MEMORIES

Yesterday was the 70th anniversary of the outbreak of the Second World War and in London a service was held for all those still living who were evacuated from their homes and families and sent to the country to keep them safe from bombing. It was a traumatic time for all, although bombing began only months later, parents were fearful for their own and their children’s safety. They were faced with a terrible dilemma, should they risk keeping the children at home and run the gauntlet of the bombing which was bound to come, or should they send them away to total strangers. They knew that whichever way they decided their children were likely to be traumatized.

Most parents decided upon evacuation and there were many tragedies as a consequence - children not collected by their foster parents and left to fend for themselves in tumbledown buildings; children who were dealt with like slaves by their foster parents and often brutally handled, others who were terrified at finding themselves on farms in the middle of nowhere when they were accustomed to crowded city streets and in the case of one group sent to Canada, death on the high seas as a result of enemy torpedoes. Of course there were many dedicated and kind foster parents who treated their evacuees as members of the family. City streets became quiet and deserted overnight because of the mass exodus of children and the population of country villages and their schools often grew four or five times. Finding room for all the new children in classrooms caused many headaches for head teachers.

I was one of those evacuees but was lucky with my foster parents, although I had to be moved from my first place because there was a boy there my own age with a wooden leg due to a mowing machine accident on the farm. It was a small farm and we shared the same bedroom. I became terrified each night when his mother removed his wooden leg and I was able to see his poor, misshapen thigh which he delighted in showing me. I couldn’t stand it, used to scream my head off and the local vicar kindly arranged for me to be moved to another farm in the district. My new foster mother was kindness personified and I am forever in her debt and that of her youngest daughter who was the one who really brought me up during the five years I was with them.

I remember well the journey to the railway station from my home, accompanied by my sister, who was also being evacuated and my father, who was coming to see us off safely. I had to wear an identity label (a luggage label attached to my coat) and carry my gas mask (a horrid thing, the rubbery smell of which can still give me nightmares) as well as my suitcase with what few clothes I was given to take with me. I remember both the excitement of riding on a steam train for the first time (I was 6 years old) and the fear of the unknown as we neared our destination in the heart of Wales. I remember the reception party in the local Drill Hall when we arrived and the long snaking line of us as we were marched there from the station. I remember the distinctive smells, for I had never been in the countryside before and also the tears as I said goodbye to my sister, for we were allocated to different farms.

I was extremely happy once I had settled in with my new foster family and I have kept in touch with them ever since, visiting whenever possible, which I still do when I am in Britain. I realise now just how important was the influence of that family, the peacefulness of the surroundings and the closeness with nature there, in developing my character. However, I would never wish the experience of forceful separation upon any child and pray there will never arise an occasion when it becomes necessary again.