THE DARK CLOUD
by Beryl Walter
A true experience of wartime evacuation.
Apprehension and fear overwhelmed me, as I made my way to Sunday School, on that September morning, knowing that in all probability, we should be at war before I returned home. My knowledge of war was based on scanty reports on the radio, about the Spanish Civil war, and from the hoardings, which displayed huge posters showing mothers stretching out their arms, in a desperate attempt to protect their children from the bombs raining down.
I still have no idea what those posters were meant to depict, but can even now visualise them vividly, and recall the horror of the nightmares that they so frequently and frighteningly invoked.
Therefore it was with some surprise and certainly relief that I found the sun still shining, as I left Sunday School and walked home everything was familiar and re-assuring, birds were singing in the hedgerows, men were working on their allotments, children playing and squabbling. The world had not ended, as I had feared.
Tension was perhaps a little heightened at home, as we avidly listened to every news bulletin; but we continued to eat and drink, work and play, laugh and cry. The routine of school life was comforting too.
As the days progressed however, changes did take place. As it was a coastal area, the troops moved in and dug themselves into trenches, with their terrifyingly large guns, covered with branches for camouflage.
This was to be the front line of defence against any attempt by enemy planes to reach London. It was a disturbing situation, yet the soldiers were re-assuring, cheerful and optimistic. They were always so grateful when I carried round jugs of steaming tea to those near enough.
The first few months passed uneventfully, although gas- masks, which we carried at all times, and our newly issued Identity cards were a constant reminder of the threat hanging over us.
It always amused me that daily I had to show my identity card at the checkpoint set up at the end of our road. I could not see myself as a spy, but there were no exceptions to the rules.
One night in April, I awoke trembling as a series of explosions echoed through the night. I wanted to call out but no sound came. What a blessed relief to hear my mother’s voice, “IT’S ALRIGHT? COME INTO OUR BEDROOM”.
I dashed in, and already my brother and sister were there in bed together for warmth, yet shivering with fear waiting for what was to happen next. Had the action really started, was this the war. The ensuing silence became almost unbearable. Gradually dawn came, and with it a certain release of tension encouraged by tea and talk.
It seemed very hard to go to school that morning uncertain as to what the day might bring but once there we found the answer to the night’s disturbance. A German mine-laying plane had for some reason crashed, killing four and causing considerable damage. Many of the school windows were broken but lessons continued as usual. We were forbidden to go near the devastated area, which was quickly cordoned off and guarded but a great attraction for souvenier hunters as it was the first enemy plane to crash inland. Having survived that “act of war”’ I felt braver. Reality had not been as bad as in my imagination and quickly life returned to near normal again.
One Sunday night, I was already in bed, when my sister came up crying and in a very distressed state. She had just heard on the nine-o-clock news that we were to be evacuated, though it was in fact the next morning before I learnt the reason for her distress. This was perhaps a more damaging event, than any air-raids could prove to be, but there was no choice. The next three days blurred into tears, preparations and farewells to pets as well as people.
Early Thursday morning, we gathered at the railway station with anguished parents not knowing when or if ever we would see each other again. Our destination was secret; we had labels round our necks, carried very little luggage, and a packet of sandwiches. No drink was allowed.
The journey seemed endless as the grubby steam train chuffed on, relentlessly taking us further and further away from home. Teachers constantly walked the corridors, seeing that all was well. They gave us the occasional drink or barley sugar but they could not assuage the aching hearts or loneliness. Eight long and weary hours later we arrived at our destination in the Midlands. We left the train and crocodiled to a cinema where we were to sit again for two more hours, whilst the authorities continued to sort out arrangements for our reception. They were it seemed, as confused as us; it was after all a new experience for everyone.
Eventually we were taken out, class by class, into waiting co coaches. I obeyed as if in a dream when my name was called, forgetting completely that I was to stay near to my sister. My mother had asked that we should be billeted near to each other, if it were not possible for us to be together. As I left the cinema a hastily written note was passed to me from my sister. It read: “DO NOT CONTACT HOME UNTIL I HAVE EXPLAINED TO MUM. I WILL BE IN TOUCH”. It turned out that we were billeted in villages thirty miles from each other and it took ten days for my sister to find out where I was and make contact. In the meantime, my parents were quite distraught at not hearing from me.
