Wartime Evacuees

During the Second World War, I was living in West London with my parents, brother and sister. (My mother: Mrs Gertrude Harris, and her children, Brian, Valerie and me Janet.) In 1944 we were informed, by the Government, that all children had to evacuate to the countryside, due to the prolonged bombing of London and the other big cities. Mothers with very young children were allowed to accompany them to their temporary homes. At the time, my brother was 8 years old, my sister 6 years old and I was two. My mother, brother and sister had been evacuated before, in 1939, and were billeted in Somerset. This time we were being sent to Yorkshire.

At the time of this evacuation from London my father was serving in the army, and was stationed in the Faroe Islands, just off Norway.

Mothers and children assembled at Kings Cross Station, ready to board the train to Whitby, in Yorkshire. The sight of the children sobbing and weeping was heart wrenching to watch, as too were the poor mothers who could not contain their own tears as the bewildered children boarded the train. Like all the children, we carried our gas masks in a cardboard box on a piece of string around our necks. Attached to our coats was a label with our name printed on it.

We sat in a carriage, opposite a very well dressed, elegant lady. Thankfully, we children were dressed in our Sunday best clothes. Although my parents had very little money, we were always clean and tidy. The lady struck up a conversation with my mother, and they chatted as the train sped along its journey to Whitby.

Once we arrived at our destination, we transferred to a coach which rumbled through the countryside until we reached a small village several miles from Whitby. We were then directed to the village hall where we sat around the room waiting to be selected by the local residents, the children sitting cross-legged on the floor. The younger children who were on their own looked frightened at the prospect of their new home and its owners, although many of the older children were treating the whole experience as an adventure. The majority of the children had never been outside London or seen cows or sheep in fields. The villagers walked up and down the hall inspecting the children and pointing to the child or children that they were prepared to offer a home to, saying "I'll take that one!"

After waiting what seemed an age, nobody had come forward to offer us a home. My mother went up to the lady in charge of billeting the children and asked if anyone had chosen us. She was informed that the lady that she had been chatting to on the train had agreed to take us in. That lady was, in fact, the Justice of the Peace's wife, and they lived in a house nearby.

The house was a large, brick building on three levels. On the walls along the staircase were portraits of previous Dignitaries dressed in their ceremonial robes. My sister still has memories of these pictures, as she used to sleepwalk at night down those stairs. My mother was forever gently guiding her back up to our room, which was on the top floor of the house. One particular evening, my mother went to find my sister and, as she reached the top of the stairs, she smelt smoke. Quickly grabbing us three children, my mother ran into the bedroom of the Justice of the Peace and his wife shouting that there was a fire somewhere in the house. She had to shake the Justice, as he was profoundly deaf and was unaware of the commotion going on around him. Fortunately, we were all able to get out of the house unharmed. The fire engines arrived and the fire-fighters managed to extinguish the fire that had started downstairs in the kitchen as a result of lightning striking a *Bakelite radio, situated on the window sill, which started the fire. Sadly, our hosts' little Scottie dog died in the fire from smoke inhalation.

*Bakelite was a hard plastic made from a synthetic plastic material.