大象传媒

Dedication.

To my mother, Mary Anne,
Who I never had the chance to get to know!

Prologue.

A 10 year old girl pupil of mine, named Rebecca, once asked me, 鈥淲hat was it like in your orphanage, sir?鈥� I didn鈥檛 find time then to respond fully to her question because I was at that time fully committed with my teaching post. In 2001 I survived a serious stroke and as part of my recovery plan, I harnessed my unimpaired left hand to my personal computer, in an endeavour to answer Beccy鈥檚 question.

My story commences with the death of my mother in Northumberland and traces through the immediate pre-WW2 years, that found me in Christian orphanages, from the age of 3.5 years, in 1936, until 1950. As WW2 war threatened, I was moved from London to Birchington, Kent and soon after the war had started in 1939, the orphanage was evacuated to Reigate, Surrey, under the threat of Nazi German invasion of the Kent coast. There the orphanage stayed within the tremors of war, until the V.1 doodlebugs and the V.2 rockets made London and the Home Counties unsafe, in which to live.

A secret evacuation of children within Surrey, Sussex and Kent, was made so as to fool the Germans into believing that V1鈥檚 & V2鈥檚 were falling on London, whereas the majority fell in those Home Counties. We spent the last part of WW2 in South Wales.

Post-war, 1945-50 saw the Labour Government in power, when a long period of austerity prevailed and the cold war had commenced with Stalin鈥檚 Soviet Russia. Under educational reforms, I studied at Reigate Grammar School until the age of 17.5, whilst still in orphanage care. After a short release into civilian life, I served for 2 years National Service in the RAF, at the time of the Korean War, mostly in Western Germany.

There are 3 strands to my writing: -

The story line of which I am writing 鈥榠n ordinary print鈥�.
鈥極rdinary Italics鈥� for showing emphasis, also for words that have a particular meaning within the orphanage or the Royal Air Force.
Familial happenings, past and present in 鈥榖old italics鈥�.
Concurrent world events 鈥榠n bold print鈥�, used as milestones to my writing.

Occasionally, I make reference to my 鈥榙eteriorating physical condition鈥� as things catch up with me, after my stroke! Thank God for computers, an utmost boon for invalids.

2005 Clive Norris

Part 1. Suitable for Junior School reading.

Dedicated to my mother, Mary Ann, (1890 鈥� 1936) whom I never knew! She never got to know life, other than childbearing, once she had met and married my father. Written through the the pain of stroke
Clive Norris

For Leslie I b.1911 - My Beginning

In May, 1935, King George V of Great Britain, celebrated his Silver Jubilee and in January 1936 he died at Sandringham, England. He was a king that believed in modesty in most things and was much loved by his subjects, despite his German origins and the horrors of World War 1, against his cousin Kaiser William, of Germany. George V was the monarch who shall forever be remembered for saying, 鈥淏ugger Bognor!鈥�, a place in which he convalesced after an illness and is now called, Bognor Regis.

I started my world of consciousness, overlapping George V鈥檚 reign, soon after I was three years of age, in 1935. Northumberland lies east of the border with the lowlands of Scotland, from where my family had come. Motherwell in Ayrshire had mothered my grandfather, Robert, who had been compelled to move south to England, to seek work in the mines. Mining, too, claimed my father, Henry and failed to release him except for service with the Northumberland Fusiliers during the First World War. I was born right at the bottom of the Great Depression, in 1932.

My eyes first beheld the gentle, coastal hills which surrounded the mining community of East Chevington, known locally as The Drift, as the pit wandered out underneath the bitterly cold North Sea. These hills gave little shelter from the cold north-easterly winds which howled even in the summer, with the help of the telegraph wires, connecting the nearest township of Red Row: pronounced locally as 鈥楻eed Raar鈥�, in the rather guttural, local dialect of these parts. They tell me I that I was actually born at Broomhill, at a cottage near the 鈥楬orse Public House鈥�.

In January, 1936, a young lad cycled down between the first terrace and the old, single storey, farm cottages which faced onto the Red Row road. He wore a charcoal grey uniform, edged in post-office red with a peaked kepi-type cap minus a backflap, perched on the back of his head. All eyes were upon him to see which house he was stopping at, for his presence meant good news or bad. He slowed down and halted at 22, Hedgehope Terrace and asked liltingly, 鈥淢r. Norris live heor?鈥� My sister Lena answered, 鈥淵es but he鈥檚 at work doon the pit.鈥� Will yee tak鈥� this telegram forwa鈥� him, hinny?鈥� 鈥淲hy aye!鈥� replied my sister. 鈥淚t鈥檚 prob鈥檒y 鈥榖out me mam.鈥�

He rode off westwards, leaving my sister holding a yellow envelope. As she opened it her face fell and tears came to her eyes. The telegram read that my mother had died in Newcastle General Hospital but Lena mentioned nothing, until my father came off shift. It afforded me no memory of my mother, who had borne numerous offspring, of which I was number thirteen. As I grew older, I became convinced that 13 was my lucky number, for I could not have existed withouy it! I did have my older sister, Selina, Lena for short, and a brother, Norman, who lived nearabouts but both were much older than I. Closest to me was my brother, Lawrence, just a little older, who had also lived in one of the yellow bricked, terraced houses, number 22, with mortar, blackened by coal dust after many years of saturation.

My Mother departed this world in 1936.

Lena, knowing that father would not be home before noon, walked me down past the blue and white painted Co-op shop, to the sandy track which led to the beach. When my tiny, chubby legs tired, she carried me over the golden dunes and on to the gorgeous, yellow-sand beach. When not tired, my tiny feet would run and run upon those golden sands, away from the human smells of The Drift: only the briny odour of the North Sea would fill my young lungs. These are the shores from which heroine Grace Darling made the daring rescue of shipwrecked Northumbrian fishermen, many years ago. Here, we could see for miles and miles if it were a clear day, Holy Isle could be seen to the north, with its monastery towering above the sea. Lena spoke very little to me except to make me understand that me鈥檓am was not coming back.

Sorry, but your system for inputis so unweildly for a longer manuscript. I give up as I have 300 000 words to cover my whole story. Clive Norris

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