Barking and District Historical Society

A Holiday of a Lifetime
(This was written in response to a request
by our local Museum on holidays)
Katie Avagah

Born at the end of September 1935, the sixth child of a family of, at that time, seven children, holidays were not a part of our lifestyle. My parents had been rehoused from Stepney Green to the sprawling Becontree Council Estate in Dagenham just before  the birth of their second child in 1927. At first living in a two bedroomed house in Britton Road at the Merry Fiddlers, and with my arrival being moved into a three bedroomed house in Downing Road. With the outbreak of war imminent my father volunteered  for the army leaving mum with seven children all under 14 years.  Most of the Boroughs had been practising for the ‘Evacuation’ for many months, but Dagenham had been either forgotten or deemed a safe place, despite being on the river  and with much industry; so unlike most London kids we had not undergone weeks of ‘training’. Preceding the announcement that we were at war to be broadcast by Chamberlain on the 3rd  September, mum was to be found with her gaggle of children on the jetty at Fords for the great Exodus leaving Dagenham on 1st September 1939. Mum was evacuated with us because she  had a toddler and a child under school age. What a wonderful spectacle she must have presented surrounded by all of us! Like most working class mums of the time she was short and dumpy, no make-up (‘worn by women no better than they should be' – an oft quoted sentiment of the time)’ her hair secured with a few pins into a ‘bun’.  Despite the warm weather she would be wearing her coat and hat, shabby though it might be, and thick lisle stockings. The Americans hadn't arrived yet with their nylons and chewing gum and anyway ‘only women no better than they should be’ would wear them. We kids, with our gas masks and little bundles of possessions clutched in grubby hands, were off on a big adventure!

Aboard the ‘Daffodil’ we set off for Lowestoft, and the well-known story of the evacuation. The older children had a great time racing around the boat, convinced they had spotted submarines and enemy aircraft, as we sailed around the coast  to Lowestoft.  Being only three I remember little of all this, though apparently I became lost on board, only to be found later up with the Captain helping to steer the boat! What chaos, confusion and clamour this conjures up in the mind! How would our  Health and Safety Czars have coped with this?

For a short while we were all together then my older siblings were sent off to a variety of homes in Wales, Sussex and Suffolk. For a few weeks I was with mum and baby Teddy but she soon returned home to Dagenham. I apparently then surfaced in Somerset,  no one seems to know how or why; I guess I was just an intrepid four year old traveller. Paddington Bear had nothing on me!

There in the soft green fields and gentle hills of Somerset began my ‘holiday of a lifetime’, a time which has stayed in my memories always, and which must have shaped me for life. Although war raged across the World, homes, people and countries  completely devastated and destroyed, sheltered in those sleepy, quite lanes I learnt to love and appreciate this beautiful country of ours.

I did not start well for me. My first billet was at the local school house, with the school marm, her mother and daughter. Does it speak volumes that I cannot even remember their names or faces. The daughter well enough into her teens to go a-courting,  seemd to delight in spending the rest of the time pinching and bullying me. She would frighten me by reading stories from an enormous book, the front and back cover of which pictured an horrendous man with long fingernails dripping with blood; an experience  which leaves me still with an aversion to long red varnished fingernails! Then one of Germany’s bomber pilots came to the rescue of this little frightened child. Lost over the Mendip Hills he jettisoned his remaining bombs managing a direct hit  on the school building and house. We were all unhurt but buried under piles of rubble and debris. After being rescued my kindly host took me to the bottom of the garden to show me their poor dog, a black and white collie, lying dead outside its kennel.  I was deposited at an orphanage or boarding school; I don’t really know quite what it was. I do remember I was not allowed to play out with the other children because I had wet the bed.

One lovely sunny day I was collected by a lady dressed in green – this was my Auntie Ada who took me home to meet my Uncle George in their large beautiful home in Axbridge – ‘Fairfield’ which had originally been an Inn. They  also had two adopted sons, their nephews, John in the air force and George in the army.

Now followed days of sunshine, walking green and shady lanes, glorious hours spent in nearby woods with countless friends, all local children. I never met with any other evacuees except my sister Dorothy, two years my senior, who stayed at Cross, a village  just a short walk away. Later she was to billet with me at ‘Fairfield’, along with the Stokes family from Bristol. I attended the school, Infants and Juniors all in one large room, which was the village hall. Dolly, along with David Stokes,  soon outgrew the Village School and took the bus into Cheddar. I remember resting after lunch lying on top of our desks, lots of drawing and also singing rousing songs like ‘Hearts of Oak’.

We spent whole days walking the Mendip Hills, reached from the bottom of ‘my garden’. We knocked at isolated cottages for drinks of water, always greeted by these gentle folk with smiles and generosity. We picked immeasurable buckets of  blackberries and rose-hips, to be collected by horse-drawn cart; I can see the cart now piled high with blue-black fruit or bright orange hips. This was how we earnt our pocket money and great competition grew amongst us to earn the most, though we tinies  had little chance against the big-uns! These days were spent unsupervised by adults yet we never seemed to get into mischief, nor were we considered to be in any danger.

