The Day War Broke Out

by Jacky Hyams

  Eventually the coaches all set off in a convoy, with passengers and bystanders waving to each other excitedly. The mothers left behind looked on forlornly as the convoy increased speed and some of the children on the coaches started to become tearful. Eva noted: ‘I thought I ought to be singing my head off – all that rehearsing at school – but none of the mums on our coach looked like breaking into song and I didn’t feel like starting up on my own.’

  Because there were so many young children on Eva’s coach, the driver was obliged to make several comfort stops and eventually the inevitable happened: ‘Our driver got left behind and completely lost track of the other coaches. The driver had not been told our final destination, he only knew it was somewhere on the Cambridge/Norfolk border.’

  Nowadays, of course, the driver could have used his mobile phone or pager but, in 1939, such things were nonexistent. There had been public telephone boxes in Britain since the 1920s, but most of the population did not even have a home telephone. All the driver could do was drive on.

  The coach kept going and by mid-afternoon everyone was becoming increasingly frustrated. Toddlers and babies were tired and crying, mothers trying their best to cope with them while the harassed coach driver desperately tried to find his way. He kept stopping off at villages, asking for news of the other coaches – but nobody had seen any other coaches passing through. We went round and round, on and on, until eventually, he drew up at a large hall in the village of Upwell, near Wisbech in Cambridgeshire.

  Waiting to meet the coach was a team of women from the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service.

  Great excitement greeted us. They had been told to expect some evacuees and having laid on urns of tea, cakes and sandwiches, they were becoming increasingly worried when no evacuees turned up. We were helped off the coach but before the first cup of tea passed anyone’s lips, it was realised that we were not the expected party but a different group altogether.

  There we stood, the mothers tired and gasping for a cup of tea while the good ladies of the WVS wondered what to do. They were reluctant to dispense their tea and cakes to this stray crowd when any minute now their bona fide evacuees could turn up also needing refreshment.

  After much discussion and delay, Eva’s group were all led into a hall and the food and tea made available to them.

  We still did not know if we were staying, but eventually the powers that be decided as we were ‘in situ’, as it were, Upwell might as well have this lot rather than those planned for the village. Though it was a ‘bird in the hand’ situation, the officials at Upwell were not very pleased. They’d been told to expect schoolchildren and had canvassed the village for householders willing to take in a child. To be suddenly faced with mums, babies and toddlers was a very different proposition.

  There then followed a heartbreaking and humiliating process while the villagers chose those they were willing to take into their homes.

  We all sat around on long forms [benches], for hours it seemed, while villagers were encouraged to come and take their pick. They came in, in ones or twos, walked around us and looked us over. It was a most unnerving experience. We sat still and quiet, trying to look pleasant and acceptable, while weighing up our would-be hosts warily. After careful deliberation, one little family would be chosen – usually a mother with just one child. They would then be transported away by one of the WRVS women.

  Our party was the largest with Mum and three children and the officials said we would have to be split up – nobody in the village could take us all. Mum did her solidarity bit again, said we were all staying together. She would not hear of us all being separated so we sat on while the room slowly emptied of mothers and children.

  Before the Merrills had left, they had each been given a paper bag of ‘iron rations’ to be handed to their prospective householder.

  Delving into this bag – which we had been expressly forbidden to do – I found an enormous bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate. I had never seen such a large bar before, we often had a small bar each at home but this was more mouth-watering than anything I’d ever seen. When we had our little bars, Dad always insisted we broke off a square at a time and daintily popped each morsel into our mouths. We were never allowed to munch at a whole bar, small though it may be. I’d always longed to bite and chomp at the total slab, and now here was this enormous bar in my hands. Behind cover of the bag and shielded by Mum, I surreptitiously peeled off the silver paper and took one huge bite.

  Suddenly the air was rent by a thunderous shout from a hatchet-faced lady, who rushed over and snatched the chocolate from my hands. She proceeded to rant and rave at me for daring to open my bag, let alone actually start eating its contents – this appeared to be the ultimate sin. Mum was rounded on for letting me behave in this way, which left her quite bewildered.

  Dorothy too was subjected to a lecture should she have the temerity to touch her bag, which reduced her to tears. Amid all the shouting and upset, little John wet himself and a large puddle slowly crept over the floor. Cowed and subdued, the family huddled together, feeling very isolated and wishing they had never left London.

  ‘After the shock of this outburst had worn off,’ Eva noted, ‘Mum rallied and dug her heels in even more firmly, glaring at all and sundry and refusing to let either Dorothy or I be taken off without her. Eventually we were the only evacuees left in the room.’

  Meanwhile, the officials bustled around, not quite knowing what to do, casting despairing glances at this awkward family.

  At last one of the more diplomatic of their number came to Mum and told her she had found a household willing to take Dorothy and me and just across the road was another household who would accommodate Mum and John. This official said she would take us all to the first address so Mum could be sure Dorothy and I were all right. If she was satisfied, her own accommodation would be just opposite so we could be in constant touch with each other. I think Mum realised that we would never be placed together, so she reluctantly agreed to this arrangement.

