
Ever northwards we continued, until our overnight stop at Otley. We got out of the train so willingly and then were transported to the local hospital where they had room for us. An eerie feeling to wake up during the night in that large ward, so far from home.
The next day we arrived in Settle and were herded into the village hall, where we waited to be ‘chosen’ by the ladies offering accommodation. Eventually, my friend Rosemary and I and a few others who remained were driven round the village to the still vacant billets, where we were left - Rosemary and I together. Our hostess was young - aged about twenty eight - her husband away in the army - so there were just the three of us, Mrs M, Rosemary and I.
Each day, we walked through the country lanes to school in Giggleswick - just a small building, so different from our school in Hove.
Our hostess was not the best of housekeepers. One evening we were to have pilchards fir our meal. Mrs M put the tin of pilchards, unopened and unpierced into the oven at the of the kitchen range. Some time went by, the range fire burning well - Sally the spaniel, quietly slumbering on the mat and enjoying the warmth when - bang! The door of the oven crashed back on its hinges and out came fragments of very hot pilchard - splattering over everything near, including the poor dog who yelped as the hot pilchard hit her. No supper that night!
On some memorable evenings, as we passed by the neighbour’s gate she would wave, smile and beckon us in. She was such a nice woman and we were glad to go in and then to our delight we would be given a dish of hot baked beans - I can taste them now - which we gobbled ravenously and gratefully, before going into our own billet.
On the upstairs landing of Mrs M’s house, was a large cupboard in which we hung our coats and stored our cases. A shelf in the cupboard was high above our heads and we often wondered was there anything on that shelf. One day, when Mrs M was in the garden, we thought we would have a look on the shelf. Rosemary stood firm while I gave a quick jump with Rosemary pushing me upwards. My brief glimpse showed me a line of packets of butter laid out along the shelf - no wonder we always had margarine. Who was the butter for - turning green as it was.
We were told one Saturday by our hostess that she would be re-decorating our bedroom on the Monday while we were at school. On Sunday, we three cleared the room, except for the bed (the house only had two bedrooms). I felt miserable while helping with the furniture, as I had a bad cold. On Monday morning the cold was much worse - a bad head, sore throat, coughing. I could not go to school - I just had to stay in bed. Off went Rosemary, then about nine’o’clock Mrs M came into the bedroom with the stepladder, ready to start on the ceiling. She pulled the bed (and me on it) over to one side, took down the curtains and started. She worked on the room all day, pushing the bed around out of her way. The windows were open so that the ceiling would dry!
During the Easter holidays, the school arranged outings for us and on one of these a party of us were to climb Penyghent - the highest peak
in the dales. It wasn’t warm when we set off, so wore raincoats and berets, both Rosemary and I carrying a haversack containing our sandwiches, packed for us by Mrs M. It seemed a long way up Penyghent and as the sun shone out we got hotter and hotter and the haversacks heavier and heavier. Eventually, to eveyone’s relief we stopped - it was time for lunch and a drink. How pleased we were to sit down. Out came all the lunch packs. Rosemary and I opened up our haversacks - each one full of empty medicine bottles, carefully wrapped around with thick newspaper, so the bottles did not rattle as we walked. But never mind - everyone rallied round and by the time each girl had given us a sandwich or two, a cake, an apple, a biscuit, we two probably had more to eat than the others. What a joke on us - Mrs M couldn’t stop laughing when we arrived back at the house. She said she just had to go to her friends’ house to tell her.
Soon after, when arrangements could be finalised we were moved to another billet in the minister’s hose, where he and his wife made us welcome. They had a daughter the same age as ourselves, and the daughter’s friend lived there too, so, four girls together - to talk, laugh, argue and play - real family life and such a change for us.
There are other memories too, of our time in that Northern county. A bitterly cold day - a leaden sky and biting wind carrying snowflakes - and we were taken out on to the moors by a local farmer to gather watercress from a stream of running water - the water so clear and icy that it hurt when I plunged in my hands to pick the cress - another unusual experience. Then back home to a fire. How lovely to be indoors again.
By contrast, a lovely summers day and our school party set off early by coach, on a trip through the Yorkshire dales, stopping frequently at the many villages where country dancing was performed on the village green - such a pretty sight with the multi-coloured dresses and shirts against the green of the grass and the jolly rhythm of the musical accompaniment from a flute and a concertina making everyone want to dance. Such a happy day and then the drive home through that beautiful countryside on a lovely summer evening. No wonder I have that memory still.
Finally, the day came when we were to return home - a day we thought would never arrive. Then back home - how strange everywhere seemed and how different the surroundings - a seaside town in wartime - certainly a far cry from those Yorkshire Dales.
My time as a wartime evacuee was an experience that I shall always remember. How could I ever forget.

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