I remember blissful days, warm and sunny, did it never rain? My special friend Jessica Latimer lived in the small garden next to ‘Fairfield’, one of a large family where I was always felt at home. Our favourite place was the local quarry.  I knew nothing of stones, their names, their uses. Only that the quarry men had formed caves with their digging, caves where the walls glittered and glinted like precious diamonds in the bright sunshine, A magical place for two little girls to make believe.  Uncle George worked here and he also drove a steamroller, rolling slowly down the roads, smoothing down the tarmac, the smell of the hot tar permeating the air – if I am lucky enough to smell that now I am back there in Somerset. His special treat,  only for me, was to ride up there with him, while the other children swarmed around. And always, each evening from his lunch-box he would produce a sandwich, the cheese warm and soft, saved for me from his packed lunch to eat as I sat cosy in his arms  in the large kitchen, while Auntie cooked dinner. What wonders for a small child from a poor London home where love and cuddles were in very short supply.

Auntie Ada was in the W.V.S. She was in charge of a large centre in Axbridge where food was cooked and I think she must have been quite high up because she often went to special meetings, and even came here to London on occasion. She seemed a large lady  to this small child, and quite formidable and strict, but full of love and kindness towards her little evacuee. For a long time she slept with me in the cupboard under the stairs because I was frightened of sleeping upstairs; and then later sharing her  big bed while uncle slept in a single bed. I remember wonderful roast dinners, cakes and treats, we certainly didn’t go hungry. She cooked on a shiny black kitchen range which stretched along half the large kitchen, fuelled mainly by wood chopped  up by Uncle George, warming up that glorious room on cold days. A high backed settle and large shiny brass plates displayed around the walls. This was our ‘welcome home’ place, where we took our meals, did our homework, our playing - to be vacated by us children for bed promptly as ‘Big Ben’ struck the hour for the 9 o’clock news – time strictly for adults listening to the atrocities shielded from us.

I don’t remember rain, but snow, deep white glistening snow. Snow that covered the lanes and fields so that hedgerows and landmarks disappeared. Snow that topped over our wellies as we struggled to school, until the snow-plough cleared a path   ? another of Uncle George’s jobs. Local men out with the farmers and their intelligent dogs rescuing sheep and lambs from certain death, while we glorified in snow fights and snowmen built under brilliant star studied skies. Deep frosts, thick  ice and magnificent orange sunsets, and sliding along icy paths in the dusk.

In that other world occupied by adults the war raged on, but slowly the allies were bringing it to a longed for finish. Children began to drift back home to their parents. Most were thrilled to be returning home but quite a few shed tears on leaving Auntie  and Uncle and country friends. Mr Stokes was demobbed from the Air Force so the family returned to bomb-torn Bristol. My sister Dolly had returned home earlier because my mother was expecting another child. I remained in Somerset. John and George came  home, so now I had two big brothers to tease and spoil me. I continued attending the Village School; I was one of the village kids, Iived in Axbridge, Somerset. My life and family in Dagenham not even a memory. Apart from my sister I had not seen or heard  from them since I was four, except for a brief period during the war, which I did not recall. I did not even remember my mum. But my holiday of a lifetime was nearing its end.

Unknown to me Auntie Ada and Uncle George had asked my parents if they could adopt me. Auntie had apparently visited them when she was in London and she really didn’t want ‘her’ little girl returning to Dagenham, after all they had  looked after me for longer than my birth mother and father. This must have gone on for some time because it wasn’t until 1946 that I came back to Dagenham. I can remember telling Auntie that I wouldn’t go and I would run away and return  to them. Only later did I realise how painful it must have been for them also.

I remember returning to the house in Dagenham, a dark and frightening place after the elegant beauty of ‘Fairfield’. Dagenham, teeming with people, house on house, no fields, no hills, no familiar faces or places. By then mum had three more  children, eleven people all crowded into one small house – by then my eldest sister was married. Mum had five boys and five girls. I did wonder why she couldn’t have spared one for that loving family in Somerset.

I have learnt to accept Dagenham, know its people, made good friends over the years. Its faces and places as familiar today as those in Axbridge in my yesterdays. If you ask where my home is I will answer Dagenham, but if you ask where my heart is   - it’s in the fields and lanes of Somerset.

I remember – an evacuee
Katie Avagah

I remember none of the evacuation from Dagenham, or the time spent with my family in Suffolk. Except one memory of a lovely garden with flowers and grass, it was very warm and sunny, I was running around with a small dog, and then I was sick! I do have  very clear mind pictures of my early time in Somerset, this would be when I was four. My first billet was with a family which consists of a grandmother, the mother who is also the school teacher, and her daughter; there is no father – perhaps he  is in the forces. I am sitting strapped in a push-chair in a class room with lots of children gathered around me; the same again in the playground with a blanket tightly around me so I cannot move – it is very cold and the children are all playing.  Then I am standing in a corner facing the wall – perhaps I have been naughty. The daughter (I cannot remember her name) reads me stories from a book, she holds it so I see only the covers – a big book, a man’s face on each cover,  he has horrible eyes and holds his hands up, blood drips from his fingers, I feel frightened – even now I dislike long, red fingernails. One night a German pilot jettisons his bombs over the Mendip Hills; they hit the school and the school house,  we are all buried. I remember sunlight shining down through the rubble, no more. Then, the dog – it is  a black and white collie, it lives in a kennel in the garden – they take me to see him lying by the wall at the end of the garden - he is dead. Then I am in a large room, perhaps a school or an orphanage, it is very bright and sunny, windows along both sides, two rows of small iron beds down each side. I am sitting on one of the beds; I am not allowed out to play with the other  children because I have wet the bed. One day a lady arrives, she is dressed all in green, she is my lovely Auntie Ada and she takes me home to live with her.

