Child from Home

by John Wright

  We were arranged with Ducky and Jimmy at the head of the bed, while George and I had to sleep with our heads on pillows at the foot of it – with the sheet and blanket turned back. We often had the sweaty feet of the bigger boys up near our faces and cold draughts around our feet, and Ducky often pulled the blankets off us altogether. We soon got used to it and fortunately it was a warm summer.

  Two weeks later, Renee, my auntie – by now eighteen years old, petite and attractive – came to visit us by herself. She took George and me along to Bryant’s shop and bought us some stretchy jelly babies before taking us down to Harry’s lodgings. She seemed quite pleased on getting a few wolf whistles from the local lads. Just before we got there she said to Jimmy, ‘By the way, you know when you ran away?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, you were heading the wrong way. If you had gone through Wigginton and up on to the A19 it would have taken you straight up to Middlesbrough.’

  ‘I know, but we were planning to go to Grove House first to leave John with his Mam.’

  On our arrival, the Misses Barker and Law couldn’t have made us more welcome and they were delighted on seeing George. They seemed to have a weakness for blonde-haired children and they cuddled and fussed him and he loved every minute of it. He had now started school and was in Miss Curry’s baby class in St Mary’s hall. While we were out in their lovely back garden, I overheard Renee say to Harry, ‘I’m a bit worried about Mam. She sits at home holding her head in her hands and staring into the fire for ages. There seems to be no life in her and she takes no interest in things around her since she got that telegram. Her mind seems to be a complete blank.’

  It seems she had received a telegram from the War Office that said, ‘I regret to inform you that your son, Acting Sergeant John Bradford, is missing. Believed killed’, and she was devastated. She had lost so many children in her life without this on top of everything else, and a deep melancholy had descended on her like a dark cloud. However, on an evening a few days later, her younger brother Albert and his wife knocked on her front door. As soon as she opened it Albert, who could not contain his excitement, blurted out, ‘John’s not dead! We’ve just found out he’s a prisoner of war!’

  Gran was barely able to take in what was being said, and Renee was to say later that her mind went from initial disbelief, to doubt and finally to acceptance, relief and intense happiness. Tears of joy began to flow and she could not hold them back. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. It seems that Uncle Albert and his wife had been listening to a Lord Haw-Haw broadcast on their wireless. In it he had listed the names of several recently captured prisoners of war. One of those mentioned was a certain John Bradford, the son of Mrs A. Knight of 15 Forcass Road, Dormaster, Redcar, Yorkshire. It seems that Uncle John had had on him a crumpled letter from his Aunt Hannah and it was assumed that this was his mother. Albert and Hannah Knights actually lived in Dormanstown, which was between Middlesbrough and Redcar.

  Gran had to find out if the news was true or not. When her initial excitement had abated a little she went in search of advice, but at least she now had hope to cling on to. The depression that had descended on her was suddenly lifted. Mrs Gaunt, who had sound connections, advised her to write to the Red Cross Society and eventually she received a reply from their London headquarters. It was signed in person by the Dowager Lady Ampthill, the chairwoman, and it stated, ‘As broadcasts from foreign stations are not always reliable we fear that this news cannot be taken as official’, before adding, ‘We sincerely hope that you will soon receive an official notification confirming that your son is indeed a prisoner of war.’ It was some time before she learned that John, along with 3,000 others, had indeed been taken prisoner.

  When Gran visited in late July she was back to her cheerful self, and she told Harry that she had had a letter from the Borough Council stating that the bomb damage to her house had now been repaired and she could move back in when she was ready. As it was a nice day she took us for a walk up Usher Lane and we showed her Widd’s field where we usually played. We dared not tell her about the soldier who had exposed himself to us. We didn’t fully understand what had happened but we had sensed that it was wrong and were relieved when the soldier moved on, but we didn’t know how to tell the grown-ups about it.

