大象传媒

"Dig for victory" "Be like Dad keep Mum" "Even walls have ears"
These phrases were very much part of my teens. I was a child of 12 when the 2nd World War started, and a young woman of almost 18 by the time it was over.
The first event that happened was in 1940 when our local girls school was taken over for a First aid post, and we had to share another building with the infants, which resulted in that for several months we only did part-time schooling, either morning or afternoon. Some of the B.E.F. were brough to the first aid post after the evacuation of Dunkirk and I shall never forget how tired and bedraggled they looked.
Later on when the air raids started, we were to considered to be a safe zone, even though we had the occasional bomb, and the city of Sheffield was only 12 mile s away, so we had an influx of evacuees. They were mostly women with children who had been "bombed out".
My parents had quite a large victorian house and as I was an only child we had a mother and 2 children billeted with us. Although I felt sorry for them, I did not take kindly to having to share my bedroom with another girl, who was a couple of years younger than myself.
As I moved on towards 17, came the proble of finding clothes to wear to the dances. Everything was on coupons, and my frien and I spent several hours each week attempting to renovate our wardrobes. Stocking were practically out of the question, so we would colour our legs with all manner of strange things. Sand out of the sand bag, provided in case of bombs was a favourite thing, but it was a bit rough. We experimentedwith gravy browning and coffee when Mum wasn't looking and had some horrific results. The hardest thing was tring to draw a line down the back of one's leg to represent a seam!
On reflection, we must have missed outon a lot of things when we were growing up, due to the war time restrictions, But then, if we did, we had a lot of fun doing it!

As the war continued things became harder for the average civilian. Rationas were cut and blackmarkets flourished. By 1942 when I was 15, we were down to basic foods and not much of those. Meat was particularly scarce and offal, which was not rationed, was hard to come by, and much sought after.
My mother, before her marriage, had beeen a cook, on a large country mansion, in the village in which she was born. She had the best training and worked her was through all of the positions in the household, finally becoming cook. Even after her marriage, she liked to keep a good table, and became very frustrated with the shortages.
One Saturday morning, shre returned from on of her frequent forages to the shops. We lived only 10 minutes wlak from a fair sized market town, so she had plenty of scope for her expeditions. At this time in addition to mother, father and myself, we had a lady evacuee, Mrs McIntyre and her 2 children.
As she came in and wearily placed he bags on the table, we all clustered round to see what she had managed to buy. "Got a nice piece of cod", she said triunphantly, "make us some fishcakes". Also, like a magician pulling a white rabbit from a hat, she produced another parcel, "a full pound of sausages-caught the butcher in a good mood". One of the evacuees was rummaging in the other bag "What's in here?", he enquired. "Leave that to me" said mother, quickly elbowinh him out of the way. She carefully lifted out a small square box and placed in on the table. She took off the lid and to our astonished eyes, revealed 3 day old chickens! "Chickens" I exclaimed in disgust, "there isn't 2 pennorth of meat on them". "There not for eating" said motherfirmly, "theyr'e for eggs". "eggs!", we all looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. "Chickens lay eggs" she explained patiently, as if addressing a class of backword 5 years olds. "Not if they're cockerals they don't", this was the voice of my father from behind his Daily Herald, who, up to now had not taken part in the proceedings. "The man said they are all guaranteed hens" said mother defensively. "He would" came the reply. "How much were they?". His head appeared around the side of the paper, "sixpence each" replied mother. Father gave something in betweena snort of derision and a hoot of laughter and returned to his paper.
As they were h=just newly hatched, the chickens were housed in a large wooden box, near the kitchen fireplace, and plied with bread and milk. Next morning, the smallest of the 3 was dead. My father greeted this news with another of his snotrs, saying he wasn't surprised.
Kowever , the other 2 thrived and lived in the box until they were 4 weeks old. Then the subject was raised as how we were to house them. Wire netting was practically unobtainable, so Mrs Mac and myself set to with what materials were to hand, to try to construct some kindof hen house. Some of the neighbours supplied us with various pieces of wood, and using the garden wall sa a backing we made a rough weatherproof lean to with a small run. The hens were installed!
We had to feed them on tanle scraps, boiled together with potato peelings as no corn ration was available, unless at least 6 heans were kept.
By the time the "hens" were 3 months old, it became apparent that they were indeed cockerals. They had grown tail feathers and had starte d giving off crowbing moises. They weren't the only ones to crow, my father was delighted to have been proved right.
the trouble started when the cockerals decided to dig! They sug under the sideboards of the lean to and escaped into the garden. we tried all ways to contain them, but it became more difficult as they started to fly. Every vestige of grass disappeared from the back garden, they had enourmous appetites and ate everything in sight. At night they wouls roost wherever took their fancy, on top of the fence, in next doors lilac tree and even on the window sills!
My father, who now considered himslef to be an expert, told us that they would fight one another. They didn't. They fought everybody and everything else. When the dog left the house, they would immediatemy give chase, jump on his back and ride majestically down the garden path and pecking at the back of his neck, In the end the dog would neither come on nor go out of the back door-he would use the front entrance.
Another favourite perch was the clothes line, when mother went ot peg out the washing, they would peck her fingers. Our friends tookm aleaf out of the dog's book and used the front door. WE had to put our own dustbin out, as the dustman refused point blank to enter our yard"if those bloody cockerals were there".
As the weather turned colder, they discovered the coalhouse and the outside toilet, there was no indoor one. If either of the dooors were left open, they would be in to roost as soon as it was dark. The big yard brush was kept permanently outside the backdoor. Anyone going out to fetch coal, or to answer a call of nature, armed themselves with it. It was the only thing they feared.
Things came to a head one night, when Mrs Mac was severly pecked when she st down on the loo. We all collapsed in fits of laughter, but I couls sees she was not amused.
The next day armed with am expresion of grim determination, several bruises and more wood, she made another small coop. She even came in with a piece if wire netting, but nobody dare ask where she had got it from.
It was near the end of November, so we decide to fatten the birds up for Christmas. They had grown very large and we fed them on as many scraps as we could get our hands on. Mother, who had lost interst, once she had realized they were cockerals, found a man to kill them. When they wre plucked and drawn they weighed 7 1/2 an 8 pounds.
What a feast we had on Christmas Day! The legs were enourmous and they was slice after slice of rich breast meat. The dog had a beano!!
I remember my friend, who always joined us fro Christmas dinner, sticking her fork into the meat and saying"That's for all of the times that you chased ne up the back yard"
Years later, when my husband kept hens, I could never bring myself to eat our own birds. I protested that had fed them and knew them personally. It must have been the food shortages that made me indifferent to the cockerals. It's surprising what a good helathy hunger can do, ot is it we get softer as we get older?

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