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On 28th August 1939, with war looming, I was a 13-yr-old pupil at a grammar school, Grey Coat Hospital, Westminster, London. Those of us who were to be evacuated had to go to school each day with a packed case, prepared for whenever the order for evacuation would be given in which case we would be off without further opportunity to go home and say goodbye. The order came on Friday, 1st September, so, with my 5-yr-old sister, Beryl, in tow and each of us labelled, we were put on the train with no one to see us off and with no idea about where we were going. It turned out to be Brighton.

I remember very little of the journey but I still have the letter I wrote to my mother on 2nd September which states that we travelled in the guard’s van and one would have thought I could remember that! Unfortunately it seems to have been the only one kept of that period but I can recall in some detail what happened on our arrival. (A few years ago I watched Jack Rosenthal’s film, “The Evacuees”, depicting this time, in which one scene had a teacher roaming a town with two small boys, very late in the evening, trying to find a billet for them. Earlier scenes had shown him knocking at doors and being told by the householders that they couldn’t or wouldn’t accept the children. That was far removed from my experience and it left me wondering if some artistic licence had been taken. It was my understanding that good preparation had been made prior to the outbreak of war: householders in reception areas had been registered with details of the accommodation available and they had little choice about whom they would reasonably be obliged to accept.)

Accompanied by Miss Culverwell, my Latin and History teacher, my sister and I were taken by car to a Mrs. C. in Balfour Road, Preston Park, Brighton who received us amiably as did the youngest of her three daughters who, aged 14, was the only one living at home. Her 19yr-old-daughter had a live-in job and called at the house later that day. I warmed to her immediately, not solely because she took us on a bus that same evening to the sea front, which despite it being fairly deserted was an unexpected treat. At that stage neither or us felt other than mildly excited — I’m sure we felt that we were on holiday!

The next day is a lost memory but the following morning is crystal clear. We were in church when the vicar announced from the pulpit that war had been declared and, after a brief prayer, he ended the service and told the congregation to go home. I remember seeing Miss Culverwell and a few other teachers, crying. I had asked her a few days earlier if there would be a war and she had said she thought not — probably just wishful thinking along with millions of others. All the children as I recall seemed to take the news in their stride. Before we reached our billets, we heard for the first time the wailing siren and encountered an anxious air-raid warden who told us to get back home as quickly as possible. It was all a bit bewildering rather than frightening but we found an air of panic when we returned to the house. The eldest daughter, who was visiting that day, had a very young baby and, whilst gas masks had been issued nationwide, there had not yet been produced sufficient protective containers for babies to meet the need and, expecting a gas attack at any moment, her brother was hurriedly soaking blankets in the bath and tacking them up, dripping wet, to cover the windows. After an hour or so, the All Clear sounded and, as was very soon learned, it was one of our own planes approaching the coast.

In that letter to my mother I am full of enthusiasm about everything and make no mention of the war. I was just happy that we wouldn’t be having any lessons for two weeks! We had to share a school, Varndean, with the Brighton girls, high up at the end of Balfour Road. It was half-day attendance, mornings and afternoons alternated weekly with their girls, with whom we had very little contact. ��ѿ��ýwork was massive and sport severely reduced compared with the rounders, netball and gym at Grey Coat plus weekly swimming at the nearby municipal pool.

Within a few months, however, the novelty waned and despite the regular weekend visits made by my mother and eldest sister Kate, we became increasingly unhappy. I remember the careless comments exchanged between the adults as they spoke of what they had heard about evacuees from London - e.g. of the children’s inability to handle a knife and fork, their bad manners and their poor hygiene - stories which were typically being bandied around. I don’t doubt that some derived from accurate accounts but they were given unwarranted weight by exaggeration and careless gossip. Young as I was and aware that the remarks were not directed at us, I nevertheless was conscious of the obvious resentment they felt towards children from poor backgrounds who had disrupted the lives of their more fortunate selves. What finally led to my mother taking, first my sister and later me home, was a serious upset involving Mrs. C’s son and his wife who lived in a flat at the top of the house. I was busy with homework when I heard the daughter-in-law shouting abuse at Beryl who had been quietly playing on the stairs. She was being charged with listening to their conversation. I must have been pretty robust in rebuking her for the way she was behaving and refuted the absurd idea that a 5-yr-old would be taking any interest in whatever they were talking about because I received a very hard slap on the face. This was not only painful but a terrible shock as I had never once been treated in this fashion by either of my parents or, indeed, anyone.

My mother reacted immediately to my letter in which I related the event and she hurried down with Kate to take Beryl home. I was left there in the interests of my education but, within a short time, I wrote to my mother telling her that if she did not come and collect me, I would walk home! Again she reacted immediately and I remember her clearly rebuking the son and his wife for their treatment of us. They were the only ones in the house and, after hurriedly packing my belongings and establishing that Mrs. C. was at her eldest daughter’s flat in Ditchling Rise, we walked there in order to retrieve my ration book. I cannot remember my mother’s words but, compared with the earlier lively exchange at the house, we were met with total silence as the ration book was handed over. In my hurried packing I overlooked my Wellington boots; my mother wrote, asking for them to be returned together with a letter and postal order for five shillings which had been sent to me by one of my aunts and which had not arrived before I left. Almost needless to say, there was no response but whatever disappointment we had about that quickly disappeared. Ahead of us was Christmas and we were a complete family once more.

About two years ago I heard a comment on the radio by some ill-informed woman that “there were no children playing in the streets in London” because they had all been evacuated. That was tosh. I don’t know how many from my school stayed behind or how many, like me, went away and soon returned, but parents had choice in the matter and schools in London still functioned. My headmistress wrote to my mother a sensible letter, trying to persuade her to bring me back to Brighton, but I was adamant in my determination not to return. Not too long after that, the London County Council Education Dept. offered me a place at another grammar school, James Alleyn’s School for Girls in Dulwich. Once again, I was adamant - I had no wish to stay at school until I was 16. So I went back to my elementary school for a few months until I was able to leave shortly after my 14th birthday in June 1940.

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