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Destination Unknown

Chapter I

It was August 1939 when suddenly my world turned upside down. Nothing seemed quite real. First there was fear, then excitement, but I did not really know what it was all about. I was thirteen years old, still in an adolescent dream world. Each day was reality, tomorrow and the next a long way off. There were rumours of war and Chamberlain was in Germany. But it must be real - my parents had bought new rucksacks and labels were being printed with our names on them. Finally the sandwiches were cut for tomorrow we would be off.

The morning came bright and clear with the promise of the heat to come. The moment had arrived and we were really going - it was evacuation! Mothers, young children, mothers-to-be, the old, the infirm and thousands of school children like ourselves were all on the move out of London, out of danger to destinations unknown, at least to us. We were to leave from school, so it all started like any other school morning, except of course we had our new rucksacks instead of school bags and post cards already written, addressed and stamped to be sent home directly we arrived, so that our parents would know we were safe, wherever destination unknown was to be.

My father did essential work for the railway, so my mother would not be with us. She would stay to keep the home going, and anyway I was thirteen years old and not going alone but with my sister who was eighteen and soon to start at teachers’ training college. It had of course been well planned. My sister was going as a ‘helper’, as she had really left school before the holidays had started and would go on to college when things had been sorted out, war or not. Life had to go on even if it had to be ‘re-arranged’ or just ‘upset’, according to which age group you happened to be in.

That first goodbye from my mother was a mixture of anxiety and sad farewell, ending in a matter-of-fact reassurance, which I realised, was both for her and us. She would come and see us as soon as she knew where we were and that, she said, would only be if we “posted those cards” already given to us and packed in our rucksack “immediately” we arrived!

The usual little steam train came puffing into the station, dead on time 8.33am exactly. It was very hot, being mid-August, and our new rucksacks and topcoats did not help. The carriage seemed extra full – no doubt there were others like us – on the move. It was stop start, stop start, all the way to Liverpool Street. We were glad this time to see those dirty smoky arches and tall tenement buildings which herald the entrance to that lofty Victorian Station. Like most big stations, Liverpool Street always seemed full of smoke which drifted upwards to the black, soot-encrusted glass roof and hung there to mingle with all the other smells which stations exude. Noises, too, filled the air that morning; the usual ones of course, slamming doors, whistles, porters’ trolleys noisily trundling, but also the tramp of heavy boots. There seemed to be soldiers, sailors, uniforms of all sorts mixed in with the crowds of many more people than was usual, and children were everywhere. It had ceased to be an ordinary morning - all our senses were alert - sight, sound and smell became more and more stimulated and excitement began to creep in, something unusual was happening – was happening to us!

On our arrival at school we found hustle and bustle – mistresses here, there and everywhere, irate and anxious parents asking questions, giving instructions, agreeing, disagreeing, what activity! No-one seemed organised, but finally, like in all such situations, out of chaos a pattern emerged at last. Groups were formed, everyone was labelled and mistresses and older girls put in charge. Names, numbers and luggage were checked and rechecked. At last it all tallied and a long line was formed. Now we were very orderly, there was no noise and all was very sedate and disciplined. The school’s good name was now at stake, and good behaviour was the order of the day.

Back now to the station which was busier and noisier than before. But it was different - we were different. We were no longer just schoolgirls, but labelled ‘Evacuees’, part of London’s population leaving for the safety of the country. War was imminent and all over the country women and children were leaving big cities to get as far away as possible. Some were even leaving the country for America or Canada; some were not to see the green of England for six long years and many would decide never to return.

Packed into carriages with not an inch to spare, our luggage was piled onto the racks, labels dangling. Chatter, chatter and more chatter filled the air, the one big question being – where were we going? Imagine hundreds of school children all talking at once – the parrot house at the zoo might be an apt description. How hot it was! Normally the carriages seated about ten at most, but now there were at least fourteen, maybe sixteen, of us packed in. What a relief when the whistle blew, the flag waved and we were off! The journey was a nightmare. It got hotter and hotter and our clothes stuck to us. We ate sweets, chocolates, and sandwiches - there was nothing else to do - and we got thirstier and thirstier. At the end, apart from the heat, what was most memorable was stopping at Bishops Stortford, where helpers walked along the platform with buckets and ladled out water into mugs for us, just like watering the animals on market day! What humiliation, but how welcome was the water and after all, the buckets did look brand new!

After passing Cambridge, the country became very flat, for we were now in Fen country and could see for miles. The earth was black like soot and met the sky in a long unbroken line. This was where celery came from. At home we used to eat a lot of celery because my grandmother use to say it was “good for your teeth”. Before it was washed it always had this black earth clinging to it. Looking out of the train window, one could imagine row upon row of glistening white celery sticks tipped with their pale green leaves against this black earth. I liked this country right from the beginning, its flatness, its sense of freedom – mile upon mile of pure fen air to breathe, no smoke, no buildings just the countryside, farm buildings, the river dykes and birds. There were always birds to be seen flying low over the land against the skyline.

Suddenly, over the flat countryside the Cathedral came into sight – Ely Cathedral with its tall tower at one end and beautiful octagonal tower in the middle. We knew by now that our destination was the City of Ely which, although a city by virtue of having a Cathedral, was really a small market town set on a hill. The Cathedral was on top of the hill, dominating the town and countryside around - a fortress in days gone by, steeped in history going back before Hereward the Wake. It was an island once in the true sense of the word before the land was drained, and many battles were fought for this beautiful Isle of Ely. It is still called the Isle of Ely but instead of water is now surrounded by mile upon mile of flat countryside, which is only relieved from time to time by one of those huge windmills, white against the black earth and blue sky. Most are no longer working but are still magnificent.

The train stopped with a screech and a jolt, wheezing out steam and puffing like an old asthmatic, then sighing as if to say “we’ve made it, we’ve made it at last”. My two best friends were Ethel and Stella; I’d completely lost sight of them during the journey but could see them now getting out of the carriage next to ours. “Quickly”, I said, “We must be with Ethel and Stella”, and we grabbed up our rucksacks and tumbled out on to the platform. “Ethel and Stella”, I called, the first small feeling of insecurity descending on me. I knew my sister would only be with me for a short time and it seemed important now to be with my friends. We kept together in small groups and were counted, re-counted, sorted and re-sorted. What an assortment of girls – big, little, fat, thin, excited, happy, weepy and miserable. There were also girls and boys from other schools, mothers with young children and babies, even expectant mothers. The latter, I am sorry to say we all stared at in not too ladylike manner. At that time, the end of the thirties, the mysteries of childbirth were not revealed or talked about by the average young lady. We had, of course, all seen an expectant mother, but not more than one at a time and here we were confronted with dozens (probably only a group of six or seven in reality) and we just could not help staring! My sister Mary snapped “Come on now, it’s rude to stare. Haven’t you ever seen someone expecting a baby before?” We all looked away in embarrassment. “Now, keep together I’ve just been told we must all collect our rations from that shed over there”, she said. ‘Rations’ - that was the first, but not the last, time that we would hear that word, for rations were going to rule our lives for many years to come. For the moment, though, we were only interested in what today’s rations would be. The shed turned out to be a huge engine shed at the end of the station converted that day into a distribution shed. One by one, in an orderly line, we queued - another thing we would become familiar with during the years ahead. Queuing, sharing, a little for you, a little for me; one each only and a long queue for it! Perhaps not a bad lesson to learn? Our turn came at last. Good heavens – chocolate! A big half-pound slab of dairy milk chocolate. Everything else faded from view – it was free too! Could it be true? It certainly was, because I heard the lady volunteer saying “Here you are, dear. Put it in your case and don’t forget your corned-beef!” Of course there were other things as well, like sugar and biscuits but I don’t believe I had ever had corned-beef. My mother believed in good, wholesome food freshly cooked. I am afraid corned-beef went with people that lived in flats and ate margarine! Children could be little “prigs” sometimes and we were no exception. Life had not really touched us yet – that was to come!

We felt we were being treated like animals at Bishops Stortford, when we were ‘watered’ from buckets, and now we felt it again. Apparently we were going to a small village called Littleport, outside Ely, until school arrangements had been worked out. Buses to these small villages were normally infrequent, so we were to be conveyed by lorry! Farm lorries – dusty and dirty and, if I guessed rightly, usually used for carrying sugar beet, not children - the fields all round Littleport grew mile upon mile of sugar beet. We were hustled in and off we went – down the Ely to Littleport Road to the back of beyond, or so it seemed. It was to be a six-mile ride which sounded a long way away, but six miles was to become a normal afternoon’s cycle ride to most of us, as we changed from urban to rural inhabitants. I have already said Ely was a city on a hill, but perhaps, this did not truly emphasise the absolute flatness of the countryside around. The roads were long and straight with no undulations anywhere. There seemed to be only one road, no turnings or junctions. It was so flat that a turning could not be seen till you were right on top of it. All the roads out of Ely shot straight out of the town rotating in all directions like the rays of the sun gradually fading and merging into the horizon

It was still very hot, but pleasant now it was past noon and the lorries were open ones with seats all round, so the breeze cooled us all down and it became an adventure again. We passed one of those big white windmills, which we thought might still be working as there seemed to be activity around it and lots of full sacks were stacked against its door. Soon after passing the mill a pungent smell filled the air - whatever could it be? “It’s sugar beet”, my sister said. What a horrid smell - difficult to associate with the pure white crystals seen everyday on the tea tray. She proved to be right, for we were soon passing the sugar beet factory, a square dirty building with a long tall chimney, belching smoke and exuding that foul smell. Piles of sugar beet, looking rather like turnips or large sized parsnips, were everywhere and lorries carrying more were coming and going continuously.