We drove through the Worcestershire countryside that evening and even in my misery I appreciated the beauty of it, the undulations and scenery being so different from my native Essex
At last we reached a small village and were taken into the hall, welcomed and given juice and biscuits
Then followed the humiliating experience of standing in a row to be chosen like cattle by the families willing to take an evacuee. I was not pretty, my hair was not curly and I felt and probably looked thoroughly miserable, which perhaps explains why I was the last of the thirty, left standing. I shall remember always the hurt of the words; “I HAD BETTER TAKE THAT ONE HOME WITH ME. NO ONE ELSE SEEMS TO WANT HER”.
My foster parent was an attractive widow, with several married Sons and daughters, but two sons and one daughter still lived in the tiny cottage. My being there made it very crowded and it was difficult to find any privacy. I shared a bedroom with my foster-mother and her daughter. I was very wary of one of the sons; he somehow frightened me. On several occasions he made amorous advances towards me, which I hardly understood and still less knew how to handle, yet it was difficult to keep my distance. There was only one living room, with a small bedroom off where this boy the younger of the two slept. We had to go outside to the little lean-to kitchen, very cold and sparse but where we cooked, washed, and laundered. The toilet was twenty-five yards up the garden and was the traditional bucket, followed by newspaper, a place I avoided whenever possible.
Emotionally I was constantly in turmoil, though it should be remembered that some evacuees made life-long friends and were able to treat this time as one long holiday or adventure. I was often hungry and the highlight of the week was Sunday, when we actually had a second vegetable. Usually this was swede, mashed in with the potatoes giving them an orange colour, which was different. Even today I have a feeling of luxury when eating swedes.
Schooling presented many problems for us. The local authority resisted any sharing of time, so for most of our stay we attended school from five p.m. until eight p.m., which meant the days were free, but my presence was not welcomed in the house. My foster mother served “teas” in the garden and also did the laundry for the local boarding school.
To get me from “under her feet ”, I was consequently sent out all day, either gathering wood for the fire or in season pea picking or potato lifting, entailing an early start often by six-o-clock in the morning. On wet days or if in the house, I stood for hours ironing blouses and underclothes from the school.
There were happy times too. In the late summer we crossed the river by punt and then walked three miles up-hill to my foster mothers parents who lived on a farm. They were very kind to me and often gave me the extra cake or biscuit. We spent our days in the fields helping with the harvest, stacking and turning the corn. It was hard, hot work but I loved it- it felt free. We ate well and sometimes, as a special treat, we had cider. We walked the long three miles back to the river in the twilight, tired and happy.
My letters home always related the better aspects of my life, mainly because they were read before being sent, as was all of my incoming mail. It never occurred to me to complain to anyone; the circumstances were all so unreal, the way of living so totally different from home.
The first Christmas away from home remains a complete blank in my mind. In the absence of the traditions I knew and loved, it seemed to mean nothing to me; even my Christian beliefs seemed to be in hibernation at this time. As the second Christmas approached many of the parents got together and organized a coach to transport us home for the holidays. Such excitement as the day approached. The journey, when it came seemed never-ending, but at last we were home, a very emotional re-union after so long away, so much to talk about and to listen to, so many changes had taken place.
It was quite quickly decided that I should not return at the end of the holiday. This was very much against government policy, so the few of us who stayed at home then had to travel thirty miles each way to school. It was to be two years before any of the local schools re-opened.
Ration books were now a pattern of our living, but were more of a headache for our parents than for us though we did use our sweet coupons for bartering. We were fortunate, that living in the country, we had plenty of fresh vegetables, chickens and eggs to supplement our rations.
I lived through many air-raids, gun bombardments, some frightening incendiary bomb attacks, crashing planes, and many traumas - but none of it was as scary as being away from home never knowing what was happening to the family. Although at times I had to go into the shelter, mostly I stood outside with my father, watching the activities in the sky. Gradually more and more evacuees returned home, until it merited opening one of the local schools so that although we took School Certificate deep down in the air-raid shelter, life resumed normality and I began to put the experience of evacuation behind me.
It must have taken many years for some of the emotional hurts to heal, but equally there were some happy endings. My own sister remained as an evacuee for more than four years, and eventually married a lad she had met there- the proverbial silver lining of the dark cloud.
© Priory Road Residents 2005