  Gran took us down to see Harry who had now left school and had been offered the opportunity to train as a butcher at W.H. Atkinson’s shop on Front Street. We heard Gran saying to him, ‘It’s lovely to be back in our own house but we’ve had some really bad bombing raids recently. Archie, Renee and me have had to lay awake half the night in the underground shelters on The Common. Some nights the sky is lit up by searchlights and the roar of the German bombers goes on for ages as they drop their high explosives, oil bombs and incendiaries. Archie hasn’t been at the Britannia Works long and it was lucky that he wasn’t on the night shift the other day. The railway line not far from us was hit and damaged and it’s not long since the petrol tanks at ICI were bombed and set on fire. The raids seem to be happening more and more often and we’re worn out through worry and lack of sleep. You should think yourself lucky that you’re here and well out of it.’

  One day as the skipping rope went slap-slap on the playground and the boys were chasing after the rosy-cheeked, lithe-limbed girls whose hair was tousled, tossed and blown about by the wind, we realised that the Home Guard were taking part in a mock battle with the regulars from Strensall Camp. They were practising street fighting and we rushed to the front wall to get a better view. Jimmy and I managed to find a ringside seat and all the kids were shouting out remarks such as, ‘Watch out, he’s behind you!’ One of the Home Guard lads had hidden in a half-empty water barrel that stood across the road just before a group of army regulars appeared from the direction of Wigginton. As they crept along with their faces blackened they came up to the barrel, and we were all excitedly shouting, screaming, and pointing at it. One of the soldiers twigged and looked inside and the unfortunate youth was captured and escorted away. At that point Mr Fox appeared and he was fuming, as he shouted, ‘You lot! Get back into school this instant!’ and one or two of the regular troublemakers got a clout round the ear as they hurried by him.

  The Shaws, who were the local domestic refuse collectors, were always at the school complaining about something or other and we often saw Mrs Shaw cycling round the village in her pinny. She rode so slowly that we thought that she must surely fall off, but she never did. We got on well with her and whenever she saw us around the village she would shout, ‘Get yersel’ ’ome!Yer Mam needs yer boots for bread tins.’

  One morning, just before we broke up, a dark-green Civil Defence trailer was parked in the school playground. Mr Fox led our class outside and lined us up saying, ‘You are here to make sure that your masks are still working properly and the civil defence men will tell you what you have to do.’ The man in the blue overalls gathered us into groups of six and said, ‘You will test your masks by going into the gas chamber with them on. Once inside you will be told to take them off for a second or two. You must then walk quickly out through the door. Don’t worry, if your masks are ok and are properly fitted there should be no problems.’ We reluctantly entered the trailer as instructed and ripped off our masks when ordered to do so by the ARP man inside. As soon as we got a whiff of tear gas there was a mad panic to get out of the trailer as quickly as possible and we tried to hold our breath as we made a dash for the door. As I staggered out into the playground gasping for air, my eyes stung like mad and tears were streaming down my face. It was not a pleasant experience to say the least.

  It seems that the powers-that-be had noticed that our old cardboard gas mask boxes were now in a sorry state, or non-existent, and we were issued with long, round, lidded tins to keep them in. A large amount of cocoa powder mixed with sugar had been sent to Britain from Canada and we were told to bring a container to school. We used our gas mask tins and got them filled up, but by the time we got to the hous
e the mixture had gone down a bit. We could not resist wetting our fingers with spittle and dipping them into it before licking them clean. This was a real godsend at a time of real shortages and for a while afterwards we were in Mrs Harris’s good books.

  Just after we broke up for the summer holiday, sweets – already in short supply – were put on ration and this was a real blow to us. Large chocolate bars became a thing of the past as we were only allowed two ounces of sweets per week and small ration-size bars began to appear in the shops. Shortages of milk meant that milk chocolate was very hard to come by and Rowntrees had recently produced wafer fingers covered in plain chocolate called Kit Kat that came in blue wrappers. In August the ration was raised to three ounces, but syrup, treacle and biscuits were put on points. We decided to spend our few coppers on the smallest sweets we could find, as Jimmy had said, ‘If we buy Nips, pear drops or Fishermen’s Friends they’ll last much longer,’ and in this way we kidded ourselves that we had a lot. Nips were tiny black sweets with a strong liquorice flavour.