I remember when I first arrived at ‘Fairfield’ – this is the name of the house where I am now to live. The kitchen is huge, there is an enormous table, I am too small to see over the top of it. High up around the walls are giant golden  plates and along one wall a long, long dresser with so many plates and dishes. Sitting in a large armchair beside a big black stove is this smiling rosy faced man, my Uncle George who pulls me onto his lap and hugs me. I sleep with Auntie on a bed made  up under the stairs; I am frightened of being upstairs at night. Later I sleep with Auntie in her big, big bed upstairs while Uncle sleeps in a small bed across the room. When Mrs Stokes comes to live with us I sleep in a small bed at the foot of her  big bed.

It is my 5 th birthday, the big table in the kitchen is laden with wonderful food, and a birthday cake just for me!  We are sitting around the table, the Doctor has been invited, but  Auntie is very shocked because he starts to eat before we have said grace!

I attend school in Cross, it is the Village Hall, just one large room and we are in groups, infants and juniors. We sing songs like ‘Hearts of Oak have our ships, jolly Tars are our men. We always are ready, steady boys steady.’ The seniors  are taken by bus into Cheddar. Soon my sister Dolly is evacuated in the cottages at the other side of Cross so I see her when she comes to my school. One sunny day we all go to the fields, perhaps it is nature study, we all sit down to have a picnic lunch.  Dolly sits in a cow-pat! Sometimes she is allowed to play with me after school but mostly she has her own friends. I remember we walk to school in deep snow; we slide along on the ice down the lanes. After dark the men are out rescuing the sheep and lambs  trapped in the blizzard. Uncle uses his steam-roller to clear the lanes. A young lady, she is a teacher, is staying with us at ‘Fairfield’. She is teaching me to knit and I make Uncle George a long, long scarf of many bright colours - I think he must have given it to ‘Doctor Who’! Uncle always brings me back from work one of his cheese sandwiches in his lunch tin – sitting on his lap I remove the soft cheese to eat separately from his bread, I still eat bread  and cheese that way. The Stokes, come to live at ‘Fairfield’ and then Dolly lives with us also.

We have a very big garden; there are lots of fruit trees and of course vegetables, with yellow and orange nasturtiums growing along the wall. In summer I sit under the trees reading while my hair dries. At the bottom of our garden I discover a small brick  hut so, with the help of friends who live in the cottages next door we clean it out. This is our house, we have a table and stools, it is very nice, and we have flowers on the table. At the side of the house there is a big gate which leads into the garden  and the back of the house. This is the way we all come in; only visitors use the front door in the country. There is also by the garage a walled ‘secret garden’. It is very peaceful and quiet and I often go in there to read my books. Alongside  the hose is a wall, it is painted white and seems very high to me, and a lilac tree. I often get home first and sit on the wall and keep watch down the lane for one of my family to come home.

Through the high hedge at the bottom of the garden, across a field and there are the Mendip Hills. We go for long walks in the sunshine, my sister and Josie Stokes with me, across the hills stopping at hillside cottages for a cool drink. Off to the woods,  carpeted with bluebells, primroses, celandines, blue and white violets; we climb trees, paddle in the streams. I remember a big tree in the woods, the older boys pull down one of the big branches, we would all hold it down, then at a signal we smaller  kids let go while the bigger ones would all hang on and shoot up in the air. One time my frock became caught on the branch and up I went! My frock tore and down I fell – I go home bruised and tearful and the big-uns are in trouble! Sometimes we  catch eels for tea in the River Axe. We take off our shoes and socks, tuck our dresses in our knickers, down into the river and catch the eels in our hands as they slither between our feet.

With Jessie Latimer I play in the nearby quarries, in the caves made by the workmen, caves that sparkle with ‘precious’ jewels. Sometimes I am allowed to ride on Uncle’s steam-roller as it trundles down the lane. Uncle and his brother  farm down the road at Cross and I ride high up on the huge Shire horse and help rub him down afterwards. Haymaking, riding home on the hay cart, helping gather up the sheaves, or around the threshing machine watching the giant wheels turn separating the  grain from the chaff, squealing as the mice run out. One night village men are out looking for a poor Downs Syndrome boy who is lost, flares flickering across the hills in the darkness. They fear for his safety amongst the caves on the Mendip’s,  they find him safe but frightened.

Sundays – Morning Service at Cross; Sunday School with an Indian Gentleman who showed us 3D slides of Jerusalem; a walk later if it was fine; high tea then Evensong at Axbridge. I remember the church at Axbridge – lots of steps for little  legs to climb leading up to the big church at the top. I remember the Nativity scene and the big Christmas Tree. Singing carols on cold, frosty evenings around the village. Sunday dinners all sitting around that big table – we are always well fed  but these are extra delicious – more so to a poor London kid. There seems no shortage of food, but you mustn’t waste it. Roast meats, vegetables, batter puddings, thick gravy, followed by hot apple pie and custard. All cooked on the big  black range by the glowing fire.

