Chapter 4

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page </U></A></div> <bR> <div>  <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Times New Roman" >Chapters</FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id132.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Autobiography"><U>One</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id144.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 2"><U>Two</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id145.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 3"><U>Three</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id146.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 4"><U>Four</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id148.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 5"><U>Five</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id149.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 6"><U>Six</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id151.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 7"><U>Seven </U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id156.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 8"><U>Eight</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id158.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 9"><U>Nine</U></A></div> <div> Ten</div> <div> Eleven</div> <div> Twelve</div> <div> Thirteen</div> <div> Fourteen</div> <div> Fifteen   </div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page</U></A></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <div>  </div> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>Chapter 4</B></div> <div> School and Evacuation</div> <bR> <bR> <div> WAR was declared at 11.00 am on Sunday, September 3rd, 1939.   It so happened that, willy, nilly, war or no war, and just three months from my fifth birthday, I was due to start school that week.  It turned out to be the only occasion when Mum came within yards of the ten schools I finally attended, and then only because Sid refused to take me.  He was nine, and already in the juniors at Essex Road School.  Being something of a firebrand, he had his reputation to think of.  'Not likely,' said he. 'I'm not walking up the road with that little squirt.  I ain't, and that's it!' </div> <div>  At the gate to the infants' playground, Mum spat on her handkerchief and gave me a last swipe round nose and mouth, then cautioned me again:  'Now remember; be a good boy and do as you're told, or you'll be sorry.  Them teachers don't stand for no old buck. You get yourself in trouble, and you'll soon find out what the cane's all about. And it's no good you coming home crying to me.'  </div> <div> Surprisingly, despite the dreadful tales Sid had dripped into my ear the previous night, tales of kids being caned simply for fidgeting (how could I possibly not fidget?), I was in fact very keen to start school.  I'd been looking forward to it for weeks. It seemed such a grown up thing to do, especially as my one ambition had always been to grow up as quickly as possible.  For by this time I was completely fed up with Sid bullying me all the time, and calling me names like 'spindleshanks' and 'sparrow's kneecaps' because of my skinny legs; and things like running off and leaving me behind, punching me in the stomach when Mum wasn't looking, and stuff like that.  Once I grew up, I'd promised myself to give him a really good hiding.  </div> <div> First, let me say it would be a misconception to think the nation was ill prepared for war.  On the contrary, as well as (belatedly) pushing re-armament to the utmost throughout 1939, the government had been diligently making provision for civilian casualties.  From newsreels depicting the German Condor Legion's bombing of hundreds of innocent civilians at Guernica during the recent civil war in Spain, and now Warsaw, the public had no illusions about the effectiveness of the German Luftwaffe.  All underground stations had been earmarked to provide public shelters, as were the cellars of the larger shops in East Ham High Street, each strengthened with iron girders supported on concrete pillars.  Also, thousands of houses already boasted an 'Anderson' shelter in their back garden.</div> <div> For instance, I well remember the War Department's blighted sand hill on Wanstead Flats, an area of common land, a remnant of the once massive Epping Forest. This huge open space was less than a mile from our house, extending to some fifty acres or so.  Kids from Manor Park and East Ham spent much of their time playing `Cowboys and Indians' there, or dragging the lake in pairs with a piece of old sacking, fishing for tiddlers.  Perhaps today it would be Star Wars, but then I lived in that alternative world known as 'the past', and as a wise man once said, 'the past is another place, they do things differently there.'  So you can imagine our joy when the authorities kindly dumped a one-hundred-foot mountain of sand at one end of the lake!  It was never their intention to bring the seaside to East Ham, of course; it just turned out that way.  Its real purpose was to provide sandbags for the protection of local public buildings, Ack-Ack gun emplacements, and thins like that.  But surely they didn't expect us to know that?  Word soon spread, and within hours hundreds of kids had descended on the spot.  