The smell faded and the air was once again clear and sweet as the village of Littleport came into sight. As we approached the village a few people could be seen standing about – we were expected! They all stared at us. Suddenly I felt very homesick and tears welled up into my eyes. They were all strangers and it did not seem such an adventure after all. One of them would take us in but would we like them? Would they like us? Our lorry slowed down and stopped. Helpers and senior girls checked names; mistresses suddenly appeared - they had come in cars and other civilised transport! There were a few local people in charge of the arrangements in the village who had a list of names and addresses, which they importantly checked and re-checked. I don’t know who they were but I was in no doubt their knowledge of children was sadly lacking. “Stay put, and keep hold of your luggage”, one of them said. To our consternation, the lorry moved from door to door. We were to be sized up and chosen. What humiliation! My heart sank – it was just like those awful moments when the games captain chose her team and you inwardly prayed hard that you wouldn’t be the last one to be chosen.

To be quite honest I was no chocolate-box child. Early adolescence had given me more than my share of puppy fat and my mother had already decided to restrict my sweets and chocolates. Fat children were not as happy as they sometimes looked! Apart from my plumpness, my fair hair and rosy cheeks were very wholesome and perhaps the sight of such a big healthy-looking child was a bit off-putting. I may well have looked as though I could eat my own and the rest of the family’s rations at one sitting! My sister Mary was a very good-looking girl - tall and slim. Nevertheless she was eighteen years old and a young adult, who might well be an expensive proposition too. The small curly-haired breed seemed the most popular, and as the lorry made its way from house to house down the village street we became more and more distressed - not weepy, just depressed and anxious. I could tell my sister felt like this too and she got more and more protective. “Don’t worry, Margaret”, she whispered to me. "The best is always left till last” - referring to the bit always left to be eaten last, like the creamiest chocolate in the bag, which always tasted more delicious than the rest. Our turn at last. We stopped at one of those black and white period houses, with low, wide windows, and an arched doorway flush to the pathway. It had a well-preserved look of antiquity - the sort of house the monthly countryside magazines portray. The door had a beautiful bright, shining brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and the door itself was painted white. The windows shone and dazzling white curtains fluttered in the afternoon breeze. A happy house, clean, sweet and welcoming – the sun shone, the sky looked blue again. A young smiling woman stood at the door – it was going to be all right!

We were helped down from the lorry. “This is Mrs Pike”, said our escort wearily. We did not realise then that the anxiety was not just one-sided. It had been a worrying business, placing all these now tired-looking school children. Some people had impulsively promised to take a child and then changed their minds. Others were even now beginning to regret their decisions. They had their own worries too - sons drafted to the army or maybe soon to be drafted, and now they were unsure of the future, and what it held by having us.

Mrs Pike held out her hand. “Come in”, she said and smiled again. I looked at her and what I saw pleased me very much. She was tall and slim with dark wavy hair, a pale complexion with eyes of deep gentian blue with laughter lurking in their depths - her whole face lit up with that smile. We entered shyly, through the tall archway of the door. The hall was small but great beams ran across the ceiling which was lower than we were used to. It was very old - we found out later it was built in about the fifteenth century. “What are your names”? she enquired. “You can call me Marjorie. My husband’s name is John; he will not be in till later”, she explained. I had never been allowed to call an adult by her Christian name before. She was, of course, not so very many years older than my sister Mary, so it did not seem so unnatural. Mary anxiously answered, “This is Margaret, my young sister, usually called “Mig”, and I am Mary. I have really left school but have come to help till I go to college in September. I can look after my sister. We shouldn’t be much trouble”. “I am sure neither of you will be any trouble at all, we are very pleased to have you both. Come into the lounge and have some tea - you must be very hungry”, smiled Marjorie.

It was a beautiful room. It had a low ceiling and the old oak beams, which ran the whole length of the room looked dark against the white plaster between them. There was a wide red brick fireplace at its furthest end, and the hearth had one of those wrought iron fire baskets piled with logs ready for the first touch of autumn’s chill. Over the fireplace, pieces of antique copper glowed as the late afternoon sun caught the shining surfaces. On either side, the old beam sported bright horse brasses of different designs; some mounted on their original well-worn dark leather harness straps. The carpet was a deep rich blue, soft and thick to thread on. A big settee was an one side of the fire place and there were plenty of armchairs, all covered in chintz, with deep cushions promising comfort to come. Lined chintz curtains complemented the white voile ones, which daintily screened the windows. A low bookcase ran along one side of the room, which was of the same dark oak as the refectory table and chairs. All this gave an old world charm to the room and all was enhanced by the added beauty of bowls of flowers everywhere. They were roses, mostly pink, white and deep red, their green foliage shining against the dark oak, their perfume filling the air. I had never been in such a beautiful room. Our little terraced house at home was always neat and tidy as my mother was very house-proud, but my parents’ income was limited and there was little left for objet d’art!

Tea was poured and we were offered dainty sandwiches of several different kinds. There were fairy cakes too - just like a party, with the best cups being used, only this time the ‘best’ china turned out to be for everyday use! It was not long before we lost that initial shyness and soon were chattering like magpies, the whole family history poured out in one revealing half-hour! As for Marjorie, we got to know about her too. She and John had not been married very long, and he was the manager of a small local Shirt Factory. We couldn’t believe there was another factory! “Come out into the garden, and you will see John’s factory”, Marjorie proudly said. We followed her into the garden; sure enough we could see it, some way away over two meadows. It certainly wasn’t a very big factory- not black and grimy like the London ones we saw every morning lining the railway track, with huge, black chimneys belching out black smoke like something out of Hades. Nevertheless it was a factory - and in the middle of nowhere! Marjorie pointed to the factory with pride, for it was quite something in the small community to be able to influence it’s financial status and control its manpower resources.

John Pike was the local boss, an important man to be compared only with the big farm owners, so it was our lucky day when we arrived to share the home of such an affluent young couple. John Pike came in later; a medium height rather thickset young man, well dressed, with a pleasant voice and an infectious laugh. They were a marvellous young couple - full of life and vitality, generous, impulsive with all the attributes of youth and we all got on like a house on fire. We understood their language, which, after all, wasn’t so very different from our own. We went to bed happy that first night, snug in two beds with blue and white covers, white rugs on the floor and pretty blue curtains drawn back from the open windows to let in the sweet country night air. “Listen, you can hear the silence”, I exclaimed. Suddenly it was broken as we heard that mysterious sound, the hoot of an owl somewhere out in the darkness. We snuggled down warm and comfortable wondering what tomorrow would bring.

In the morning we found we were free to explore and idle away the hours as we wished. There was no school so we took the opportunity to make the most of our extended holiday. “Some of the girls have not been as lucky as us”, Mary said to me. There had already been misunderstandings, homesickness and downright tantrums from both children and adults! “Will you be all right on your own for a while?” she asked. “I must give a hand to help sort things out. There seem to be only a couple of teachers coping here. Don’t go too far away - I’ll see you later”. She waved and was gone. Good! I was glad to be off the hook! Now I could go out with my friends. I could not help feeling pleased, although I knew she felt responsible for me and was very good to me.

I wandered down the Village Street and knocked at the door of the cottage where Ethel was staying. “She’s out”, I was told rather abruptly by a small, sharp-featured woman with tight lips, her hair screwed back into a scraggy bun. Perhaps Ethel was one of the unlucky ones? Our school was an old foundation school, its history stretching back to the early eighteenth century, about 1725. It was situated in Bishopsgate in the East End of London, surrounded in those days by fields, but now with mean, dirty streets and factories filling the air with foul smoke. The beautiful old houses had become slums, with rooms let to a cosmopolitan population of refugees and misfits. It was natural then for a big Jewish community to grow up in that area. Hounded from all over Europe, they found refuge in Stepney, Poplar and Hackney. From these districts half our school was populated, the other half coming from further afield. It was a school that offered higher education, both competitive as well as fee paying. Ignoring its surroundings, it worshipped education, showing no preference for race or creed as long as the desire to learn came first. Jew, gentile - all sat side by side on equal terms. Perhaps this picture of our school’s background makes it easier to understand some of the difficulties, which arose in those first difficult days.

These country folk had never seen the like before! Ethel was a Jewish girl - a big, fat, pleasant girl. At thirteen her plumpness was more than puppy fat – a well-developed young woman might describe her better. She had very pretty wavy, auburn hair - her best asset - but a rather florid complexion, and her jaw jutted out unattractively, with her large nose overshadowing her whole face. Not perhaps a good looking girl but very kind and loyal to her friends. She was rarely seen without a smile, an only daughter of a widowed mother.

