Читать книгу Arts to Intelligence - Doreen Galvin - Страница 3

A few years before the declaration of war on September 3, 1939, Pett, our small village, was a quiet and peaceful place. My family had left London from choice. One summer when I was a school girl, I found myself living in a bungalow six miles from the nearest town. We had exchanged all mod. con. (modern conveniences) for oil lamps and a four-burner Valor Perfection oil stove that baked some of the best cakes I have ever tasted. We even sported among other things the latest in lighting - an oil-cum-gas Aladdin lamp. This provided excellent illumination, but was a little temperamental at times. On occasion, it was "put out to grass" to burn off the flames it threw upwards, instead of concentrating its heat into the gas mantles the Instruction booklet alluded to so confidently. It was three years before electricity was available in the village.

We also boasted modern plumbing This, however, was dependent on the water tank in the loft, which was filled only by the efforts of all of us taking turns at hand pumping the precious liquid up the hill from our new well. After reaching its lofty heights for our household use, the water then deluged to its lowest depths without aid from anyone, as it flowed freely downhill through the pipes to the cesspool, carefully hidden in the centre of a mass of gorse bushes. These bushes, almost impregnable, because of their vicious thorns, were also the home of a huge rabbit warren. Here lived several generations of very hungry fluffy little animals. They had first-class taste; they became great connoisseurs of our vegetable garden as they nibbled the small succulent plants that we had sown earlier, to supplement the absence of a local greengrocer.

I took easily to the novelty of living in another age in such beautiful surroundings, rather than in a house that looked like all the others on the street. The local bus, on which I travelled daily to school in Hastings, was of a rather ancient vintage. It was the only bus in the area privately owned and belonged to a local man. It made four or five round trips to Hastings daily and had its designated stops on the way along. The driver, however, would pick up anyone anywhere, so there were many sudden halts as we rattled on our way.

The driver-cum-ticket collector would welcome passengers clutching the largest and most awkward bundles, occasionally smelling of the farmyard, but thankfully he drew the line at anything to do with livestock. He even acquiesced to the wishes of one colourful character, who regularly acquired a thirst on the way home on the early evening run. As we halted outside the White Hart Inn, where we had an official five-minute wait in order to connect with the bus from Rye, our dehydrated passenger would dash out, cross the road to the pub opposite, quench his thirst, and come running back just in time for departure. On occasions when he took too long to drink his pint of bitter, a healthy blast from the horn would get him scurrying from the public bar. He would return hurriedly, brushing the back of his hand across his mouth to remove the excess froth that had accumulated in the rush to consume the last gulp of beer. With his foot barely on the bottom step of the bus, we would take off in haste to make up for the delay. Our imbiber always got a loud cheer from the passengers on these occasions. Such was the pace of life at Pett in those days.

The village at that time comprised a population of four hundred people, a 19th-century church, a good general store which housed the sub-post-office, plus a village hall - all nestled close together. As for the rest, the village was dotted with a straggling bunch of houses placed at intervals on either side of the lane which wound its way around the fields, leading first east then south towards the sea and down Chick Hill to the beach. The houses were built without much thought of symmetry, but with great care as to where the view could be most appreciated. Although our home was situated several minutes' walk from the road, we had the luxury of a visit from the butcher and the baker twice a week, plus a daily delivery of milk from a cheerful red-headed milkmaid who wore a riding jacket and britches at all times. She made the trip regularly down our grassy slope, carrying a small milk churn with a one-pint and a half-pint measure clanking against its side. We provided the jug and she filled it to our specifications. But the quiet farming existence, shared by many retired army and business people, suddenly found itself geographically in the front line of activity during the war.

Two years before war was declared, Hitler had invaded and occupied Austria, the Sudetenland and what remained of Czechoslovakia. When he set his target on Poland, he was warned by Britain that, unless he withdrew his forces from Poland's western frontier, "a state of war would exist between Great Britain and Germany," as the then Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, put it. Unheeding, the Germans thrust forward into Poland and war was declared. After a heroic battle, Poland was forced to cease fire on September 27, 1939 - less than four weeks later. For the following eight months, very little happened, one exception being the many losses sustained by our naval and merchant ships. This period of waiting came to be known as the "Phoney War", though it was definitely an uneasy peace

One area of activity in the village provided a great challenge, entertainment, chit-chat and patience but, most of all, generosity of heart. Towards the end of September 1939, the British Government decided that, sooner or later, London would be the target of many air raids. People who had willing families or friends living in the country were advised to send their children to them to get away from the city to a safer place. But what was going to happen to the children whose families were less affluent, yet whose homes were in the most vulnerable areas of London? The solution to this problem was soon sorted out. The pupils of many city schools were evacuated and sent by bus, accompanied by their teachers to designated towns and villages in the country. We, at Pett, were informed that the children from a school not far from the docks in the East End of London would be arriving the following week. This meant that about one hundred children would need homes - quite a challenge for such a small village as ours.

