I had been paired with a cheery girl, and she came to the school on Saturday morning with a rickety old pram and we set off. It was great to be allowed to go round knocking on people’s doors—a thing normally frowned on—and trundling the old pram about the village. After the first surprised look, people were delighted to get rid of a lot of their old junk, and we soon had a pram full of clanking forks, trowels, buckets (buckets were all made of metal), saucepans, frying pans, old knives, tin paint pots, a few tin toys and a tin bath—this had to be balanced precariously on top of the pram. Everything was old or broken and, for the most part, rusty.
On the way back to the school with our load, a wheel came off the pram. It tipped over, and everything fell out with a fearful clatter and my partner had to chase the wheel down the high street. At first, we laughed about it but then wondered how we were going to get all this stuff to the school.
Mr. Williams came out of his shop, having heard the noise. ‘Youm in a mess, girls. After the shop shuts, I’ll mend the pram for you.’
This was very kind, but the shop didn’t close until six p.m. We had to be back at the school by four p.m. We piled all that we could into the tin bath and tried to lift it to the school … but it was far too heavy! Out came half the goods, which we stacked in the broken pram, and, leaving it on the pavement by the shop, we made for school with the half-full old bath between us. The policeman was there with a small lorry. He took the scrap, and when he heard our tale of woe, he told us to jump into the cab and show him where we had left the rest. This was great fun. We were riding high up in the lorry, grinning at all the others who were tramping towards the school by now.
Mr. Williams mended the pram and kept it for us for the next Saturday. We started to ‘do’ the houses that we had had to leave in ‘our’ area, but soon there were shouts from the ones we had visited last week. Most people had been inspired to clear out sheds and cupboards, gardens and garages, and had piles of metal objects for us. We thought they were very generous, but when I told Dad he wagged his head.
‘They will be only too glad to get rid of old stuff that has been piling up for years,’ he said. ‘The dustmen won’t take that sort of thing, so you kids are a godsend.’
Of course, there were no recycling centres or ‘dumps’ as there are now, and disposing of large objects was a real problem.
The policeman was pleased with us all and even extended the Scrap Iron Drive for two more Saturdays. It was good fun: Mum even seemed interested in what I was doing, so I was allowed to tell Grandma and Granddad S. all about it at the tea table. Granddad was shocked that the government was having to ‘beg’, as he put it, but Dad said that anything to help get rid of Hitler was not begging.
A week or two later, some men went around the village cutting off people’s iron garden railings. I don’t think the owner’s permission was asked: the railings were just ‘commandeered’ by the authorities, we were told. There are many gardens in the country which still bear the evidence: stubby bits of metal can be seen protruding from the garden walls where there were once quite intricately patterned railings.
Another war effort the children were involved in was the concert. Any child who could recite a poem, sing a song, play the piano or do anything entertaining was told that there would be rehearsals the following day.
A friend Sheila and I were to sing a duet of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, while two sisters were singing and playing the piano at the same time. We were impressed by this. I was to play the only piano piece that I knew—I had only been going to the piano teacher for a few weeks. She lived in a dark, cold house near the school, and I went there on Friday afternoons after lessons. I was frightened of her. She was very impatient, which made me jittery. Perhaps I was a slow learner—and I probably had little real talent.
The whole class was going to open and close the concert with the national anthem (Governess was very patriotic) and sing some wartime songs and a few hymns. David—of pilot’s thumb fame—was eager to juggle three tennis balls but had lost one. We were told to hunt about at home to try to find one for him, as this was an unusual act. Another boy showed Governess how he could walk on his hands—legs waving uncertainly in the air—but she felt that he might kick somebody in the audience, so he settled for rolling over and over in circles. Lots of children opted to recite a poem, and the little ones from the other class were going to do a dance. We were all excited and kept coming up with more and more bizarre ideas for the parents’ entertainment.
At last, Governess had worked out the order of appearances, with the little ones performing near the beginning so that they could go home to bed. We spent all the afternoon rehearsing and then were instructed to go home and tell our parents to come to this great concert. Oh dear! More telling.
This time I was not so clever.
‘There’s a concert for the parents next Tuesday at six p.m.,’ I said to Mum.
She was at the cooker. ‘Oh! Well, I don’t think your dad and I will be going to that. Just get your shoes cleaned and lay the table.’
I was disappointed to think that they would not hear Sheila and me sing or see the other acts.
‘Sheila and I are going to sing at the concert.’
‘What concert?’
‘The concert next Tuesday for the parents.’
‘You are supposed to sing?’
‘Yes. Lots of us are doing things.’
She frowned. ‘Oh, I don’t think we can let you do that. I’m sure Dad would not like you doing that.’
I was nearly sick. Not only was I bitterly disappointed that I would not be part of this great event, but I couldn’t imagine how I was going to tell Governess and, worse still, the other children. I did my chores, puzzling and worrying. Why was Dad likely to object, and why did they not even want to come? I hid my tears. I wondered why I did not let Mum see how upset I was. Would it have made any difference?
