大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Norfolk Adult Education鈥檚 reminiscence team on behalf of Terence Eastwell, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

The Second World War had just begun. Scarcely a shot had been fired outside of the borders of Poland, when my Palmers Green Primary School was packed off with suitcases and labels pinned to our jackets for Walton-on-the-Naze in Essex. This heralded a two year break in my formal education.

In retrospect, the destination seems odd. If the invasion of England (Operation Sea Lion) had taken place, then we might have borne the brunt of the attack by Rommel鈥檚 Panzers. We a rough tough lot of outer fringe Londoners, much given to scrumping, stone raids across the River Lea, and other forms of disorder appropriate to our age 鈥� so perhaps the choice of destination wasn鈥檛 entirely random.

Upon arrival in Walton, the school was formed up and down the middle of a road and the good folk of the town selected their evacuees in the normal order of choice which it would be churlish of me to define here. Suffice to say that hours later, the remnants numbered eleven boys aged nine to fourteen. We employed desperate measures like pulling up knee socks from around our ankles, and straightening ties, but all to no avail. Hope was fading as fast as the remaining light and the floor of a local hall was beckoning when an angel, disguised as a middle-aged lady calling herself Miss Marner, came along and took the remaining batch of us as a job lot to a large house on the front for a slap up supper and warm beds.

Sadly, gratitude does not linger long in the minds of small boys and, all in all, the householder had a pretty rough time. Two Italian boys, whose fathers were later interned as aliens under War Regulations, seemed to be in the middle of an intensive course for a later career as Sicilian Mafioso. Horses鈥� heads were hard to come by, but not much else was missing. I can only hope that, at the end of her endeavours, that dear lady was awarded medals for uncommon bravery in the face of appalling odds.

Despite the diversions of domestic turbulence and the comfort of a steady stream of postal order cash from home, there was little to do in Walton-on-the-Naze. The beaches were already covered in barbed wire entanglements and tank traps, and a stream of letters home requesting a return to our familiar stamping grounds eventually brought about a return to the London suburbs in good time for the Blitz.

The Standard Telephone Company works and the Metal Box Company being legitimate targets, we saw a full share of air raids between Palmers Green, Whetstone and Barnet 鈥� the location of our family business. There were many nights when, sleeping under the stairs as we had no shelter, it seemed to me that our house was the principal target 鈥� legitimate or not. There were two fields full of anti-aircraft guns close by and the noise they made more than equalled the sound of the falling bombs. One evening at dusk the residents of our road were out of their houses staring at a great orange glow like a sunset 鈥� but in the eastern sky. I can still hear those hushed voices saying 鈥淭he docks are ablaze!鈥�

As boys, we learnt to recognise all the aircraft of both sides, and counted our successes in the number of shell nose cones and bases we could find, as well as the great quantities of shrapnel. It is strange to remember that we were able to walk across the North Circular Road, crossing easily from side to side, gathering the best pieces of shrapnel from the kerbside.

All this was thought to be a poor substitute for a proper education, so an attempt was made to get us into a boarding school way out towards the West Country. My brother and I were driven there with cabin trunks full of new clothes and required sports gear 鈥� all duly sewn in with Cash鈥檚 name tapes. Upon arrival, my father was received by a headmaster with some days growth of stubble and wearing carpet slippers. Less than impressed, he instructed the driver to re-load the trunks and drive us back to Barnet. My brother and I were somewhat relieved.

I had been two years without schooling before a private school in an old Victorian house in Whetstone took me on and quickly ground off the rough edges. The academic capabilities of the school were varied, some exceedingly good, and others of a time-filling nature. My brother and I had a whole week of truanting from this school and we found these days to be inordinately long. We ran out of cinemas to visit, and there is a limit to the number of hours one can haunt the lead soldier counters at Woolworth鈥檚. Eventually, to our great relief, we were rumbled, and it was decided that we needed more advanced schooling. I look back with fondness and gratitude to Warwick House Private School. I gained much from my two years there.

During the summer of 1943, my brother found a place at Clarke鈥檚 College and I passed the entrance examination for East Barnet County School, as it was then called. During our first day or two a lady teacher said pointedly that it was easy to tell which of us had come from private schools. No doubt, those of us who had, preceded our comments with an 鈥淚 say鈥� which offended that teacher鈥檚 brand of Socialism.

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