The hardest part for Marianne was seeing all the mothers, and even some fathers, shouting advice, tying hair ribbons, and giving last-minute hugs.
Miss Barry had counted their class twice, making sure no one was missing, and at last it was time to board. They were allocated compartments in alphabetical order, so even if Bridget had been here, she and Marianne might not have sat together.
Once the girls were settled, Miss Barry came round and gave them each a packet of barley sugar. “The best cure for travel sickness I know,” she said, and left them to say their good-byes. Marianne sat in her seat trying not to mind, or look as if she minded, that she had no one to wave to. She must be the only girl on the train without a relative on the platform. She was glad when the guard blew the whistle at last and the engine began to move.
Miss Barry came in again. “Now I’m just three compartments away, and I’ll be in every half hour to check if you’re alright,” she said.
Celia was crying quietly in her corner seat. “I wish I hadn’t come,” she sobbed.
Miss Barry said briskly, “We’ve scarcely left the station, and remember, ambassadors don’t cry.”
“When will we get to wherever we’re going, Miss Barry?” Jane asked.
“I have no idea, Jane, but I suspect we have a long journey ahead, so make yourself comfortable and enjoy the scenery.”
The train was smartly painted in blue with gold lettering and inside, it was comfortable. The seats were padded; there were even armrests.
Miss Barry had told them that today all the railways were reserved for the great evacuation, and no one else could travel. It made it seem like a real adventure.
The girls sang: “Ten green bottles hanging on the wall/ There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over.’ ” They sang the First World War song “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” and “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do!” They waved to people standing at railway crossings, and to children sitting on stiles. They played “I Spy,” and saw towns change to villages and farms. All the stations they passed through had the names covered up, so that any enemy spies wouldn’t know where the children were being taken. Then they divided themselves up into teams and kept count of animals. Marianne’s team won by one sheep.
The train stopped often. The girls grew restless. Miss Barry let them go in two’s to the guards’ van, where there was a supply of drinking water in a big churn.
Lucy came back and said, “We’re in Wales.”
“How do you know?” Jane asked.
“Because the guard said, ‘We’re coming into Aberdare,’ and then he said, ‘Not a word, mind.’ I happen to know Aberdare is in Wales because we had a holiday there once.”
Celia said, “Wales is a foreign country. The Welsh don’t even speak English, or not much.” And she started crying again.
Marianne wondered if Welsh was harder to learn than English.
Jane said, “What fun if they can’t understand what we’re saying.”
Marianne could have told them it wasn’t any fun at all, but decided it wasn’t the right moment.
The landscape, which had been a mixture of green hills and little stone cottages, began to change. Now the train plunged into a valley scarred with huge black coal tips, like mountains.
Eight hours after they’d left London, the train drew up into a small station and the girls overflowed onto the narrow gray platform. Buses were waiting for them. The bus driver said, “A friendly little town this is – everything you could want – church, chapel, cinemas, a Rugby team, Woolworth’s.”
The girls cheered.
“We’re going to Old Road School. Everyone’s there, getting ready for you. Bit of a rugby scrum. Lovely,” he said.
It was a gray little town. The streets looked narrow and old-fashioned after busy London. You could smell the soot and something else, sharp and unpleasant. “Tinworks,” the bus driver told them.
When they got to the school, they filed into the gymnasium, where tables and chairs had been set up, and they were offered tea and biscuits.
“We are most pleased to welcome you to Wales, and we hope your stay is a pleasant one,” said a gentleman, who spoke almost as if he were singing, his voice gentle and melodious.
At that moment the doors opened and a stream of people came in and surged round the girls, looking them over, reading the names on the labels, and often talking to each other in a strange language.
“Must be Welsh,” said Lucy, who’d been in the same compartment as Marianne.
Miss Lacey said something to the gentleman and he announced, “Please tell one of the teachers or helpers which child you are taking and give an address. Can’t have anyone getting lost, can we now?” Hardly anyone paid attention to him. The youngest and prettiest girls were quickly signed out. The man spoke in Welsh to the people.