Later, Mum and Dad sat me in front of them and questioned me. What was this concert all about? I told them it was part of the war effort and would cost them sixpence each to get in. Why had I not asked if I might do this singing and so on rather than just saying that I was going to do it? I said that we were all told what we were to do: Governess said so.
‘Very high-handed,’ said Mum. ‘And what makes you think you can sing?’
I didn’t know what to say to this. Mum obviously did not think that I could sing, so how could I reply without contradicting? I did what I always resorted to in such difficulties: I said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Huh,’ said Mum. ‘Well, you’d make a fool of yourself, and poor Sheila.’
Surprisingly, Dad spoke up. ‘Oh, I don’t know. None of the kids are likely to be much better. I suppose we’d better let her do it. And I think we should go, just to support the war effort.’
I began to hope.
‘Waste of time, I reckon,’ Mum muttered.
Gradually, I gathered that not only could I take part, but they would also come to the concert. I was so glad that I would not have to tell everyone that I couldn’t do it. Though now I was worried in case I was going to make a fool of myself, as Mum had said. For the first time in my life, I experienced stage fright, although I did not know what to call the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence in my tummy. Before, it had just been fun and exciting.
Later in his life, Dad did a lot of singing, solo and choral, and was very confident. I have never been able to understand why there was a problem about me appearing on stage and why he, as well as Mum, seemed ashamed of the idea.
We rehearsed several times, and then Tuesday arrived. The screen wall had been pushed back by a grumbling boiler man, and two double desks had been placed together to make a sort of tiny stage for the children who were to sing solos or duets. There was a chair beside the desk for us to climb up.
The parents all sat in rows on small school chairs. The big, tall dads looked funny—they didn’t seem to know what to do with their long legs.
The boys did their tricks and marched up and down in step to some marching music that Governess played. There were various recitations, and then the class sang a hymn. Governess stood up and thanked the parents for coming and for their money towards the war effort—I don’t remember what it was supposed to pay for—and then everyone stood for the national anthem once again.
Lots of parents stood about for a bit, chatting while the children started to put the chairs back into place. The grumpy boiler man appeared and pulled the screen across and shuffled the desks about, and it was all over.
On the way home, I heard Dad say that he was surprised how clear my voice was. Mum didn’t say that I had made a fool of myself, and so I wondered if, perhaps, I could sing after all.
The last of our war efforts was a gym display. We did not do gym as we know it now, we just did exercises: running on the spot and a lot of jumping in the playground, with Governess standing in the shelter of the doorway, in her suit and court shoes, shouting the orders and clapping her hands for us to keep time. This happened about three times a week. Sometimes we played with a ball to ‘improve our reactions’, said Governess, and sometimes there were team games. There was no room for races or anything elaborate, so the gym display was not very exciting, but it posed more problems at home.
The school had a number of ‘daps’ (light, thin canvas shoes) of different sizes, and when we did gym we just chose a pair in the right size and put them back into the shoebox afterwards. Luckily these boxes were in the cloakrooms, so the boys’ shoes were separate from ours. The girls were sure that the boys’ shoes would smell, as we were convinced that all boys had smelly feet. None of this seems very hygienic these days, but I think it was done this way because some families might not have been able to afford gym shoes for their fast-growing children. When clothes rationing came, it was probably impossible to spare precious coupons for such shoes anyway.
‘We are giving a gym display,’ I told Mum.
‘Have we got to come to that?’
‘No, it’s for the vicar and a lot of important men.’
‘When? I hope it’s in school time.’
‘Yes—on Friday.’
Mum thought for a while. ‘I suppose you’d better wear your school summer sandals for that.’
‘No, we are wearing blue shoes.’
‘What blue shoes? It’s no good you thinking you are going to get new shoes just for a gym display. We don’t have coupons to spare for that sort of nonsense. Blue shoes indeed!’ Mum paused for breath.
‘School shoes,’ I said quickly, before she could start to grumble again.
‘What?’
So I explained about the school shoes that we all shared.
‘And you have been wearing these shoes for gym all this time and you didn’t tell me!’
I didn’t know what to say. It had just never come up. Dad and Mum rarely asked anything about what we did at school.
‘Everybody has to wear them for gym … ’ I said tentatively. Then I had a sudden inspiration. ‘Governess says.’
‘Hmm. I still think I should have been told.’
I was trying to smooth things over without knowing why Mum was cross.
‘We wear our own socks,’ I said. I didn’t know if this was a good thing or if it would make her even more cross. ‘And the shoes are washed at the end of term.’ I was not even sure if this was true or not. They looked cleaner at the beginning of term than at the end, but I think I was becoming devious and scarcely truthful. I was afraid that once more there would be problems about me doing the display.
Even now, I do not know why she was so angry. We were not a super-fussy family, and even two girls from a really posh family in the village used the shoes.