  Harry had attended the Joe Row School for only six months before leaving at the end of the summer term. He was now fourteen years old and couldn’t wait to start work full time at the small butcher’s shop. It was here that Harry learned how to kill pigs and drain their blood off to make black pudding.

  When we were in the school playground we could hear the doomed pigs squealing and smell the blood. The girls put their hands over their ears to block out the piercing, high-pitched cries and Eva Pulleyn said, ‘They sound just like a baby crying.’ Harold only killed them when there was an R in the month, explaining that, ‘It’s done in order to prevent the meat from going off in the hot summer months as we haven’t got a refrigerator.’ Nothing was wasted and Harry used to say, ‘The only part of a pig that you can’t eat is the squeal.’

  Harold, a bespectacled, dapper man of medium height, was one of the few people in the village who had a telephone. His little butcher’s shop had rows of hams hung up on meat hooks and it was kept immaculately clean and smelled of scrubbed wood and sawdust. Harold really looked the part in his blue-and-white, vertically striped apron that reached down to his shins, and he wore his straw boater at a rakish angle. One of our Harry’s jobs was to wash down the white-tiled walls, the chopping block, the counter and the work surfaces. Harold was urbane, courteous and polite when serving customers but was deferential to the point of being obsequious as he said, ‘And how may one help madam?’

  Harry said, ‘He has the typical shopkeeper’s manner. He tends to be a bit smarmy and oily, especially with the lady customers, and it makes you cringe when he sucks up to them. All the same, most of them seem to like it and, if he likes them, he often slips an extra bit of meat, a bit of dripping or a couple of sausages into their shopping basket.’ He was good to Harry and he gave the housewives as large a ration as the law would allow. These now included Mrs Harris, as she had switched her meat dealer after Harry started working there. Maybe she thought that as we were part of his family she might get preferential treatment.

  14

  The Turning Tide

  So another long, hot, summer holiday started and the great outdoors beckoned. In the languorous summer heat we played in Widd’s field and watched the farmhands bringing in the tassel-headed oats, followed soon after by the bearded barley. We now had our George to think about and Mrs Harris said, ‘Now, you look after him or you’ll have me to answer to. Do you hear?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Harris,’ I meekly replied.

  As he was only five we had to keep a close eye on him, especially when we were by the pond, which was shallow and quite safe as long as he didn’t fall over in it. Fortunately for us, Thelma enjoyed holding his hand and taking him everywhere with her, and anyway, we didn’t want a little kid hanging around with us all the time – we had more grownup things to do. Jimmy and I missed our mothers, who had not been to see us for some time now, but we just had to accept it when Gran said they were too busy to come.

  In August Renee came to visit us again and we were over the moon when she gave us three wooden rifles that Uncle Albert had made for us. We seldom got shop-bought toys. She had brought a friend called Francie who worked with her in the steelworks. We heard her say to Harry, ‘Middlesbrough station was in a right state when we left as it was bombed by a Dornier 217 on the afternoon of Bank Holiday Monday. The plane flew in below the barrage balloons, somehow managing to miss the steel cables. There were two direct hits and the roof fell in and they haven’t got everything cleared up yet. You’ve never seen such a mess! There were great buckled roof girders and glass all over the place. Luckily there was only slight damage to the railway lines or we wouldn’t be here now.’

  Jimmy and I got very excited when she told us they were going to take us to the pictures as neither of us had been to see a film before. They took us into York on the bus, which was the first time I had been to the city, and the narrow crowded streets were a bit scary and overpowering at first. I held tightly on to Renee’s hand as she took us along Coney Street where repairs to the bomb-damaged buildings were still in progress.

  They took us to The Picture House for the afternoon showing of a Hollywood film called The Black Swan, starring the handsome, swashbuckling Tyrone Power. Before the lights were lowered we gazed at the grandeur and opulence of the place. We had never experienced anything like it and could hardly believe how comfortable the seats were. The brightly coloured cartoons took our breath away and we had a good laugh at Tom and Jerry.

