大象传媒

It鈥檚 at this time of year that I am reminded of my intention to write 鈥榤y story鈥� 鈥� you know, the book we all have within us. I was always too busy to do anything about it, working as I did for 50 years, but was sure that I would get down to doing so when I retired. I retired 8 years ago and feel I have put it off for long enough. It鈥檚 now or never time!

The title of my book was to be 鈥楾he Little Evacuee 鈥� (and what became of her鈥�), so you will understand why this particular time of year is significant. To put you in the picture I will tell you that my family 鈥� grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles 鈥� lived in Swindon, but my parents took my sister and me to live in Putney in South West London when I was seven years old. I was awestruck 鈥� everything was so huge. I could never have imagined the brilliance of the neon signs in Piccadilly Circus and the shops in Oxford Street (which is where my mother often wended her way, unable to afford to spend much but simply to 鈥榮tand and stare鈥�). My sister and I went to an Elementary School in Putney and, although we were considered to be 鈥榶okels鈥� (our West Country accents were then very pronounced) we were much more advanced than the local children and, as a consequence, we were placed in classes above those of our age groups. My sister, nearly four years older than me, coped well and enjoyed her status. Unfortunately, I was made of less sterner stuff and my 鈥榳eakness鈥� was quickly spotted and later taken advantage of by six or more of the local bullies. They frightened me to death and to avoid them I would walk miles out of my way to reach home (a five minute walk as the crow flew but my trek sometimes took as long as an hour). The purpose of telling you this is to show how vulnerable I became after three years of this treatment 鈥� not helped because I was a 鈥榯eacher鈥檚 pet鈥� and always got good marks and did well in exams.

An overly sentimental and emotional child I adored, and was loved by, my mother, herself a little highly strung at times. So imagine the scenario in July and August of 1939. We had been through the fitting of gas masks and rehearsals for evacuation. Some of the children saw it all as a great adventure 鈥� never having moved out of London the prospect of a trip to the country had to be better 鈥� but not me. I was ever fearful 鈥� the mention of WAR conjured up pictures of Spanish refugees fleeing with their possessions on wheelbarrows and carts during the Civil War, scenes shown on Pathe News during our weekly visits to the cinema. I was sure that, if war was declared, we would suffer a similar fate, and would look around the house wondering what my parents would take and what we would have to leave behind. I favoured our chiming clock! What would happen to the cat?

I know my mother feared me leaving her as much as I did and decided that, even before the evacuation process began, I would not be going with my school to Tilehurst and Reading but, instead, was 鈥榮ent on a summer holiday鈥� to Swindon to stay with my newly-married aunt Iris. At first it was like a holiday 鈥� my aunt and uncle were wonderful to me and I spent my time making doll鈥檚 clothes and learning all sort of arts and crafts from my aunt.

In my innocence (or ignorance) I expected to be going back home, for after all, the new school term would start in September and I would be having my 11th birthday on 31st August 鈥� my mother would surely want me home for that. However, a letter came to say I was to stay with my aunt for a little while longer 鈥榰ntil things blew over鈥� my mother said.

I can remember as if it were yesterday what I was doing at 11 o鈥檆lock on Sunday morning, the 3rd September 1939. My aunt had taught me how to do 鈥榗ording鈥� and I was using this newly found skill to make a coverlet for my doll鈥檚 pram 鈥� I can see the material even now. My aunt and uncle had been listening to the radio 鈥� I was aware of someone speaking in the background, but, of course, I wasn鈥檛 really listening as my sewing was all-important. My aunt said 鈥楯ean 鈥� we鈥檙e at war鈥�. Confusion and fear filled the air. I immediately thought of my mother and father, certain that bombing, such as I had seen on the newsreels, would start straight away. My aunt (who I later discovered was pregnant) was worried over the possibility of her new husband being called-up. The confusion arose over what was to become of Jean! I was already missing my mother most dreadfully and, petrified, often cried myself to sleep at night. My mother wrote to me every day (I still have her letters, some illustrated with pictures of things she would send me 鈥� galoshes etc) 鈥� the first one telling me of the first air raid siren sounding in Putney and their dash to the communal air raid shelter beneath my father鈥檚 shop (this, it was later shown was a death trap in waiting, housing as it did gas, water and electricity mains).

The letters are a social document in themselves and would have been included in detail had I ever found time to 鈥榳rite my book鈥�. I was taken on by a local school where, surprisingly, considering my emotional state, I did very well 鈥� unlike the bullies I had encountered at my Putney school the children took pity on me and were most sympathetic. My mother came to see me once, bringing with her presents from my sister (who had secured a job in the heart of London) and all sorts of things which she鈥檇 made for my doll and a game of Snakes and Ladders. When it was time for her to leave by bus to the railway station, I ran after it, pleading with my mother to take me with her. That night I was so distraught I had a most dreadful nightmare which I can recall to this day.