I made my way down the village glad to get away from that grim-faced woman Ethel was staying with. I saw her some way ahead with another friend, Stella. I called to them and started to run. Stella was also Jewish but a different type and probably more acceptable. She was small and dark, with high cheekbones, a wide, generous mouth and soft, dark brown hair that hung round her heart shaped face in a bob.

“I called for you just now. I don’t like the look of your landlady”, I grimaced, “She looks as sour as a gooseberry!” “She is, too, and what’s more I’m not going to stay there”, Ethel defiantly declared. “She has not stopped grumbling yet about how much it’s going to cost to feed me and not being used to foreigners! I told her she was confused - I’m not a foreigner, I was born in England”. Stella tried to calm her down. “Take no notice, it may not be for long”, she said. Her tone was soothing, her voice quiet, but I could see how angry she was. I did not say anything. I was not Jewish and it was best, perhaps, not to make things worse. For the first time I felt the bitter taste of social helplessness, knowing nothing could be said or done to help. I also was aware that what was touching my two friends for the first time, like evil tentacles that leave indelible marks, had already reached out, not only to touch the Jews in Germany but had already crushed thousands elsewhere in Europe to destruction. This was what it was all about - the slogans Mosley’s thugs had written on the walls, the news of oppression, brutality and unimaginable evils. If war were declared, we would be fighting not only for those poor wretches but also for our own freedom and all that England stood for. Hitler and his insane followers could well consider us the next tainted race.

We continued on our way - when you are young it’s hard to be miserable for long and there were new places to explore new people to meet. Momentarily all was forgotten in the exciting prospect of the day ahead. We found much to enjoy that day - the green meadows, the great yellow king-cups by the river, which at first, like its Dutch contemporaries, looked, we thought, higher than the land, with steep banks on either side of a long, straight, silver ribbon stretching to infinity. Silence all around us; softly, gently, quietly, it caressed us - we wanted to whisper as if in church. Now and then a bird gave a high pitched cry. Waterfowl do not sing like London garden birds or chirp like the perky sparrows. They make beautiful, eerie sounds that rise and then fade into the clear blue sky above. We enjoyed all this and more that day and hoped school wouldn’t start just yet. “Perhaps”, Ethel said hopefully, “they won’t be able to find a building. It would be very difficult for all of us to share the village school!” “They might even have to build one,” I suggested, not very realistically, “that would take a nice long time!” We continued to discuss the interesting theory of a summer holiday lasting till next half term. It was now time to turn back, it wouldn’t do to be late the first day and anyway it was nearly teatime. Mary seemed to have enjoyed her day too. Marjorie’s two nephews had been visiting – tall, handsome boys of eighteen and nineteen - they were young men really and she had been out with them both. Bob, the elder, handsomer, of the two, was the one she fancied - that was most apparent! Anyway we all sat down for tea, having had a most enjoyable day.

It was dark when I heard it first; a loud high-pitched wailing noise - wave upon wave of undulating sound, first high then low. Whatever was it? My throat contracted with fear, my heart thumped then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could just see Mary sitting bolt upright in bed. She acted quickly, as was her way, grabbed her dressing gown and said, “Quickly, put some clothes on or your dressing gown. I think it’s an air raid warning. It’s all right”, she continued reassuringly, “but it will be best to be downstairs”. We couldn’t hear Marjorie or John, “What shall we do, we seem to be the only ones awake,” I said. “We will have to wake them,” she answered, matter-of-fact, “come on hurry”. I think she was frightened underneath but trying not to show it. An artistic girl highly strung but in an emergency she always seemed able to keep calm - she had a built-in ability to brave the storm! We went to Marjorie and John’s room and woke them up; John sat up in a daze, the wailing noise penetrating his sleepiness and he was instantly fully awake. “Blimey, the siren - an air raid” he said. If we hadn’t been so frightened it would have been funny to see him leap out of bed and rush round the room looking for his “gear”. “Calm down, darling”, Marjorie said. “I’ll help you find it. Don’t panic”. “I’m on-call for the warden’s post and have the only key - the others can’t get in without me”, he explained. He found his warden’s uniform and hurriedly pulled it on, then put on his long gumboots and large rubber gloves with gauntlets right up to his elbows – which we heard later, were for protection against mustard gas! A formidable apparition he looked when all dressed up, complete with steel helmet and a service gas mask slung over his shoulder - he looked prepared for anything, to meet Hitler himself if necessary. In actual fact he was ready and out of the house running down the Village Street before the sound of the siren had hardly died away. We all waited breathlessly for something to happen but all was quiet – “Let’s make a cup of tea”, Marjorie suggested. Now it was beginning to be an adventure. We heard a plane, or thought we did, once or twice then finally a long, loud, continuous wail - the “all clear”. It was all over - we had had our first air raid!

There was much speculation next morning as to why the siren had sounded. Had war been declared in the night? Had enemy planes crossed the coast? Some even said bombs had dropped on London! It was all very frightening. The morning papers said the situation was very serious - every man woman and child must be prepared, and the regular army and reservists were being called up. Apparently the air raid warning had been a practise – a lot of the villagers were very annoyed it was in the middle of the night! Air raid sirens had been tested in every town, city and village; war seemed imminent and everyone had an ear glued to the wireless. It was eleven o’clock exactly on the 3 September 1939 when the special announcement came; the broadcaster, in a solemn voice, introduced the Prime Minster who said he “had a message of the utmost gravity to give to the nation”. Then came the voice of Mr Chamberlain, to officially proclaim that England was at war with Germany. Although by now it had been expected, the shock was still great, it was difficult to really believe we were at war!

What would happen next? For us of course it meant that we would stay, there would be no going home now. I was the baby of the family and it was the first time that I had been away from home. I had had opportunities before but had always preferred to stay with my mother. Now, it had to be faced - it wasn’t just a holiday and it might be a long time before I went home again. I would have given much to have seen my parents’ familiar faces at that moment. Youth came to the rescue - there was too much going on to be home sick and we were to be issued with gas masks!

There was much apprehension about gas. Some of the older people said that gas had been used at the end of the last war and it was sure to be used now there were new gases, which were deadlier than before. This talk of gas frightened people more than bombs, especially when mustard gas was mentioned, which apparently was corrosive and caused burning. We were told everyone must know what to do if there was a gas warning. Detectors were set up and warning rattles were to be sounded if gas was in the area. Those rattles were deafening - they produced a hideous noise and were similar to the wooden rattles used at football matches! Leaflets were distributed giving instructions how to make a gas-proof room in your own home. It was all taken very seriously - the small village of Littleport would not be caught napping.

Many had already volunteered to be air raid wardens - men like John had seen what was coming and offered their services as soon as they were needed. Now everyone too old for active service was joining – recruitment posters went up, for home defence as well as active service. It’s rather sad to realise the human race is only at its best in times of stress – war and disaster brings out the best in us it seems.

“We are being issued with gas masks at last”, said Marjorie the next morning. “I’m sure I shall never be able to breath in one”, Mary said nervously. “Neither shall I”, I chimed in. “Well”, John said encouragingly, “we’ll all have to try, won’t we? They will be coming to fit them this evening, I’ve been told”. When we met Ethel and Stella they had already got theirs. “It’s awful”, Ethel said dramatically, “I felt suffocated”. Mary and I looked at each other apprehensively, then Mary snapped at Ethel, “Don’t be silly, it can’t be as bad as that and anyway you’ve got to wear it”. Stella said “ It’s not very nice - you wait and see”. She always tended to stick up for Ethel whether she agreed or not. Yes, we would wait and see - Ethel often exaggerated!

Although September, it was really hot - the sky was clear blue with not a cloud to be seen. We were going with Marjorie and John to a tennis party in the big house their friends owned at the end of the village. Marjorie looked perfect, dressed all in white with a white ribbon holding back her dark silky hair. She had on a short white tennis frock with a very short saucy looking pleated skirt – she had lovely long shapely legs. John was very aware how becoming she looked, “Come on, darling, let’s beat the lot of them,” he laughed happily. The war seemed so unreal that afternoon. The hot sun beat down on us; the sound of tennis balls as they hit the taut strings of the rackets filled the air and then tea in the garden and laughter which hadn’t yet turned to the tears the year ahead would bring. But war could not be forgotten for long and conversation soon turned that way. Mrs Hewitt, Marjorie’s friend was eager to show off her “gas-proof room”. It was a small room usually used for storage at the back of the house and was completely equipped. It had stores, water, bedding, first aid equipment - everything needed to shelter three or four people until the gas had dispersed from the area. It had been sealed, and a final touch was a great blanket right over the door. Surely, these little village miles from anywhere would not get a gas attack? Anyway the Hewitts were not chancing it! As it turned out it was the first and only gas-proof room I ever saw - fortunately the Germans were just as frightened as ourselves. Gas was never used, as the risk of retaliation was much too great.