“Oh, David, look – twins. There’s alike they are.”
“And how old are you, dear? Twelve – well now, that’s good. Nice and tidy, are you?”
A lady asked Marianne, “What’s your name?”
“I’m Marianne Kohn.”
Miss Barry was quickly at Marianne’s side. “Mary Anne is a Jewish refugee from Germany.”
The lady took a step back. “Oh, I see. No thanks, then. Jewish and German? I don’t think so. Wouldn’t be proper, would it?” she said to Miss Barry, as if turning down some strange exotic fruit. She moved on.
Slowly the hall emptied. At last only Lucy, two older girls who Marianne didn’t know, and Marianne were left.
“I know what’s wrong with me,” said Marianne, “but why haven’t you been chosen?”
Before they could answer, Miss Barry said, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with any of you. The billeting officer, Mr. Evans, hadn’t expected quite so many of us. Now he’s made arrangements for you for the next couple of nights, till more permanent billets can be found. Doreen and Jeannie, you’re going to sleep in the nurses’ hostel. Some of the probationers are only a little older than you are. Lucy and Mary Anne, you go to a Methodist home for girls. Get a good night’s sleep, and don’t worry.”
“Excuse me, Miss Barry,” said Lucy, “I’ve broken my glasses. I sat on them on the bus and cracked the lenses. I can’t see properly.”
“We’ll sort everything out tomorrow,” said Miss Barry. “Doreen and Jeannie, come with me. Goodnight, girls.” She left Marianne and Lucy with a distracted billeting officer.
The girls picked up their luggage.
“Follow me, then. We don’t have far to go,” said Mr. Evans.
• 18 •
“A poor start”
It was almost dark. A few dim streetlights came on. It began to drizzle. They walked up a hill, lined on both sides with small terraced houses. The houses were a uniform gray, the front windows hung with muslin curtains and the front steps level with the cobbled pavement.
Mr. Evans hurried them past a pub – the smell of beer, the sounds of laughter and foreign words spilled over onto the street. A group of men came out, beer mugs in hand, their mufflers shining white under the lamps. They were singing. One of them raised his hand in greeting to Mr. Evans.
“Friday night, see?” said Mr. Evans, as if to apologize to the small visitors for this sign of life. “Members of the Rugby team, the Scarlets, always meet here on Friday nights. Famous we are for Rugby. Beat the Australian Wallabies in 1908. I grew up going to the games in Stradey Park. My father was on the team there. He’s passed away now.” He hummed sadly, then he said, “ ‘Sospan Fach – Little Saucepan.’ I marched to it in the last war. ‘Sospan fach yn berwiar y tân,’ ” he sang softly.
“What does it mean?” asked Lucy.
“It sounds like ‘saucepan,’ ” said Marianne.
“Quite right, bach. Clever girl, you are. It’s the theme song of the Scarlets. A silly little ditty about a small saucepan on the stove, and a little cat who knocks it over. But there’s nothing silly about our team. Rugby gives us our pride. Wa
rs come and go; the mines shut down; nothing stops us so long as our little red saucepans are on top of the goalposts. Not far now. Getting tired, are you?”
The men’s voices grew fainter. “Dai bach y sowidiwr, Dai bach y sowidiwr …”
Mr. Evans sang along, translating for them: “Young Dai, a soldier, young Dai, a soldier.”
They walked along streets that all looked alike. Everywhere the coal tips looked down on them. As they passed a big square building, there came the most beautiful singing Marianne had ever heard. She paused for a moment to listen.
“I can see you like music. That’s a good sign, bach. Chapel, are you?” Mr. Evans didn’t wait for a reply. “Ebenezer Chapel, built in 1891. Fine choir. Well, come along; it’s getting late.”
They stopped, at last, in front of a row house at the end of a side street. A woman in a shapeless black dress answered the door.