My aunt and uncle 鈥� who couldn鈥檛 have been very well off 鈥� had bought me a very, very old bedroom suite (it might be considered as antique today) to try and cheer me up and to make me feel at home and as days passed I grew less fearful. The country was going through what was known as the 鈥榩honey war鈥� and so as Christmas approached and I spent evenings making gifts for my parents and sister it was decided I should 鈥榞o home for Christmas鈥�. I didn鈥檛 know at the time that I wasn鈥檛 wanted in Swindon due to my aunt鈥檚 condition and the imminent birth of her baby, but who cared. I was going home. I had only been away for four months but my mother was so upset on seeing how I had changed 鈥� my blonde curls had been cut off and my hair had turned a mousey colour 鈥� but what a joy it was to be home again. And what a strange world it was too. The black-out was dense and windows were criss-crossed with tape, my father (a tailor) had made black-out curtains for our flat which were ritually drawn each night despite there never being an air raid. My sister was having the time of her life! Food rationing hadn鈥檛 really bitten by that time and, in any case, in true London fashion, my Dad knew that if he had to, he could barter!

My cousin was born on 22nd January 鈥� I had no idea where she came from 鈥� and I returned to my aunt and uncle鈥檚 house in early February. It was then that I became 鈥榯he Little Evacuee鈥�! Every time help was needed it was 鈥�.will our Little Evacuee make a cup of tea鈥�, or 鈥溾�ill our Little Evacuee wash up鈥�? The time I dreaded most was at 6.00 o鈥檆lock each morning when I would be the Little Evacuee minding 鈥渙ur Evelyn鈥�. I鈥檇 have to get up and move into my aunt鈥檚 bed to keep an eye on her. I confess now that on many an occasion I put her near the edge hoping that she might fall off and I wouldn鈥檛 be asked to look after her again! My uncle joined up and my aunt was left to bring up Evelyn and look after me. It wasn鈥檛 all doom and gloom and we had some good laughs 鈥� I can remember certain funny incidents even to this day.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say, and it was true in the case of my mother and me, I read and re-read all her letters and, because I worried about the extra expense of postage, I suggested I would save my pocket money in order to send stamps home to make sure I received her letters. A subsequent letter shows that I wasn't to do that! It was decided that I should go back to Putney in May 1940.

From that time on, life became a nightmare. The schools had closed down so, for a period of about six months, the only education available was sporadic lessons in the various front rooms of caring mothers. During this time the heavy bombing of London was under way with a vengeance. My parents and I would join our neighbours (other shopkeepers) in the air raid shelter as soon as we鈥檇 had something to eat or sooner if the siren sounded. No-one would settle to sleep in the bunk beds unless and until my black cat, Mickey, was in the shelter. He became our good luck symbol. Most people have seen film of the bombing of London and have an idea of the terrifying sound of dropping bombs. Imagine a frightened 11-year old sitting and waiting and listening while bombs were raining down. Some nights the sound was perpetual.

I could sense that my mother was equally frightened despite trying to comfort me so I turned to a neighbour鈥檚 daughter 鈥� an ample-bosomed widow of about 35, to whom I clung when things were really bad and I had reached screaming point. Life went on 鈥� Dad worked in his shop each day, my mother worked in Victoria, my sister travelled to London鈥檚 West End and I was able to go to a school which had been re-opened on Putney Common. The teachers were mostly elderly 鈥� being too old for call-up, or coming out of retirement. It was a hard regime 鈥� girls being told by old-fashioned boys鈥� teachers. Many a time I was surprised by a piece of chalk whizzing across the classroom aimed at my head, or forced to stand behind the blackboard for a whole period, because I was too talkative, punishment usually meted out to boys. Later when I was moved to a C of E Emergency School nearer to my home, the headmistress 鈥� who must have been in her 70s 鈥� was both feared and loved. No matter how heavy the bombing had been during the night we were always expected to be on time for school. If we were late we had to run round the playground, in all weathers, accompanied by Miss Dowdall who ran as many circuits as the latecomers. The upside of our fragmented education was that we had a 鈥榬ation鈥� of University graduates who taught subjects such as Calligraphy and drama, rare in elementary schools.

