The Country Nurse Remembers

by Mary J. Macleod

  Words, Words, Words

  The language of war, like war itself, somehow infiltrated our consciousness, and a whole new vocabulary opened up to us. It was all everyone talked about—well, the grown-ups certainly—so to gain any understanding we had to guess at what words meant and hope for the best.

  The ‘black market’ was not a market at all, it seemed, black or otherwise, but just a name given to goods that people sold without coupons. Were the goods black, or were the people selling them black? Were the people black, hence the name? I had only seen one black person thus far in my life. He had appeared in the village one day, as the school was coming out.

  Then we heard of a country called ‘Russia’. ‘Communists’ lived there and were fighting the Germans because Hitler had been silly enough to start a second front—whatever that was. Communists wore ragged clothes and didn’t have enough guns, but the cold winter helped them. This was a mystery.

  Dad said that Tom, his friend the farmer, had had one of his lorries commandeered by the army. Tom was upset but had said, ‘If they want it, they’d better have it.’ What was that all about?

  There was a great song, ‘We’re Going to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’. I knew that it was not a washing line, but I was almost an adult before I learned that it was a German defence line, built in the First World War and reinstated in the Second World War. The song implied that it would not hold out against the Allies for long, so it made people feel cheerful.

  We heard that spies ‘infiltrated’ the enemy, that the Germans were ‘anti-Semitic’—was this a disease? And the ‘French Resistance’ helped airmen who had been shot down. I don’t think I understood that France had been conquered by Germany and went on ‘resisting’. People said that France had ‘capitulated’; they were very scathing about this. I couldn’t understand it at all—had they been conquered or had they capitulated? And what was the difference?

  Some people were making a lot of money, making guns and things, and this was ‘profiteering’. It was evidently not right.

  Although I still listened to the six o’clock news on Fridays, I only understood about the fighting—and that not very well. I just knew that we lost some battles and won some, that Montgomery was a great soldier, that lots of soldiers were killed and that Mr. Churchill was directing the war: ‘We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender.’ People loved Mr. Churchill and were quite sure that he would win the war for us. The vicar was quite cross at one of the Thursday services when one of the boys said that Mr. Churchill was so clever.

  ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that God is directing Mr. Churchill. Without God’s help, we will not win the war.’

  None of us had the slightest doubt that God was on our side, so how could we lose? So why was everyone so worried? It was all very confusing.

  Sometimes, I would ask Dad what something meant and he’d try to explain, but he was always so tired that Mum said to let him be. So I lived in a sort of bubble of ignorance, and my own small life just plodded along.

  I never did find out what a ‘quisling’ was. I formed the impression that it was a kind of eel, for some reason. It did not occur to me that it was the name of a person, and in any case the word entered the language very quickly to mean a traitor.

  I think many children had very odd ideas about the rights and wrongs of the war: the principles, honour, intrigue. And Hitler himself, and Mussolini in Italy. Some of my friends were better informed by their parents, but now that the heavy bombing had almost stopped (there were still raids on Bristol but not so often), the war did not seem to affect us children so much. We were used to rationing and being told not to show a light and to dig for victory and ‘do our bit’ for the war effort and not to talk to strangers in case they were German spies. We accepted the darkness everywhere, now that there were no streetlights. Our lane had never had them anyway, but the village had been lit. There were no road or town names and no signposts; they had all been removed at the beginning of the war to confuse the Germans, had they invaded. Dad knew the local area and nearby towns and roads well, and, in any case, we did not go far from home during the war.

  A New Teacher

  Life went on as usual—until one day we went to school and Governess was not there. She had apparently retired.

  No one had told us or our parents that this was imminent. There was no big send-off, Governess did not get a retirement gift and there was nothing in the papers about her long service to education. It was all a bit sudden. Maybe she wanted it this way, or perhaps it was just one more result of the war, meaning that people were busy trying to keep their families fed and clothed, and so poor Governess just disappeared. I think her husband retired at the same time, and the village hardly ever saw them from then on.

  Miss Martin, the new teacher, stood at the front of our class on the first morning of the term. She was much younger than Governess; probably in her mid-twenties. She had hair done in a modern style, whereas Governess had had a bun. Miss Martin’s clothes were more up to date, and she wore lipstick. Whilst widely used, lipstick, on a teacher, was a surprise to us, as Governess had not worn make-up at all.

  ‘Good morning children,’ Miss Martin said.

  We answered as we always had: ‘Good morning, Governess.’

  She looked rather shocked. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I do not wish to be called “Governess”. You will call me Miss Martin.’

  We said, ‘Yes, Miss Martin.’

  Miss Martin’s way of teaching us was very different from Governess’s rather stiff, precise way. She encouraged us to discuss things to do with the war. Perhaps Mr. Churchill’s latest speech, or some battle, or why a certain ship had been sunk. We were used to the school curriculum of reading, writing and arithmetic, with some history and nature study and instruction in good manners. The girls learnt to knit while the boys did things with cardboard and glue (when it was available), and we did gym. But that was all. Discussion was new. The boys loved talking about the war, and Miss Martin seemed to listen to them and then either agree or disagree. The girls were more inclined to talk about the way that the war was affecting their homes, and Miss Martin was equally interested, offering some opinions herself. She then told us where she had been teaching before, where she was living now, a bit about her parents and her brother. It was all very chatty and rather confusing for us after Governess’s rigid discipline.

