大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by the Essex CSV Action Desk on behalf of Brian Keeler and has been added to the site with his permission. He fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

Part One
I had been born in 1935 in Elm Park, a suburb of Hornchurch, which being the site of an important R.A.F Aerodrome which was situated on the path of German aircraft flying to bomb London, the implications were fairly obvious. I have been fortunate to have a good memory which has been demonstrated to my family over the years. When the 鈥淧honeywar鈥� had just started, I can recollect a tremendous row between my fathers three sisters, who were trying to convince my mother of the need for evacuation, something which I did not understand at that time. The sisters were stressing that the Hornchurch area could suffer similar fate to that suffered by Rotterdam etc. and it would be much safer, if we were to evacuate. My mother was resisting strongly as she felt that as a family, we should keep together through thick and thin. My father had joined the A.R.P. as a warden and was ready to do his bit, as had my maternal grandfather, who was a member of the Home Guard from the outset.

I can well remember when we used to visit my maternal grandparents who lived in Hoxton, being fascinated by Grandpa stripping down either his 303 Lee Enfield or later his Sterling sub machine gun, whilst he carefully cleaned and oiled everything before re-assembly. He was around 57 at the outbreak of war and I think would have proved to be a fearsome image if ever we were invaded. He worked in the Goods Depot at the old Broad Street station in the City (now lost in the Broadgate redevelopment) and was a committed L.N.W.R railwayman, who only had eyes for his company which had been taken over by the L.M.S. Railway back in 1923.

Eventually, it seemed that the persuasions of my fathers sisters won through and I was evacuated to a tiny hamlet in Somerset called Bridge, which strangely consisted of a small farm and a few cottages situated close to a bridge over the main line from Waterloo to the West Country. The nearest larger habitation was a village a couple of miles away called Winsham where I went to school. As there were no buses, I used to trot off to school, with my gas mask and satchel, along what seemed like big roads to a 4 year old. The school had a big fence down the middle of the playground, with boys on one side and girls on the other. On the way home, I had to pass a small recreation ground with swings and a roundabout etc., which needed a test before I trotted the couple of miles back home. It seems quite incredulous that I would carry out this routine each day, when compared with the youngsters nowadays, who are victims of the nanny state, driven to school, due to fears of perverts, traffic or what have you, but I did not know about such things at that time.

The family I stayed with consisted of the husband, his wife and a little baby girl (Ann) so I was somewhat deprived of any family companionship, which some other evacuees enjoyed when brothers and sisters were billeted at the same address. Tom, the head of the household, seemed to be someone who was very important, as he was the Chauffeur at the 鈥淏ig House鈥� which was always whispered as it seemed as a mark of respect. Tom was allowed to drive home in the Shooting Brake owned by the owners of the 鈥淏ig House,鈥� a magnificent vehicle with polished wood strips along the side, which Tom used to take the owners all over their large estate when shooting game. In those days, cars were a luxury and when a small boy was invited to come for a ride to the 鈥淏ig House,鈥� I was over the moon!

However, there were rules I was told to obey when I visited, which I am afraid being inquisitive, I disobeyed. 鈥� Don鈥檛 go peering in the windows at the family, don鈥檛 touch anything in the car etc.etc.鈥� The 鈥淏ig House鈥� was situated in a valley, down a long approach road, lined with big trees. I can remember wondering why it was that a family, had such an enormous house in which to live, compared with the small cottage where I was staying and the 3 bedroom terraced house where I lived in Elm Park. Once I had tired of playing the driver, contrary to instructions, I would sneak up to one of the big windows of the house and try to peep in without being seen. Sometimes I was successful and got away with it, but on other occasions, I would be spotted and when Tom returned, I was duly reprimanded.

The cottage where I was billeted, was indeed primitive by today鈥檚 standards and was quite different from what I had been used to even in Elm Park. Water was drawn from a well in the garden, fairly close to the building, the toilet was at the far end of the garden, there was no gas and no electricity. The kitchen had a large 鈥淎GA鈥� type range which provided heat for cooking and hot water, which could be drawn off by tap to fill buckets. These were then transferred to a tin bath, which had been brought into the kitchen from the bracket on the back wall of the cottage, when baths were to be taken. During the day, Tom had to clean and trim the wicks, refill the reservoirs of paraffin lamps ready for lighting in the evening. Due to the lack of electricity, there were no Hoovers, dishwashers, washing machines, electric irons, electric toaster or kettle etc. A Flat Iron used to be heated on the stove for use, bread was toasted on a large fork in front of the AGA with the doors open, whilst washing and washing up was carried out in the old Butler sink. Television was not in general use at that time, so news of what was happening was confined to the radio, which was connected to an accumulator, and the spare one would be ready when the original ran out of power and had to be taken into Winsham for recharging.

One thing I could not get used to was the large amounts of vegetable that were consumed by all the household except me! I was told I had to eat it; I hated veg. and as their little dog used to frequent the floor under the table, I would try slipping my veg. portions to the dog, which invariably used to leave it, which left me to receive another reprimand. Even now, the smell of swede, turnips, parsnips etc makes me heave after all these years. I must admit, I was missing home and when my mother came down to visit me, I think she soon picked up that I wasn't happy there and after around six months, I returned home to Elm Park, where I stayed for the rest of the war.

My Dad was then called up and joined the Royal Navy, but due to poor eyesight and having to wear glasses, could not take a more active role and took up the position of Writer, which involved Secretarial and Accounting duties, similar to his normal peacetime job. During his time in the Navy, he started his training at HMS Royal Arthur which had been Butlins at Skegness before the war, and where the detachable letters had been removed, still showed 鈥淏utlins welcomes you鈥� against the dirtier background. He was stationed all his time on shorebases or 鈥淪tone Frigates鈥� as they are known, covering Skegness, Scapa Flow, Highgate, Bizerta, Malta, then Greenock before he was demobbed after the war. He was always a little upset that during this time, the only ships on which he spent any time, were the troopships taking him to Bizerta, then Malta and back home again. By the time he returned he had been away so long that he was almost a stranger to me and we had to get to know one another again.

On my return back home in Elm Park, I returned to Ayloff Junior School which being close to the Aerodrome and looking somewhat like a barracks received attention from German planes, which strafed the school one weekend and bombed one of our shelters, scoring a direct hit one night. At this time, various activities were taking place and at the bottom of my road an enormous static water tank had been constructed. Leading all the way up my road from this, was a large metal pipe laid in the road close to the kerb, which led to the main shopping centre in Elm Park and was intended to carry water to fight fires, should the water mains be damaged by bombing. I can clearly remember when the war was over, workmen came to take up this pipeline, with a small gang of youngsters, waiting for the next section of pipe to be lifted. As this was moved away, we then scratched amongst the detritus which had collected between the pipeline and the kerb over the years. We were looking for the coins which had been dropped by the passing public and rolled into this narrow gap, awaiting recovery by the young Arthur Daley鈥檚.

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