Cold winter afternoons after school toasting bread or crumpets by the fire, oozing real butter. Gazing into the fire at the magic pictures and caves which suddenly collapse and new pictures appear. Visiting Auntie Ada in the big kitchen in Axbridge where  she works, she always seems to be in her green WVS uniform. The steam trains puffing into Axbridge Station. The lady in one of the cottages who makes pretty dresses for me and always makes a matching dress for my doll. Whist Drives, Beetle Drives and  Socials in the Village Hall to raise money for the troops. Knitting socks and gloves to send out to the troops, we knit these on four needles. Some of the young ladies place messages and their addresses in the parcels but I’m too young to do that.  Trips to Bristol with Dolly and Mrs Stokes to check on how things are at her hairdressers shop, Bristol milling with American servicemen, always ready to make a fuss of us kids, bars of chocolate, chewing gum’ dozing on Auntie Stroke’s shoulder  on the long bus ride home, way, way past our bedtime. Picking blackberries and rose-hips to be collected by horse and cart, competing to pick the most – I never stood a chance.

I remember Josie at work know, off to dances in pretty dresses; the gossip when folk learn the Italian prisoners are allowed to go to the dances! Sometimes she allows me to play with her beautiful dolls, to dress them and brush their hair. My favourite  was a beautiful black doll; I had never seen a black doll before, or even a black person. John the Hardridge’s adopted son, home with his hands and arms bandaged – they tell me how he has a rash. Was that true! He was an RAF pilot - I decide I will marry him when I grow up. We are allowed one sweet from our allowance then up stairs to bed as Big Ben strikes for the 9 o’clock News, the adults must have quite to listen. On warm British double-summertime evenings we climb out  the bathroom window, slide down the roof of the shed, into the garden, the Latimers are always up late – Auntie pretends never sees us even though the kitchen overlooks the garden. Uncle goes off for fire-duty – how many different jobs they  seem to do. I often visit the Latimer’s small muddily cottage, a big village family – I do feel comfortable here, perhaps it stirs forgotten memories of that other family.

The war is over. Mr Stokes is demobbed and they return to Bristol. Dolly was officially billeted with the Stokes but she returned home long ago. My life continues as normal, I am just one of the Village kids. I cannot recall being told I am to be sent  to Dagenham, I have neither seen nor heard anything from there for years. I don’t even remember a place called Dagenham. I remember on the day saying I will run away and come back home. I have my small brown case in which I keep my ‘special  treasures’ – if I hide it in the cupboard under the settle they will have to let me come back. (I wonder what they did when they found it?) I kneel on the settle in front of the window, it is sunny and warm, the white lace curtains move  in the breeze …. Nothing more, the parting, the journey, nothing. How I travelled to Somerset is a mystery – my journey back is the same.

A house – the bricks are painted white but it appears so small, so dark. A house in a long row of similar houses, across the road more houses, row on row for ever. No golden fields across the lane, no green hills to explore on summer days, no shady  lanes to wander, no lilac tree, no friends, no Uncle George, no Auntie Ada. Stark sunlight outlines two small children peering in through the back door, grubby, untidy blond hair, thumbs in mouth, staring wide-eyed at me, a baby sleeps in an old pram,  a woman stands nearby – apparently you are my mother. So many brothers and sisters – but you are all strangers. I have only one sister, my sister Dolly, only you I know. No one talks to me – they just stare. Later, it is so dark in  this house with its gas lighting, I feel my way up the stairs, following these strangers whom I must now sleep with, Four of us in one bed, and a baby, all in one small room.

Why didn’t I keep in contact with my Auntie and Uncle? Back in Dagenham that time was never mentioned again. Things were very hard for families like ours after the war; keeping in contact with people miles away was pretty low on the priority list.  My family had made no contact with Mr and Mrs Hardridge while I was with them so why would they bother now. Sometimes Dolly and I would talk about Somerset but it all became as a dream, something that happened to someone else. Later when I learnt of the  hard time my other siblings had experienced I realised why they just wanted to forget it all. We settled back into our dysfunctional family, grew up, started work, married, and only when people started to ask questions did we look back, remember and wonder  about that other world.

Postscript – August 1970, on holiday with my family in Somerset I ask my husband to take me to Axbridge. We find ‘Fairfield’ and I ask him and my children to leave me there and call back in a couple of hours, I need to do  this on my own. The high wall not so high now, but the lilac tree is still there. I make my way around to the back door; I have never used the front entrance. It all seems the same, the trees, the vegetables, the old shed, the hills – all still  there. Even the horseshoe over the back door. I knock gently and when the door opens an old man peers out – not so tall, not so muscular, but it is my Uncle George. I explain who I am. I recognize him, but the little girl is now a grown woman,  mother of two children …. He invites me into the big kitchen which once I knew as home. There are the big brass plates shining down from the wall – my Saturday morning job. The large kitchen table, the dresser, the settle under the window.  We sit and talk over a cup of tea. He tells me Auntie died a few years back. He is proud of how he still works his garden, but he no longer farms, his brother has also died. He does the paper round each morning on his bike for his  and two nearby villages. So quickly and it is time to leave, he doesn’t ask how I came or how I am to go – perhaps like me he finds it all unreal. I notice the cornfields across the lane have made way for a large estate of bungalows. We  exchange a couple of letters, and then in November a letter arrives from John – it says that Uncle George has died. On a frosty, misty November we drive down to attend his funeral in the old church at Cross. No one recognizes me though I remember  many of them – I feel alone, a stranger – I don’t feel able to speak to them. Later I wrote to John to let him know I had been at the funeral but he never replied.