Needless to say, after a few weeks' of 'king of the castle' and suchlike, it was flattened to a fraction of its original height, eventually becoming a hard-packed miserable little mound no more than ten feet high, and hardly worth the bother of walking there.  </div> <div> Taking all this into account, it was natural for everyone to assume that hundreds of German bombers would arrive over London almost immediately after Chamberlain's speech that Sunday morning. In fact, some over-zealous patriots sounded their air-raid sirens minutes after the broadcast, thinking it would be a good idea to test them out!  I believe it caused a fair amount of panic here and there.  But you can now see that it was perfectly natural that in that first hour of school, and with the utmost calm, every child was lined up in the hall to receive his or her gas mask. I wonder how many can say their first school lesson was gas mask drill?  </div> <div> We called them 'Mickey Mouse' masks, so called because Mickey Mouse was the number one film star of the time, and with their long black snouts they really did give one an uncanny resemblance. They came in brown cardboard boxes about eight inches square with a long length of string, enabling it to be slung over the shoulder for, by law, they had to be carried at all times. (I forget how many weeks that gem of idealism lasted, but I know it wasn't long before the teachers gave up trying to enforce such a silly rule).  </div> <div> The teachers were responsible for seeing that we learned how to adjust the straps and pull the masks over our face in an emergency, and went round checking each one of us, pushing three fingers behind the rubber face mask to make sure the fitting was air-tight and making adjustments where necessary, all the time warning us that unless they were absolutely air-tight they'd be no use at all and we'd die of gas-poisoning.  Scary stuff. They smelt vile, a mixture of new rubber combined with some chemical or other contained in the snout piece, or canister.  Worst of all, they were claustrophobic sweaty, horrible things to wear.  After only a few minutes it was impossible to see through the cellophane window for condensation. Lots of kids panicked.  Some ripped them off in fear, only to be ordered to put them back on immediately.  We simply had to get used to them.  </div> <div> Every morning, in order to achieve maximum proficiency, we practised getting them out of the box and strapped on in the shortest possible time.  For a few weeks, ten minutes of gas mask drill became the first lesson of the day.  However, it soon ceased to be a chore, and the reason is plain:  Most classes held fifty kids in those days; each classroom laid out to the same pattern: five rows of desks, five desks in each row, two children to each desk.  To add spice to the occasion - because the spirit of competition was introduced into almost everything in those days - each of the five rows constituted a team.  The game was to see which team could get their masks out of the box and strapped on correctly in the shortest time with all hands raised in the air.  It's unbelievable now, but I remember it was great fun, becoming something to look forward to each morning.  I know that the non-competitive ethos in schools today would disapprove, but I often think that schoolchildren today miss out on a great deal of fun in this way.  In my opinion, one can take mamby-pambyism too far.  As an evolutionary humanist, I believe competition to be a fundamental part of our nature.  Of course we must acknowledge there are those not blessed with average intelligence or normal physical abilities, and it behoves us to be understanding, generous and kind to them in every way possible.  But for normal children, the normal rules of Nature should apply.  Children can be praised for the smallest achievements, as they should be, yet still be made aware that an even better effort will be necessary before they can achieve excellence.  In other words, I believe in levelling up, not down.  In my opinion, discovering our strengths and weaknesses and learning to come to terms with them is an essential part of growing up.  And as regards the gas mask drills; well, today I've no idea whether my team ever won or not.  And I couldn't care less!</div> <div> Our headmistress was Miss Tune, a very stern, tall, middle-aged woman with iron-grey hair tied in a bun.  She wore tweed skirts and woolly cardigans, along with a permanent scowl.  Her eyes could penetrate the very soul of a miscreant.  Naturally, she was held in awe by every child in the school.  Never without her baton, a heavy wooden roller, she was indeed aptly named because her favourite instrument might easily have been the xylophone.  You see, her idiosyncratic method of chastisement was to use her baton to mimic precisely that raw, toneless instrument.  One terrible day, soon after my arrival, I had the misfortune to witness one of her `performances', watching in horror as a row of girls and boys stood rigidly to attention in the hall while she ran her baton along their shins. I have to say the music the children made was even less pleasant than the xylophone, and I straightway determined that, if at all possible, I would never become the object of that lady's eye. </div> <div> However, I needn't have feared, for within a few weeks, before I'd scarcely begun to learn my 'abc', Essex Road School received its evacuation instructions and, by the end of September, I found myself in a new school, and in a new world, hundreds of miles from London. </div> <div> To this day I cannot decide whether my evacuation experience enhanced my life or not, whether it was to my benefit or my loss. I can only say the sweet-bitter memory of it all still haunts me.  