It was not unusual to go to school to discover that one or two children were missing. Their homes had been 鈥榟it鈥� and, unhappily, some were killed and others injured. Food rationing bit heavily so we ate whatever was available 鈥� across the road from the school was a baker鈥檚 shop where one could still buy bread and buns. During playtime one of us would 鈥榖unk out鈥� to buy a loaf (a large one cost 2d) and we would pull the middle out and stuff it into our mouths before we could be caught 鈥� what a treat! Also close to the school was a British Restaurant where one could buy a substantial meal for 1/- - a haven for those people who were bombed out. My parents took me there quite often.

We lived on the main High Street 鈥� the A3 Guildford to London road 鈥� terminating with Putney Bridge crossing the River Thames. London Bridges were an easy target with enemy planes plotting the River and Putney Bridge was no exception. There were so many incidents near our home that we gave up replacing windows and for the duration of the war had some council-provided black material, which was something like roofing felt, tacked up instead. Strange things happened during bombing raids and I can recall one taking place at about 6 o鈥檆lock one evening. My mother had been out shopping and when the siren went she opened our front door (stairs to our flat led straight from it) and left her shopping basket inside. The table had been laid for tea. The rain turned out to be an all-nighter and we had heard bombs dropping but not too close. When we eventually went upstairs we found purple sprouting broccoli on every stair 鈥� the contents of my mother鈥檚 shopping basket 鈥� and nearly every cup, saucer and plate had been virtually sliced in half. Biscuits too. Once or twice we returned home to find water cascading everywhere 鈥� shrapnel had penetrated our roof and gone through our water tank.

I can look upon these incidents with humour but there were some so terrifying that they seem unbelievable. In Putney Bridge Road, some five minutes walk from my home, there was a park called King George鈥檚. Underground shelters had been built, complete with anthracite heaters 鈥� their chimneys poked out like submarine conning towers. Teachers from a nearby school took the children to the shelters when the sirens sounded, believing that they would be safer there. The shelters took a direct hit and those children who were not killed by the explosion were asphyxiated by the anthracite fumes. As most able-bodied men were in the services, the task of 鈥榙igging out鈥� fell to the Home Guard, army and air force cadets. My sister鈥檚 boyfriend, who was a cadet in the Irish Guards, was amongst them.

There were uplifting times 鈥� the most important in our history and the reason for my obsession with the Spitfire, was the Battle of Britain. We couldn鈥檛 see the dogfights from Putney unless there had been some stragglers, but each day we would rush home from school to read the newspaper placards 鈥� 20 SHOT DOWN TODAY!! The arm punch originated at that time. Despite our victories and the terrific boost to a flagging morale there was the sadness of the loss of the lives of so many of our brave airmen. I had a friend of 18 years of age who joined the Air Force as an air gunner 鈥� the most dangerous position in a fighter 鈥榩lane 鈥� from the Air Force Cadets. What bravery.

As I grew a little older I was considered responsible enough to take a couple of young children to school. On our way home one lunchtime I was walking with them down Lacy Road when a German plane overhead (it seemed to be the whole width of the road) machine gunned us. Fortunately we weren鈥檛 hit but the bullets sprayed through a display of potatoes and vegetables in front of a greengrocer鈥檚 shop.

I was sad to have to leave school when I was 14 years of age 鈥� I was an eager pupil but, having missed out on a lot of schooling there were little or no opportunities for going further. My father expected that I would help him (he had by this time moved his shop closer to Putney Bridge and had branched out into military 鈥榞oods鈥�). I agreed and he paid me 5 shillings a week but, because I had always cherished hopes of being a secretary, I attended typing classes each afternoon. In those days my handwriting was considered to be 鈥榗opperplate鈥� and the teacher 鈥� a very strange man who had us typing to the rhythm of 鈥楪ive me One Dozen Roses鈥�.鈥� called my mother in to suggest that I should take a career using that ability. Needless to say, I didn鈥檛. Week-ends in my father鈥檚 shop were great fun. I had more friends that I ever knew, all of them asking if they could come to help. The attraction was the opportunity of chatting up the soldiers who came in for buttons, badges and divi. signs, and, too, were the young boys who collected badges making up to me in the hope of freebies.