  Transport appeared and soon we arrived at a farmhouse to be greeted by a Mrs Watson, who showed Mum where Dorothy and I were to sleep. This was in the attic, a large, bare room under the eaves with discarded pieces of furniture and other bits of equipment stored around. There was an iron bedstead in the middle which had obviously been made up recently with fresh sheets and blankets. A rug had been placed beside it on the bare floorboards. Though not ideal, we were all very tired so Mum agreed to leave us there. She went off with the official to her own placement – which proved to be a very different proposition.

  This was a small cottage occupied by an elderly couple. It was rather grubby and poorly furnished with no indoor sanitation or piped water. Neither gas nor electricity was laid on:

  The old lady did not want to take in Mum and John, which given her circumstances, was hardly surprising. After an argument on the doorstep in which the official brought pressure to bear, it was found they had a spare bedroom with a bed in it, so they were obliged to take in an evacuee.

  With very bad grace, Mrs Merrill and John were admitted.

  We realised afterwards that neither the Watsons nor the old couple felt they were able to take in any evacuees, but because in each case they had spare sleeping accommodation, they were given little choice. This happened up and down the country and certainly did not help to foster good relationships between evacuee and host.

  Dorothy and I were given something to eat and later on went up to bed, climbing the stairs, clutching a candle. It felt very strange lying in that bare attic room. We blew the candle out and settled down to sleep.

  We soon became aware of scratching and other little noises, scampering feet and squeaks. It was mice, coming out from the woodwork and running round the room. We were terrified, but too scared to get out of bed and run downstairs in case the mice ran over our feet. We lay there clutching each other and wondering what we had let ourselves in for until finally, we fell asleep. So ended our first day of evacuati
on in still-peaceful Britain.

  On that same day, 1 September, German forces attacked Poland by land, sea and air from three directions. No declaration of war had yet been made but the raids began at dawn and continued relentlessly. Britain and France could no longer stand by and ignore Poland’s plight.

  On Saturday morning, Dorothy and I were sent off after breakfast as Mrs Watson did not want us under her feet. We went over the road to Mum, who was struggling to get herself organised in very difficult conditions. The old lady did very little cooking and this had to be done on an old-fashioned kitchen range which needed a fire being lit in it. But as it was early September, the old couple flatly refused to start using their coal just yet.

  They had a paraffin heater on which they boiled kettles of water for tea or hot water for washing. They seemed mainly to live off cups of tea and biscuits, together with bread and cheese. Mum had plundered her bag of iron rations as there was little food in the house and had made a meal of sorts for John and herself. There was considerable tension between them and if Mum could have upped and left, she would have done.

  We all went for a walk to explore the village, meeting up with others from our coach party. Exchanging views on our respective billets gave rise to much discussion, it was so different from the city life we knew. We all felt aimless and adrift and generally spent the day wandering around chatting. There was only one general store/post office and as far as we could tell, no public transport. We could find no trace of pupils from South Haringey School or Hornsey County – where they had finished up was a mystery. Some of the mothers had older children who had gone on the coach with their school group and they were quite understandably worried as to their children’s whereabouts. There was no one to ask, the village hall was shut and the band of WVS ladies had disappeared. Mum was pleased she had insisted we all travel together, at least she knew where Dorothy and I were.

  On Sunday, 3 September, Dorothy and Eva sat around the wireless in the Watsons’ kitchen at 11.15am and listened as Neville Chamberlain broadcast to the nation, explaining that the country was now at war with Germany.

  The adults all looked very solemn but Dorothy and I could not make out why nothing was happening. I don’t know what we expected – soldiers marching through the streets, guns and tanks, perhaps? But there was no indication that the day was any different from the day before. After all the build-up over the few months before, we felt somewhat put out that it had finally arrived in this quiet and uneventful manner.

  The rest of that weekend in Upwell passed reasonably enough for the two girls.

  We soon learned that Mrs Watson, though civil enough, was not to be trifled with. She was a large and formidable woman with massive hips and an enormous bosom. She reminded me of the fat ladies depicted by Donald McGill in his saucy seaside postcards.

  Mr Watson was a very quiet man and though not small in stature, he epitomised the meek husband, henpecked and totally dominated by his overbearing wife. It was his second marriage. His first wife had died; the second Mrs Watson was at least twenty years younger than him. A grown-up son from the first marriage still lived at home and worked with his father on the farm. Mr Watson’s elderly father also lived with them. This frail old man was often the butt of Mrs Watson’s tongue and he looked permanently miserable.

  Eva had taken an instant dislike to Mrs Watson; the feeling was reciprocated. They were constantly at loggerheads.

  I am sure she longed to give me a good clout from time to time, [but] she never quite dared to raise a hand to me. She was not over generous with the food, keeping her well-stocked walk-in pantry strictly out of bounds. It became a point of honour for me to creep in there every day and remove some biscuits or pieces of cake. These I would hide in our attic bedroom and share with Dorothy at night. It never occurred to me that the mice also enjoyed these offerings. Dorothy was always scared I would be caught and went through agonies on my behalf. A real bone of contention was our carrier bags of iron rations, which we had duly handed over when we first arrived. Despite all my promptings we never saw those bars of Cadbury’s milk chocolate again – we suspected Mrs Watson had eaten them when we were in bed.