A Family at War
Grace Exley (nee Owen)

Friday September 1st. Mum with seven children, the youngest only fifteen months, left Downing Road to walk  to Ford’s Jetty, in company with many other families: the great evacuation from Dagenham had started. Mum was not allowed to take the pram so Teddy needed to be carried, by her and us older siblings, the rest just had to keep up. At Ford's we were all herded into a long queue, no one really knowing what was happening, or even where we were going. Dagenham families had only been notified a couple of weeks before. Babies and young children became fractious, the older ones helping mums  to watch them. Thankfully it was a warm and sunny day. Many children were being evacuated with their schools under the care of teachers but because we had babies under five we accompanied mum on this first stage of the journey. It was all a great adventure,  we had never travelled any great distance before, Nanny Goats Common or the River was our playground. Families like ours didn’t have seaside or country holidays, and we had never heard of foreign holidays. We finally reached  the jetty and clambered aboard the Royal Daffodil, a mixture of excitement and trepidation, our first time ever on a boat, we had only watched them sailing along the river. I remember this as a wonderful pandemonium of excited children.  One of ours got lost! My youngest sister, we found her in the engine room with the sailors.

We arrived safely at Lowestoft to find rows of black taxis waiting for us. That first night we stayed at a school. It was very posh compared with Dagenham schools, but we had to sleep on straw. They gave us cheese sandwiches and an apple when we arrived  and the same for breakfast. We stayed there until Sunday 3rd, the day war was declared, then still very tired and disorientated, we were farmed out. Mum with baby Teddy and Kathy  went to Belton, in Suffolk. With them went a neighbour, Mrs Squires, she had 14 children altogether, though only the youngest three were with her. Her daughter Dorothy was my best friend in Dagenham. I used to help her deliver papers for her Dad around  the estate. On the wall of their living room they had a large poster of a man with a moustache; she said he was her Uncle Joe. Billeted in the same house, mum and Mrs Squires went around together and one day they made their way to the beach. Mum told  us that after a while a large black car parked on the road above the beach and two men dressed in long black coats and trilbies, climbed out. One came down and took Mrs Squires aside, she then gathered up her children, said good-bye and left in the car.  She never returned to Dagenham after the war: I never saw my friend Dorothy again. Layer I learnt they were communists, and it was ‘Uncle Joe’ Stalin’s picture on the wall. I remember being quite worried because  I realised I had been delivering Communist literature! After Mrs Squires disappeared Mum was very lonely and decided to return home to Dagenham, she had been there for only six weeks.

I was sent to Bradwell, with my sisters Ivy 10 years, and Dolly 5 years. We were first billeted at Star Farm Cottages, with Mrs Woods, she was only 26 and her little boy Norman who was two. Her husband was a trawler man, and on the  minesweepers at this time, he was later killed at sea. Mrs Littlemore, a neighbour from Downing Road was also billeted with Mrs Woods, with Joyce (another of my friends), Doris, Raymond and Reggie. The cottage only had two bedrooms, one for Mrs Woods  and Norman, one for Mrs Littlemore and her four children. My sisters and I slept in a bed on the landing between the bedrooms. Mrs Littlemore and her family didn’t stay there long and then another evacuee came, Peggy Johnson, a friend of my sister  Ivy. I was already 14 and I became a sort of servant in the house. Mrs Woods didn’t like my sister Dolly, perhaps because she was only little and couldn’t look after herself, but she was quite fond of Ivy and Peggy. She didn’t like  us in the house during the day so we would go for long walks; one day we tried to find where mum was staying and I can remember walking along Long Lane towards Beccles, but we couldn’t find her so we had to return to Mrs Woods. We used to look  up through the landing fanlight and watch the ‘dogfights’ in the sky. We attended school, all us evacuees to the Village Hall, we never mixed with any local children. There were two teachers, a man Mr Evans, and a lady. We didn’t  do much; singing, drawing, just keeping us quiet. That winter I can remember deep, deep snow, the lanes, hedges and fields all levelled off by the drifting snow. Christmas we all went to Mrs Woods’ mother in Yarmouth, staying until Boxing Day then  because the snow was so deep we had to walk all the way home, it took us hours. The billeting officer came and said I would have to start work, in Yarmouth; I would have to walk most of the way there and back each day. By then I had had enough of Mrs  Woods, especially the way she treated Dolly: I decided I might as well go to work in Dagenham so I wrote home for the fare money. On February 6th (I remember the date because it was  Dolly’s 6th birthday) Dolly and I made our way home to Dagenham. In August because of the heavy bombing along the East coast my sister Ivy, and Peggy were sent to Leamington  Spa.