Our gas masks came that evening - four cardboard boxes about eight inches square with four ugly looking gas masks inside. We tentatively put our noses inside them. “Oh, don’t they smell,” I said. “That’s putting it mildly”, John replied, “stink is a more appropriate adjective”. It certainly was a strong smell - a musty rubbery smell - perhaps it would wear off! “It is because they have been in the boxes”, the warden said. We hoped they would stay in their boxes! “Now”, he instructed, “take the straps between your thumbs and fingers holding your thumbs out straight, then thrust your chin out and put it into the mask pulling the straps up over your head, so,” he demonstrated as he spoke. We tried it too – “No – your chin must go in first!” he emphasised. We all finally managed to get them on. “Now, breathe out sharply,” he continued. What a noise, it really sounded rather rude! Like the noise you make as you put your tongue out! As we all breathed out, the air was forced out of the rubber sides of the mask, rather like forcing air out of a balloon. To breathe in the air was drawn in through the snout-like end, which contained a charcoal filter to purify the air and extract the gas. Apart from the noises we made, we looked a comical sight – a bit like the little pigs that ”huffed and puffed” to blow the house down! We all agreed it would be very unpleasant to wear them for long. They were very hot and sweaty and we hoped we would never need to wear them. Before the warden left, he showed us a baby’s gas mask which was a clumsy looking apparatus. The baby had to be put right inside which was surely enough to make any baby howl its head off! I am sure I’d hate to put my baby in a thing like that!

The days passed pleasantly. We had heard from my parents who were relieved to know where we were staying and that we were happily settled. To hear from home made all the difference - it gave a feeling of security, of being missed and loved and difficulties that appeared as time went on never seemed to matter too much as long as the parental link was there, unbroken. Through all the four years I was evacuated, week in week out, my mother’s letters came, sympathising, encouraging, rebuking or loving - all I needed and wanted always given.

Then after two idyllic weeks of idleness a bombshell fell – we would all have to leave Littleport - we were being sent back to Ely. The whole village was upset. Most of the girls had finally settled down and the people of the village were reconciled to having us – we were accepted, and now this! How unfair. We all voiced our protest but it was no use, the only way the school could continue was by sharing with Ely High School for Girls although even that wasn’t large enough to take the extra numbers. An old house had been requisitioned to take the overflow. We didn’t realise then what hard work, what difficulties and opposition had been overcome in the last two weeks by our Headmistress and staff who had stayed in Ely. It was all arranged. We were being moved to Ely on Monday in just two days’ time. When Monday came there were many sad farewells. We would miss Marjorie and John but our stay had been brief, not really long enough for relationships to have become too involved. Now we knew we were going, we were eager to go, not wanting to prolong sad farewells and having the dispassionate logic of youth and the spirit of adventure which the young use to overcome all their difficulties.

Chapter II

The Greens

We went by rail this time - a local train on a single track. With a smattering of local folk, we just about filled its four carriages. Back we went past the two landmarks we remembered, first the sugar beet factory then the windmill, but long before the mill we saw the Cathedral. It was so beautiful standing in the sunlight silhouetted against the sky, our view unobstructed by any other building - it seemed to dominate the town.

The journey only took about fifteen minutes, it was as though our time at Littleport had never been. We felt peculiar, experiencing the same strangeness on the same station platform, to be counted and checked as before and none of us knowing where were going. This time there were no rations but we all carried gas masks and we all knew we were here to stay, so it wasn’t quite the same! It was well organised with addresses allocated, younger children taken to their new addresses and older ones making their own way and introducing themselves.

Mary was given our address and we started off, lugging our luggage with us. It was apparently somewhere in the High Street, number 50. “Forty-six, forty-eight – that’s queer, they are all shops”, I said. “Are you sure you’ve got the right address?” “Number 50, a Mrs Green”, Mary replied, “This next shop is called Green’s Gentleman’s Outfitters, this must be it”. “What do we do, just go in? You can’t very well ring a shop’s bell, can you?" I queried. Mary had put most of the luggage down to look at the paper with the address on it. Now, she resolutely picked it up saying, “Come on, let’s go in and find out. Put your hat on straight - you don’t look very tidy”! “I don’t care, I don’t like the look of this place anyway”, I said in an unhappy voice. “I must admit I’m not too enthusiastic myself, but we’ve got to go in - they may be very pleasant people,” Mary said hopefully. I’ve really no idea why we felt like this about the Greens. It might have been just first impressions of the shop - dark brown paint everywhere, brown carpet, full of men’s clothes, which were dark and heavy, and a long, dark narrow alley running down the side. It may, too, have been a state of mind, unhappy at leaving Marjorie and John or perhaps the hill was partly to blame - it was so very steep and our cases had got heavier and heavier. No one seemed to expect us and there was no welcome as we had before.

We enquired at the counter whether Mrs Green lived there or where she could be found. A very disinterested and slightly superior young man told us that we must go out of the shop and down the narrow alley and the house was at the back. We dragged up our cases once more and trundled out of the shop and down the side way. We were both by now feeling rather disappointed and looking decidedly jaded but we had apparently at least arrived at our second destination.

Mrs Green was a woman in her middle years, obviously fighting a battle with her weight mainly, I suspect, with corsetry rather than sensible eating. She was well dressed and had blond hair turning to grey. She, too, had a totally indifferent attitude towards our arrival and when we introduced ourselves answered with a cultured but rather hard voice. “Oh, you have arrived, I’ll show you your room. I am afraid it is rather small but it’s the only one we could spare for you”. I, for one, was by that time feeling positively mutinous and probably showed it by looking thoroughly disagreeable and sullen. Mary must have felt the same but being older and responsible for us both glossed it over by saying that we were rather tired and that our cases were very heavy, especially after climbing Fore Street Hill. However, this remark was ignored and we were told to pick up our cases and she would lead the way. Our room was at the top of two flights of stairs, which was almost the last straw. She left us, after a preliminary talk on what we could and could not do. We must make our own beds, dust our room and keep everywhere tidy. They were, she said, business people and well known in the town.

At last we were alone and looked round the room. It was indeed small, half occupied by a double bed. We were to sleep together. Oh dear, we hadn’t shared a bed for many years and didn’t look forward to doing so now. “I hate it”, I announced, “and what’s more I hate her”. “I don’t really like her myself,” Mary said. “But it is no good, we will have to make the most of it. Perhaps she will not be so bad when we get to know her”. We looked out of the window and for the first time felt a little consoled. The view from the back was magnificent. The house backed on to the Cathedral grounds and the Cathedral towered above us magnificent in the afternoon sunshine. All around, right up to the Green’s little garden, the Cathedral grounds stretched. The grass was like green velvet with dots of white where daisies grew and, except for these daisies, it was as well kept as Lord’s cricket ground. Here and there trees and bushes offset the grey stone of the Cathedral and its superb architecture. We had never before appreciated that mere stone and mortar could look so beautiful.

We met the rest of the family that evening when we joined them for the evening meal. Mrs Green was presiding with Mr Green, of similar girth and stature, beside her. He appeared at first sight to be a ‘brown’ man – not his skin of course, as he was a fen man with a broad fen country accent to prove it, but all the rest of him was brown. Brown hair, brown eyes, immaculate brown suit (a model for customers), light brown-stripped shirt and brown shining shoes encasing his solid feet. Then there were the boys, one big and one smaller, both almost identically dressed in the clerical grey school uniform worn by the Cathedral schoolboys. They both had pink, shining, moonlike faces, crowned by a shock of fair hair brushed straight back from their foreheads and flattened to their heads, probably with a good application of tap water, as little tufts stuck up like miniature palm trees. They both smirked at us as we entered and I hated them on sight, stuck up pigs, I thought. Mr Green boomed a welcome and Mrs Green served the meal. I must admit she could cook - we had no complaints about the food, but were very glad when the meal was finished as we were plied with questions from beginning to end. Their main concern seemed to be about our social background - it was obviously a great anxiety to them. They were wanting to assure themselves that they hadn’t let into their home a couple of undesirable London children who would be an embarrassment to them or perhaps contaminate their two golden boys and that we were from a ‘respectable’ family. The fact that my sister was going to Teacher Training College in the near future was her salvation and from that moment she could do no wrong! My fate however was quite the opposite. To them I was a positive embarrassment - I was what some would kindly call plump, but others would say just downright fat. This appearance and my present mood couldn’t be anything but unattractive, though normally I was a pleasant-natured, happy child and being big was offset by a smiling face. This aspect of me, however, they unfortunately were never to see and I presented them instead with this undesirable picture of a fat, sullen girl who, to their horror, was the one who would have to stay.

A few days passed but things did not improve. I became unhappy and Mary didn’t really know how to cope and became increasingly worried about leaving me with the Greens when the time came for her to start College. It all came to a head one morning. The night before I had been writing home to my mother and my letter was full of misery. I am afraid at thirteen you pour out your troubles regardless of the distress you might cause. I had grumbled about everything, including the food, which wasn’t really fair, but to cap it all, looking round the bedroom I had finished by saying, “even the beds have tablecloths over them instead of counterpanes”. Actually, they were white figured counterpanes but did look very much like the large damask tablecloths my mother used, and it seemed a really good way of hitting out at this family who had made me feel so unwanted. I do not know if I really meant to send that letter or not, anyway I put it in my suitcase and promptly forgot about it.