Hardly a day passes without some small thing sending my mind speeding back to those days of wonder and enlightenment, and I'm there once more, savouring again each minute of every day.  Its influence on me has been incalculable, and did much to establish my view of the world and my place within it.  Such that, if asked to name a single event or period that had the greatest impact on shaping me as a person, I might easily say it was the time I spent as an evacuee.  </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> I sat on the draining board having my knees scrubbed like any other morning, though I knew it wasn't.  Today was evacuation day, whatever that meant.  I only knew that Sid and I were going away somewhere.  I also sensed that Mum was not her usual self; mostly because she wasn't singing.  She'd been humming for a while, humming softly to herself as she ran the flannel slowly over my legs, but now she'd fallen silent.  </div> <div> 'Where are we going?'  I asked.</div> <div> 'On a big train.  Aren't you lucky?  Going for a long ride.  You're all going; the whole school.'</div> <div> 'Are you coming?'</div> <div> 'No, Mum's can't come.'</div> <div> 'Why can't they?'</div> <div> 'We're too old.'</div> <div> 'But why are we going?'</div> <div> 'Because of the bombs.'</div> <div> 'I ain't seen no bombs.'</div> <div> 'But there will be; soon.  Shall we sing a song?'</div> <div> 'No. You sing.'</div> <div> 'Which one?' </div> <div> 'You know - my favourite.'</div> <div> And so she did.</div> <div> 'Any umberellas, any umberellas to mend today?  Pitter patter, pitter patter, here comes the rain…'</div> <bR> <bR> <div> East Ham's High Street runs north to south between the arteries of Romford Road in the north and Barking Road in the south, bisected in the middle by the railway station.  Here the tube and Fenchurch Street to Southend lines run beneath a bridge over the road, making this, at some twenty feet above sea level, the highest point for miles around.  Within the hour we'd joined an enormous queue straggling down from the entrance. The crowd of children, parents and grandparents may have stretched four or five deep for two hundred yards or so, every child tagged with a luggage label attached to coat or jacket, indicating name, next-of-kin and home address.  Some were already in tears, and so were a good many Mums.  </div> <div> Several teachers were assisting the police, acting as marshals, helping to keep everyone off the road.  Mr. Green, a WWI veteran and now Headmaster of Kensington Road Junior School, a short, well-set man with a completely bald head, sharp features and a kindly expression, was strolling up and down the curb doing what he could for public moral, cajoling us with things like: 'Come on now; what's all this doom and gloom?  Mustn't let old Hitler think we're scared, must we?  Anyway, we'll all be home by Christmas.  All be over in no time.  No one's beaten us in a thousand years.  You don't think Hitler and his Nazi thugs are the ones to do it, do you?  Not likely!  Come on now, stiff upper lip. Chin up!'</div> <div> Old Charlie was there of course, sitting cross-legged on the ground against the station wall, his old accordion between his legs, still playing the latest songs.  'Roll out the barrel…'  'Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run…'   Blind and crippled since birth, Charlie was a squat, dumpy, grey-haired, little man with an overly large head, and appeared to have no pupils, showing only the whites of his eyes.  It made him rather scary to look at.  Well, until you got used to him.  But he played so well I could listen to him all day.  When Mum took me shopping with her I would always ask if we had a penny to put in his cap.  She'd give me one if she could spare it; then I'd feel good all day.  On the first occasion he looked up with his unseeing eyes and thanked me in a gravelly voice, 'Gawd bless yer, guv'nor!  Gawd bless yer!'  I replied I wasn't a guv'nor, just a little boy.  'Then Gawd bless yer, son!  Gawd bless yer!  And may you live long an' 'appy!'   </div> <div> The organ grinder was just down the road with his tiny capuchin monkey, still churning out old music hall favorites:  'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do….'  Some were even joining in with the choruses, for people were always singing in those days.  It was a national trait.  The organ-grinder was old, very old.  He wore nothing but old rages and his long grey hair was filthy.  He must have been destitute, for he was always dressed in the same old rags.  The monkey fascinated me most, being trained to bite each penny to make sure it was genuine before handing it over to the old man. It made people smile.  It was all rather cheerful, really, except for so many people crying.  </div> <div> Mum had taken Sid and me to Woolworth's the day before to get kitted out for the journey.  For the first time in years we sported new outfits, each having grey flannel suits with short trousers, white shirts and striped woollen ties.  