Child from Home

by John Wright

  Anne-Marie said, ‘When the soldiers are down by the beck training they sometimes come to the kitchen and say “Any chance of a drop of tea missus?” They bring their tin mugs and Mum fills them up but if their sergeant appears they quickly chuck it away.’

  We would sometimes see her near Grove House picking bunches of wild flowers to take to school. Each day, when the mail train came through, the incoming mailbag was passed out to Mr Artley or Jack Pickering who, between them, worked half a day on and half a day off. The bag of outgoing mail was collected from the platform by the guard. Jack worked the signals and issued the tickets and whenever a train came through he would collect a large metal hoop, beneath which hung a leather pouch containing the tablet. The train driver would lean out and place this hoop over the arm of the man on duty, and this important safety procedure ensured that no two trains could be on our stretch of line at the same time. The tablet was then placed into a device in the signal box, which caused the signals to change, thus reducing the chances of an accident. The tablet was replaced when the next train came through.

  The busiest day was Monday, when Mr Artley scuttled here and there in his shiny-peaked black cap and black waistcoat, regularly pulling out his large Hunter watch on its gold chain to check that everything was on time and running smoothly. The platform was all hustle and bustle as it was market day in Pickering and there were large numbers of local people going there. The farmhands and the women of Levisham and the various outlying farmsteads eagerly looked forward to these weekly shopping trips into town.

  When he was not too busy, Jack would sometimes get a few of us older children together and take us into the signal box, saying, ‘Yer can ’elp me ter change t’points if yer like.’ As he pulled back one of the ten shiny metal levers, we ‘helped’ by holding on to it with him. We loved to look out of the windows as a great hissing black steam train thundered past making the box tremble under our feet.

  One Monday Kitty took a few of us on the six-mile journey to Pickering and Eric and I were delighted to be part of this special treat. The track south of Levisham station beyond the two tall signal posts became single track, and it ran straight as far as the hamlet of Farwath. After that it was all bends with the line crossing and re-crossing the beck as it passed the lovely mixed woodland that clothed the steep slopes on either side.

  At that time steam trains still ran from Pickering to all four cardinal points of the compass. Kitty had handed over our tickets to be clicked by a man in a black uniform and took us out of the station. We joined the hustle and bustle of the crowds in the market place that milled around under the brightly striped awnings of the stalls, gazing in wonder at the clothes, crockery, vegetables and sundry items that could still be bought in spite of the increasing shortages. We stayed close to Kitty as she moved amid the myriad sights and smells, including odours of wet fish fresh from Whitby. It was a new and exciting experience and we stared in wonder at the hundreds of brightly coloured goodies on display. Many of the little shops lining the street had tiny, old-world, glass-bottle windowpanes that distorted the things on the other side.

  At the top end of the market stood The Vaults where we had our hair cut. Nearby stood an old antique shop that had once been a cinema, where a strange box-like structure hung out over the pavement; apparently this had been part of the projectionist’s room. There was a row of old railway cottages; a tobacconist’s hut and some wooden benches under a low stone wall where we sat and rested for a while.

  We were taken to see a Punch and Judy show and, although a bit shocked and frightened, we were fascinated and totally absorbed at the same time. The actions of the hook-nosed, long-chinned, hunchbacked Mr Punch were dreadful. He murdered his baby by banging its head on the walls and floor because it cried; he then bludgeoned his wife to death when she disapproved and he hurled their bodies out of the window. The policeman put him in jail and he was sentenced to death by hanging, but he throttled the hangman with his own noose and escaped. The show gave us a glimpse of a cruel and savage time in England’s history, but, on reflection, was it any worse than what was happening in war-torn Europe? Brutal Nazis were slaughtering weak and vulnerable people on a vast scale, and like Mr Punch they seemed to have thrown all decent human values out of the window.