Meanwhile Bobby and Ronnie were living with an elderly couple in a converted train carriage in Jews Lane; from there they were sent to South Wales. The husband was the sewage collector, and he soon put Bobbie, now 13 years, to work. Each day, alone, Bobby  toured the area with a horse and cart collecting the buckets of human sewage from people’s cesspits, delivered it back to the sewage farm to be converted into manure. In 1942 he was 14 years old and he returned home to do war work; my 5 year old  brother Teddy was sent in his place. Mum said when the three boys returned home from Wales they looked like the children from Belsen; with Teddy also still recovering from Whooping cough.

While this was all taking place Kathy had been sent alone to Axbridge, Somerset in 1940, she in fact was the only one to have a good education. Her first billeting was quite bad and frightening for a little girl, but when the school house was bombed she  was billeted with a WVS lady, Auntie Ada and Uncle George Hardidge. Dolly was also sent to Somerset, to the next village, again she was badly treated, only 6 years old she was used as a skivvy. Later she returned home for a short time and then joined  Kathy in Axbridge where they were both extremely well cared for and happy.

Back in Dagenham, 1940, the bombing was now very bad all across London. We had a new baby sister, Maureen, so off we went again, Mum, the baby, Teddy 2 years and I. I was 15 by now but could not be left alone in Dagenham so I was allowed to go with Mum  and the new baby. Dad was in the army, so I think it gave us priority. This time we went to Berkshire where we were billeted in a large Mansion House called Brimpton Cottage. My Auntie Elsie (mum’s sister) and Cousin Harry were  there with us. Her eldest son Cyril was in the Navy; he never recovered from his war experiences and later committed suicide. The families at the mansion were from Coventry having been bombed out in the blitz on that city, they were very helpful and friendly  towards us, really lovely people. The mansion was the home of Lord and Lady Moiry (not sure of the spelling here) and there was an elderly lady in charge. The evacuees were on the ground floor, the upstairs being used as a hospital  for the wounded military, many of these were French. One day I took Teddy along the lane to the village shop to buy sweets, as we waited to cross the road an Army convoy came along and the Sergeant in charge brought it to a halt – it was my father.  He asked me where my mum was and leaving the convoy parked along the road and went off to see her. That night I think he must have come back because us kids were sent off to sleep in Auntie Elsie’s room.

We were there a few weeks then we were taken to a private house with an elderly couple and their daughter. We had to sleep all in one bed and Maureen had whooping cough. After three weeks we were picked up by a Black Cab, taken to a big house and put  into a large room with lots of small tables and armchairs. A man came in, sat with us and kept asking questions about our dad, did we know where he was, what was his regiment … I didn’t know anything and mum being uneducated knew even less  and we were taken by taxi to Lasswade House. Auntie Elsie and Harry were there also, but the rest of the families were from Custom House. These families didn’t make us welcome or want us there, they would make remarks about me  not being at work, and go out leaving all the clearing up for us to do. After only one week Auntie Elsie said she’d had enough and went home to Dagenham, things really got bad for us then. One day mum managed to get an old pram, she put the kids  and our few belongings in it and we walked to Reading Station, I think about ten miles, and made our way back to Dagenham. We arrived home in the middle of a big bombing raid but we just climbed into our beds and slept right through it. When we were in  Reading we could see this bright red sky on the horizon, "red sky at night, shepherd’s delight" – we didn’t realise it was the Blitz on London.

When we were evacuated to Berkshire we arrived at Reading Station to find our suitcase was missing, we had no clothes or babies nappies. The station was milling with military, French and British, so our case didn’t get priority! Twice we had to  go by bus to the WVS in Newbury and I had to explain what had happened and sign lots of forms for mum. I remember there was a bakers shop and the baker used to stand in the window making these apple pies, and then put the cooked ones on display, I can  still smell them, but we couldn’t afford to buy them. Anyway they gave us some few clothes and more important, clothes and nappies for the babies. Some while after returning home to Dagenham mum received a letter to say she owed all this money  for these clothes and must pay 1/6d [7.5p] a week to clear it up, which was a lot to find in those days. Each week I would take the money and a card to the Central Hall, Heathway; this left us very short because we only had dad's army pay at the time. Mum told me to ask how much more we owed and I mentioned that my dad was in the army. Suddenly there was a lot of talking and the lady said mum didn’t have to pay anymore. Near the end of the war mum received a letter from  the Railways, they had a a case belonging to her, collect it from the Heathway Station. The label on the outside had been torn off during transit but I had put our name and address on a card inside, someone had decided to open the case and so it was returned  to us – Maureen was long out of nappies – though by then we had Brian and Alec. I spent the rest of the war in Dagenham, working at Brigg’s,  through the doodle bugs, V1’s & V2's, war time rationing and the jitterbug.

During one time when we were at home in Dagenham I can remember dad turning up unexpected, just after Maureen was born – I think perhaps it was after Dunkirk. He had just his uniform trousers and jacket on, no shirt; his boots  with no laces, no socks on; he was unshaven, dirty – his clothes muddy; he had his rifle with him, I think it was a Bren gun, he stood this against the wall in the passage and said to us – ‘Don’t touch it … it's loaded’ went upstairs and fell on the bed, asleep, just as he was. He was discharged from the army with a perforated ear drum receiving for a while a small pension. Then he was called to London for a medical – one ear was fine so he was  able to hear when the doctor spoke to him – so they stopped his pension!

