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It was early one morning in August 1940 and it promised to be a hot sticky day. Having finished breakfast my father proudly donned his heavy southern railway jacket and lace up his shiny leather, 'spit-polished' boots. His actions were always deliberate, but this morning they seemed slower than usual. It was 5:45 am, and before leaving the house to cycle to work, he chucked me under the chin, saying "Keep a stout heart lass, and be a good girl."
My Mother was upstairs packing a small case with vests, knickers, socks and night dresses. She had decided that I would need 3 of everthing - one off, one on, and one for the wash. There was just enough space to include a cotton dress, a blouse, a cardigan and a pair of sandals, and my remaining clothes were to be sent by post.
Already dressed in my school uniform, a name tag having been firmly pinned to the lapel of my blazer, I slung the straps of my gas mask over my shoulder. At last we were ready to go. I could hardly believe that the day on which I was to be evacuated to Oxford had actually arrived.
The Government had organised a massive evacuation scheme with the onset of the Battle of Britain, and this particular phase was to involve 142,000 children of which I was to be one. The busy market town of Ashford Kent, a main line Railway junction between London and the Kent coast also housed a very large R.E.M.E. depot. As the town had been severely affected by the bombing of the south east in 1940, the Government had decided to launch a propaganda campaign urging parents to allow their children to be evacuated to safer parts of the country. In response to this advice, and after much heart searching, my parents agreed that I should join the scheme arranged for the pupils of my primary school. The exodus was to take place during one of the most savage parts of the Blitz by the German Air Force.
For me, the preparations of the previous 10 days had been most exciting. On the face of it, my parents had participated in the plans for my depature with enthusiasm, encouraging me to look forward to the forthcoming 'holiday', and hiding their innermost feelings at the prospect of being parted from their youngest daughter. I couldn't therefore understand my mother's attitude on this morning. Since breakfast she had appeared to be brusque and short-tempered, and as we hurriedly walked the 2 miles to the railway station, I tried to control my high spirits, and concentrated on keeping in step with my mothers long strides. Conversation seemed difficult, but the almost tangible tension was relieved as we began to meet up with parents and children from my school.
As we walked down the steps to the platform, we were confronted by a seething mass of faces; children and adults all waiting the arrival of the 'special' trains which had been organised. My Mother and I wove in and out of the men, women and children stainding in groups with suitcases, pushchairs and dogs, as we made our way to the place where we had arranged to meet Doreen, my best friend, and her Mother. Doreen and I had been close friends, and almost inseperable, since our first year at primary school. As we were both learning to play the piano, our parents had asked the teachers to attempt to have us billeted together in a home with a piano.
We soon spotted Doreen and her Mother, who seemed very relieved and pleased to see us. As our parents carefully checked that we had brought everything that was necessary, Doreen and I compared the secrets of our Blazer pockets which held an assortment of sweets and other tresures. My mother seemed to relax after an announcement over the loud speaker that there would be some delay before the arrival of the first train, and as the minutes ticked by we chatted, every so often lapsing into silence as our thoughts returned to the events of the previous year.
This wasn't our first evacuation experience. In September 1939 we were on the receiving end when my Mother and Father became foster parents to two boys from London's east end - Tom and Edgar. They were among the 1 and a half million children, mothers and teachers sent to the countryside to avoid the expected bombings and attacks on the cities. It was called the 'Phoney War Evacuation' because the bombing didn't actually start until the following year, by which time many of the evacuees had returned to their homes.
The boys shared a small bedroom in our mid-terrace Victorian house. Their bedroom also doubled as a bathroom and contained an enourmous white enamelled cast iron bath, the water for which was heated by a gas fired geyser. In the east end of London many of the homes were without baths, and whereas we usually bathed once weekly, Tom and Edgar had to endure this new and unwelcome experience more frequently since Edgar had fleas and Tom wet the bed.
My Mother was a very houseproud woman, kind but strict. She didn't stand any nonsense, and the somewhat unruly boys soon learnt to tow the line. Bed time was at 7:30pm sharp and as the nights grew colder we were bundled upstairs with hot water bottles (no central heating or electric blankets in those days), and allwed to read by the light of bedside candles. The boys bedroom was next to mine and we used to play a game of guessing the titles of popular songs, tapping out the rhythms on the wall between us.At weekends, Tom and Edgar’s parents would descend upon us in time for Sunday lunch, and as the weeks they came in droves, parents being joined by aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.
This was an exceptionally busy time for my Mother. Her lifestyle had changed radically from the quiet, orderly routine hitherto enjoyed, and doubtless she was relieved when Tom and Edgar returned to their London homes just before Christmas. I, gradually, adjusted to being the ‘only’ child in the family as my brother who was eleven years my senior was already serving in the Royal Army Medical Corps. My sister was eight years older than I and was seldom at home. In addition to her daytime employment as a clerk in the supplies department of the local R.E.M.E. depot, she worked voluntarily at the First Aid Post attached to Ashford Hospital, and her leisure time was divided between writing long letters to her fiancé, a rear gunner in the Royal Air Force, and visiting his parents.
With the first rumours of rationing I was in line to be given the task of searching for any goods which were likely to be in short supply. It was ‘panic buying’ of the worst kind, shops being crammed with customers armed with large wicker shopping baskets. Then came the problem of storage; tops of wardrobes, under stair cupboards and suitcases were stuffed with bags of sugar, tea, margarine, candles, matches, carbolic soap and toilet rolls.
Suddenly, all thoughts and conversations were halted by the sound of an approaching train. Doreen and I were hustled towards the carriage doors. Within minutes, seats were claimed, suitcases, coats and gasmasks were stacked on luggage racks, faces were scrubbed with dampened hankerchiefs, kisses were exchanged, and doors were tightly shut. Teachers marched up and down the corridors busily checking the children against long lists of names. Finally, whistle blew, and as the steam train pulled slowly away from the platform, Doreen and I waved to our Mothers. We collapsed onto our seats, relieved that the partings were over and that we could now look forward to this exciting adventure- together!

This story was added to the People’s War site by Stella Morris with help from Caroline Morris of London CSV. The author is aware of the site’s Terms and conditions.

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