  We were then taken for tea in a café near the old Memorial Hall and had pikelets thickly spread with real, deep yellow, farm-produced butter. A year later the café was to become one of the many British restaurants that the government was setting up all over the country. Churchill had suggested setting up these canteen-like communal feeding centres during the Blitz so that nutritious, three-course meals would be available for under a shilling. They were to be non-profit making and were to be staffed by the WVS who would produce nourishing meals from non-rationed foods. With the pootering tunes of a nearby steam organ still ringing in our ears, we were treated to scrumptious curd tarts; then tired out but happy we boarded the train to return to the warm, loving atmosphere of Grove House. It was crowded with heavily laden country dwellers heading back after a good day out.

  On a warm October day of hazy sunshine, an elderly gentleman from The Settlement led us out onto the verandah by the play room to have our photographs taken. The picture was made into a postcard and sent to all the parents and I still treasure that fading black and white picture.

  Soon afterwards we were gathered together and sat cross-legged around the wooden-cased wireless set in the dining room. We knew that it must be for something special. We were to hear the fourteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth make her debut broadcast in which she said to all evacuees, ‘my sister Margaret Rose and I feel so much for you, as we know from experience what it means to be away from those we love most. To you living in new surroundings we send a message of true sympathy …’ The bombing of London went on continuously for fifty-seven days and Buckingham Palace had been bombed twice in the five weeks prior to the broadcast but, luckily, the Royal Family had been staying at Windsor Castle overnight. These tragic events did not really register with us at the time as our age and lack of understanding must have protected us. To us the war seemed very exciting.

  A few days later, as the days grew cooler and the nights were drawing in, Kitty celebrated her twenty-first birthday; an important ‘coming of age’ occasion in those days. At twenty-one a person was deemed to be an adult and no longer subject to parental control. As the remains of the day gave way to dusk, a small party was held in the cosy warmth and brightness of the dining room. We were already warmly tucked up in our beds and a fire burned brightly in the grate as a nice get together of Kitty’s friends took place. Alan Brown, her fiancé, had been brought over on the motorbike of a friend. Generally his fingers were intertwined with Kitty’s or he had his arm around her waist. Tommy Gibson, the jolly farmer from Cropton, was there and it was said that he was keen on the attractive Rosemary Waters. The constantly smiling and cheerful Artleys came over from the station house to join the party.

  Plainly wrapped presents (patterned paper was very scarce by then) were brought and given, and Mrs Ruonne had baked Kitty a big, two-layered sponge cake with damson jam in the middle. She had iced it, put candles on it and decorated it with a ‘21’ and the ‘key of the door’. They enjoyed open sandwiches made with crusty farmhouse bread topped with tasty egg, ham, corned beef or cheese, followed by homemade fairy cakes, cream slices and, as a special treat, a sherry trifle. The room resounded with laughter and happy voices as they exchanged light-hearted anecdotes. Later they gathered round the piano to sing the popular songs of the time. To break the ice a few glasses of port and sherry were drunk while the men had beer. Kitty was young, in love and very happy.

  At the end of the month, as nature’s mighty pulse began to slow, we could see the vapour from each other’s breath hanging like mist on the icy air. There were cold north-easterly winds that made the dry, crinkly, brown leaves that still clung to the beech tree by the gate rattle and fall. The sycamore trees lost the glory of their crim
son, russet and golden foliage and there were early morning frosts. The lawns were covered in damp frozen leaves and there was a thin smattering of double-winged sycamore seeds that we called helicopters. It was a time of dampness and decay, and writhing wraith-like mists rolled down the hillsides to gather in the dells and hollows, making the thick brown layer of leaf mould soggy underfoot. The mists muffled our footfalls as we walked in the depths of the dark, dank, dripping woods. The horses had been taken into the shelter of their dry, straw-littered stables to sleep at night and were relishing their first feedings of nutritious, summer hay, as there was no grazing to be had.

  In November the men from the Ministry called to inspect the stock and the Artleys had to hide their second pig in the privy down the yard until they left. The law only allowed people to keep one pig for their personal use; any other pigs were supposed to be sold (cheaply) to the Ministry of Food and the piglets had to be fattened up beforehand. Most of the carcass of the second pig was bought by Miss Thorne and the salted and muslin-covered hams and flitches, which were hung from the hooks in the kitchen, kept us supplied for weeks on end.