I also had a new pair of white ankle socks - which I must keep clean at all costs.  'Must look smart when you get there. I'm not having them talk about me.'  Brother Ken must have joined us soon after we arrived.  Dressed much the same as us, he clutched a small battered cardboard suitcase under one arm.  I can only assume it had no handle; though, knowing Ken, he was simply being obtuse, as usual.  But this was very bad news; very bad news indeed.  I hadn't expected him to be there. This big mate of Sid's was definitely not one of my favourite people, nor was I in any doubt that the feeling was mutual.  Sid was in charge of our suitcase, another new acquisition from Woolworth's, a cardboard special.  It was hardly bigger than a briefcase, but as we possessed so little by way of spare clothes, no underclothes or top coat  -  not even a spare pair of socks  - it was more than adequate.  When I come to think of it, our sandwiches and drinks for the journey most have taken up more space than our clothes.  And there was Mum, constantly repeating, 'No scruffing about on the floor in them new socks.  D'you hear?'</div> <div> After ages and ages the train into London arrived  -  though our final destination remained unknown.  Very slowly, the queue moved forward towards the entrance, the signal for renewed floods of tears as each child reached the entrance and was peeled off from its parent.  Here, the Mums hugged them for the last time before stepping aside to wave goodbye as they disappeared inside the station and out of sight.  When it was our turn, Mum took out her wretched handkerchief again, spat on it yet again, and swiped my nose and mouth for the last time, saying:  'You'd better hold on to that,' stuffing it inside my jacket pocket. 'Try and keep your face clean, at least.  Mustn't have them talking about us, must we?'  I then received a last hug and the three of us took our turn shuffling through the lobby while she stood waving from the entrance.  Each time I looked back she was waving, and I still see her waving; standing there on tiptoe, waving.  </div> <div> I think it was at that moment I suddenly realised I might never see her again, and for the first time I too began to cry.  As the air was now thick with dust from the station floorboards my tears must have washed through the grime to carve clownish rivulets down my face because, once on the train, Ken said to pack in that snivelling and use Mum's hanky to sort my face out, or else...  So I did.  But that only made things worse, because as I put it to my face, I smelt her face powder and it was as though she was still there; only she wasn't, if you see what I mean   Then I wanted to get off and run home, thinking I'd be happy to have my knees scrubbed ten times a day if necessary.  But Ken poked me in the ribs again and told me to belt up, saying that if there was one thing he couldn't stand it was grizzlers.  After that, I'd put it to my nose now and again and be home once more, on the draining board, listening to Mum singing, 'Any umberellas, any umberellas to mend today…?' </div> <div> We must have left that train at Fenchurch Street and joined another train at Paddington, because my next memory of that long day is of green rolling hills and countryside.  By then we knew we were on our way to Somerset, in the west of England.  And something must have happened to cheer me up because, along with a hundred others, I was leaning out of the window, smiling and laughing, totally amazed at the clouds of smoke and sparks billowing away over the hills and fields, slowly dissipating until they miraculously vanished.  It was good to watch the cinder track racing past; and I loved seeing the sheep and cows in the fields, the farms, the little yellow-stone cottages dotted here and there, and villages with fluffy thatched roofs, and trees, and streams, and it was all… oh…. so wonderful; so very wonderful.  </div> <div> Looking up and down the train, every window had a child hanging from it, hair streaming, eyes half shut against the smoke, many streaming their handkerchiefs like miniature flags.  I took out Mum's and likewise offered it to the wind.  It tugged and tugged in my hand, but I held fast.  In the carriage behind was a black-haired boy about my own age grinning his head off.  'Let go and I'll catch it!' he yelled.  How could I be so foolish?  Why did I do it?  At that age we believe everything we're told; be it bogey men, or aunts who declare they'll cut off our tails, or mums who say they're going to go through the roof any minute, for it's so much wiser to believe them.  And if a boy says he'll catch it, then he will.  Without a second thought I let go…  And with the hanky gone, floating away with the billowing clouds of steam and smoke, along with the hanky went Mum.  Mum, too, was gone; finally gone.  Gone forever!  So I cried again.  But Ken said if I didn't stop crying he'd biff me.  </div> <div> Altogether, with all the delays while we waited in sidings making way for munitions trains or troop trains, the total journey took about ten hours or so.  It was growing dark when we finally arrived at our destination.  I woke to a porter bellowing, 'Cheddar!  Cheddar!  Alight here for Cheddar Gorge!'  The name sounded familiar, though I couldn't think why.  