´óÏó´«Ã½

NO-ONE ELSE SEEMS TO WANT HER –A personal experience by Beryl Walter

I was living in Clacton in 1940 and I was eleven years old. One Sunday night, I was already in bed when my sister came upstairs crying, and in a very distressed state. She had just heard on the 9-00pm news that we were to be evacuated the next Sunday, but it wasn’t until the next morning that I learnt the reason for her distress. The next few days were blurred with tears. There were farewells to pets as well as parents and friends.

Early on Sunday morning, the second of June, we gathered at the railway station with anguished parents not knowing when or if ever we would see each other again. Our destination was secret. We had labels round our necks, a packet of sandwiches and carried very little luggage. No drink was allowed although this was a very hot June day.

The journey seemed endless as the grubby steam train chuffed on, relentlessly taking us further and further away from home. Teachers constantly walked the corridor giving us the occasional drink or barley sugar but they could not assuage the aching hearts or loneliness. Eight long weary hours later we arrived at our destination in the Midlands. We left the train and crocodiled to a cinema where we were kept sitting for two more hours whilst the authorities continued to sort out arrangements for our reception. They were, it seemed, as confused as us; it was after all a new experience for all of us.

Eventually we were taken out, class by class, into waiting coaches. I obeyed as if in a dream when my name was called, forgetting completely that I was supposed to stay with my older sister. My mother had asked that we be billeted near to each other if it were not possible for us to be together. As I left the cinema a hastily written note was passed to me from my sister. It read ‘Do not write home until I have explained to mum. I will be in touch’. It turned out that we were billeted in villages thirty miles apart and it took three weeks for my sister to find me. In the mean time my parents were quite distraught at not hearing from me

At last we reached a small village and were taken into a hall, welcomed and given biscuits. Then followed the humiliating experience of standing in a row to be chosen like cattle by the families willing to take an evacuee. I was not pretty, my hair was not curly, and I felt and probably looked thoroughly miserable, which perhaps explains why I was the last of the thirty left standing. I shall remember always the hurt of the words ‘I had better take that one home with me. No one else seems to want her’

My foster parent was an attractive widow with several married sons and daughters, but two sons and one daughter still lived in the tiny cottage. I shared a bedroom with my foster parent and her daughter with a bed on the floor. I was very wary of one of the sons; he somehow frightened me. On several occasions he made amorous advances towards me, which I hardly understood and still less knew how to handle, yet it was difficult to keep my distance. There was only one living room and a small downstairs bedroom where the younger boy slept. We had to go outside to a tiny cold lean-to kitchen where we cooked, washed and laundered The toilet was twenty-five yards away up the garden and was the traditional bucket, followed by newspaper; a place I avoided whenever possible.

I was always hungry and the highlight of the week was Sunday when we actually had a second vegetable. Usually this was swede, mashed with the potatoes giving them an orange colour. Emotionally I was constantly in turmoil though it should be remembered that some evacuees made life long friends, and were able to treat this time as one long holiday or adventure.

Schooling presented many problems for us. The local authority resisted any sharing of time so for most of our stay we attended school from 5-00pm to 9-00pm which meant the days were free but my presence was not welcomed in the house. My foster parent served teas in the garden and also did the laundry for the local boarding school. To get from ‘under her feet’ I was consequently sent out all day either gathering wood for the fire or in season pea picking or potato lifting. This often entailed an early start by six in the morning. On wet days or if in the house, I stood for hours ironing blouses and underclothes from the school.

There were happy times too. In the late Summer we crossed the river by punt and then walked three miles uphill to my foster mother’s parents who lived on a farm. They were very kind to me and often gave me the extra cake or biscuit. We spent our days in the fields helping with the harvest, stacking and turning the corn. It was hard hot work but I loved it- it felt free. We ate well and sometimes as a special treat we had a cider. We walked the long three miles back to the river in the twilight tired and happy.

My letters home always related the better aspects of my life, mainly because they were read before being sent as well as my incoming mail, It never occurred to me to complain to anyone. The circumstances were all so unreal, the way of living so totally different from home.

The first Christmas away from home remains a complete blank in my mind. In the absence of the traditions I Knew and loved it seemed to mean nothing to me. Even my Christian beliefs seemed to be in hibernation at that time. As the second Christmas approached many of the parents got together and organised a coach to take us home for the holidays. There was such excitement as the day approached. The journey when it came seemed never ending, but at last we were home, and a very emotional reunion after so long away, so much to talk about and to hear about all the changes that had taken place.