  Mum and Dad looked sceptical when I told them about it all. They seemed to think that all this ‘chat’ was a waste of learning time. I suppose ‘modern’ methods of teaching were being introduced, and many parents were worried that discipline and respect for elders was being undermined. I didn’t know what all that meant, but I think Miss Martin had a struggle to convince them that encouraging us to think for ourselves was part of teaching. Mum certainly would not have approved, as she did not like me to think for myself. She had always said that she would tell me what to think.

  After a few weeks, some parents were disturbed by a rumour that Miss Martin had been seen out walking in the evening with a young man. They seemed to find this worrying in itself, and then someone noticed that the young man was not in uniform. Rumours buzzed about. Was he a conchie? And if so, should Miss Martin, who might have ‘radical ideas’—whatever those were—be teaching impressionable young children?

  These whisperings eventually reached Miss Martin’s ears, and she took the unusual step of refuting them head on. One day, she stood in front of the top class and told us to inform our parents that the young man, with whom she had been walking, was her brother, who was still at university but would be joining up when he left next year, if the war was not over by then. We were very impressed, partly because she had told us such personal things and because she had a brother at university. Most of us did not know anyone who was at university and, at this early stage in our education, could not imagine that any of us would ever get to those dizzying height
s of cleverness.

  The school continued to suffer shortages. There was often no paper on which to write or draw, and we had no pencil sharpeners. If we had a broken pencil or crayon, we had to take it home and get it sharpened, perhaps with a kitchen knife or a penknife. Before my time, children had written on slates with chalk, so now the slates were unearthed, some chalk found and we all had to do spellings and sums on them instead. It was very messy, made worse by ‘rubbings out’ with a well-licked finger.

  The heating was often not working because there was no coal for the furnace, so we were told to keep our coats and gloves on. Writing on slate with chalk in woolly gloves was not easy, but Miss Martin insisted that by not complaining we were helping the war effort. I wondered how the war people, like Mr. Churchill, would manage. David said that they would have lots of paper and proper fountain pens and they would be sitting in great big warm rooms. However, we preferred to think of Mr. Churchill in woolly gloves, with chalk on his cigar.

  Mice Galore

  I had now had mice for many months, perhaps a year, and during that time there had been a population explosion among them.

  After the arrival of Winnie and Bobbie’s family, Dad said that we would have to separate the boys from the girls as soon as they were old enough. But no one knew how old they had to be before they could be taken from their mother, or how to tell boys from girls. Mice are very small, and even though Mum and Dad upended the little things and stared hard at their ‘underneath bits’, they could not see any difference. I suppose these days one would take them to a vet, who would know straight away, but people did not use vets as often as they do now, and certainly not for such a thing as this. Neither did we know how old they had to be before they started families of their own. Well, we were soon to find out.

  Dad had only just started to make another mouse box when we found that Winnie and Bobbie had had another family. The first family had been housed in a cardboard box whilst waiting for their new home, but there must have been boys and girls together because we found two new families in there, as well. Dad brought Mr. Burn in to try to ‘sex’ them. This was probably the first time that I had heard this word, but, because of the context, I more or less knew its meaning, and I was very embarrassed to think that Mr. Burn was involved. Between him, Dad and Mum, the boys were identified and removed to a different box, and Dad started to make about six more homes for all the mice. He was quite happy doing this, but it must have been a nuisance, as he was so busy at the Works. Mum found bits of old cloth for bedding, and all the mouse houses were put on a wide shelf in the greenhouse. The windows had been partially blown out by the blast of bombs, so Dad said they would have plenty of fresh air.

  We kept lots of logs for the fire on the floor under the shelf. One day, I went to feed all these mice, clean them out and give them fresh water, and I found that my original and favourite two, Winnie and Bobbie, had escaped. I called Mum, who came to help me look for them. We realised that they must be in among all these logs. When Dad came home, he said that the only way to get them to come out was to get some bits of meat or something that smelled good and put it in their cage, which should be put on the floor with the door open so that the mouse would smell the food, go to eat it and, when it entered the cage, we could quickly shut the door.

  So we took turns at watching for the returning escapees. I had my teatime sandwiches watching. It got dark, so I got a torch and went on watching. At last there was a shuffling, and a little white figure ran into the cage and began to eat the meat. I crept forward and shut the cage door. Winnie was safe!

  Now we had to get Bobbie.

  Some more meat was put in a big glass jar, which was placed on its side, and we waited for him to appear. Nothing happened.

  It was long past my bedtime, so Mum said they would go on watching for him and I should go to bed. I had school the next day. Mum and Dad seemed worried about Bobbie in case he had gone altogether, so I knew they would go on watching for ‘that scallywag’, as Dad called him.