“Ah, Matron, shwmae heno – how are you tonight? Here are the two evacuees. Very good of you, I’m sure, to find room for them. This is Lucy and this is Mary Anne.”
“Come in, Mr. Evans. Don’t stand on the step. A cup of tea before you go?”
“If it’s no trouble, Matron.”
“I’ll just show the girls upstairs.” Matron led them up a narrow stairway. “Lucy, you can go in this room, and Mary Anne in here. Unpack, and then come downstairs.” She hurried back to Mr. Evans.
Lucy whispered, “I wish we were in the same room. Should we knock?”
Marianne said, “I think so. I’ll see you in about ten minutes and we’ll go down together.”
The rooms were next to each other, the paint peeling off the doors. The girls looked at each other and knocked. They walked in.
Marianne said, “Hello, I’m Marianne Kohn. I’m an evacuee from London.”
Two girls sat on the narrow beds farthest from the door. There was a chair beside each bed. The unoccupied bed, made up with a gray blanket, was set against the damp-looking wall. The girls got on with their knitting.
“How far are you gone?” said one to Marianne, not looking up.
“I beg your pardon? I don’t understand what you mean,” she replied.
“Well, if you don’t want to tell us, that’s your business, isn’t it?”
Marianne put her suitcase on the bed and unlocked it.
“Matron will kill you if you put that on the bed,” said the other girl, who was dressed in a loose blue smock. “On the floor – use some common sense, can’t you?”
Marianne moved her case, and said, “Please, where is the lavatory?”
The first girl put down her knitting and stood up and walked towards Marianne. Her waist was huge and Marianne realized that she was expecting a baby. Both girls looked a couple of years older than Marianne.
“The lavatory, my dear? Well, now, we don’t have those fancy London ways here. The running water comes from the sky.” She went to a small window and pointed. “Tŷ bach – the lavatory to you – is out there, and in my condition, don’t expect me to walk down and show you,” the girl said.
Marianne replied, “I’m sorry, we just came off the train. I don’t even know where we are.”
The girls started to laugh. One of them said, “You’re in the Methodist Home for Unmarried Mothers. A disgrace to the community, we are. By the looks of you, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
Marianne didn’t know what to say. The girls turned to each other and began to speak quickly in Welsh, staring at her and laughing.
Marianne opened the door and fled downstairs.
“Mary Anne, wait for me.” Lucy was behind her. “I can’t imagine what Miss Barry would say if she knew we were here.”
Marianne said, “They’re not exactly friendly, are they? It’s not for long – only a day or two she said.”
Matron appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “There you are. Mr. Evans had to leave. What a busy man he is, and all this extra work.” She looked at them accusingly. “Come in the kitchen.” She put a bowl of bread and milk in front of each of the girls and waited. Marianne picked up her spoon.
“Before grace?” Matron spoke in a shocked whisper.
Lucy looked at Marianne through her cracked lenses and said, “I’ll do it. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.”
Marianne joined in the amen.
Matron said, “When you’ve finished, wash your bowls in the scullery. Be quick now, it’s late.”
When they’d eaten, the girls carried their bowls into a narrow flagstone scullery, and rinsed the dishes in a bowl of water that stood in the sink. The water was cold. There was a greasy towel hanging on a nail by the door, and they used that to dry the dishes.
“The privy is at the end of the path,” said Matron. She took a key from the pocket of her dress and unlocked the back door. The yard was dark and smelt of cats.
“Wait for me, Mary Anne. I’m terrified of spiders and I can’t see properly,” said Lucy.
When they came back to the house, Matron told them to wash at the pump by the back door and handed them a sliver of soap and the same greasy towel they’d used to dry the dishes. As soon as they were back inside, she locked the scullery door behind them.
“Breakfast at seven, and make your beds before you come down.” She watched them go up, and then went back into the kitchen.
“Goodnight, Lucy,” said Marianne. “Sleep well.”
“If Miss Barry doesn’t come and get us tomorrow, I’m going to catch the first train back home,” said Lucy, and went into her room.
