Child from Home

by John Wright

  Ten days later, as we were coming out of school, we heard a terrific explosion over towards Huntington village which was about a mile away. A cloud of thick black smoke was rising into the air and we learned later that a Wellington bomber from the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) East Moor airfield had lost power in both engines causing it to stall and crash into a pair of semi-detached houses, killing the crew of five and two civilians. One of the dead was an old lady who had lived in the village for years. Several people – including Derek Robinson – tried to get to the prang, but it was too horrific and the soldiers would not let anyone near.

  At school Miss Curry informed us that the Battle of the Ruhr had started and that Bomber Command aircraft were pounding Germany’s industrial heartland night after night. There was a noticeable increase in aerial activity over the village and we saw lots of Wellington bombers, plus the new Lancaster bombers for the first time.

  One afternoon, after a wet morning, we were playing on the grass verges up Usher Lane when Jimmy, who was a deviser of dares, said, ‘I dare yer to jump over t’ditch.’ It was deep and the sides were muddy and wet and I refused to do it. ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard!’ he retorted, ‘Look, I’ll show yer ’ow it’s done.’ At that he took a running jump but his take-off foot slipped on the muddy bank and he landed with a splash in the dirty water at the bottom. We were creased with laughing until our stomachs hurt. His clothes were clarted in mud and we suddenly thought, ‘What will Mrs Harris say when she finds out?’ In all probability he would be in for another belting. Thelma said, ‘We’d better try and get ’im cleaned up and quick.’

  The girls’ sandals and our boots were in a bit of a mess as well, so we climbed the gate into the field and took them off and it was nice to feel the cool, soft grass under our bare feet. By then the weather had cleared up and the sun was shining as we headed for Widd’s pond so that Jimmy could wash his socks in it. We wore woollen socks that had bands of blue and red at the top that always seemed to end up round our ankles. He rubbed the mud off his trousers and his jumper with a wet rag and whirled his jumper round and round to throw off the excess pond water. He then lay his socks and jumper on the top of the hedge to dry. Luckily it was now warm and sunny and they dried enough for him to put on. The rest of us washed the mud from our footwear.

  On going back to the house at teatime we thought we had got away with it, as Mrs Harris didn’t seem to notice anything wrong, and we sat and had our tea as usual. We had thick ‘doorsteps’ of bread spread with beef dripping sprinkled with salt and I loved it. Our Harry saw to it that we were kept well supplied with it. We then filled up with plum jam sandwiches without margarine and all seemed well until Mrs Harris suddenly came storming into the room in one of her rages. Grabbing Jimmy by the scruff of the neck, she hauled him off the bench shouting, ‘Let me see your boots you sly little devil!’

  He took them off and she closely examined the lace holes and found traces of mud in them. That creep Ducky had split on us yet again. Out came the belt and Jimmy was marched up the stairs and given another good thrashing on his backside as he lay face down on the bed. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him cry, although he cried later when she had gone. She was red in the face with anger and the exertion when she came downstairs. ‘Thought you could fool me did you? Now get up to your rooms and don’t come down. There’ll be no cocoa and biscuit for you lot tonight.’ Ducky was allowed to stay up, as he had been a ‘good’ boy.

  In school the days seemed to drag. The gardens were aglow with spring blooms, the lush green fields beckoned and we couldn’t wait to get out to play soldiers in Widd’s field. We would put mud on our faces and crawl along in the long grass on our elbows holding a thick stick in our hands to represent a rifle as we had seen the soldiers doing. We spent hours playing at being Desert Rats like our Uncle John and it never entered our heads that there was no long grass in the desert. Our imaginations ran riot and our ‘battlefield’ was stained red with the blood of fallen Germans. In our imaginations we heard the crackle of small arms fire as shells whistled past and machine guns rattled. As we charged at the enemy, we would fall down with a sharp cry and writhe around in agony. I suppose this was our way of coping with the horrors of the war. When Mrs Harris saw the grass stains on our clothes we got yet another belting. She didn’t seem to understand that we were wounded war heroes.