Where are we now? Me, Grace I’m still in Dagenham; Bobby in Dunmow; Ivy in Brentwood; Ronnie in America; Dolly in New Zealand; Kathy in Dagenham; Teddy in Germany; Maureen in Bedfordshire; Brian in Leigh-on-Sea; Alec in Romford. We all married  and had children. Recently through the Evacuee Reunion Association I made contact with the Littlemore family, sadly last year my friend Joyce had died but I have exchanged letters with her younger sister Doris. My experiences during the evacuation were  not very good but I say to people that it did enable me to visit places and live in homes that I could never have done so otherwise. I think all our experiences made us pretty tough and self-reliant and nobody gave us any counselling or compensation.

Dolly – childhood memories of the war
We can all look through the same window but we all see a different view
Dolly Bolton (nee) Owen

(After writing ‘A holiday of a lifetime’ I then decided to write what memories I had of my evacuation. I then asked my eldest sister Grace, who is ten years older,  for her memories. She recounted them to me over a few visits and I put them in some sort of chronological order. We were quite surprised at the interest shown by our other siblings and our children. I sent copies to my sister Dorothy in New Zealand, who  had been evacuated part of the time with me in Somerset; I asked her to put pen to paper. Again I needed to sort out some of the detail. They have helped fill in a few gaps for me; though Grace says some of Dolly’s memories are not correct - comments in italics are mine.)

I was born on 6th February 1933 at Brittain Road, Five Elms. The Depression was on. Dad was out of work then he got a job at the Ford Motor Company; maybe that’s  why we moved to 192 Downing Road. (In fact it was after I was born in 1935, because there are now 2 adults and six children living in a 2 bedroom house. Dad got the job after I was born – he would say I brought him luck – he certainly  wasn’t lucky for me.) I remember going with Ronnie to St. Andrew’s Church Hall at the Chequers for free dinners. (It may have been St. Mary’s Grafton Road before we moved or St. Martin’s  at the Chequers.) We went to Arnold Road School; we were very poor.

I was six and a half when war started in September 1939, Ronnie was eight years old, he was nine months old when mum got pregnant with me. Dad was in the army. We all had to meet at the school on the day of evacuation, then on to the Docks at Dagenham.  I remember the boat. Then to a place where we slept on straw. Then on to Bradwell-on-sea with Grace, Bobby, Ivy and Ronnie.  Grace, Ivy and me went to stay with a Mrs Woods whose husband was a fisherman, and had a boy named Norman who was younger than  me. We slept on the balcony. They had a toilet in the yard and a shed where Grace and another girl used to get us all dancing and singing. We used to sing – ‘All brothers, all sisters, all leaving today. We’re all going riding on  a rainbow, to a new land faraway’. I remember lots of snow, and a hall where we used to play games. I don’t remember the rows with Mrs Woods.

Next I remember is on a coach or bus – then home again. Going in a house in Arnold Road because most of the teachers have gone away. It must have been 1940. Then the blitz started and then Kathy and me were in Somerset. (Only Dolly recalls  me being in Dagenham at this time but it could explain how I ended up in Somerset – did I return to Dagenham at some time to be re-evacuated to Somerset –two intrepid little travellers.) We were sent to a large building I think  near Brendon Hills. There were a lot of children there. We slept in a large dormitory together in a small iron bed and because we wet the beds our names were put up on the wall above our bed. We were not the only ones to have our names on the wall. (This sounds very much the place they sent me to after we were bombed at the school.)

Next I remember a party – could it have been Christmas? I have no idea. You had disappeared. I kept asking for you. They said I would see you later. Next I remember being in a car and a lady saying I was going to stay with some people. They took  me to Mr and Mrs Stark at No. 4 Council Houses.  Mrs Stark’s daughter-in-law, was there having tea with her daughter Jean who was a bit younger than me. They asked me if I wanted something to eat, I shook my head and her daughter-in-law remarked  on my bad manners. Which seems funny now seeing the Germans were on our doorstep bombing the hell out of us. Jean and her mum lived about half an hours walk from us at a place with ‘coombe’ on the end. I used to play with Jean sometimes,  we got on very well. They lived in a farmhouse which had a pump going down to a well in the kitchen. The water used to be like ice. Mr & Mrs Stark looked after me very well. They had a chicken farm nearby. I used to collect the eggs. Mr Stark used to  take me to Compton Bishop Church, they had their own pew with a little gate at the end. He also taught me about wild flowers, and said not to pick them, though I used to. I suppose you would call him a ‘Greeny’ now. He was very kind. Mrs  Stark had a black leaded stove which she done all the cooking on; she used to polish it with black lead every morning. There was no electricity. Don’t know why there was no electricity as some places in the village had electricity. We had oil lamps  and an acid battery wireless. Mrs Stark worked very hard. They had twins – Mary and John. John was in the army – Jean’s dad. Mary lived in Plymouth. Her husband was in the Navy. They had a baby, six months, named Wendy.

