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In 1940 I was in my first appointment as a Methodist Deaconess in the east end of London. As the months passed, the nightly trip to the air raid shelters became a way of life for many people. Regularly each evening, families would take their bedding from home, make their way to their chosen spot and set themselves up for the night. This meant that some folk who had been at work came straight to the shelter, and though they or their families took some food with them, a hot cup of tea was very welcome.

Now there were two youngsters who had an old pram from which the top part had been removed, leaving the wheel section only, controlled by a rope tied to the axle on each side near the front wheels. They enjoyed themselves sitting on the base and riding around the streets along the pavements. It occurred to me that this sort of vehicle was exactly what we needed for our shelter tea round. I talked to the lads and they told me that they used the trolley every evening to take their bedding to the shelter. Later, however, they informed me that they would not be needing it any longer as the family was evacuating, and I could have it. I thought that I should ask my minister, Rev. E. H. Harland for his opinion, and the boys agreed to sell it to him for a shilling. Having got it we needed to adapt it to carry the two large metal teapots which we had at St. George’s. We obtained a couple of small, square tea chests which, when fixed in position, proved entirely satisfactory. Our trolley worked well.

Tea was not yet on ration, so every evening we did our round of the shelters, choosing our time when it was clear of raids. However, we did have one or two narrow escapes. On one occasion we had to leave our trolley in the middle of the road and run for shelter. It was so dark that we could not see where to go, but made our way to what we thought was an opening between buildings. The next morning we discovered that we had taken shelter in a wide open space! There was no building there at all! Some folk in the shelters did not want us to leave. They felt that somehow our presence afforded some divine protection!

When we got back to St. George’s after the tea run, it was often too late for me to get home to Dalston as the trams from Leman Street stopped running when the air raid alarm went. This meant I had to remain at St George’s. Mr Harland, his mother, his brother and Miss Marks, his house keeper, arranged their bedding in the well of the stone staircase leading to the caretaker’s flat – now empty – so I had to sleep on eight primary Sunday school chairs just inside the door leading out to the yard.

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