大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People`s War site by Alan Magson of Age Concern, Bradford & District, on behalf of Sheila Naish, and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site`s terms and conditions.

WARTIME MEMORIES
These come from the point of view of a child who grew up in a small market town on the South Coast: Bridport, in Dorset. I was seven years old on 3rd September 1939, as uninterested in the one o'clock news from the 大象传媒 as I was in the cricket results, both of which demanded absolute silence over the dinner table. I took the war for granted, just as I did my strictly middle-class, middle of the road lifestyle.
Bridport had a population of some 8,000 at the beginning of the war. The local industry, net and twine manufacture received a considerable boost with the demand for camouflage netting. My father was Borough Accountant, in a reserved occupation, much to his disgust. He took on additional roles of ARP Warden and Secretary (or Chairman?) of the local National Savings Committee. My mother, a qualified musician, took private singing pupils at home. Both had a lively interest in amateur theatricals and were constantly putting on concerts to entertain the troops posted in large numbers to the south coast.
In the 1930's I led what you might regard as a pampered existence as houses on the very edge of the town. I attended a private school some two miles away. We walked or cycled everywhere of course - the sound of a motor vehicle grinding up our steep cul-de-sac was still rare enough to bring the neighbours out to their gates.
Spoiled or not, the war permeated everything, the war changed everything.
The News Hits Home
I had no more interest in the war than in the cricket results or the Oxford and Cambridge boat race -just another annoying reason to have to listen to the wireless in silence over dinner. Be quiet -can 't you see we 're making history. You 'II want to tell your grandchildren. I knew of course that all Germans were bad and that Mr. Chamberlain was a hero.
But on a memorable Monday I went with my mother to Perkins a homely haberdashery and soft furnishing shop in South Street, familiar setting for the purchase of curtain fabrics, or Chilprufe vests and knickers. I bounded ahead eager to grab one of the high chairs set up toe the counter. But today the usually garrulous assistants worked in grim silence. Instead of the customary rainbow displays of chintz and velvets, every counter appeared draped in black. My mother consulted her list of measurements and wave upon wave; yard upon yard of shiny black fabric was cut out and rolled up.
What's that horrid stuff? I hate it. It's blackout. My heart sank - what did this mean?

Back home my mother settled to her sewing machine; every surface in the dining room disappeared beneath the hated, deadening, fabric. Blackout! Now I believed in the war and my throat was dry.
An unpopular dog.
Our black and tan dachshund, Mimi, had arrived in a crate from breeders in Harrogate, a trembling jellied eel of a pup, who turned out to be only dachshund in our town and attracted considerable notice She settled and matured.
Then, overnight the poor animal became unpopular, vilified That dachshund or that German Sausage dog now target for hostile comments, e gobbets of spit - so much so that we tended to leave her at home when a walk up town was planned - quick to realize the pointlessness of trying to explain that she had not actually emanated from Germany. The correct pronunciation or translation of the breed was habitually received, coldly. Mimi was anathema and in her turn learned to keep her head down in public.
But the war still trembled on the brink. Perhaps we only half believed it could affect our little routines. One summers day we took an ordinary day out of the kind that would seem laughable a few months later - a trip by train to Weymouth, 21 miles away, dawdled on the sill available beach, wandered round the shops.
There, somehow, Mimi got lost. Somehow we became separated. After a fruitless search we had no choice but to take the last train home, without her.
We spent a tearful, anxious night, and the following morning my mother went to Weymouth by the
first train only to find the police totally unsympathetic in the fate of a German Sausage, and deeply absorbed in
The arrival of boatloads of refugees from France, Belgium or the Channel Islands. Ever
practical, my mother hired a bike and toured promenade and beach areas, as well as visiting the
local paper to insert an advertisement.
She repeated these labours with variations over the next four but the search became unrealistic the police increasingly hostile. Didn 't we know there was a war on. In any case the news from all quarters grew worse by the minute.
Three weeks after our ill-timed jaunt the household was wakened in the small hours by a desperate howling beneath my parents' window. Mimi had found her way home, some strong instinct had brought her along the coast and back to our house, two miles inland. Thin as a rag she was sustained over the next few days by Horlicks with beaten eggs. How could such stumpy legs have travelled so far? When the story appeared in the local paper Mimi's reputation soared and she ceased to be the target of local distaste.