After breakfast the next morning an irate Mrs Green stormed up to us, “You girls, I want a word with you”. What had we done now? “I won’t stand it any longer, what insolence, what impertinence, we are respectable people in this town and she will have to go”, she said. What did she mean? What was she talking about? Mary, being the elder, spoke first, “Perhaps, Mrs Green”, she said, “you could explain what you mean and who is to go?” “Her, of course”, she barked, pointing to me. “I will not have that girl in the house a moment longer”. “What has she done?” Mary asked. She was by now bristling a bit. “This”, she said, and thrust forward what I instantly recognised as my letter home. Gosh, I thought, now the fat is in the fire. “You have no right to have it”, I said. “Be quiet, you rude girl,” she replied, “I found it lying about in your bedroom. The rudeness and lies you have told”. I was by now very upset. “It isn’t true. It was in my case, it’s private and you had no right to open it”, I said. “Another lie”, she said. “It’s not, it’s not”, I cried. That was a real insult as we had always been brought up to tell the truth and this accusation really riled Mary. She said, “I am sure, Mrs Geen, she is telling the truth and you must have been through her case. She is naughty to have written the letter, but it is very wrong to search our cases, which are our own private property”. “I am not going to argue, Mary”, she said. “I liked you from the start but I cannot, and will not, have your sister - she will have to go”.

By this time Mary was not only very cross but was feeling more and more protective towards me. After all, she was over five years older, had been put in charge and instructed by my mother to take care of me. “All right,” she said. “We will both go and what is more we will go now”. Mrs Geen looked alarmed. “Well”, she said in a more subdued voice, “there is no need to go directly”. Mary replied, “You said you could not stand having my sister any longer, and you cannot have one of us without the other”, and with that she grasped my arms and pushed me upstairs. “Now, pack and quickly”, she said. “We are getting out. You know you shouldn’t have written all that in your letter, but it’s done now and it serves her right for going through our things”.

We took about ten minutes to pack and hump our cases down the stairs. By this time Mrs Green was beside herself. “What will the neighbours say”? Mary firmly said “Goodbye”. “Where are you going?” said Mrs Green. “To sit on the pavement until we are collected by the school”, Mary proclaimed. “You cannot do that”, Mrs Green pleaded in a horrified voice, “everyone will think I have thrown you out”. “Well, so you have”, Mary stated. Then she marched out set the cases firmly on the pavement and sat on them, at the same time instructing me to do likewise. What a commotion! For the next half-hour she implored us to return to the house, but Mary was adamant. However, when Mrs Green, in tears, assured us that a member of our teaching staff was on her way, we agreed to return until she arrived. It was Miss Jay, our history mistress, who arrived - each teacher was responsible for girls billeted in roads near where they were themselves living and we were Miss Jay’s responsibility, unfortunately for her. She listened to the story with a straight, unforgiving face, apologised to Mrs Green for the distress we had caused her and said what naughty girls we were then, to my amazement, and turning her back on Mrs Green, she gave a slow deliberate wink! “I think,” she said, “You girls had best pick up your cases and come back to my flat and we will try and sort things out”. To Mrs Green she said, “Goodbye, Mrs Green. I do not think you will be troubled again. All our girls are now billeted, so we will not be needing your help again”. She gave us a push towards the door and we all marched up the hill along the High Street humping the cases as best we could, finally arriving at her flat which she shared with her sister.

What a transformation now. “You poor girls, what a terrible experience for you”, she said and proceeded to tell the tale to her sister. She had come with the staff to help Miss Jay and the school with the difficult, monumental task of transferring an old London foundation school, dating back to 1725, to a small country Cathedral city with all the differing aspects involved, both educationally and socially. How kind they were to us. They gave us lunch and told us not to worry - another billet would soon be found. My sister was leaving Ely in the morning anyway and starting her teachers’ training course at Saffron Walden Teachers’ Training College in Essex. So it was decided that she could stay with them overnight and I would be found a new billet on my own. Miss Jay went out after lunch to arrange this and came back later with news of my new billet.

Chapter III

The Sharps

I was to be billeted with the Reverend and Mrs Sharp; they lived in the Manse in Chapel Street, which was adjacent to the congregational church, the Rev. Sharp being the Minister of that Church. It was arranged that Mary would come with me to see that I was settled in. She was anxious to meet the Reverend and Mrs Sharp before leaving for college and was not very happy about leaving me alone to fend for myself after our experiences with the Green family. We easily found the Manse, which was right next to the Church. It was a big, square Victorian house painted in the usual dark brown, with an imposing front door which had leaded stained glass in the top half, through which the dim interior could just be seen. We knocked the large black knocker and the door was opened by a rather short, fat little man who peered enquiringly at us through round, horn-rimmed glasses - he wore a dog collar so we presumed he must be the Reverend Sharp. He looked rather old to me, but I was only 13, and everyone over 35 was middle-aged - beyond 40 and they were elderly. He was probably only about 50. Mary introduced us; he turned to a shadow standing in the background and said, “Mother, they have arrived”. A tall woman came forward to greet us; our first impressions of her were never to change very much. She was a pale, anaemic looking lady, who looked taller, perhaps, than she really was because of her thin, gaunt appearance. She was dressed very plainly, had sensible shoes and iron-grey hair. She did not, however, give the impression of being severe, but rather of being timid. She was completely subservient to her husband and was very nervous in his presence - this was apparent as soon as we entered the house. The Reverend Sharp, however, was the complete opposite, with a dominant, rather bombastic, attitude, totally over-shadowing his wife. “Come in girls”, he commanded “and make yourselves at home. Bring in your suitcases and leave them in the hall till we have sorted things out”. He then watched us carry in our heavy cases! Mrs Sharp hovered about, putting in a tentative word here and there but always agreeing to what her husband suggested.

At last the door closed and I had arrived at my new billet – would it be permanent or temporary? Only the future would tell. Although an odd couple, they were relatively pleasant and appeared quite kindly - a message had been sent to Mary early that morning to inform her that the start of College had been delayed by a few more days and on hearing this news, the Reverend Sharp agreed that Mary could stay until College started. We were given tea and then Mrs Sharp went off to make up a bed for Mary and the Reverend Sharp went to his study.

We were alone at last and able to look around and what we saw was a little daunting. It was all so shabby. We were used to our mother’s good housekeeping - she was very house-proud and although we only lived in a small house, it shone from top to bottom and house-plants and fresh flowers were always evident - not forgetting all the knick-knacks, which were regularly washed and replaced every few weeks. My father, a keen gardener, kept his small garden neat and tidy and it was full of colour most of the year. So our first impressions of the Manse were very depressing. Everywhere was so dark and all the furnishings seemed to be the same colour - browns and fawns predominated - perhaps it was even a little dirty. “Never mind”, said Mary, “they seem to be kindly enough and, after all, he is a Minister”. This was a real reason for optimism as we had been brought up very strictly non-conformist - in fact our parents were members of the Congregational Church in our hometown, so we were reassured.

It was soon clear that the Sharp household was run on very Spartan lines, due probably to the fact that ministers’ incomes are notoriously low and they are expected to supplement them either privately or from gifts from parishioners. We had our evening meal in the kitchen, which was large and airy and faced the garden; the food was plain and edible but there was not a lot of it. Mrs Sharp was a reasonable cook and did her best with what was available. After our meal we were shown our rooms and they, too, had little to commend them, being rather bare and comfortless with just a bed, a chest of drawers and a chair. Linoleum covered the floor and there was a small rug by the bed. I was beginning to feel rather homesick; it was very disquieting to sleep in yet another strange bed and how I missed my mother and all her love and laughter. Perhaps it would be better tomorrow - school would be starting and I would be meeting my friends again. We could exchange experiences and it would all seem much less gloomy when we were all together.

A bright sunny morning greeted us the next day; the hint of a first Autumn chill was in the air but it was a beautiful day. Cumulus and altocumulus clouds formed a bright background to this flat Fen country and the sky met the earth on a low, uncluttered horizon. All this beauty made us feel so much more cheerful and we were eager to get to school. We were curious to find out about the new school arrangements. We had heard that we would be sharing school facilities with Ely High School for girls and were to assemble there to be told about these arrangements and our programme for the coming term. The High School would not be starting till the next day so we had the building to ourselves. We filed into the assembly hall, form by form, prefects keeping a watchful eye that all was as orderly as if at school in London. A sea of faces, some anxious and pale, others cheerful and bright with hopes of adventure, all turned towards the platform expectantly.