  The next morning, both the mice were together in their cage. Dad had gone to work, but Mum told me that they had watched for a long time, and, though Bobbie had peeped out of the logs, he had not been interested in the meat. So Dad had had the idea of putting the flashlight behind Winnie, in her cage, so that Bobbie could see her. It worked, and Bobbie soon crept out from the logs and ran to the cage to be with Winnie. Mum quickly grabbed him, opened the cage, popped him in, shut the door, gave them some food and the hunt was over. I was very happy to know that the mice were safe, and I had a sort of warm feeling because Dad and Mum had been so glad to help me.

  However, none of us had realised that the boy mice would fight, so they had to be parted. More boxes! Some mistakes in the ‘sexing’ must have been made because another family arrived in the girls’ box, too. Another box was needed! Poor Dad! Meanwhile, Winnie and Bobbie had had yet another family, but we did not want to separate them, as they had been together for a long time, so we just removed the little ones as soon as they were old enough and left Winnie and Bobbie together.

  ‘It’s completely out of hand,’ said Dad. ‘I’m afraid we can’t keep up. Some of these mice will have to go to the pet shop.’

  He was sorry about this and thought that I would be upset. But I had realised that we could not go on like this, and as long as I could keep Winnie and Bobbie, I did not mind. I knew that they might have more babies, but we would send those to the pet shop when the time came. I think we took about 50 mice to the shop, and I earned money for the first time ever: a total of ten shillings.

  Bobbie and Winnie did not have any more babies. They were getting too old, Dad said. I think they went on for a while, and I liked just having them without the worry of dozens of families of mice, but eventually they died—within a day of each other. I don’t remember which went first, but I wrapped them in an old hankie of Dad’s, put them in a glucose tin and had a very respectful funeral. Dad and Mum stood nearby as I put the tin into a hole that Dad had dug for me. I filled the hole and put a plant on top, together with a cross made of bits of wood.

  I thought how nice of Dad and Mum to be there and not to tease me. I think they knew that I had been very fond of those mice.

  The Salvage Competition

  We had never come across the word ‘salvage’, but one day Miss Martin came into the classroom with a ball of string. She placed it on her desk, saying nothing.

  We all said, ‘Good morning, Miss Martin,’ and sang our morning hymn.

  Miss Martin said a brief prayer.

  We were sure that she would tell us what the string was for then. But no.

  We started our sums as usual but kept looking at the string on the desk, wondering if it was for a game or something like that. Our attention must have wandered because Miss Martin eventually said that we should stop what we were doing, as we were distracted and our work would be compromised. We had no idea what that meant, but we were very happy to stop doing sums.

  At last she told us what this ball of string was for. There was to be a village Salvage Competition.

  ‘What’s that, Miss?’ David was always the spokesman.

  ‘Different groups are collecting anything useful for the war effort.’

  ‘Like the Scrap Iron Drive, Miss?’

  Miss Martin had not been at the school for the Scrap Iron Drive, so she was given a much-embellished version of that time. Eventually, we were told that the scouts were collecting old clothes; the guides were to collect old sheets and pillowcases; and the school would collect waste paper.

  We all groaned at this because most people used their old newspapers to light the fire, so we knew we wouldn’t do well, but Miss Martin said that we must do our best. Once more, we were paired off and told to meet up on Saturday at the school. We had to measure out lengths of string to tie up bundles of paper and take about a dozen with each pair. So at last we knew what the ball of string was for …

  This time, I had no bother at home at al
l because Mum remembered the Scrap Iron Drive. Sheila produced the old pram again, and we started at the village end of the road that we had been given as our ‘patch’. We were amazed at how well we did! Thinking back, I realise that it was not all that surprising. Those were the days of no television, uncertain wireless information and the daily delivery of newspapers. Nearly everyone had a paper in order to keep up with the war news, and young boys made plenty of pocket money doing a paper round.

  The pram was soon piled high with paper—nearly all newspaper, but some old letters and envelopes and a few posh magazines (we had a quick peek at these). We took one load back to school, making piles in the hallway, and then set off to do the other end of our road.

  We trundled down a side lane to a very old, creepy-looking house and timidly knocked the door. A very, very old lady opened the door just a crack. She was extremely deaf, and it took us a long time to make her understand what we were doing. Finally, she drew back and opened the door wide. There, all along the hall and up the stairs, were piles and piles of papers! We just stared.

  ‘Take them all,’ she shouted, making us jump. She didn’t know how loudly she spoke.

  We looked at one another and then began to heave these bundles, already tied up, onto the pram. When it was full, we said we would come back for some more later. She smiled and nodded.

  Back at school, we told Miss Martin, who was there to oversee the stacking of the piles. She said that she would send some of the others to help us when they returned, so there was a steady stream of children in and out of that house, gradually clearing the hall and the stairs. The old lady seemed delighted and kept nodding and smiling. She was a little bit scary because she had no teeth and her mouth looked huge when she smiled.

  We had just about finished by four o’clock, when we were expected back at school for the last time, so Sheila and I went in to the room where the old lady was sitting knitting to say that we were going. We stopped and stared! Every wall of the room was almost hidden behind more and more bundles of old newspapers!