We had one spare bedroom in our bungalow, so my mother and I decided that, between us, we would volunteer to take on two of the evacuees. A meeting was set up at which all the volunteers were given a general idea of the responsibilities they were about to undertake. "The children will all arrive with enough clothes to keep them going for a while and they will attend school five days a week, either in the village hall or in the village school house," they informed us. "The rest is up to you", they added, "to keep them, feed them and make them feel wanted". For this service, we would be granted a very small allowance - barely sufficient to cover the cost of the children's food with nothing left over for extras.

As we did not own a car, two little children were brought to our home by a couple of volunteers. Then, after introducing us to Alice and Ernie, the volunteers left hurriedly to take more children to their billets. We forgot to ask if they had brought a suitcase with them. Sitting Alice and Ernie down in the kitchen, we gave them some milk and biscuits. "How old are you, Alice?" my mother asked. "I'm seven and ee's six," she said, pointing to her brother. After they had consumed their snack, we showed them their room. Seeing that the children had no luggage with them, my mother said to Alice, "Have you got a suitcase with your other clothes in it, or was it left in the bus?" "Naaw!" she replied. My mother pressed on, "Perhaps your Mum packed them in a brown paper parcel and gave it to the Headmaster?" "Naaw!" said Alice again, "we wasn't given nuffink." The problem was - that we had nothing for the children either!

For the first night, they both slept in their underwear. It seemed quite normal to them. "How can we wash their clothes unless they have some sort of night attire?" we asked ourselves. It would be days before we could go to Hastings to buy any children's clothing, and we needed coupons to purchase them anyway. Instead, we made our first purchase at the local general store and bought the children a toothbrush, toothpaste and a face cloth of their own. On the second day, we looked through the linen cupboard to find what could be spared. A flannelette blanket came to light. It was white with a wide bright blue stripe at each end. "That'll do for Ernie's pyjamas," said my mother. She went to work skilfully and, by evening, Ernie was all dressed up at bedtime in what looked rather like a present-day jogging suit. He was very proud of the blue stripes on the trouser legs and the other splash of blue which was draped prominently across his chest on the pullover top. He said that it made him feel like a footballer. Alice had to wait till the following day, when we cut up one of my nightdresses and turned it into a smaller version of the same.

On their second day with us, we noticed that they each spent quite a lot of their time vigorously scratching their heads. "Is your head itchy?" I asked. "Yus!" came the reply from both of them. It was time, we thought, to take them to the bathroom and inspect those tousled heads more closely. I took charge of Alice, while my mother tackled Ernie who wriggled more than his sister. I was not sure what I was looking for, but I learned to identify the problem very quickly. Yes, there were plenty of lively little critters running back and forth, stirring up itchy feelings in the scalps of the poor little kids. Fortunately, my mother knew of a "Victorian cure". Next day, I took the bus to Hastings in search of "quasha chips", which I obtained from the chemist's shop (drugstore). On returning home, we boiled the chips in water and used the solution as a shampoo. After two or three applications, there was harmony once more in both the heads and the home. About a week later, we were given a minimal quantity of small underwear from the school's emergency supplies.

The children had been living with us for nearly a week. Their "little friends" had disappeared and the routine of our living together was beginning to fall into place. On their first Sunday with us, we decided to celebrate by inviting my uncle and aunt from next door, to join us for a midday dinner. We sat around the dining table in anticipation of sharing an excellent piece of roast beef, two green veg. and roast potatoes. What more could one ask for, with the addition of Yorkshire pudding that was just out of the oven? We adults began to eat with enthusiasm - it was delicious. But our little guests just sat and looked blankly at their plates. "Now, eat up dears while your dinner’s nice and hot," my mother said. "Naaw!" Alice replied. "Do you want yours cut up into smaller pieces, Ernie, so it will be nice and easy to eat?" I asked. "Naaw!" was Ernie's reply. "It won't taste good when it's cold," my aunt added. "Don't you like it?" my mother asked. "Naaw!" said Alice. "Niver don't I!" chimed in Ernie. "Try and eat some of it," we pleaded, "or you'll be very hungry later on." "I don't wannit," said Alice pushing her plate away from her. “I don't wannit niver," echoed her little brother.

My mother decided that persuasion was getting her nowhere and, maybe, she might have more success by asking questions instead. "What do you have at home for Sunday dinner?" she asked kindly. For the first time, Alice showed some interest in the subject and in the audience sitting around the table. She drew herself up to her full height, for she was on home ground at last. She took a deep breath and, with great confidence, said in a loud voice, "WE 'AVE BEER AN' DONUTS!"

