Birmingham & Harrogate

Birmingham and Harrogate

D-Day June 1944 was an uplifting time for Britons.  At last, we were taking the initiative, we were moving forward.  For once, fewer bombs were falling on London than on German cities.

No doubt this really ticked off Hitler who had engaged the services of Wernher Von Braun https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wernher_von_Braun the scientist with a penchant for inventing flying objects.  Londoner’s first introduction to his skills was on June 13^th 1944 when the first of the flying bombs christened “Buzz Bombs” or “Doodle Bugs” made its appearance.  Because of the limited range of these objects, South London where we lived was a prime target.

V1 - Buzz Bomb or Doodlebug

Anyone unfortunate enough to have experienced these V1’s will tell you that the thing they remember is the sound.  It did not sound like a plane.  It was a hard to describe “buzzing” sound.  (I’ve heard it described as a motor cycle engine).  The scary part was when this sound stopped, that meant the bomb was ready to drop! Unless you were a Saint, everyone wished for the sound to continue and for someone else to be its victim.

Soon, however, Von Braun upped the stakes.  The silent and stealthily V2 rockets became the norm.  So, this may have been the time when we once again took up our evacuation adventures.  But then again my memory being what it is these trips could have occurred earlier.

In order to write these stories I’ve been doing quite a bit of research on the internet about World War II and evacuees. While it’s a wonderful source for checking dates it’s also a treasure trove of personal stories.  When I read some of these accounts where children were ill-treated, some half-starved, I am forever thankful that our mother fit the criteria for accompanying us: pregnant women and mothers with children under five. Sometimes she fit into both categories.

By now, our evacuating family has reached it full complement: Mum, Me, LS, LB, and finally LLB.  This is a good point to pop in one of the lovely poems by LS:

My mother’s third baby's expected

She tells us she's going to knit

An undershirt for this unborn one

A miracle if it should fit

She bought herself a ball of white wool

A very good pattern and read it

She'd never done any knitting before

So we had to give her credit

Many times with wool in hand

The pattern she'd try to figure

The undershirt remained at row one

But her tummy sure grew bigger

My mother’s fourth baby’s expected

She tells us that she will finish

The undershirt for this unborn one

Her hopes we wouldn’t diminish

It could have been around this time when we were sent to Birmingham.  I’ve never been able to figure out why Birmingham?  It was and is an industrial city that suffered bombing throughout the war, so why send evacuees there?  

Perhaps a more pertinent question would be why would they want us?  Surely it wasn’t for the money.

We couldn’t have been there very long because I have an almost blackout of memories from that period. 

However, I do know that Mum being Mum was not one to forego an opportunity because I recall a visit we all made to a WVS (Women’s Voluntary Service) centre where we were all outfitted with clothing for free.  I remember it most vividly because the shoes I was given were hideous to my burgeoning teenage eyes!

Our next stopover is in Harrogate, Yorkshire.  Here we are billeted in a huge communal stop-over type of building, prior to being boarded elsewhere.  We are housed in a room that had bunk beds that I thought were pretty neat; I’d never seen the like before.  It was fair sized room that overlooked a large garden that backed onto railway tracks.  The sound of the trains became a comforting sound that I’ve always liked.

Every family was expected to contribute to the running and care of the household.  We sat as a large group for meals and while I’m sure there was a roster for all kinds of jobs I only remember having to help with the washing up.

Our stay here was delayed because LS became very ill and needed to be hospitalised.   Also, there probably were not a lot of households ready for a mother and four young children. After LS returned, our billeting came through and I hated it!  Mum and the two youngest were in one house with sweet pea flowers around the front door, and LS and I were living in a house controlled by a miserable harridan of a woman, on the opposite side of the street.

I think it was while we were there that notice came that I had won a scholarship to attend a school that also had been evacuated and was operating from a satellite site in the countryside of Woking.  Time again to pack up and leave!

1946 Edition of first Post-War School Magazine

However, I never did get to the Woking site for Mayfield Grammar School for Young Ladies; by the time forms had been completed, uniforms arranged and directions received, wonder of wonders; the war was over and the school returned to its home in Putney.

Evacuations are done with and life returns to normal, but that begs the question: what is normal for this little Covey of Cockneys? Is there another another tale to be told?

Evacuation to Somerset

I’ve never visited Somerset in my adult life, but I have all manner of memory “snippets” from when I was almost 8 years of age.

First a little bit of background.  Somerset is situated just south of Wales on the west coast of England.  It’s known for its abundance of Cider and Cheddar cheese (the map even shows a town that carries that name!) Must be a bit confusing to visitors when asked if they like cheddar? But I digress.

We were evacuated to an area close to Frome

Another famous town is Glastonbury.  Good stuff abounds with myth and legend regarding Glastonbury Abbey.  If you’re a fan of King Arthur and his Knights you probably know that Arthur and Guinevere are said to be buried there.  “Said” being the operative word because another group insists they are buried at Avalon!  However that’s difficult to prove because no one knows where Avalon is.   Oh, don’t you just love these “Olde English tales”!  This one is a bit like my memory: Only acceptable with a pinch of salt!

City of the lost tomb!

This little story will not go back that far but it will return to 1940.  If you recall from a previous post, late 1940 Hitler was trying to bomb London out of existence. While he was trying to kill everyone, Mum was doing her bit to achieve the opposite; she was heavily pregnant with child number three.  Not wanting to stay around to give Hitler his chance we are off again on the evacuation train, this time to Somerset!

My memories of this period are getting a little more detailed than previously as I’m remembering feelings as well.  How we got there I don’t know but I can clearly see what looks to me to be a sea of mud that I must step in with my little red wellies to cross to the farmhouse which appears to be miles away.  Mum is at my side but I’m scared that my wellies will get stuck and so will I. 

Of course, we reach the house safely but I’m not impressed with this introduction.

Nighttime brings another astonishment: so far in my young life I’ve slept in my own bed.  This night would be different.  Our little family has been assigned to a very small room containing one very small bed on which Mum with her very large midriff plus LS and I are all meant to slumber.  I can’t recall how many nights we did the top and tail routine but I do recall when GM arrived from London to set everything right. 

I wasn’t privy to the actual word exchange but I know that before GM had finished raining down Irish curses on the farmer and his flock, we had been moved to the cottage of one of his workers.  This was much better; we had a large room with ample sleeping surfaces for all of us.

Not sure how long we stayed but definitely long enough to thumb our noses at Hitler, when Mum gives birth to a bonny baby boy on November 20^th, identified in these tales as LB.  It was about this time that we received a typed letter from Dad who was stationed somewhere in Wales. The advanced technology of this typed letter caused much excitement and much discussion of how he could have had access to such a machine!

Frome grew up as a market town. Indeed, its market is thought to predate the arrival of the Normans in 1066. In 1239, King Henry III granted a Royal Charter that confirmed the town's right to hold a market. There is still some evidence of the former medieval street layout. Cheap Street and Apple Alley date back to this period, although many of the buildings that can be seen here today date from the Tudor era.

My other memories include riding a bus to school in Frome, and me reciting the poem “Wee Willy Winkie” at a Christmas concert.  and struggling to understand why the farmhand’s grown son spent all day sitting by a window recording the license plate numbers of every passing car.

Generally, it was a quiet time except for the rumour that bombs had been dropped on some cows.  Eventually things must also have quietened down in London because once again we are back in Battersea,  battened down and waiting for our next evacuation opportunity.