  On Monday morning, Mrs Watson packed up sandwiches for Dorothy and me and sent us off to the village school. We had not expected this, but dutifully trailed up the road until we came to the school, entering the playground rather diffidently. The local children already there stared at us and we stared back, not knowing what to do. Eventually a whistle blew and they all lined up, ready to enter school. Dorothy and I stood together rather awkwardly at the end of one line, ready to march in with this group.

  Suddenly the teacher with the whistle swooped on us and demanded to know who we were and what we were doing in the playground. I started to explain we were evacuees from London, but this cut no ice. ‘How old are you?’ was the next question. When I said I was twelve, the teacher firmly told me I could not stop there, this was a junior school and they only took children up to age eleven. I meekly said my sister was only nine, so she reluctantly agreed to admit Dorothy and marched her into school while I was shown the gate. I shall always remember Dorothy’s agonised glances as she was led away without me. I waved to her from the other side of the school gate and prepared to trail back to Mrs Watson.

  My welcome back at the farmhouse was no more enthusiastic. ‘You can’t stop here all day,’ announced Mrs Watson. ‘You had better play out in the fields – you have your sandwiches with you.’

  Though Eva did not know it at the time, this was to be the pattern for the next two months. Rain or shine, there was no way Mrs Watson would have her in the house during the day.

  I was given sandwiches in the morning and not expected to appear again until she returned with Dorothy when she had finished school. For two months I roamed around the countryside, amusing myself, helping with the potato harvest, scrumping apples and generally getting up to no good.

  Mum was very cross when she found we had been packed off to school without any prior notice or preparation. She was concerned for Dorothy, who was a very shy, timid child. We all met Dorothy from school that first day and Mum saw a teacher and explained our situation. They had not been aware that any evacuees had arrived in the village and knew nothing about the rest of our contingent. They agreed to keep Dorothy until arrangements could be made to unite her with her rightful school, wherever they might be.

  The weeks went by. Finally, the family were contacted and told they should never have been left in Upwell.

  Our coach should have been directed on to Wisbech to join the rest of our evacuation party. They now proposed moving Dorothy and I into Wisbech, placing us in a household there, but leaving Mum and John in Upwell. Mum, of course, overruled this idea unless they moved her too. Eventually it seemed easier to allow Dorothy to remain at the village school and as there was no transport between Upwell and Wisbech, alternative arrangements were made for me.

  An all-boys school had recently arrived in Upwell, taking over a large mansion to accommodate the boys. Their schooling was held within this building, which also boasted extensive grounds. I learned I was to attend this rather exclusive boys’ school on a daily basis and have lessons with the boys. So, after two months of running wild with no schooling since the previous July, I duly sat in class surrounded by boys and taught by masters with not another female in sight. Though it felt rather strange at first, I soon settled in and quite enjoyed this rather unique experience. Needless to say, I received much attention and rather swanned around, basking in the limelight.

  Life in Upwell raised unexpected problems:

  When we left London on 1 September, we had only been allowed to take a minimum of clothing with us. My top coat was my school coat and Mum would not allow me run round the countryside in this or my school uniform, which had been an essential item to pack, or so we thought.

  Dorothy was also severely limited in clothes, and as Mrs Watson only had one wash day a week – Mondays – the pair of us soon
began looking very scruffy. Mum did her best to keep our clothes clean but she was hard put to launder for herself and John, the water had to be carried in from the well and then heated. She had partly won the battle of lighting the kitchen range, but the old lady constantly grumbled at all the extra coal being used and the mention of washing clothes always raised objections. As no one was at our home in London, we could not have extra clothes sent on and with the onset of colder weather in October, things became difficult.

  The WVS tried to ease the plight of the evacuees and rallied round, collecting unwashed clothing for our use, plus prams and other equipment for the mothers with toddlers and babies. This was all very well but the clothes handed to Dorothy and I were mostly shabby and well worn, for nobody threw out clothes in the 1930s while there was still good wear in them – they were passed on through the family until they were no longer needed. The sizing was somewhat hit-and-miss and dressed in these garments, Dorothy and I looked like a couple of waifs and strays from the poorest part of East London.

  It was worse for Dorothy for she had to go to school clad in these cast-offs, which did nothing for her self-esteem and confidence. I was given a great long coat that flapped round my calves and half hung off my shoulders. It would have taken years before I ‘grew into it’ as the WRVS lady cheerfully suggested. We were expected to be grateful for these offerings but both Dorothy and I hated wearing them.

  Life was very difficult for the mothers with young children trying to cope with living in a stranger’s house, yet it wasn’t easy for the householder either. Apart from the practical domestic difficulties, there was nothing for the mothers to do or anywhere they could go. Upwell was a small village with limited public transport to the nearest town, so the mothers were reduced to walking around the lanes, pushing their offspring in the WRVS’s prams.