It took a great effort to hide the smiles on our faces, but my mother was the first to overcome the difficulty, and promised that we would all have donuts for tea next Sunday if they ate up their dinners now. However, on their first Sunday with us, they settled for bread and jam and milk instead. We began to understand the difficulties of the changing way of life these little children were going through.

For over two months, Alice and Ernie lived with us. We grew quite fond of them and I think they liked us too. Once a month, a bus came from London to bring the parents for a day's outing to be with their children. The trip was free by courtesy of the London County Council, but, alas, our two little kids were disappointed each time. Neither of their parents appeared, no reasons were given, and they did not receive any letters. It was sad having to make up excuses for their parents' neglect.

By November, the Government had a change of mind. It decided (wisely, as it turned out later) that Pett would also be an unsafe area very soon. So, with about a week's notice, the school children and their teachers were evacuated once again to somewhere in the west of England. The village returned to its normal quietness during the days of the "Phoney War". Regrettably, we never heard any more news of the little six-and seven-year olds who had begun to be part of our family.

During that first winter, the beach was still accessible. At low tide, we could walk out to the water’s edge, picking our way between rocky pools and clumps of seaweed across stretches of rippled golden sand. It was part of the entertainment to collect mussels and winkles clinging to the rocks and stones as we went by. These were considered quite a delicacy by many people. At the high tide mark, the beach rose steeply away from the rocky pools and the sand became dark reddish-brown in colour. In rough weather and particularly during the January gales, this part of the beach was often strewn with all kinds of bric-a-brac.

The wind had been very strong and blustery during one of these January days. By nightfall, it had strengthened and soon reached gale force. Neither of us had much sleep that night as the full force of the gale pounded on the bungalow on the open hillside. The doors rattled and the driving rain slashed at the windows all night long. By morning, the storm had blown itself out.

After breakfast, my mother and I dressed up warmly and ventured down to the beach for some exercise and to look at the turbulent waves. On our arrival, we saw the high-tide mark scattered with large white boulder-like objects. Walking up to one of them with curiosity, we poked it with our fingers. It gave way to the touch, leaving our fingers covered with a sticky waxy substance. It was a huge lump of pure bees’ wax. According to the law, no one was allowed to remove anything of value from the beach without the permission of the local Coastguard. He duly examined the washed-up cargo and decided that it was not good enough to salvage. The news spread quickly around the village and the local people came to claim their share of these heavy sticky lumps thrown up by the sea. Some pieces were acquired and taken home by car by their new owners. Most people took their salvaged wax home in wheelbarrows, on the backs of bicycles, or in sacks slung over their shoulders, and some hardy types just dragged their loads in bundles behind them. My mother and aunt each claimed a lump, but it was a family effort to drag them home. There, we scraped the sand and gravel from the outside. Then, we mixed the wax with paraffin to make furniture and floor polish, which lasted us for the rest of the war years.

A week later, an even more interesting cargo from a torpedoed ship washed up on to the shore. During our regular walk, we found dozens of tea chests lying on the beach after the tide had receded. These large strong wooden chests, lined with very heavy aluminium foil, had been thrown up on the shore in an almost undamaged condition. Once again, the people in the village soon heard of the new find. This was a particularly popular cargo as we were severely rationed for tea and, for a nation of tea drinkers, it would be especially valuable. Again, we had to wait for the Coastguard to give his O.K. before we were permitted to return to the beach with all the jars and containers we could carry to fill up with this valuable find. By discarding the first couple of inches of tea from around the outer edge of a chest, we found that the bulk of the tea had not been affected by sea water. Some chests had not been broken at all. The tea we drank for a long time afterwards was not quite as good as the ration we paid for, but it was a real windfall in a time of shortage.

Early in 1940, Pett became a bustling little community as the population grew with the arrival of the Army. A large number of engineers were sent to install defences and booby traps against a more than probable invasion of our shores. Thousands of Romney Marsh sheep, whose breed was named after the pastures on which they fed, were evacuated. Gaps were blown in the sea dykes, which had been constructed just above the high-water mark. These ran for many miles in an easterly direction along the coast line. The dykes protected the below sea-level grazing lands which were spread out for miles behind them. Within days, the fields were completely flooded a mile or more back to the cliff line of a much earlier age. The beaches above the high-tide mark were mined and covered with myriads of coils of barbed wire. Where there were obvious gaps open to the sea, the Army installed ugly concrete tank traps. From then on, we were denied the use of the beach, and visitors were forbidden to travel within ten miles of the coast.

After an eerie peace, events began to happen. Hitler's army invaded and occupied Norway and Denmark in April 1940. The following month on May 10, the Germans burst through the frontiers of Belgium and Holland, neither of which had any choice but to capitulate to the invading forces a few days later. The enemy continued to sweep across France at an alarming speed. On May 19, almost all British operational aircraft which had been stationed on French soil, were recalled to England to continue the fight from our own airfields, and, by May 30, the evacuation of Dunkirk had begun.