The teachers began walking up and down the corridor telling us to collect our things.  'Quietly!' said Mr Green in a growling voice.  'Let's make an orderly exit now.  No need to rush.  Just pick up your things and wait quietly on the platform until we get you all sorted out.  We'll all get off in good time if we just act calmly and sensibly.'  </div> <div> Of course, after that it was pandemonium.  Some stepped out, some ran out, while others fell out.  In no time, the platform looked like a war zone, bodies lying everywhere after tripping over suitcases left, right and centre.  It was all very scary.  I tried holding onto Sid's hand, but he shook me off, saying,  'Stop it! Stop being such a sissy!'  </div> <div> Those who weren't being billeted in Cheddar itself were to be billeted in the surrounding villages. To accommodate these, a row of coaches waited outside the station with the names of various villages pasted on the windscreens.  It took ages, but along with fifty or so others, we three eventually bundled into one bound for a place called Wedmore.   </div> <div> It was quite dark by the time we reached the village hall, a long, low, wooden structure.  At first it seemed gloomy inside, and vast, being lit only by a row of big brass oil-lamps hanging from the centre of the roof.  Rows of empty chairs filled the centre, while the aisles on both sides were packed with grown ups.  They must have been waiting some time, for the air was thick with smoke, quite reminding me of Granny Treloar's parlour after a long session.  </div> <div> At the far end there was a raised platform where two ladies sat either side of a small table.  One was dumpy Mrs. Burrows, the billeting officer who travelled down with us, while the other was a tall, elegant lady in her mid-forties.  This lady had a small, kindly face with twinkling light blue eyes, and hair a greyish blonde.  I wondered why she dressed all in black, even down to her stockings.    </div> <div> The villagers had very kindly provided refreshments.  To the right of the entrance stood a long table smothered in plates of cakes and sandwiches, plus a few dozen beakers of lemonade and such.  It was a welcome sight, for we were famished by this time.  Most of us had polished off whatever food we had by noon, and had travelled the last several hours without food or drink. We were told to collect our sandwiches and beaker, then take up the seats, starting at the front, nearest the stage.  </div> <div> We three were very near the head of the queue, so we got into the front row of chairs, looking straight up at the two ladies. When things had quietened down, the elegant lady got to her feet.  She was very tall, or so it seemed to me, and I thought her face very handsome.  She had the kindest, most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen.  They sparkled, glinting each time they caught the light. The phrase, 'English Rose' comes to mind.</div> <div> 'Good evening everyone, and welcome to Wedmore.'  She sounded very posh.  'My name is Mrs. Pitcairn and, since my husband died last year, it falls to me as Lady of the Manor to see that every one of you finds a warm, safe home to live in whilst you are with us.  I'm sure you'll all settle down in no time, and we, for our part, are very glad to have you with us.'  </div> <div> Mrs. Burrows then took over, and the world was surreal for the next hour or so.  A kind of auction, one which anyone would find utterly fascinating.  </div> <div> 'Now here's a sweet little girl.  Who'll take this lovely little girl?'</div> <div> Huh!  There was never going to be the slightest trouble placing 'sweet little girls'!  The women fell over themselves to take them!  What? An extra pair of hands in the kitchen?  And very soon all the single kids, including the boys, had been snapped up and were on their way to a warm bed.  Then it came to the pairs of siblings.  They didn't go too badly either, though Mrs Pitcairn had to use a little persuasion here and there.  Some farmers didn't mind having two boys because they could always find light work for them.  Similarly with their wives, girls could always be made useful about the house.  But others were shy of having a couple of rowdy boys about the place.  So when it came to us three...  well, a few offered to take one, or even two of us at a pinch, but no one wanted all three, not all in a lump.   Mrs Pitcairn, however, was adamant.  On no account would she allow three brothers to be separated.  So, as no one would even contemplate taking on three harem-scarem, snotty-nosed little cockneys, the hall began to empty, leaving us three sitting alone in the front row. </div> <div> Wearing a glum face, Mrs. Pitcairn stepped down and came over to us.  </div> <div> 'Oh dear, boys, you must be feeling very let down.  Cheer up!  I could do with a little company myself.  How would you like to come home with me?  How does that sound?'  </div> <div> It sounded just right to me!  I think the smile I gave must have matched Gabriel Oak's, being an insignificant distance from each ear, to borrow Thomas Hardy's expression.  Which is how we three ended up in the best billet in Wedmore.  In all England, for that matter!</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id148.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 5"><U><B>Next Chapter</B></U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>