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I was five years old in 1939, and lived with my family in a west London suburb. I was
the youngest daughter of five girls, and we had one brother. He had joined the Royal
Air Force a year or two before the war started.

Being the youngest by about ten years, I was the only member who was likely to be in
need of evacuation. It wasn’t long before I found that a scheme had been made to do
just that. Not through the local authority, but by a private arrangement.

My eldest sister, ‘J’, was engaged to be married and her fiancé’s relations had organised to
take themselves to their family in Somerset. ‘J’ was invited to join them, and to bring
me along. Their party included three children besides myself.

So for two years I found myself, somewhat bewildered, in deepest Somerset. Firstly
we lived in a small cottage, which had only two bedrooms. Cooking was done on an
old, solid fuel range; bathing confined to once a week on Friday and, of course, in a tin
bath in the kitchen. It was my first experience of a privy, at the bottom of the garden.

Later we moved to a larger house, but it was still very rural. I remember seeing the
local farmer carting milk churns past the house to put them on a train; and all the
activities of the countryside, so novel to me.

When the early heavy bombing of London had died down a bit, I came home again, in
1941, and stayed there until the start of the V-Weapon attacks began in 1944. Then
away I went once more, this time to South Wales: a very unpleasant experience.

My sister ‘J’ married in 1941, and then my second youngest sister, ‘A’, married and
was expecting her first child, near the end of 1944. That would be the first niece or
nephew for me and I was desperate to be at home for the event. But I wasn’t allowed
to come back. However, by early the next year I was home again and, having been
kept in safety all those years, it was ironic that I returned in time to experience the
only occasion when a bomb should fall near enough that it could damage our house.

It was in February 1945, and I was sharing a bedroom with my baby nephew, when a
rocket struck, just up the road. It was one of those odd things which I understand
happened from time to time during a bombing incident. Although the house was
damaged, and indeed the ceiling and an internal partition-wall fell into the bedroom,
neither the baby nor myself were woken by it! My sister was out at the time but when
she returned the police had already cordoned-off the road, and wouldn’t allow anyone
through. She was nearly frantic, trying to explain that her child was in the middle of the
wreckage; that she must get to him. At last they listened to her but when she first saw him
she thought he was dead; his face was grey with plaster dust, and he was still
sleeping peacefully! As was I. After that episode I remember sleeping on a mattress,
under the billiard table.

Sister ‘A’ was eighteen when war started and had been training as a nursery teacher. It
was arranged that if war was declared the nursery was to be evacuated, so when it was
she received a telegram, inviting her to join it at Bagshot, in Surrey. She discussed it
with our parents and it was decided it would be best if she went there. She got to the
requisitioned house shortly after the arrival of the children and her abiding memory is of
a trail of their little footprints, entering the hall of this large house, and trailing up the
staircase, to the bedrooms.

Another recollection of the period was of a stray raider dropping a bomb, not far away.
She was out walking nearby when, on hearing the shriek of a bomb coming down,
someone (a soldier she thinks), pushed her to the ground and tried to protect her. After
the explosion she got up, very angry indeed: her best silk stockings had been ruined!
Her life had been saved - maybe; but where was she to find a new pair of stockings?

The nursery work was quite hard and meant long hours. Later in the war she returned
to London to train as a nursing auxiliary; eventually to dress a wound on the hand of
the man whom she was later to marry.

My second eldest sister, ‘N’, also met her husband-to-be through the war: while he
was in the R.A.F and she serving in the W.A.A.F.

To be truthful, I have never really been reconciled to my time away from my family
during those months of evacuation. I feel that I missed out on all the wartime
experiences they had; notwithstanding the rocket incident. My parents did it for the
best, of course, and they both had other responsibilities. My Dad had his business to
keep going, plus Civil Defence work; my Mum quickly became a coordinator for the
W.A.V.S. After the war she was awarded a M.B.E. for her work.

But I still can’t help feeling I was outside of the loop; not part of the family when so
many things were going on.

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