  Later that month as we came out of school we couldn’t believe our eyes. ‘Tek a look at that! It’s a real spitty. What a beaut!’ shouted Jimmy in great excitement. On the green there was a Vickers Supermarine Spitfire with the RAF roundels on its fuselage standing out clear and bright in the spring sunshine. Flaxton District Council had acquired it as the centrepiece of their ‘Wings for Victory’ fund-raising week. The war effort was costing Britain millions of pounds every day, and funds were desperately needed, so they charged a few pence for people to go and sit in it. Six RAF officers and ten erks were lined up in front of it to have their photograph taken by the local pressman. ‘What’s the difference between a Spitfire and an ’urricane?’ we asked Mr Harris.

  ‘Well, a Spitfire’s got a metallic coating, it only ’as three propeller blades and it’s a bit smaller than an ’urricane. That’s canvas covered but t’ spitty’s faster and more manoeuvrable in t’air.’ We were thrilled to bits when he gave us a few coppers saying, ‘Go and ’ave a sit in it for thissen.’

  As we walked up Front Street I took in the aircraft’s beautiful proportions and its flowing lines. The thin legs supporting it looked so delicate that we thought the wind might blow it over and when we got close up it looked huge to us. We had only seen them up in the sky before now but to me it was a thing of grace and beauty. It seemed to be all curves with not a straight line anywhere. A wooden platform with steps and handrails had been placed alongside it so that people could get up to the cockpit, and as I climbed the steps I was trembling with excitement and anticipation. An airman helped me onto the walkway of the wing where it joined the fuselage and handed me a helmet saying, ‘Here, put this on, son.’ The little door below the Perspex canopy had been dropped down and I stepped through it into the cramped cockpit. The airman on duty pulled the canopy forward and once I was closed in my imagination took flight.

  In my head I am now a Battle of Britain fighter ace going into action. I am wearing my Mae West inflatable life jacket in case I end up in ‘the drink’. I sit down on my parachute, test the joystick and strap myself in. I adjust my silk polka dot scarf; pull on my leather gloves with the pure silk inners and adjust my close-fitting leather helmet. Then, after adjusting the facemask, I plug in the radio transmitter lead and check the flow from the oxygen tube. I have it all off pat. Then it is just a matter of checking the fuel gauge and the brake pressure and putting the magneto switch to ‘on’. I press the starter button and the engine engages with a metallic ‘clung’; the three-bladed Merlin airscrew turns slowly then the engine fires and runs evenly. I check that the door is closed and signal ‘Chocks away’ to my ground crew.

  In my imagination, my ‘Spitty’ waddles across the grass, picking up speed and away we go sailing smoothly up into the wide blue yonder and I bank to port. I’m up to 400 miles per hour in no time and, as I float over the countryside, I glance to my right to see the others in Vic formation alongside me. My headphones crackle and a voice says: ‘Come in blue leader. Dorniers at two o’clock high! Out.’

  ‘Understood: am engaging: Roger, wilco [will comply] and out,’

  I reply.

  I look through my gunsight, press the button and there is a terrific clattering noise. Tracer bullets stream out and the nose of the Dornier shatters as bullets rip into it. Thick black smoke, glycol and high octane fuel stream out of her port engine and she goes into a spiralling dive. I stop firing and pull the stick hard over. My machine judders and stalls then fires again and I swing clear. I see the Dornier’s wing break off as she plunges earthwards. ‘Got her!’ I shout. ‘That’s one less Jerry bomber to worry a
bout.’ My Spitfire soars and wheels until I come back down to earth with a bump (literally and figuratively). Sliding back the canopy I lever myself up and out of the cockpit. ‘That was great!’ I shout to Jimmy. ‘Come on, it’s your turn now.’