In the flat next door to ours lived a husband and wife (she and her brother became the first Bisto Kids) he was an artist who didn鈥檛 go out to work, both were considered to be 鈥楥ommunists鈥�. They were a delightful pair and as Mrs S was a first-class secretary I took more than a little interest in what she was doing. Knowing my keenness to take an office job she approached my parents with the suggestion that I should work alongside her and that she would arrange for my fees to Pitman鈥檚 College in Wimbledon to be paid. Her office was in Victoria Street, in South West London. I was working for the China Campaign Committee, a part of the Union of Democratic Control, which was headed by Dorothy Woodman, the partner of Kingsley Martin, editor of the New Statesman. We had Chinese slogans all round the office (I learned some many years later that they were in praise of Mao Tse Tung). Our Committee included Victor Gollancz, Margery Fry, Lord Listowel et al. Working with us was a Basque refugee who always wore his black beret and taught me to sing La Cucuracha in Spanish. I was then 15 years of age. I was sent to the home of Sir Stafford Cripps, met Kingsley Martin at his flat, attended a dinner in aid of the Chinese Goodwill Mission whose leader was T.V. Soong, son-in-law to Chiang Kai Shek, and regularly stood in the corridors of the House of Commons delivering letters to members. Margery Fry, the Quaker, had a number of Chinese artefacts 鈥� wedding robes, and hangings, which formed an exhibition. When I was no more than 16 years of age I was put in charge of this at Southend, a resort on the East coast, but my memory of how I and it got there has gone.

Our office in Victoria Street backed on to the St James鈥� Park Station 鈥� the head office of the London Underground operated from there 鈥� and when an air raid was in progress a red flag would be hauled up the flag post. Everyone in our building was concerned for me and, as soon as they observed the flag, the shout would go up 鈥渨here鈥檚 Jean?鈥� and whilst others continued with their work, I was sent down to the basement to 鈥渢ake cover鈥�.

I was a reasonable typist at this time but attended Pitman鈥檚 College in Wimbledon three nights a week to learn shorthand. This involved a half hour bus ride, taking me alongside Wimbledon Common where the ack-ack guns were sited. On many an occasion I was forced to lie on the floor of the bus whilst the guns were firing. (Can you imagine any girl of my age these days who, because she was so keen to do shorthand, would endure such difficulties and have to pay fees in order to do so? I don鈥檛 think there would be many!)

As I鈥檝e said, life went on. I took up ballroom dancing and got my gold medal. I loved dancing so any boy who showed an interest in me had to dance. One such young man, a trainee jeweller, kept asking me to go out with him. I told him I would do so if he would learn to dance 鈥� something which has been on my conscience ever since. Up until this time we had been attacked by V-1s 鈥� the doodle-bugs 鈥� which made a distinctive sound; they would buzz overhead and we prayed that they would keep on buzzing for, when they stopped, we knew that by the time we counted to five we could have been hit or that someone close by would be. Then came the V-2 鈥� a silent monster of a weapon. One Sunday evening, my sister was upstairs preparing for her forthcoming wedding. My mother and I, together with half a dozen others were in the air raid shelter. My father was fire-watching (he was supposed to do this at the top end of Putney High Street, but we knew that he and his co-firewatchers would first of all pop into the Bull and Star which was near our home at the Putney Bridge end of the High Street).

In the vicinity were three cinemas, the Palace, the Regal and the Hippodrome. There was also a Black and White Milk Bar, over which was a dance hall. Without warning there was a mighty explosion 鈥� the blast was so strong that it shook everything in the air raid shelter. My mother fainted for it was obvious that something had been hit not far from the Bull and Star where my father was 鈥榝ire-watching鈥�. My sister (who, it later transpired had been blown out of an armchair which had a 12鈥� piece of glass sticking out of the back) came in to the shelter with three young children, cut to ribbons and bleeding. They told us they had been to the cinema and were on their way home when the V-2 hit the milk bar.

The scene above ground was pure mayhem. All three cinemas had been razed to the ground. People standing in bus queues were blown by the blast into the River Thames. The Bull and Star was badly damaged (my father had returned to his post, thankfully) but everything within sight was on fire. There was a branch of Marks and Spencer opposite our flat 鈥� the delivery area was used as a mortuary and bodies were found in the Richard Shops window blind which had been left down. The dance hall and the Black and White Milk bar no longer existed. Again, the Home Guard and cadets were called upon to carry out the rescue work and every capable adult formed a support team, providing the lads with tea (who cared that we had to use our meagre rations) and hot drinks. This went on throughout the night. When daylight came the stench of explosives, fire and destruction was devastating but more devastating than that was to see the remaining possessions of the dancers spread out on the ground to help identification. One white sandal, a sea cadets cap, a brown shoe. The death toll was enormous. One of the dancers had been my friend the trainee jeweller. His parents were friends of my parents and they were consoled by the fact that he must have died instantly. They were told 鈥� and to this day I find it an incredible explanation 鈥� that when his body was found his hair was still standing up on his head.

As I said, the title of my book, had I written it, would have been 鈥淭HE LITTLE EVACUEE (and what became of her).鈥� What became of her is another (but interesting) story!

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