大象传媒

Article 3

It was Saturday, the second day of September, 1939. Only yesterday were we four children told that we鈥檇 be moving tomorrow. 鈥撯�淲hat!!鈥�
But it was true; the grim War outlook had finally caught up with our money 鈥� what was left of it 鈥� and with our father鈥檚 pockets bereft of both coin and notes, it was time for lower standards.

Of course our parents new this move prospect wouldn鈥檛 go down well with us kids, so they had remained silent. Now everything was all of a rush for all our cupboards and shelves had to be emptied and packed into boxes and sacks at breakneck speed. With eyes welling with tears, I felt barely conscious, for the sledgehammer news had knocked me senseless, as well as deaf. We knew much of the dis-spiriting advancing war news, but we hadn鈥檛 realised it could cost us our home! The thought hadn鈥檛 entered my head. 鈥淲hy!?鈥� I鈥檇 asked. But didn鈥檛 get answered for it was all too complicated to impart the multitude of reasons to a skinny little boy of 12 yrs and 4 months old.

To up and leave our fine country house that my father and grandfather had built in 1931 expressly for us, was unthinkable. Not only was it lovely to look at, but was in the country village of Chaldon. Here was 鈥榖liss鈥� itself and I鈥檇 loved the wild things since my birth at Purley in May 1927. I knew my buttercups before I was born, and we鈥檇 moved into the house at Christmas time in 1931.

My sister was looking almost as glum as I, while our youngest brother was quite unconcerned, which was normal enough for he preferred food when he wasn鈥檛 sleeping. My other brother, Bob, being already 13 陆 yrs old was helping Dad with the dismantling of the iron bedsteads and the dragging of all the lumps and boards and bed-springs down the already bare stairs to be stacked near the crowding heaps already looking like junk around and near the front door. It was all worse that awful.

Giving all the other jobs awaiting muscle power to slip, I went out to my beloved back garden. I had been the gardener since the age of ten. I could grow a cabbage as easily as a potato 鈥� in rows too. Our expert neighbour had taught me, and I wasn鈥檛 a bit shy about gathering the horse droppings from local fields, nor of being seen smothered in the cow stuff oozing from the sack onto my shirt. What or where we were moving too was still undiscovered; but I bet it wouldn鈥檛 be a patch on Chaldon. The garden tools were already positioned near the garage doors, ready for loading, and my last leek pulled and trimmed. Now the garden was bare. Unhooking the clothes line and, winding it Naval fashion 鈥� as taught by Bob, for he was keen on the Navy an all its tricks and factors 鈥� knew the morse code learned from library books, and would join that Service at his first chance.

Mum was calling me to make myself useful. 鈥淕et that mirror down!鈥�

Approaching the wall mirror to lift it off, startled me! My hair! It looked grey! Well it wasn鈥檛 surprising after yesterday鈥檚 announcement. Dad still had the wireless plugged in; it was necessary, and it was News time. Soon the newsreader was putting the wind up us, again. All this moving when by this time tomorrow we could be dead. Homeless. The van man could be here soon after six of we were told. I wondered how big the removal van would be. Mum had made a few sandwiches 鈥� food reminiscent of our seaside picnic days of 1938 and the years before. We hadn鈥檛 been this year, 1939. No car you see; no spare money. But I wasn鈥檛 too put out for Chaldon was the prettiest place in all England 鈥� apart from Bexhill; the beach beneath the east Galley Hill. Here was Dad鈥檚 desert island sands and sea for washing away his cares and woe along with the never-ending smell of builders mortar and bricky dust.

Dad had a picture in the front room to remind him of his dream over the seaside horizon. A single man of Arab looks was sitting on a sandy hump on a lonely spot of foreign beach, looking and thinking. The ideal life. No Hitler. It was all his fault, apparently. The endless talk and war-talk had ruined Dad鈥檚 building business. Now he would never become a millionaire. He was ruined.

The removal van was late. Soon it would be two hours late. Everything was ready for the big lift. The waiting; it was getting on our nerves. Daylight was leaving the evening; where on earth was he! Next it was getting dark, then darker. How irritating. Finally the van arrived using full headlights. It was night time 鈥� perhaps 9. 30?, or later. But now it was all hands on deck and full speed ahead in Bob鈥檚 language.
Well no doubt it took a hour and a half to load up all the furniture and boxes and before the final turn of a locking key. The end of an era in Paradise. I was now also speechless, for that house held a multitude of memories.

Because we didn鈥檛 own a car, Mum and us four children all piled into the front cab alongside the sole removal man while Dad rode ahead on his newly acquired, tatty looking motorbike. We were heading for familiar Caterham and soon the headlights were revealing the well-known shops and schools that were so much part of our life. The old van clattered on through North End and out towards Kenley before turning away to travel down the long hill. 鈥淵ou鈥檒l soon see,鈥� Mum replied to a question from Bob. And then we were there. 鈥淲hat, here!!鈥� I gasped in disbelief.
We had stopped outside a row of shops at Whyteleaf end of Caterham Valley, and we were to life in the flat above an empty shop. In darkness it appeared doubly empty and hollow, before electric light and seven pairs of feet bearing goods and chattels across bare boards and up wooden stairs reaffirmed that I had at least a sister and brothers to ease my personal hollows.
Wondering what daylight would reveal, we slept solidly on hurriedly erected beds to the smell of musty, dusty air.
Sunday the 3rd September dawned fair and calm; outside that is 鈥� for most everything inside the strange walls was like a fly tip. One would hardly expect anything different after our past mid-night arrival.
The first thing that struck us was that beyond this back garden were railway lines. In fact it was a Sunday train of the local system that awoke us. An infrequent service to London, it never became a problem of noise. Two apple trees bearing fruit were in the garden, but while one were bullets on twigs, the other was loaded with the biggest and brightest of orange, yellow and red fruit that ever greeted a summer day. Very tasty too, and my sister and I made a good pocket money with them. After a makeshift breakfast and with Mum and Dad sorting our awful new home, we children set off across a field close to a big school in order to reach yet another train line in more pleasing surrounds. As we were strolling leisurely in that direction, the sirens suddenly sounding announced the second monumental event of that weekend. We hadn鈥檛 heard there was to be a practice sounding for this Sunday, and as other more distant sirens began adding some urgency to the somewhat electrifying, still air, we decided that something was up and retraced our steps.

Hurrying back to the flat we found our parents already blocking the chimneys with the old packing paper used for transporting the china and glass. As if our move wasn鈥檛 bad enough, the government had seen for to finally declare WAR on Germany. Gas attack by aircraft was Dad鈥� prime consideration for stories understood from the Great War were still fresh in many memories. And whereas artillery shells had previously delivered the goods, nowadays aeroplanes could do it better. Expecting German planes at any minute, Dad now worked quickly to putty up the window frames and doors not in use, while Mum, grabbing the now disused boxes, packed food in such a way as to confuse the enemy and his mustard gas. There might be plenty to 鈥榖eef鈥� about, but Dad could put mustard on his own Sunday joint.
With the sirens sounding being a false alarm, we then settled into a long cold winter and the period that came to be known as The Phoney War. However, the following spring saw us moving back to my beloved Chaldon, to the very first bungalow that our father had built. We were absolutely delighted.

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