  One night after we had gone to bed, we were running in and out of the girls’ bedroom and having pillow fights when Mrs Harris shouted up the stairs, ‘If you don’t get into bed and settle down this minute there will be serious trouble.’ For a time we kept quiet but then we started messing about again. ‘I won’t tell you again. If there’s another peep out of you I’ll send Mr Harris up!’ she shouted from the foot of the stairs. However, as we were in a silly mood, the running about and giggling soon resumed and the next minute there was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. We shot into our own rooms and Jimmy was just going to shut the door when the belt clattered round the edge of it. The brass buckle caught him above the eye and cut his eyebrow, which started to bleed profusely. Mr Harris became really upset. He said ‘Ah’m so sorry, lad. Ah don’t like belting yer but Ellen meks me do it. Ah only meant it as a warning and didn’t expect anyone to be be’ind t’ door.’ He dressed Jimmy’s eyebrow and gave us all a sweet to suck on but Mrs Harris said, ‘It serves him right. They had plenty of warnings!’ The next day Jimmy had a black eye but at school he told Mr Fox that he had walked into a door without looking. He liked Mr Harris and didn’t want to get him into any trouble.

  Not long afterwards the good hidings and belittling comments started again. Mrs Harris, a real martinet, was forever finding fault with us and she was becoming more touchy and irritable by the day. She would fly into terrifying rages and lay into us. We were not her children and our noise and high-spirited behaviour seemed to get on her nerves. Maybe that was the reason why she would not let us bring our school pals to the house. I don’t think she disliked them but if they were in the house she wouldn’t be able to hit us.

  Later that month Ducky went home to Newcastle and we never saw him again. We were not sorry to see him go. I had never liked him or he me as he was slimy and lazy (and crafty with it) and the dislike was mutual. He had an oily, sly nature, he sucked up to Mrs Harris no end and we had learned not to trust him or to let him in on our little secrets as he was forever telling tales. Tommy Robson, a scruffy ten-year-old lad with a ratlike face who came from Gateshead, took his place. He had sweaty feet and wore strange-looking boots, which he said were fancy American boots that his Mam had got from a charity sale. He became known as Geordie Robson at school and I don’t remember much about him except that he was a tough lad with a good pair of fists who knew how to use them. He had no problem in dealing with the school bullies and it didn’t take him long to sort out a lad called Harris who was always in trouble for fighting. After being belted by Mrs Harris he didn’t stay long.

  On Easter Sunday the bells of St Mary’s pealed out joyfully on the warm spring air as white blackthorn blossom adorned the hedgerows. The same day the twelve great bells of York Minster rang out and were broadcast to the nation. It was 25 April and only that week Winston Churchill had proclaimed to the House of Commons that, ‘The church bells can now be rung on Sundays and on other special days to summon worshippers to church.’

  Harry, and several other local boys and girls of about the same age – who had all been baptised – gathered at the parish church where the petals of the daffodils in the graveyard were now brown and papery. Over the past few weeks they had been attending the Confirmation classes conducted by the vicar. Having ‘come to years of discretion’, the Reverend Donald now considered them fit to be brought before the bishop. Before they entered, little knots of mothers and guardians straightened ties, combed hair and fussed with the girls’ dresses. Harry, who was to celebrate his fifteenth birthday four days later, felt a little self-conscious in his smart new suit.

  The group was expected to have learnt the Creed, the Ten Commandments and great chunks of the Book of Common Prayer by heart. Harry gave his responses in a cracked voice that revealed the onset of puberty. Our little gang went along to see him confirmed and we watched as he knelt at the altar rail to take the bread and the wine at his first Holy Communion. I thought all that God-eating stuff seemed a bit vampirish and weird. The Misses Law and Barker, inordinately proud of their saintly-looking boy with the golden-halo, were beaming from ear to ear. Gran and Renee had come down from Middlesbrough, but they seemed to be rather quiet and sad. Neither my Mam or Aunt Hilda had come and Gran said, ‘Your Mam is still working at the Red Cross Centre and Aunt Hilda is still in the ATS where she is a medical orderly and can’t get leave very easily.’

  15

  Comings and Goings

  In May, Mrs Harris complained to the parish council – mind you, she complained about everything from the postman to the state of the roads – stating that she could not tolerate poor Dot’s slow wits and dilatory ways any longer, adding, ‘I want her removed from the house. She is neither use nor ornament and is the instigator of much of the trouble with the others.’

