大象传媒

Cumbria is a foreign country

I remember the last of my four evacuations particularly well, partly because I was that much older and more conscious of the world around me, partly because it turned out to be the life-forming experience of my whole childhood. It took place at the end of the flying bomb offensive. I was twelve and my brother eight.

We were sent north from Euston station, then the terminus of the LMS. There must have been several hundred of us on the platform about to get on a steam train when the sirens went. In any air-raid on central London the number-one target was the main line terminals, so we were hastily ushered below into a storage cellar beneath the platform. It was empty, but very dark and dirty. After being held there for most of the day, from maybe 9.45 till about 4 o鈥檆lock, it was decided it was safe for us to come up and board. The train chugged along for 30 minutes or so, then would make a lengthy stop, then go on a bit further. Of course we had no idea where we were being taken, and it was no good looking for the station names because all the nameplates had been taken down to confuse enemy spies. It got dark, we got tired, but sleep was impossible: the train was too crowded.

Finally, toward midnight, we came into a bleak town with deserted streets and no lights. My brother tells me that the lady mayoress was waiting on the platform wearing her chain of office. When she saw him she picked up his suitcase and carried it for him. We were taken by bus to a large secondary school, where we had to spend the night sleeping between the desks on the classroom floor. It was cold and hard. The most worrying thing, so far as I was concerned, was the fact that I had no idea where I was. I felt completely lost. The WVS women who were in charge refused to tell me. I guess they were grumpy because they had been expecting us in the afternoon and it was now past midnight. Then I remembered that we had passed a framed map on the wall of the corridor outside. It would surely be a local map with a title that would solve my problem. Going outside the classroom was forbidden (did they think we were going to run away?), but somehow I managed to get out to find the map was called 鈥橳he School Cross-Country Course鈥�, so I was none the wiser. In fact we were in Barrow-in-Furness at the tip of what later became Cumbria: if I had been told it would have meant nothing.

The following morning the WVS ladies came round with steaming urns of hot porridge. I hate porridge but abandoned my principles and ate a bowlful. I was starving: I had had nothing to eat or drink for over a day. Then we were shared out at random among a fleet of buses and taken off to villages in the central Lake District.

About ten or twelve of us were put down at a tiny hamlet called Water Yeat at the southern tip of Lake Coniston, taken into a wooden hut and lined up against the wall. The villagers came in to inspect us. It was rather like a cattle auction. The women were looking for neat little girls that they could take home and mother; the men wanted brawny teenagers that could help them on the farms. I did not fit into either category. To make matters worse I had a small brother in tow and nobody wanted two evacuees. Only one person had hinted she might take two but, when the billeting officer tried to push us onto her, she made a big scene, saying that she had made it clear she was only prepared to take girls and, as the vicar鈥檚 wife, was entitled to first choice. She grabbed the two biggest girls and marched off with them. It turned out that she wanted them as unpaid housemaids. They stuck it for twelve days and then went back to London.

The result was that my brother and I were left when everyone else had gone. This was worrying. I did not know what happened to evacuees that no-one wanted. Were they put on the next train to London, or locked up in an orphanage? Then a rather shy lady, who had stood at the back and taken no part in the cattle auction came forward and said to us, 鈥淭ha best cum wi鈥� us, lads.鈥� She told us her name was Doris Jackson and took us outside.

I thought I was in a foreign country. I had never been north of the River Thames in my life and had never seen any scenery like this. All around us was rocky moorland, covered with bracken and hillslopes clothed with conifers. Everything was sopping wet and smelt musty. She marched us to an isolated farmhouse. And when we got there I was certain that this was a foreign country, for I could not understand a single word the two men in the house were speaking. I could understand Doris, with difficulty. Later I found out she had been in service as a teenager in a guesthouse in Coniston where the proprietors had insisted she spoke proper English to the guests. But these two men were speaking an unknown language. Fortunately they could understand me. Whenever I said anything they would either answer, 鈥淎y, champion,鈥� or look somewhat doubtful and reply, 鈥溾�楢ppen.鈥� Neither meant anything to me. The next morning I asked Doris what 鈥榗hampion鈥� meant. She laughed and said, 鈥淕ood, fine, splendid.鈥�

Within an hour this story had gone all round the village and I had become famous. The villagers knew that Londoners were stupid, but they had no idea that they wouldn鈥檛 understand the most common word in the English language. So when I ventured out to explore everyone came up to speak to me. They all knew who I was: I was the Cockney boy who could not speak English. Old men shouted at me as I went past: 鈥溾�橭w do? 鈥極w ist鈥檃? Gilly well or nobbut middlin鈥�?鈥� When I failed to answer, they would order, 鈥淪ay, champion!鈥� I did and was rewarded with a pat on the head and the words, 鈥淓eh, that鈥檚 reet, lad.鈥�

Then, on the Monday, we had to start at our new schools. I had an hour鈥檚 bus ride into the nearest town to go to a secondary school. The town was called 鈥極osten鈥� or, as the 大象传媒 insists, 鈥楿lverston鈥�

On my first day inevitably I got lost and arrived late for a lesson. I stood in the doorway not knowing where to sit. The teacher looked up at me from his desk and said, 鈥淧ut wuid in鈥檛 hoil!鈥� I stared uncomprehendingly at him. He thought I was being insolent and got quite angry. 鈥淒us鈥檛 hear, lad? Ist鈥檃 deef? Put wuid in鈥檛 hoil!鈥� He was asking me to close the door behind me. I had no idea. Fortunately a girl in the room came to my rescue and explained that I came from London and therefore did not speak English!

Once the initial shock had been overcome my brother and I settled in well. That farm was a paradise for two boys from London. In fact, when the end of the war came, I didn鈥檛 want to go home. I wrote to ask if I could stay. Rather to my surprise my parents said 鈥榊es.鈥� I believe they thought that one more change of school would be a disaster. So I stayed on in the Lake District for somewhere between nine months and a year. Finally the government lost patience and ordered all evacuees to go home, whether they liked it or not. It was costing them money: foster parents got 10/6 (52p) for the first evacuee and eight shillings (40p) for the second. That was quite a lot of money in those days.

The arrangement was that my mother would meet me at Euston. This was slightly worrying, because I could not remember what she looked like. I knew I had changed a lot and she would not recognise me. In fact, when the train pulled in, I spotted her on the platform. I knew instinctively who it was. I rushed up to her and said, 鈥淓eh Mom, it鈥檚 reet gradely to be yam ageean.鈥� She said, 鈥淲hat on earth are you talking about?鈥� ... so I had to have a crash course in Cockney and learn to talk proper鈥�

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