We all looked a little crumpled, as it was the first time that we had worn our school uniforms, which, some weeks ago now, had been packed by our parents. Few, I fear, had seen an iron since! Our form mistresses were already seated on the platform waiting for the Head to appear. There was a sudden hush as they all stood up, every girl automatically standing too. Miss Menzies, MA, Cambridge, swept in, a magnificent gowned figure with cap in hand, calm and serene. She was a big woman, tall with grey, wavy hair and a kind face, but who could be severe when necessary. Teachers, girls and parents alike respected her. There she stood, just as if all was as usual, steady as a rock, giving us all support and confidence. “Good morning, girls”, she said, “please be seated. Before I relay our plans for the school, we will start our day as usual with a prayer, followed by the school hymn”. So assembly continued in its usual pattern, the only difference being that our Jewish girls were present - in London we were separated for assembly, as both religions were respected; similar arrangements were made later in Ely.

Before assembly ended Miss Menzies addressed the school. She started by saying that she hoped we had all settled into our new homes and that if we had any problems, however small, in regard to either our billets or school matters we must go and discuss them with the mistress responsible for us. Each mistress had be given an area near where she herself was billeted and any girl within that area was her responsibility - in that way no girl need feel alone or isolated. She went on to say that the staff had done much hard work while we had been settling in. Many meetings with different groups and people concerned with our education, health and welfare had been attended. Problems had been sorted out and arrangements made with school education authorities both in Cambridgeshire and London. School governors, doctors, dentists and community health were just a few of the contacts, not forgetting sending out letters informing our parents of all the arrangements. In some cases there had been a need to get parental permission for health issues and such-like. Then there was the question of religion - a very important concern for some families. There must be a place of worship for girls of all religions, with a suitable building organised to be used as a synagogue for the Jewish girls. It certainly was not just a simple task of changing from one school to another. It was evident that everything was being done to ensure that our lives both in and out of school ran smoothly. School would be very important to us in the future.

We were told that a large house called the ‘Old House’ had been acquired as the school’s main headquarters, where Miss Menzies would have her study. Some of the rooms were to be used as form-rooms for lessons but we would also be using some of the classrooms in Ely High School, in particular the science room and laboratories, art and music rooms, together with the gymnasium and playing fields. We would not be having lessons together - we would have our own teachers and our education would carry on just as in London. Miss Menzies explained that these arrangements meant we would all be moving about a great deal and that sometimes it would be necessary to go from one building to another. “The Old House is situated on the Market Square”, she said. “It will take ten minutes to walk to the High School where we are at present. When this happens”, she warned, “it will be in an orderly manner - the good name of the school must be upheld. Remember that we are all guests in this city. Any girl arriving late for a class will be reported to me and I will deal with her”. All this setting up of the school timetable must have been a tremendous task. There were still examinations to be passed - Matriculation, Higher Schools and School Certificates, as well as university scholarships, which needed special facilities. Some of the girls taking science courses would attend classes at King Edward School, a local Public School that had suitable physics and chemistry laboratories.

Our first day was even more chaotic than usual, little work was done but a lot was sorted out - break periods were quite a novelty. The Old House, being situated right on the edge of the Market Square was very convenient. At morning break we were allowed to use it as our playground. It was rather strange, with no railings and no large Iron Gate. In London there had always been hot milk or cocoa on sale, with buns coated in white or chocolate icing - one penny for the hot drink and tuppence for a bun. Now it was very different. Drinks were provided in the Old House, but buns had to be got from the small baker’s shop, which was the other side of the Market Square. There were not only buns but also doughnuts, jam or cream, which soon became our favourites. They were often still warm from the baker’s oven!

The Old House was also used in the evenings for homework or leisure activities. This gave families who had girls billeted with them some space for themselves and, of course, it cut both ways. Privacy was one of the things we had to learn to do without. I found piano practise in the Old House very difficult with so many people around - the only place for a piano was on the landing, as all other space was used for teaching or equipment. As I had no other access to a piano it had to be given up! We did, although sometimes reluctantly, learn to consider others and not feel sorry for ourselves - a hard lesson when you are only 13 and on your own.

Back to the house after our first day back at school. My sister was getting very anxious – it was all so dreary and she was off to college soon and would have to leave me, probably very miserable and lonely. It was a great relief for her to hear that another girl would be taking her place at the Manse and would be joining me soon. Jean was younger than me by about eighteen months so I did not know her very well - you did not mix with the younger girls unless necessary! However, I had heard about her; she was one of the Harrow girls. My father had worked with hers and both families had met up at several school functions. Jean had not been with the original group of girls evacuated, but once war was declared her parents had decided to let her continue her education in safety and join the school at Ely. Some parents refused to send their children out of London, for whatever reason, so there was still a small nucleus of girls attending our old school. Their school days must have been horrendous as Spitalfields was right in the East end of London and during the Blitz that area was bombed continuously throughout the whole six years of war. There had never been any question of this happening to me, my mother being a very positive person who would have suppressed any personal feeling for my safety and well being. Neither would she or my father consider sending me to the USA or Canada, to where some families fled. The journey across the Atlantic would have been far too dangerous; as was proved when many ships with families and young children were torpedoed and sunk on their way to what they thought would be a safe haven.

Jean arrived and we settled in very well together. The Reverend Sharp was quite amicable; he spent a lot of time in his study supposedly writing his sermons and was no great problem to us. My mother saw a very different side to his character. She used to come down from London to get away from the bombing on occasional weekends. She would stay in a local hostelry used mostly by fisherman which overlooked the river Ouse and where, I understand, ration books were never mentioned! Every day after school she would visit us and was made very welcome by the Sharps. After our departure to bed she spent the rest of the evening with them, chatting and playing cards. Her visits were appreciated - she was careful to pay her way, as the Reverend Sharp and his wife were obviously finding it difficult financially. In fact, an arrangement was made whereby my parents enhanced the official allowance given to families looking after evacuees, as they realised it was not sufficient to keep a child and feed them satisfactorily. They did this the entire time I was evacuated.

My mother’s visits were more frequent as my father was not able to get away very often and it made a lot of difference to me at a very difficult and unsettling time. On one of her visits, she spent several evenings, as usual, with the Reverend and Mrs Sharp until one evening Mrs Sharp was said to be unwell and my mother was entertained by the Reverend Sharp on her own. They played a game of Solo, I believe. Then, to her embarrassment, the Reverend Sharp became rather bold - whether due to a glass of sherry or because he found my mother attractive, we shall never know. His conversation took a turn for the worst - he was obviously enjoying himself and his boldness took the form of telling her ‘saucy’ jokes, some rather ‘near the bone’. She cut her evening visit short - fortunately it was her last and in future she made sure my father was with her!

Mrs Sharp was always in the background and very much under the thumb of her husband. Her conversation with him seemed to consist of “Yes, dear”, “No, dear”, with an occasional “As you say, dear”. We never did seem to get to know her very well. To us young teenagers this subservient attitude only made us feel slightly disdainful towards her - we may even have despised her. She was just there, but if we had been older and more mature, we would have felt sympathy and compassion. She was no lover of housework, which was obvious from the beginning. It was probably very difficult to be enthusiastic about the Manse - a big, old, dark, dusty Victorian house, cold and comfortless and maintained on a very limited income. Her cooking was not too bad - probably most of the money went on the food, judging by the Reverend Sharp’s rotund figure! From the very first, I was expected to do jobs around the house - make my own bed, for example. It was a first time for Jean, too. Mrs Sharp told us that we must also dust our bedroom but said, “Please do not pull out the beds in case you disturb the dust”. Well, of course, we did not mind that instruction – just one less chore for us! We were also expected to wash our own clothes – what a farrago that was on our first wash day! It seems difficult to understand how the school failed to notice our appearance – I cannot remember ever using an iron!

Life at the Manse continued. Jean and I managed our chores enough to satisfy Mrs Sharp’s standards of hygiene - the Reverend’s standards as well, I suspect. We were quite put out one day on our return from school to find the kitchen table not set for tea, which we’d been looking forward to, but being used as a work-bench to mend the lavatory seat on! Not really surprising, as my mother found on one visit a chamber pot under the bed with thick limestone in it - probably left by their last guest. Could it have been a Cannon? Maybe even a Cardinal!

Personal hygiene wasn’t much of a problem to us. It was easier to have a ‘lick and a promise’ than face the bathroom which was vast, extremely cold and uninviting - to strip off and wash was just too much. There was an enormous iron bath – very discoloured - along one side of the room, bare lino on the floor and a tiny, triangular wash-basin in one corner - only cold water of course! In those days, in 1940 to be exact, very few houses had central heating and to heat a bathroom was a luxury. It really was as cold as charity and we were never offered hot water. The result was, naturally, a couple of very dirty girls. Each night and morning we washed our hands and the middle of our faces as quickly as possible and seemed to get by unnoticed - that is until one fateful weekend! It so happened that both lots of parents arrived together to see their ‘little darlings’ - or not such little darlings! One look was enough. What a hullabaloo - we were in big trouble! Questions were asked and we had the indignation of a personal inspection – at our age too! The worst offence seemed to be the tidemarks found on our necks! The Reverend and Mrs Sharp had to admit it was all too much, what with their advancing years and Mrs Sharp’s feeble, though gentle, attitude. The Reverend Sharp explained, “She is not always very well, you must understand”. It was quite impossible for them to manage two teenage girls. We were taken to the Headmistress, who was shown the tidemarks on our necks, and we could not have been more mortified. She agreed that the Sharps, although well meaning, could not really cope, as they had never had children of their own. Two new billets must be found, as there were no longer any billets that could take two girls together.