A Bicycle made for two Here my parents are showing off the tandem and sidecar, specially adapted for two infants, on which they intended to flee from the expected coastal invasion by the Germans. I was to follow close behind on my big girl's bike. We had several trial runs. We knew the church bells would ring should an invasion take place at which point we should head inland as fast as possible. Despite several false alarms the invasion never took place. I know I would never have kept up as my mother and father rode their tandem at a spanking pace.
Rule Britannia! The war was the occasion for many patriotic displays and celebrations. A pram parade in support of Warship Week-one way of stimulating even more investment in the National Savings movement - shows our old two sealer pram decked out as a battleship with myself as Britannia and Rex a school friend as John Bull. We walked away with first prize.
Transport of delight We cycled everywhere of course. Nobody had a car. Holidays were impossible travellers were not permitted to move away from their local Zone Is your journey really necessary became the watchword. Nevertheless an occasional special civilian permit could be obtained to visit relatives. Once a year we travelled laboriously from Bridport to Northampton n by train so that my mother and father could see their parents. This hazardous enterprise involved a transfer from Padding ton to Euston. The pram, which had been bundled into the guard's van was bundled out at Paddington, my young brother and sister popped into their familiar seats and off we set on foot between the two termini. This procedure had the added advantage that the pram was available during our stay in Northampton, though I remember a rear wheel kept falling off.
In the photograph my sister is wearing a siren suit supposedly made popular by Winston Churchill
Gassed! As children we took the prospect of gas attack for granted. Gas masks in their clumsy cardboard boxes dangled from our shoulders wherever we went. Gas mask drill as a feature of school life as regular as morning prayers. We knew how to be ready at a moment's notice. Be prepared was another watchword. But on a summer's day at the age of eight my friend and I set off for a walk across the cliffs, the beach being a banned and barbed wired minefield, and we had forgotten our gasmasks.
One less acknowledged aspect of the war years was the way in which children could wander safely at will through the countryside. We could be absent from home for hour and our parents had no anxiety about our safety.
However on this occasion, wending our barefoot way across the cliffs, talking of this and that, with no other walker on the horizon for miles, we nevertheless became suddenly anxious because of the absence of our gas masks. What if there should be a gas attack today? How would we know if one
had taken place? Even as the though struck us we gradually became aware of a strange odour penetrating the humps and valleys of the cliff top. It was of course a sea fret, which we did not recognise.
Convinced a gas attack had taken place and we were here unprotected we struck out in sudden panic towards an isolated farmhouse glimpsed inland and pounded on the door. Not only must we seek safety for ourselves but we would be fulfilling our patriotic duty in informing the inmates of the gas now seen to be seeping inwards.
The elderly retired Colonel, its sole occupant, received us gravely and courteously, listened to our story, reassured us without so much of a twitch of the lips that no attack had taken place, and after a generous plate of bread and jam and a drink of lemon barley, directed us carefully on our way home. Honour was satisfied, our dignity remained intact. He did not let us know that he was in fact acquainted with our parents who heard the whole story from him a day or two later.
When the maids threatened to quit.
I was eight, a complete egotist, taking the war and my own small world for granted.
'Mummy, I want an evacuee'
'Well we can't have one darling, we've no spare bedroom. You know Violet has to sleep- in or we wouldn't have our breakfast on time. Violet was our 14 year old maid whose home was in feet only half a mile away.
'Why can't the evacuee share with me?'
'We don't want the one anyway- they're rough and dirty, and Mrs. Seward says they
can't even talk the Kings English'
Tm lonely -I want someone to play with. Rosemary's got one, and Mrs. Telford's got
Kitty and Maxwell;
'That's different, she's their Auntie'
But I still wanted a little girl to play with. It's lonely being the only child in a secluded Close, out of town. I wasn't big enough to walk to Pamela's or Rosemary's without being seen across the road. I 'd heard all about the trainloads of evacuees from friends at school. Of course the evacuees wouldn't be attending our small private kindergarten -some had already made inroads into the council school in the middle of Bridport.
But on Saturday when I dragged my scooter out into the Close I me got a surprise - a small cluster of unfamiliar children were hanging round Mrs. N's - one tall girl was actually swinging on the gate, something I was never allowed to do, two small boys kicked stones in the gutter, another child sat on the kerb attending vigorously to its nose. An almost grown up youth, in long trousers perched casually on a wall. The children 's grubby gloomy faces lit up at the sight of the scooter.
'Give us a go' - the scooter was removed unceremoniously from my grasp. The tall girl crouching low, skirts flying, set off at a tremendous pace down the hill.
'Scuse me - I'm not allowed to go past Dale's gate - it's too steep, and big girls aren't allowed on my scooter' My appeals ignored the big girl jangled dangerously down hill approaching the forbidden Main Road.
'Got a bike, kid' The big boy had to repeat this demand several times .
'You talk funny'
'Is that a personal remark, or an insult?'
I couldn't begin to grasp this vocabulary and dumbly indicated my fair cycle. He set off down hill, long legs spread wide in their threadbare flannels pursued by the two small boys whooping loudly and screeching 'We want a go'.
. I stood fingers in mouth, tears forming. I didn't like evacuees after all and they talked so funny. Several other toys disappeared temporarily into their clutches, but to do them justice all were returned when Daddy cycled past home from the office on his way home to dinner.
My parents knew all about the evacuees. The two little boys were billeted on Miss W. an elderly spinster in the pseudo Tudor residence at the top, the big girl was with the Misses C. behind high yew hedges a in their genteel Edwardian red brick edifice. This was reached by a twisting reached by gravelled drive, raked regularly by the resident gardener. Bill, the youth impressive on account of n his long trousers .had been received by Mr. and Mrs. N. local undertakers, and their spinster daughter who wore trousers shirt and tie and had to be addressed as Miss Mary.
It was clear from my parents conversation that something was going to have to be done about these evacuees as ' all the maids had threatened to leave!
'Thank goodness we haven't a spare bedroom; remarked my mother as Violet carried in the macaroni cheese and mashed potatoes.
Imagine Miss W. without the sturdy Matthews in cap and apron - who would get down on hands and knees to polish t all that parquet? Imagine the C's without Joan, who had been with them for twenty years, or the undertaker's family without Kathleen! I knew all these stalwarts well from conversations conducted at back doors and occasional offers of bikkies.
Had they got together to present a united front? I would never know. Two days later as I trailed my doll's pram hesitatingly out into the Close, I realised the street was empty . Very empty it suddenly seemed.
Over dinner I learned that with the exception of Bill all the children had all been found places on the council estate where they would be happier thanks to the WVS. . As a result the maids had all agreed to stay. Bill, you will be pleased to hear, was retained by the undertaker's family and offered an apprenticeship in their business. Presumably Kathleen was squared by the offer of another 21- a week on her wages. Bill did extremely well and never returned to London.
As for the maids. .their retention was only temporary - within a year they had all, with the exception of the elderly Matthews, been called up. My mother had to do housework for the first time in her life.

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