  As the long sleep of winter began, thick, dank fogs shrouded the big house turning the shrubbery and trees into looming, vaguely threatening spectres. To me they were hazy and amorphous, shape-shifting phantoms of the woods just like the misty wraiths that dwelt at the periphery of my vision, which always – on turning to see them – moved rapidly away. Or was it only the creeping, grey fog playing tricks on my young impressionable mind again? As an extra precaution at bedtime I knelt to pray fervently, asking the good Lord to ‘Please, protect Mam, Dad, our George and me from ghosts, evil spirits and things that go bump in the night.’ I then curled up under the covers hiding from the unspeakable terrors that lurked in the vast and frigid darkness.

  At night an intense blackness now covered the land, as the blackout here was almost total. The edges of the station platforms had been painted white to make passengers aware of the dangerous drop down to the track. The platform paraffin lamps were lit for short periods of time, only whenever a train was due to stop, and the glass panes had been painted black, except for a small square in the bottom corner. This allowed just enough faint light to be shed downwards onto the flagstones and these were known as glimmer lights. One dark and cloudy late afternoon in November, after the sun had set behind the western ridge, Anne-Marie and her brother were returning from school in York when the train, for some unknown reason, stopped a little way out from the station. Richard, thinking they had arrived, opened the door in the total darkness and stepped out, falling on to the cinders beside the track. He was badly grazed, but thankfully no bones were broken.

  On an earlier occasion he had managed to catch a small adder, which he had put into an empty milk bottle to take to school. When they boarded the train the carriage had quickly emptied and they had it all to themselves. It was Richard who showed us how to put halfpennies on the line to be squashed flat by the train wheels and, being very young and gullible, we thought that this made them into pennies. We tried to use them in the chocolate vending machine and were disappointed when no chocolate came out.

  December came in with icy winds, frosts and snow, and with the dark cold nights now twice as long as the days, the shutters were closed and the blackout curtains were put in place long before teatime. As a special treat we were taken on Mr Brown’s coach to a Christmas concert at Cropton village hall. Six months earlier, a lady had formed a club for the local youngsters and evacuees from Middlesbrough; they put on a show, which was a great success and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

  In the days leading up to Christmas, Santa Claus was never far from our minds and our excitement increased, with much of the joy being in the anticipation. We helped to cut and paint strips of paper in bright colours and, linking them together, we made chains which were hung in loops across the play room and dining room. We had saved up all our silver foil wrappers, from which we made tree decorations, and we thought they looked as good as the bought ones. Our attempts at painting Father Christmas with his reindeers and sleigh were pinned up on the walls, and the gardener brought in sprigs of red-berried holly, along with ivy and mistletoe, which grew as a parasite on the bark of the local oak and apple trees. The Christmas tree, which was set up in the corner, had a fairy on the top of it and was decorated with lots of our glittering home-made baubles and tinsel. Cotton wool was laid on the branches to represent snow and we had hung some of the long, pendulous, light-brown spruce tree cones on them.

  We were so excited as we emptied our bulging stocking onto our beds on Christmas morning. People did not have quite the same quantity or quality of food as they had the previous year as the shipping losses were really starting to bite, but the government had allowed us a few extra rations over the Christmas period. Even so, Dinner Lady still managed to cook us a lovely Christmas dinner of roast chicken with bacon, sausagemeat and herb stuffing; crispy roast potatoes; fresh vegetables and rich steaming gravy. This was followed by plum pudding with lashings of hot custard. Later, after a short nap, games and a tea party, with paste sandwiches, mince pies, cakes, jelly and custard, was held. The Calvert and the Artley children came over and, wearing paper hats, we laughed, giggled, and thoroughly enjoyed the party. We excitedly pulled Christmas crackers but I never did understand the jokes that were printed on the slips of paper inside. Father Christmas came with a sack full of lovely presents. We sniggered behind our hands when we saw him kissing Kitty under the mistletoe.