  When Renee visited again I overheard her saying to Harry, ‘What children need is stability, not punishment and rejection. Sometimes the problem is not the child but the family that they are put with. They should not be made to feel unloved and unwanted. Not that I can find fault with Mr Harris; he is a really nice man but he should stand up to his wife more. She gets her own way far too much and I think her nasty, spiteful ways really upset him.’ So, Mrs Horn made arrangements for Dot to be billeted with Mrs Brown, the school dinner lady, who lived on North Lane. She was a very reserved and quiet ‘Grandma’ type of lady who wore her hair flat to her head and tied in a bun at the back, and she always seemed to be wearing a crossover pinny whenever we saw her. Dot was delighted on learning that she was getting away from Mrs Harris at last and she gladly made the move into her new billet.

  We were becoming more adventurous and roaming further afield. At that time of the year the white curds of the elderflowers were just starting to form and tall white candles of blossom stood on the horse chestnut trees. Down by the river the weeping willows dipped their green fronds in the water and the cloying smell of wild garlic was overpowering. The white-flowered plants were growing in profusion under the alder trees as I slashed at the stinging nettles with a stick, making sure that I always had some dock leaves handy to neutralise any stings. We searched for the little green bugs that made the frothy cuckoo spit on the plants. Apparently it had a foul taste, so the birds left them alone. We squashed the crawling grubs between our thumb and forefinger and called the large, green adult bugs ‘froghoppers’. The Home Guard had fastened a rope round a thick overhanging branch of a willow tree to enable them to swing across to the far bank during their exercises, and we made good use of it. We played down there for hours on end, occasionally seeing a flash of red and blue as a kingfisher skimmed along above the surface of the water.

  In school assembly Miss Curry informed us that in North Africa the last of the Axis forces had surrendered and that the ‘Dambusters’ raid had taken place. The bravery and stirring deeds of the bomber crews captured the public’s imagination and their story was told in a major film.

  In perfumed June, when Jimmy’s Mam came to visit him, there was a right to-do. It seems that Aunt Hilda had saved up her leave entitlement from the army so that she could spend some time with her son and, knowing that she could not be put up at the Harris household, she said, ‘I would like to take Jimmy back to Middlesbrough with me for a few days holiday. It will be a nice change for him.’ But the words were scarcely out of her mouth before Mrs Harris flew into a rage, showing her true colours to her for the first time. She shouted, ‘Yes you can take him, but if you do, don’t bother to bring him back!’

  Hilda, determined to have Jimmy with her, stuck to her guns, and going upstairs she packed his case and brought it down to the kitchen. Mrs Harris did not want him to go as Jimmy had been with her from the start and the argument became violent. She threw his case out onto the l
awn by the back door and bundled Jimmy and his Mam down the steps and slammed the door shut in their faces. We were in tears as we peered through the kitchen window watching the furore. Poor Jimmy was scrabbling around on his hands and knees gathering up his things and putting them back into the small case; luckily the weather was good and the lawn was dry. Hilda, taken aback at first, became very angry, unable to believe that ‘the old dragon’ had been so intransigent. We ran out onto Usher Lane and watched them until they reached the end of the road where Jimmy had a last look back and waved goodbye. They then had to catch the bus into York and the train home. I was very upset and cried; Jimmy and I were very close and had not been apart for over two years. We had gone everywhere together.

  In the days that followed it felt strange going to school without Jimmy and Dot, and shortly afterwards two of the little girls that had been with us at Sutherland Lodge and Grove House came to stay in their stead. Sylvia and Nancy Robson were sisters and they had been at The Settlement in 1939. Sylvia was my age and was in Miss Rutter’s group with me, but Nancy was only six and was in the same group as George at the infant school.

  The gangly Mr Fox wore grey slacks and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows when he took us for cricket practice in the summer months. Seeing scratches on a boy’s hands he accused him of robbing birds’ nests and, when he admitted it, he gave him a good thrashing with the cane. This reminded me of what Mr Harris had told Jimmy, ‘If yer gonna get caned, rub a bit of raw onion on yer ’ands and it’ll deaden t’pain.’ Anybody who larked about got a crack on the neck from Mr Fox’s swagger stick and the persistent troublemakers and bullies were made to clean out the pavilion. The pretty, slender-waisted and nubile Miss Rutter took the girls on to another part of the field to play rounders, and as she ran around in her short, pleated skirt several of the older lads seemed to suddenly lose concentration and got themselves bowled out.