The parting from the Manse was friendly enough; the Reverend Sharp and his wife were thanked for offering their home and there was no ill feeling on either side. Later I was often to see them, as I used to attend the little Congregational Church attached to the Manse when it became a synagogue on Saturdays I went with my two Jewish friends, as it was their Sabbath. On Sundays they attended a service in the Cathedral with me - we always respected each other’s religious beliefs.

CHAPTER IV

The Tayors

It was a disaster from the very beginning. The house was on the edge of town at least a mile from the school and nowhere near my friends. It was a house on a large council estate. I had never lived on an estate and it looked to me to be full of hundreds of houses all exactly the same – some clean, some dirty, some with immaculate little gardens some with gardens full of rubbish.

The house I was taken to was clean and tidy which cheered me up but what would the people be like? Mr and Mrs Taylor was their name. We knocked on the door which was opened by a man in his shirt sleeves and braces; beside him stood his wife - a big woman in a wraparound apron. She was indeed the sternest looking woman I had ever seen – straight iron-grey hair, not a smile on her face. In fact there was not a smile between the two of them. We were invited in. The front door led straight into a small sitting/dining room which had a small kitchen at one end. Another door led into a downstairs bathroom, which also had copper for washing the clothes. Upstairs there were three bedrooms - one for Mr and Mrs Taylor, one for their son Bernard, a year older than myself, and the other for me. Later I discovered my bedroom had been their daughter’s, who was away nursing. She apparently had left home some time ago and was seldom mentioned. I never heard Bernard ever speak about his sister. From this I gathered there had been a family disagreement of some kind; I never met her as she never visited her parents at any time while I was with them. My bedroom overlooked the garden, which was very narrow but long and beautifully neat. It was obvious that Mr Taylor was a keen gardener and grew all their vegetables.

It was never a friendly house. There were two issues which caused problems, which did not help. Firstly, the North/South divide - the Taylors came from South Yorkshire, our family was from Essex. Secondly, my father was employed by the London North Eastern Railway (LNER) as a Controller for the London to Cambridge area and was a so-called ‘white collar’ worker. Mr Taylor also worked for the LNER but as a signalman, taking his orders from the Control. This animosity I was not aware of for a long time. As far as I was concerned, friends were friends - their backgrounds and status made no difference. Both my family and school embraced this. Our school had both fee-paying and scholarship pupils, Jewish and non-Jewish children - we all mixed up together and it worked well.

Bernard, the fourteen-year-old son of the house, had a girlfriend who lived next door - a slim girl with flaming red hair, well able to look after herself. Bernard went to Soham Grammar School and was considered very bright - he also thought a lot of himself! I was used to boys as at home I lived next door to three boys and my best friend had a brother we went about with. However, a friendship with Bernard began and ended about the third day I moved in - friendship with Barry was only possible as a sexual relationship. I never breathed a word to my parents but was horrified one night when he walked into my bedroom and made advances which I had never encountered before, but which I knew were not right. So I showed him the door - and my disgust. After that he looked out for any opportunity to get me into trouble or to ridicule me, which undermined any confidence I might have had. This went on month after month. Why I never complained to my parents, I do not know. Maybe I was ashamed about his sexual advances even though I had not responded.

It was now wintertime and extremely cold in the Fen country with no hills and few trees to stop the wind. I was so cold in bed at night I used to wear a woolly hat, cardigan and woollen socks to try and keep warm. The one good thing I remember was Mrs Taylor’s scallops - slices of potatoes dipped in batter and fried, which was a North country recipe and very enjoyable. I used to walk one-and-a-half to two miles to school every day but after a while my parents had my bicycle sent to Ely and it made a great difference. It was bicycle country and everyone had baskets on the front which were made locally from willows by the river. Most of us girls enjoyed cycling - it was so flat it was no effort to go miles, often as far as Cambridge about sixteen miles away. We did occasionally have to go up hill, as Ely sat on a hill surrounded by miles of flat Fen country.

Then there was ‘the move’. The Taylors had been wanting to move away from the Council estate and buy a house of their own for sometime and at last it was possible. They had chosen an older type house on the main Littleport to Ely Road, about half a mile nearer to the town centre and to school. At last, after much packing and travelling back and forth, we moved into the new house. What a dark old house it was, with a much smaller garden. I do not know if they were happy in the new house - I think money was ‘tight’. I was not allowed to eat too much – slices of bread and butter were restricted, although I noticed Bernard managed to eat many more than I was allowed. I never complained -just felt miserable. Another problem was light – I was terrified of the dark and hated going upstairs to bed at night without a light. I did tell my mother about this and I remember she bought me a little battery lamp in the shape of a lamppost with a black cat standing underneath. I loved it, as it reminded me of Jim our cat back home. Soon after having this problem solved, it was all gloom and doom again. I was called a “sissy” and the lamp was confiscated. To make matters worse Bernard used to hide at the top of the stairs when I went to bed and jump out at me. I was really afraid to go up those stairs to bed at night.

No wonder I was not doing well at school - I was so unhappy with no praise from anyone and the Taylord always telling me how well Bernard was doing at school. The school, not knowing what was going on, gave me no praise or encouragement either. I was longing for my parents’ next visit, if only to see their smiling faces and to be loved again. This unhappy situation went on for almost a year, until one weekend when my parents were coming down to visit me. I was so looking forward to their visit, I could hardly get to sleep the night before. I had decided I was not going to say anything about being so miserable. I would be brave and not worry them - they had enough to worry about, not least the bombing of London. However, when they arrived I took one look at them and burst into tears - it was all too much to bear. I could not cope any longer on my own. My mother and father were horrified when it all came out to realise how unhappy and miserable I had been without them knowing for so long. My mother had her say and theTaylors were told in no uncertain terms of their inability to look after any child. I was taken to school to see the Headmistress; she was mortified to think that no-one from school had spotted the problem. I was to be moved yet again and not even allowed to stay another night in that house. I was to go to another billet that day and my parents would stay and see me settle in and meet the people I was being billeted with. We were told I would be with a Mr and Mrs Johnston.

CHAPTER V

The Johnstons and William

It was not a very friendly departure from the Taylors, as no doubt they were not too pleased to be found wanting. I also suspect they would miss the money from the government and the extra money my parents had always given them. I was most anxious to see my new home and to meet Mr and Mrs Johnston. They lived in quite a different part of Ely, on the other side of the town, which today would be described as ‘up market’. The road on one side was behind the Ely to Cambridge road, which led into the town centre and past the High School, to which our school was linked. On the other side of the road were the playing-fields of The Edward the Confessor School for boys, a public school closely connected with the Cathedral, to which our school was also linked – so far so good!

It was a very attractive area - playing-fields opposite, with a view of the Cathedral through the trees in the distance and open fields spreading out towards Cambridge. The house was at the top of a slight hill and it looked great – it was a new house standing quite high with two levels of steps up to the door. It was now early summer and the front garden was full of roses. We knocked at the door - it was opened almost immediately and we saw two smiling, welcoming faces . They were a young couple, probably about the same age as Mr and Mrs Pike at Littleport (it turned out that Mrs Johnston (Bess) was 29 and Mr Johnston (Walter) was 32) and I just knew that everything was going to be all right. It was a lovely house, bigger than I had ever lived in. There were four bedrooms - a luxury in the 1940s. The bedroom which was to be mine was all pink and white and so pretty! I was delighted with it and it even over-looked the garden and fields beyond. Downstairs there was a big kitchen with a walk-in larder and two reception rooms; the sitting-room had French doors which opened into the garden. As the house stood high everywhere looked light and airy.

The garden was a good size - wider than average because of a garage at the side. Walter had a car, which he was able to run even though it was wartime, because he was an Engineer Surveyor and visited the farms in the area surrounding Ely to inspect and maintain all their farming equipment. It was a reserved occupation as farming was a top priority in wartime. The more food produced the fewer ships lost importing food. It was essential to grow food ourselves and be as self-sufficient as possible. ‘Dig for Victory’ was on posters everywhere. The bottom of Bess and Walter’s garden had been dug up and made into a vegetable plot – flower gardens everywhere were being dug up and vegetables planted, even in parks and public places, and many girls joined the Land Army in preference to the ATS, WAAFS or Wrens. There were, however, small areas in gardens for flowers to enhance our lives and cheer us up during those dismal war-time days. Bess and Walter’s garden was no exception and there was an area outside the sitting-room where they grew flowers, and a small lawn; both Bess and Walter were keen gardeners.