It was quite quickly decided that I should not return at the end of the holiday!

This story was submitted to the people’s War Site by a volunteer from Crawley on behalf of Beryl Walter and has been added to the site with her permission. Beryl fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.
.

The journey seemed endless as the grubby steam train chuffed on, relentlessly taking us further and further away from home. Teachers constantly walked the corridor giving us the occasional drink or barley sugar but they could not assuage the aching hearts or loneliness. Eight long weary hours later we arrived at our destination in the Midlands. We left the train and crocodiled to a cinema where we were kept sitting for two more hours whilst the authorities continued to sort out arrangements for our reception. They were, it seemed, as confused as us; it was after all a new experience for all of us.

Eventually we were taken out, class by class, into waiting coaches. I obeyed as if in a dream when my name was called, forgetting completely that I was supposed to stay with my older sister. My mother had asked that we be billeted near to each other if it were not possible for us to be together. As I left the cinema a hastily written note was passed to me from my sister. It read ‘Do not write home until I have explained to mum. I will be in touch’. It turned out that we were billeted in villages thirty miles apart and it took three weeks for my sister to find me. In the mean time my parents were quite distraught at not hearing from me

At last we reached a small village and were taken into a hall, welcomed and given biscuits. Then followed the humiliating experience of standing in a row to be chosen like cattle by the families willing to take an evacuee. I was not pretty, my hair was not curly, and I felt and probably looked thoroughly miserable, which perhaps explains why I was the last of the thirty left standing. I shall remember always the hurt of the words ‘I had better take that one home with me. No one else seems to want her’

My foster parent was an attractive widow with several married sons and daughters, but two sons and one daughter still lived in the tiny cottage. I shared a bedroom with my foster parent and her daughter with a bed on the floor. I was very wary of one of the sons; he somehow frightened me. On several occasions he made amorous advances towards me, which I hardly understood and still less knew how to handle, yet it was difficult to keep my distance. There was only one living room and a small downstairs bedroom where the younger boy slept. We had to go outside to a tiny cold lean-to kitchen where we cooked, washed and laundered The toilet was twenty-five yards away up the garden and was the traditional bucket, followed by newspaper; a place I avoided whenever possible.

I was always hungry and the highlight of the week was Sunday when we actually had a second vegetable. Usually this was swede, mashed with the potatoes giving them an orange colour. Emotionally I was constantly in turmoil though it should be remembered that some evacuees made life long friends, and were able to treat this time as one long holiday or adventure.

Schooling presented many problems for us. The local authority resisted any sharing of time so for most of our stay we attended school from 5-00pm to 9-00pm which meant the days were free but my presence was not welcomed in the house. My foster parent served teas in the garden and also did the laundry for the local boarding school. To get from ‘under her feet’ I was consequently sent out all day either gathering wood for the fire or in season pea picking or potato lifting. This often entailed an early start by six in the morning. On wet days or if in the house, I stood for hours ironing blouses and underclothes from the school.

There were happy times too. In the late Summer we crossed the river by punt and then walked three miles uphill to my foster mother’s parents who lived on a farm. They were very kind to me and often gave me the extra cake or biscuit. We spent our days in the fields helping with the harvest, stacking and turning the corn. It was hard hot work but I loved it- it felt free. We ate well and sometimes as a special treat we had a cider. We walked the long three miles back to the river in the twilight tired and happy.

My letters home always related the better aspects of my life, mainly because they were read before being sent as well as my incoming mail, It never occurred to me to complain to anyone. The circumstances were all so unreal, the way of living so totally different from home.

The first Christmas away from home remains a complete blank in my mind. In the absence of the traditions I Knew and loved it seemed to mean nothing to me. Even my Christian beliefs seemed to be in hibernation at that time. As the second Christmas approached many of the parents got together and organised a coach to take us home for the holidays. There was such excitement as the day approached. The journey when it came seemed never ending, but at last we were home, and a very emotional reunion after so long away, so much to talk about and to hear about all the changes that had taken place.

It was quite quickly decided that I should not return at the end of the holiday!

This story was submitted to the people’s War Site by a volunteer from Crawley on behalf of Beryl Walter and has been added to the site with her permission. Beryl fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

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