大象传媒

Written by Jean McMurdo (nee Gillies)
I can still hear Chamberlain's voice on the radio announcing that, due to Hitler's invasion of Poland, Britain was at war with Germany as from 11 am on the 3rd September 1939. It did not mean much to a 13 year old girl although I do recall trying to look very serious to match the expressions I saw on the faces of the adults around me. "it's to far away to affect me and besides it'll be over soon" I thought.
As time passed, the realisation dawned that there was no early end in sight. Gas mask drill in school was dreaded. Each time I felt that this was the day I'd really suffocate. Young male teachers were conscripted and we were left with the old dragons! Food was not so plentiful and housewives had to improvise and create dishes out of not very much to feed their families. How I hated lentil roast, a regular offering on our table. We kids used to drool over the fond memories of our favourite sweets. I used to set aside the peas from the broth on the rim of my soup plate. These were then put in a paper bag and taken to school as pretend sweets. As for oranges and bananas - some children knew them only as pictures in a book.
Clothing, or rather the lack of it, was another cause for complaint. It was very much a case of "make do and mend". Since my dad was a tailor, the number of permutations he could come up with, given an old coat belonging to my mother, were the bane of my young life. Seams unpicked and turned inside out, that horrible garment my mother had worn faithfully through wind and weather for X number of years became a "nice" wee kimono and a jacket for me and some other monstrosity for my sister. I did feel like a right frump.
We could not travel much in these days. The transport system was non existent as was petrol except for necessary vehicles and journeys. Besides it was comforting to be near home when the air raid siren sounded its ominous warning. We saw the glow in the night sky when Clydebank was being relentlessly bombed - and that was too near for anyone to feel complacent. Soon afterwards there was an influx of evacuees, sad children with their little bundles trooping off the Glasgow train and waiting to be claimed by some philanthropic person who had volunteered to open the door to them. The local headmaster's wife (Mrs Dow) was the organiser who tried to match forlorn children with a foster family. We inherited one called Mary. My mother tried to make her feel part of the family by letting her share a bed with my sister and me. End result? We all had a thriving crop of head lice. The bone comb and paraffin were no new experience to Mary who had suffered the same treatment while on the "Fresh Air Fortnight" whatever that meant, but the whole process was absolute torture to Nan and me and we were soon in floods of tears.
By this time I was a pupil at Cumnock Academy and had just discovered boys. Imagine the consternation of the local girls when a particularly pretty consignment of evacuees from Hyndland Academy arrived to be billeted in Cumnock and proceeded to steal the boys from under our noses (Funnily enough I can't remember any handsome male evacuees). It was enough to start another war. Fortunately for all, the evacuees returned home in a comparatively short time and life returned to normal. Until, that is, some of our local lads were among the dreaded war casulaties. By 1942, six New Cumnockians had perished, with many more to follow.
The radio was the focus of attention in the home, just as television is today. Regular bulletins brought news of the fluctuating fortunes of our soldiers, sailors and airmen. The horrors of Dunkirk were graphically described. The young men, and even the not so, of the village were being conscripted. Except, that is, for those in reserved occupations like mining, who donned their Home Guard uniforms and practised what they would do if the Germans came.
There was a mini invasion when soldiers appeared, stayed a while and then disappeared. My mother made vast quantities of tea and scones for the soldiers on guard duty over the hedge from us, where the old tennis court used to be. I never knew what on earth they were guarding nor did it occur to me to ask but I learned later that they were soldiers awaiting embarkation at Gourock on the ships which were to take them to fight in the North African campaign. One of these soldiers is still a very good friend over 60 years later.
Lord Haw Haw and Winston Churchill made us alternatively worried and confident as we listened to their differing messages. The local Italians were interned. German POWs came. It was strange how similar they were to the soldiers who had been here previously. Surely they should be wearing Swastikas and jack boots? More tea and scones were produced for, after all, they were all "somebody's son".
Liddell Hart and countless others wrote the History of World War II and it is pointless of me to record the battles, the wins and losses. Suffice to say that eventually V.E. day dawned in May 1945 and V.J day following in August. Bonfires were lit and the villagers rejoiced. All except the families of the 37 whose names are listed on the war memorial.
A lot of water had passed under the Afton bridge between 1939 and 1945. For myself, I had to grow up in difficult times, more clearly seen in hindsight. Everyone thought, in the euphoria of peace, that things would get back to normal very soon, but in 1948 when I got married, there were still shortages. We needed coupons for clothing, dockets for furniture, ration books for food. Maybe it was easier in some ways than it is nowadays for a young couple setting out in wedlock. We were less materialistic because it took more than money to keep a house, furnish it and hold court in the height of fashion. Shortage is a great leveller.
Yes! These times were difficult. There were lessons to be learned and sacrifices to be made but isn't that what life is all about?

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