Then we were introduced to the rest of the family – there was ‘Grandma’, Bess’s mother, who lived with them. She was a sweet, gentle, old lady but was unfortunately diabetic and going blind - little could be done in those days to save her sight. Then there was William, Walter’s young brother, sent to Ely to get away from the bombing of Liverpool, one of Hitler’s main targets outside London. William had lost his mother when a very small child and Walter, being twelve years older, had a lot to do with his upbringing. William was full of fun and mischief and we were firm friends from the beginning. He was not a bit like Bernard Taylor, who was a bully and who I had been terrified of. William also went to Soham Grammar School but, unlike Bernard, was forever in trouble – especially with homework! Walter, however, was quite strict with him and kept his nose to the grindstone! We went out a lot together - we both had bicycles and I remember racing about together on them. Ely, built on a hill, with steep roads to the Cathedral, was irresistible. We rode full speed down those steep roads then up the other side as far as we could get. I was often perched on William’s cross bar which was great fun. Lastly, but most importantly, an adorable member of the family was Laddie, Bess and Walter’s beautiful black and tan border collie. He had a lovely, gentle disposition and I loved him. I had always had pets all my family were animal lovers - cats, dogs rabbits were all considered part of the family and now I had found another animal friend to love.

I have only good and happy memories in the next three years with the Johnstons’. I will try and list some of those memories as those three years slipped happily by. I remember my parents, especially my mother, coming down quite frequently. I was luckier than other girls as my father, working for the railway, was entitled to cheaper tickets or free train passes. She stayed, as she had done in the past, in the Inn by the river; she was always made very welcome by Bess and Walter and was always invited for meals. Bess was a marvellous cook and, as Walter worked with farmers, rations were often supplemented. Her specialities were trifles, topped with real egg custard made in a double saucepan and big egg custard tarts sprinkled with nutmeg, cut into slices when the custard was cold and had set. Walter was often given pork fillets from pig farms he visited and farm butter which we always had on the table. Bess spread sage and onion over the pork fillets, then rolled them up and roasted them. When cold these were cut into delicious slices. Bread was home baked. My grandmother taught me how to bake bread at quite a young age so I became quite an expert with yet another teacher and later in life always baked my own bread. My mother was also a good cook but could not produce meals like she had before the war. She now had only basic wartime rations, so we all appreciated Bess’s cooking. I also have to mention fried onions! Bess found out I adored fried onions, which she especially cooked for my tea when I got home from school, just as my mother always spoilt me by cooking special dishes I was fond of at home before the war. I remember the competition William and I had, which was to see who could eat the most slices of bread. Bess joined in this ‘bit of fun’ and I won by one slice. I believe we managed to eat a whole loaf of bread between us - a very large loaf. They really understood young teenagers and gained a lot of respect from us - therefore we listened to them when they disapproved of things we got up to.

I had some wonderful birthday and Christmas presents from them – a pale blue glass scent spray with a long tassel and a cut-glass powder bowl, complete with a huge swansdown powder puff - it stands on my dressing table to this day. I must have been 16 or 17 when I was given eggshell blue cami-knickers with lace and embroidery round the bottom. They were such wonderful presents. Necklaces of hand painted shells threaded on silk cord were all the rage, it was difficult to get hold of luxury gifts so people made their own, or sold them to others. Every week I used to go with Bess to collect eggs from one of her friends who kept chickens. I also used to admire their huge onions which were often put into local competitions for the biggest and best vegetables; they frequently won prizes. Before going home we were always offered a sip of home-brewed raspberry wine, another of their specialities.

There were other memories and happy times with friends at school, playing tennis and hockey for the school – playing-fields in Ely were so much better than in London. As it was a city school, our playing fields were miles away and we had to be ferried by bus from school each Thursday, which was called ‘Field-day’. There was a school competition to enable us girls to contribute to the war effort by being self-sufficient. It was a tough, physical competition and entailed sugar beet ‘singling’. This meant leaving one strong sugar beet from each plant and singling out all the smaller beets around that plant. I cannot remember having any option about entering the competition; we all had to do it. We went one morning, quite early before it got too hot, to a field of sugar beet. The field looked enormous - what a task, but there was a prize at the end! The beet grew in clumps in very long rows, which extended from one dyke to another. We were told exactly what to do and given three rows each. We were to be timed and there were extra marks for being the most efficient as well as the quickest. Off we went; it was really hard, as farm work always is and we all got very hot and sweaty with aching backs and legs. I won second prize. I was actually the quickest but the next girl’s rows were better singled - I had left a few small beets behind. However, I was satisfied to have done fairly well and gained a prize.

Another school competition, when I did get first prize, was for the best kept plot in our school garden. The head mistress had negotiated with the owner of a very large garden, which was turned over to the school to be used by girls interested in gardening. Each girl was given a plot to make into a garden of their own, flower or vegetable, the choice was theirs. The top of the garden was still retained by the owner – it was mainly grass but in the middle was a very old, gnarled mulberry tree. I had never seen such a tree or its fruit before and don’t think I have since.

My schoolwork improved and I acquired quite a good School Certificate - as good as my sister, who had finished College and was teaching in Chelmsford, Essex. I had always wanted to be a nurse; Bess and Walter approved of this as Walter’s sister had trained to be a nurse and was currently working as a Health Visitor in Liverpool. My parents had other things in mind. They suggested applying to a Teachers’ Training College and following in my sister’s footsteps or working in a Bank, neither of which appealed to me. I sent for application forms to a hospital I had found accepted girls for training at sixteen and a half - I was by then in the lower sixth studying Biology, Chemistry and Physics. My parents then realised I was in earnest and that it was really what I wanted to do. Unbeknown to me, my mother then visited several hospitals to obtain information on nurse training and the best hospitals to apply to without wasting my education. They agreed not to oppose my wishes if I applied to one of the big London teaching hospitals. This I did and was accepted at the Royal London Hospital. It had a waiting list of over 200 so I was very lucky to be accepted. I spent many happy years there but that is another story. Now I had been accepted for nurse training, I had several months before being able to start and I thoroughly enjoyed them - it was a carefree time of which I made the most.

Apart from William, there had been two other boyfriends - one I met at the local tennis club. He was a shy, good-looking boy called Donald who partnered me. He had never been further than Ely in his whole life - a real country boy. Just after I left school I invited him home to London - this was very adventurous for him, and also the “doodle bugs” were still a threat to Londoners. He arrived on our doorstep clutching a rabbit, still with its fur on, as a gift for my mother. She was rather dismayed, as she had never skinned a rabbit before. However, she was very grateful, as meat was still rationed and very scarce. Undaunted, she thanked him, saying how thoughtful of his mother and managed very well - we had it roasted with stuffing while he was with us and it was very tasty! Another boyfriend was an ex-RAF boy – James - who was invalided out of the force because he had a slight limp from contracting polio somewhere abroad. He was older than me and our friendship did not last long, although he was keen to continue. He was a very nice boy and good to me but all my thoughts at that time were on my future in hospital – boys were not to be taken seriously.

Other very enjoyable times were with my friend Ethel who was also going to train as a nurse and had a place at University College Hospital. Funnily enough, we had never expressed our ambitions to each other about wanting to be a nurse and it was great to find our interests were the same. Our Headmistress allowed us to go every Thursday to the Bishop’s Palace, which had been converted into a military convalescent home for injured soldiers, knowing we would be future student nurses – what a Headmistress! We were very lucky girls. We really enjoyed our time there and worked very hard, mostly doing chores; bed making, dusting and so on, but we got the first feel of caring for others.

I was also having my first taste of adult life and awareness of the opposite sex - like enjoying the wolf whistles from RAF and army boys in town, when I rode my bicycle. I was very aware of my nice long legs, as apparently they were too! It was incredible that, although the town was full of the military and young schoolgirls, often out in the ‘black out’, there was absolutely no trouble. I have no memory of anyone from school getting into trouble from any undesirable relationship or friendship; home and school discipline was very strict and no one let themselves or the school down; military discipline must also have helped.

So finally, I departed back to London with lots of happy memories, which made up for the bad times. The time I spent with Marjory and John Pike and then the three happy years with Bess, Walter and William, not forgetting Grandma and Laddie, will always remain with me. Perhaps that is the reason I have always enjoyed the company of young people and realised that there are all sorts in this life, good and bad, and you have to learn to live with them all.

Epilogue

Recently, while on holiday in New Zealand, I met a couple who had known Bess and Walter. They told me they had adopted a little girl (Celia), as they were unable to have children of their own. They eventually retired to Jersey and lived there happily for the rest of their lives, which is only fitting for a couple who had given such happiness to others.

I have also learnt recently that the mulberry tree I mentioned growing in the school garden in Ely, could indeed have been a very old tree with a history. Apparently, James the First, round about 1608 ordered that large numbers of mulberry trees be grown in large gardens, including the gardens of Oxford and Cambridge Colleges. This public money was spent to encourage and promote the silk industry, as the silk worms ate mulberry leaves. However, there are two types of mulberry tree - those which produce white berries and those which produce red. It was the white berry tree which attracted the silk worm but unfortunately many hundreds of trees were the red berry type and much public money was wasted. There is today, growing in the gardens of Christ College Cambridge, a mulberry tree called ‘Milton’s tree’, as Milton was said to have sat under the tree while composing his sonnets, making it also rather a romantic tree. It was also the theme of the old nursery rhyme, “Here we go around the Mulberry bush on a cold and frosty morning” - it is rather a bush-like tree.

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