  Alan and Kitty were married at St Gregory’s Church, Cropton, the following month, and Alan’s friend Lloyd Thorpe was their best man. They lived with Alan’s parents in the bungalow in the forest until they moved to nearby Kirby Misperton. Kitty and Alan continued to live at Peep o’ Day Bungalow for a further three years, by which time he was driving lorry loads of logs from the forest to Pickering station.

  Although we were far from home, Christmas still managed to weave its magic spell, and many of our presents were the result of a year’s hard work by the dedicated ladies of the local WI. On Boxing Day several parents came to share the festive season with their children and I was flabbergasted when Mrs Robson gave her daughters, Nancy and Sylvia, a lovely, yellow banana each. It soon went out of my mind when Mam brought me a bus conductor’s outfit, with a flat, peaked cap and a ticket machine that went ‘ding’ when the little lever at the side was pressed. In those short, dim days, as the year was fleeing fast, there were shortages of just about everything.

  7

  The Land of Lost Content

  In January, the snow that lay six inches deep around Grove House muffled our footfalls, and round about us the drifts had created a magical and fantastic scene. Snow was piled up against the house by the strong, bitterly cold north-easterly winds and the hedges and the rhododendron shrubs were transformed into great white mounds and humps. We caught a glimpse of the white rump of a fleeing roe deer near the pond, which hunger had brought down from the forest in search of food. Being very wary animals they try to avoid human contact, and if they detect even the slightest scent of a person they cough to warn the rest of the herd who spring into flight and dash for cover. Strange birds and other small, hungry creatures came into the gardens leaving tiny prints in the virgin snow. Snow thickly blanketed the lawns and the drive and we competed with each other to see who could leave the most footprints in it.

  We helped (or hindered?) the nursery assistants in building a snowman. The snow was brittle – not too wet – and therefore ideal for making snowmen and snowballs, and it creaked as we rolled it into large balls to make the body parts. We patted and moulded him into shape using coal for his eyes and buttons, and a carrot for his nose. Sticking a pipe in his mouth, Kitty tied one of the gardener’s old mufflers round his neck and put a flat cloth cap on his head. The stillness of the dozing valley was rudely torn apart and the naked woods echoed to our shouts and laughter as snow lay heavy on the leaves and boughs of the spruce trees. We happily raced a
nd jumped about in the thick drifts and had snowball fights. The Stancliffe girls were away from home, so Jack Pickering brought their sledge from the outbuilding where it had been stored all year. Sitting one of us in front of him, he took us on hectic, scary flights with the sledge going pell-mell down the steep snow-covered lane until he dug his heels in and skidded to a halt on the level bit just before the railway crossing. We squealed with delight. Later we sucked on the long icicles that we had snapped off the portico eaves and ran about in our wellies until our legs began to hurt above our socks that had slipped down. The wet tops had chafed the skin making a red ring that was very sore and when we were taken in to the play room, red-cheeked and blue-nosed, the caring nursery assistants smeared our legs with soothing Vaseline or Snowfire ointment.

  Eric and I, along with a few of the other five-year-olds, had been having lessons with Miss Thorne, but she was not a fully certified teacher; therefore, steps were being taken for us to start our formal education. Arrangements were made for Eric to be billeted with a Mr Wilson Sleightholme up in Newton village. I was not to see Eric again, except for a brief spell soon after the war, and it was to be a further fifty-odd years before we came into contact with each other again.

  I loved it at Grove House where I was secure and cared for by trustworthy, kind and loving people and it seemed a truly magical place to me. In the smoke and chemical-laden atmosphere of Middlesbrough I was often unwell and seemed to get every childhood illness going. Here, in the sylvan beauty and tranquillity of this secluded wooded valley, I was flourishing and growing tall and straight, like the surrounding spruce trees. Fresh air and exercise were honing my appetite and I was filling out. Living a tranquil, simple and wholesome life, I was happy and the world seemed to be a lovely place, but, in my blissful innocence, I was unaware that great changes were being planned and these were soon to change my cosy, cosseted little world forever.