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WRITTEN BY MY MOTHER, GEORGINA ROBBINS, NOW AGED 76 YEARS.
Looking back it seems incredible that World War 2 started sixty five years ago, but still most of the events leading to that time are so clear it seems like yesterday.

We came to live in Dagenham, my mum, dad, brother and myself in 1931, when I was three years old, on the new Becontree Estate which was built to house families from London. Before this it had been all farm land, and thirty minutes walk from our house would take us to the original Old Dagenham village. I still have fond memories of a lovely place where my mum used to take me for walks when I was little. Sadly the Council had it pulled to the ground and replaced it with an ugly concrete jungle, sacrilege, and all that was left was the Cross Keys pub and the Old Dagenham Church where some years later I was married.

I was eleven years old in January 1939 and still in the junior school, which was only two doors away from where we lived, so quite close to home. When the bell rang at four it took just a few minutes to get home to mum for a cup of tea and something to eat. As summer approached there was talk of war and there was lots of excitement in the air, a feeling of expectancy. A centre was set up in the old village and I was sent there with my friend from next door to either get, or sign for, ration books (that is a bit hazy).

Days later lorries came into the street loaded with metal air-raid shelters, ‘Anderson Shelters’ as they were called, which were in sections and had to be bolted together. One of these was delivered to every family who had to dig a large hole in the ground and set it in, covering earth over the top. These gave good protection from shrapnel in bombing raids, and gave you a feeling of safety in the months ahead.

Then we all had to go again to the Old Village centre to be issued with gas masks. Fortunately we never had to use them, but the awful smell of that rubber reminded me of having teeth out at the school dentists. But we soon got used to it when the war came and teacher used to make us have gas mask drill! These masks had to be carried at all times throughout the war; they came in a cardboard box with a string so you could carry it like a sling bag.

Looking back I realize how well prepared the politicians were foreseeing every eventuality to make sure the British public was safeguarded in every way possible. We had ration books to ensure we had adequate food, identity cards (still have mine) so everyone was accounted for, and brick built shelters at shopping centres in case of a raid.

War was declared on 3rd September 1939, this was the very time I should have started at the senior girl’s school, and instead those children that were going to be evacuated had to assemble at the school. My brother and I were among them with name tags pinned to our coats and our clothes in a knapsack on our backs. We had to walk to Dagenham Dock, which must have been at least two miles, and from there we were taken by pleasure boat, The Golden Daffodil, to Norfolk.

That journey was a dream, it was such a lovely hot summer day and music was playing out from the tannoy, ‘South of the Border’. As lovely as this adventure was it was overshadowed for me, because by this time I had a two year old sister and she and my mum were also on this boat travelling with the Infant school and were to be billeted elsewhere. They were actually sent to Dis in Norfolk but came home after six weeks. My brother and I were taken to Caister and ended up in a church hall where we were selected like cattle. That was the bit I disliked, young as I was. This woman chose me and two little sisters, who were nice, but one was a bed wetter so after a few weeks this lady asked the parents to come and take these girls. There was an awful row on the doorstep when they arrived, and off they went. Then my loneliness began.

The woman I stayed with was very clean and a superb cook but had no children of her own, and she was very hard. Her husband, however, was nice and friendly — but she ruled the roost. They lived in Coastguard Cottages so we were literally on the sand dunes overlooking the sea, and as the weather was so lovely in those first few weeks we had a great time sliding down the dunes. Then back to school, an old fashioned country school and we mixed well there with the local children. The time I was there was very pleasant, it was always nice and warm in that school and the cookery teacher was round and plump and taught us how to make apple turnovers!

During my stay in Caister occasionally a mine would be washed up on the shore, and it was quite a spectacle for the kids to see. So barbed wire was put along the dunes to stop us having access. Lots of driftwood came ashore as well so the men used to go down to the beach to collect it.

That winter of 1940 was bitter; I have never seen snow drifts like it. Beautiful scenes though and sometimes we would go along and skate on the dykes on Saturdays, that was good fun. But when the snow melted we were just left with cold wintry days, and by this time most of the evacuees had gone home to Dagenham. The local children lived in the village near the school, whereas I was isolated from them being on the edge of the dunes. My dad used to send me a sixpenny piece every week in an envelope which was taped down with brown sticky tape, and on those cold dull Saturdays I used to walk to the village store to buy a cake, sweets and a stamp to write home to my mum.

The man of the house where I was billeted used to work on a sugar beet farm and his wife used to knit him long warm socks to wear under his Wellington boots. I longed to knit socks like she did so I asked her to teach me. She taught me well but if I made a mistake she would get into such a temper. But I did learn how to turn a heel and was very pleased to have done so despite her annoyance. I used to spend time writing my weekly letter home in the evening, and when I finished the woman of the house used to always want to read it. So unbeknown to her I would wait until she went out of the room and add a sentence at the end saying ‘please take me home mum, please take me home’. I felt quite guilty over that later on, to think how my poor mum must have felt. My brother, however, was billeted on a farm and the farmer and his wife treated him like they would a son. So he was very happy with them and every so often the lady, Mrs Skoyles, used to send one of the farmhands along for me to go and have tea with them.

Nothing much was happening on the home front so after nine months of the war my mum and dad decided to have me home. Through the efforts of Mrs Mackay, one of mum’s neighbours who liased between parents and evacuees, she organized for me to return home to Dagenham by coach in May 1940, lovely to get back where I belonged. Back to my new school, Eastbrook Senior Girls School, and all my classmates. That was a lovely school and the teachers were real professionals.

But now the war was beginning. The blitz on London started in earnest that summer, night raids on London and in the suburbs. It was mostly aimed in the city but we also had quite a few bombs dropped here in Dagenham due to the German bombers aiming for the docks and nearby munitions factories. Lots of men were conscripted into the armed forces; my dad enlisted and was based at Catterick camp in Yorkshire. Meanwhile when there were night raids searchlights used to scan the skies for enemy planes, and my mum and I with my young sister were woken up most nights by the wailing siren and we made our way swiftly to the garden shelter. My brother had returned home from Norfolk and was eventually called up to join the army as were all the young men, and signed up in the Royal Engineers the same as my dad. Tom was first sent to Belfast and then on to India, and my dad went to Italy.

I left school at fourteen and had a couple of Saturday jobs prior to that, then found a job as a provisions assistant at the Co-operative Wholesale Society. We still had air raids to contend with and the doodle bugs mainly, and then came the V2 rockets which were more powerful, but it became a way of life. With my friends from the Co-op I used to go to the cinema as often as my wages would allow, and we would watch all the lovely American musicals with Betty Grable and the rest. We wished we could have lovely clothes to wear like them! Clothes were rationed the same as food so we had to make do or buy a dress on the black market. I had one special friend and we used to go ballroom dancing whenever we could, regardless of the noise from the raids, we would cringe if it was too loud but it didn’t deter us.

Everyone was encouraged to make do and mend and nothing was wasted. Mums used to make things like carrot cake and rhubarb jam, and men that were exempt from the forces like firemen and policemen were encouraged to grow their own vegetables. ‘Dig for victory’ said the adverts on the hoardings. Another was ‘Careless talk costs lives’ and everyone heeded that warning for the sake of their men folk.

Constantly there was something going on so things were never boring during those five years of war, and looking back I remember how well people coped with shortages and hardships and never complained. I had turned sixteen when it finally came to an end and was quite naïve in some respects, but I felt I had grown up. Then came the dancing in the streets!

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