Our timid vicar seemed nervous but smiled at the display, which he watched with about eight important-looking men in suits and trilby hats. We were told that they were the school governors. I didn’t know we had any; as far as I was concerned we just had Governess.
Good Intentions
It seemed that Mum had never got on very well with her mother, Grandma S. They were very different. Mum prided herself on being down to earth, whereas Grandma said Mum was living in another era.
Grandma had been brought up in a big, fairly wealthy family on the Isle of Wight. I don’t think the family liked her marrying Granddad, who was a Royal Marine, but not a very high-ranking one. Grandma seemed to cling to old-fashioned ways and did not realise that money was short and rationing was a problem. She wanted fancy food and liked posh clothes and expensive perfumes.
She did see that some of the things Mum expected of me were unreasonable, however. I heard her say this to Mum one day, but I knew it would do more harm than good. She went on to say that it was ridiculous for a child to have to knock on doors and wait to be told to come in in her own home. Mum pursed her lips and told me to go and play. Then there was a lot of shouting, which I could hear from the garden.
Later, when I was in the other room, I heard Granddad, who hardly even spoke to me, say that I should not be banished to the other room or sent off to bed at such a ‘ridiculously early hour’. I know they were trying to help me, but I also knew that Mum would resent their interference—just as she had when Grandpa had tried to help me.
Mum was very angry and told Dad what they had said in such a way that he thought it was just interference, too. He always thought that Mum knew best about everything to do with my upbringing and didn’t seem to notice that she was always telling me off, never praising me, sending me away to the other room or the garden or to bed, or making me spend Saturdays doing housework. He just did not notice that I hardly spoke when Mum was around except to say ‘yes’ or ‘thank you’ and so on. So he sided with Mum against Grandma and Granddad, saying that they were in ‘his house’ and they should not interfere.
Mum was very cross with everyone except Dad.
‘You realise that all this is your fault, don’t you?’ she said to me.
As always, I had to say, ‘Yes Mum. I’m sorry, Mum.’ But I couldn’t see how it could be my fault.
Dad looked at her a bit oddly but said nothing.
How I wished that Harry was still living with us! But he would have been in Dad’s house too, of course, so he might have been told he was just interfering, as well.
I must have been very stupid because only a few days after this I asked if I could write to Auntie Jinny. Why did I not wait a week or two?
‘Why?’ asked Mum.
‘I’d just like to,’ I replied.
‘What are you going to say to her?’
‘Um … just about the war effort at school and things.’
‘Well, all right, but I want to see what you’ve written before you put it in the envelope.’
There was a lot of huffing while Mum found a writing pad, gave me one sheet and an envelope. I turned to go in the other room.
‘You had better sit at the table to write this letter,’ instructed Mum.
With Mum watching me, it took me a long time to think what to write, and I made it a very short letter. It was a bit messy because the pencil broke and we could not find the pencil sharpener. Dad came in about then and sharpened the pencil with a knife, and I was able to write the ending, which had to be very formal: ‘Your loving great-niece, Julia.’ Only I couldn’t spell ‘niece’ and had to rub it out when Mum pointed out my mistake a
nd that made another splodge.
‘Well, what a mess!’ said Mum, looking at the letter. ‘I don’t think we can send that.’ And she took the envelope away and screwed up the letter.
I cried that night. I had so wanted to feel in contact with Auntie Jinny. I knew that she wrote sometimes, but the mail was addressed to Dad and Mum, and I was not told what the letter said. She would not have written just to me—that was not the way in those days; a letter had to be to the parents with, perhaps, a message or ‘love’ to a child. But while I expect Auntie Jinny did send love, I was never told.
I was such a wimp that I did not try to write again—it caused too much of a fuss.
The Great Escape—That Wasn’t
I don’t think it could have been because of the ‘interference row’, but soon Grandma went off to stay with her friend in the house next door to their own, and shortly afterwards Granddad followed. It seemed that they were going to have a couple of rooms and either rent or lodge (I was not sure what the difference was) in that house instead of at Meadow View. Grandma had never liked the fact that we were in the country and rather isolated compared with their home in Bath. Now she would be back on familiar ground.
There was another reason for the move, too. Their house, although not officially fit for habitation, was being lived in unofficially by a lady and her children who were squatting. Dad explained that many people whose houses had been completely demolished and were homeless had found damaged homes that had been abandoned but were just about safe and had moved in. Granddad had to see solicitors and the authorities, because he had heard that once someone occupied a house in this way it was difficult to make them move out, although they were not paying rent or anything. It was evidently very worrying, and Granddad said he would rather be nearby to keep an eye on the situation.
So apart from Granddad’s piano, which would not fit in their rooms and so stayed at Meadow View, the house was back to normal: rather empty and very quiet. I had liked having more people around, and the disruption of my rigid routine had given me a little more freedom and alleviated my loneliness—or perhaps my aloneness.
The Country Nurse Remembers Page 14