Marianne thought she heard sounds of scuffling behind the door. When she opened it, she saw that one of the girls was hunched over her open suitcase. “What are you doing with my things?” asked Marianne, horrified.
“Did you hear that, Margaret? Did you hear her accuse me? Are you calling me a thief?” The girl got clumsily to her feet.
“You were going through my case,” said Marianne.
“You’re a dirty spy.” The girl held an envelope in her hand.
Marianne tried to stay calm. She said, “Please give me that letter. It’s from my mother in Germany.”
“Dilys, you were right. She is a spy,” said Margaret, and got out of bed to stand by her friend.
“I’m too young to be a spy. I’m only twelve years old. My mother sent me here to be safe from the Nazis. I’m Jewish,” said Marianne.
Margaret crossed herself, and Dilys gave a scream of horror. “Christ killer,” Dilys said. “You did that.” And she pushed Marianne forward and forced her to look at the picture on the wall that showed Christ hanging on the cross. Marianne stared at the nails driven through His feet and hands, and the gashes in His side.
The door opened and Matron stood in the doorway. The girls scuttled back to their beds.
“What is the meaning of this? What is going on here?”
Dilys replied, “She’s a Jew.”
Margaret added, “She gets letters from Germany. She’s a spy.”
Marianne burst out, “They have no right to touch my things. They went through my suitcase. I want my letter back.” And she went up to Dilys and snatched the envelope out of her hand.
“Oh, my poor baby, a Jew,” wailed Dilys and put her hands protectively over her stomach. “He’ll be marked.”
“Come with me. Bring your things,” said Matron, “and not one more word. Be quick, now.” She pushed Marianne out of the door. “Go down,” she said.
They went downstairs.
“You’ll wait here till I come back. Don’t move.”
Matron took the shawl that was hanging on the hook, put it over her head, and opened the front door. Marianne heard her lock the door from the outside. She was too angry to be frightened. After a while, she sat on the bottom stair, her hands over her ears to shut out the words “Christ killer,” which Dilys and Margaret called from the upstairs landing.
After a long time, Matron returned. Mr. Evans was with her. He picked up Marianne’s suitcase without
a word. The door slammed behind them.
“Now then, bach,” he said, “that was a poor start.” They walked in silence for a long time, then they stopped in front of a small row house. It was very dark. Mr. Evans rapped on the door.
• 19 •
The Witch
A very old lady, wearing a lace cap over her wispy gray hair and a shawl over her nightgown, opened the door. She was stooped over, and was only a little taller than Marianne.
“Y ferch, Mam,” said Mr. Evans.
He turned to Marianne and said, “My mother has very little English. I told her, ‘Here’s the little girl.’ You sleep well now. This is just for one night; I’ll find you a billet tomorrow. Nos da, Mam. Goodnight, Mary Anne.” Mr. Evans disappeared into the dark street.
Mrs. Evans beckoned Marianne inside and made signs to her to follow up the stairs. Mrs. Evans’ progress was slow. She hung on to the bannisters, wheezing at every step, threatening to extinguish the candle she held in her other hand. Once upstairs, she maneuvered herself onto the double bed, which took up most of the space in the airless small room.
All Marianne could think of was witches – every witch in every story she’d ever read. She looked at the “witch’s” teeth floating in the glass on the narrow mantel. Do I really have to sleep with this toothless old woman?
There was a porcelain chamber pot at the foot of the bed. Marianne shivered, though the room was hot and stuffy.
The “witch” made signs for Marianne to get in bed beside her. She kept repeating “Dech y gwely,” and patting the pillow beside her. “Come to bed.”
Marianne stood at the door, wondering if she dare flee.
After a long time, Mrs. Evans, sounding each word with great difficulty, said again, “Come to bed.” She patted the space that was waiting for Marianne, and smiled a very unlike witch’s smile, showing clean pink gums. How hard this poor lady is trying to make herself understood. She’s been woken in the middle of the night, and now she is willing to share her bed with me.
Remember Me Page 9