  At the start of the Pathé news, a big black and white crowing cockerel filled the large silver screen. We had seen pictures of Winston Churchill in the newspaper but here he was walking and talking, larger than life. Carrying his silver-topped walking stick and wearing his famous Homburg hat, he made the Victory-V sign with one hand whilst smoking a fat Havana cigar. As he visited a bomb-damaged area wearing a siren suit that bulged at the waist, the people cheered and shouted, ‘Good old Winnie!’ He was a symbol of hope, epitomising the bulldog spirit of our beleaguered nation. Renee said, ‘Everyone admires him for standing up to Hitler and his rotten cronies.’ Because of him it never entered people’s heads that we would lose the war and he had recently given their hopes a boost by declaring that, ‘The tide of war is starting to turn!’

  We sat transfixed when the main feature film came on and it made a great impression on our young minds. At the end of the film we stood silently to attention while the National Anthem was played. The feature film fuelled our imagination for weeks to come and during our games in Widd’s field we became dashing pirates attacking treasure ships as we sailed the seven seas. We fashioned cutlasses from bits of wood and tied bits of cloth round our heads as bandanas. Jimmy played the baddie who had a hook in place of a hand. In reality it was the hook off a coat hanger but he said he was Captain Hook from the Peter Pan story. I said, ‘Yer look more like Fred Potter’, as Harry had told me, ‘He’s the signalman at the York-Hull railway crossing and he has a hook where his left hand should be having lost it fighting in the Great War.’ ‘I didn’t know they ’ad pirates in the last war,’ I said, and got a swift clip round the ear for my trouble. Inside our heads we sailed the ocean blue and shouted things like, ‘Avast me ’earties! Stand by to repel boarders!’ and suchlike. The war games took a back seat for a little while.

  When we started back at school in September there were a number of changes. The lovely Miss Rutter was now my teacher and Jimmy felt badly done to as he was now in Mr Fox’s group. Miss Rutter was the unpaid deputy head, and although she was slender-waisted, sprightly and vivacious, she could be quite strict at times. I remember the faint waft of scent that followed her as she passed by and the touch of her soft wavy hair as she leaned over to check my work. Scent was a luxury by that time so I don’t know where it came from. Maybe she got it on the black market. When she smiled her rosebud lips parted slightly to reveal a glimpse of sparkling white teeth, and Jimmy got jealous when I talked about her and gave me a thump
in the ribs. He was eight and a half and was starting to change his mind about girls, deciding that maybe some of them had their good points.

  There was growing concern over the increased number of road deaths caused by the blackout regulations. At Haxby there were very few cars but a fair number of military vehicles passed to and fro, and while the weather held, we were taken out onto Front Street to practise the recently introduced kerb drill. It was drummed into us, ‘Look right, look left and look right again and, if the road is clear, walk briskly across. Do not run!’ We repeated this routine ad nauseum until it became a lifetime habit.

  During potato-picking week Jimmy and I got a job at Haxby Lodge Farm but the girls had to stay in to help Mrs Harris with her cooking, preserving and pickling. They had been taught domestic skills from an early age. We were picked up outside the house early in the mornings and we climbed into a farm cart pulled by a huge chestnut Shire horse. It was nice to hear the jingling of the chains and harness of the sturdy animal as we clip-clopped up Usher Lane, and up a track that led off the Strensall road. The hedges were hung with black clusters of ripe, juicy blackberries and festooned with flimsy gossamer webs on which the frozen dew drops sparkled like diamonds.

  As the horse calmly plodded along the furrow, dragging the whirling wire-tined spinners of the potato lifter – which threw out potatoes caked in mud – the work was back-breaking. Luckily, we weren’t expected to work as hard as the older ones and we thought of it as a bit of fun, glad to be earning a bit of extra pocket money. We were glad of the short break at mid-morning and again in the afternoon, during which an attractive, well-endowed Land Army girl would bring a huge steaming can full of tea. Wearing khaki-coloured dungarees and wellies, she was one of two new arrivals who were later to be seen in the village wearing green jerseys, fawn knee breeches, thick khaki socks and felt pork pie hats or a headsquare that was tied under the chin. They had been among the first to respond to the appeal for female labour as it was either that or be called up into the forces or do a factory job.