I went to Compton Bishop School which was very old, would probably be historical now; had a very high ceiling. They took me to see you. You were on a mat in the garden with an older woman and a girl aged about sixteen. The woman was the Headmistress's mother. The Headmistress was called Mrs Howell. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but she was not very nice – called us ‘pug-nose’ and pinched us. One night the Germans had bombed Bristol and Bath. They used to pass  over the Mendip Hills on their way. Sometimes we could see them in the day time going over, very high up. This night on their way they must have had a bomb they hadn’t got rid of, and they bombed our school. Luckily it landed on the school and  not the house, as the house was right next to it, although the blast made the house a complete write-off. Mrs Howell’s mother died with the shock of being bombed. You were all buried with debris.
Next I remember everyone standing by their gates while Mrs. Hardridge wheeled you in a push-chair to her house in Cross. We all went to school in the big hall at Cross. Infants and Juniors all in the same room. They used the hall for community gatherings  also. I had further to walk to school, about twenty minutes. I had a little case with my lunch in it.

Where we lived there were eight Council houses. Numbers 1 to 8 on the same side of the road. We used the back door. The front door faced a long garden which Mr and Mrs Stark had as a vegetable garden. Also gooseberries, black, white and red currants.  The house had three bedrooms, a large shed and a lean-to.

The road at the back of the house was rather steep, at the bottom was an oak tree, which we called ‘Big Tree’, it was very old. Mr Stark used to go to the village pub on a Saturday night on his bike; mostly to chat to other farmers about  the war. This night was very wet and cold. He went down the hill to Big Tree and fell into a ditch, and lay there for some time. When he never got back at his usual time Mrs Stark got help, but he got very sick and died, maybe he got pneumonia.  All I remember is Mr Stark lying in bed in the living room, next he was gone. They never said he had died.

Mary came down from Plymouth with the baby and stayed for a while with her mum. Plymouth was getting heavily bombed now so she stayed and moved in with Jean and her mum at the farmhouse.  Mrs. Stark changed after her husband died. She had to give up the  chicken farm and worked cleaning on one of the big farms. She also took in a Land Army girl who came from Bath, she later married and returned home. I don’t think I was treated too badly and I was never stopped from going out to play. There was  a girl and her brother lived next door at number 5, her name was Olive Latimer, she was cousin to Mary who lived next door to Mrs Hardridge. I also played with Pam and her sister who lived at number 3. I also remember Lesley Smith and a boy called George,  they both came from Dagenham and were at a farm near Big Tree. I saw Lesley after the war on his bike once in Goresbrook Road, we spoke for a while.

Then one day Mrs Stark said we were going home. Grace and her boyfriend, who was in the Navy, came with Bobby to Somerset to take us home. (This clears up another memory – I had a picture of travelling in a railway carriage with Dolly,  facing Grace and Jack, though not Bobby. But nothing else so I thought that again I had just imagined it.) We came back to 192, and returned to Arnold Road School, lots of children were coming home. Brian was a baby and I remember Ronnie with  snow white hair. Bradwell-on-sea was evacuated because it was near the coast. Ivy went to Leamington Spa with a girl called Violet. Violet had a built up shoe because she had one leg shorter than the other, she lived just down the road in Dagenham. Then  we moved to 153 Downing Road because of the extra room downstairs – 192 had three bedrooms and a living room, 153 had three bedrooms and two living rooms, one could be used as a bedroom. (This was another picture in my head – I  could remember a very sunny day, we were all carrying things along Downing Road - nothing more so I dismissed it.)

We didn’t stay long, the doodle bugs started. Mum got Grace to write to Mrs Harbridge and asked if she could take me as well. We went to Somerset on a train together. Grace took us to Paddington Station and put us on a train. I was about ten I  think so you would have been about seven. Mrs Hardridge met us on the train at Axbridge. (Again I could remember arriving at Axbridge – not where I had come from – then Auntie taking us to her restaurant – nothing more.) On the journey we had been hanging out of the window and got covered in soot from the engine. Mrs Hardridge was horrified when she saw us. Ronnie and Teddy went to Wales.

I enjoyed my stay at Mrs Hardridge’s. I went to Cheddar school for a little while. I made friends with Mary Latimer who lived next door; her and David Stokes were sweet on each other. I remember the blackberry picking, and the baby sitting, we  took the babies for walks in their prams. We used to go into David’s room in the attic and borrow his books, mostly Enid Blyton. Going for walks with Mrs Hardridge and Mrs Stokes on Sundays on the Mendip Hills. I certainly had more freedom at Mr  and Mrs Hardridge. Mr Hardridge worked at the nearby quarry, he had some sort of accident there – got burnt or perhaps on a steam roller. I can only remember John. Mrs Stoke’s husband was in the Air Force, they came from Bristol. Their daughter  Josie was about fifteen or sixteen then. I shared a bedroom with her in the attic. I was only there for a few months; I remember about October or November, it was getting near Christmas as Mrs Hardridge had taken us to Axbridge to buy some aprons to embroider  for presents – she was going to show us how to do it – when a letter came from home saying I had to go back to Dagenham.

Mrs Stokes put me on a train at Bristol and Grace met me at the other end. Mum was pregnant with Alec. Grace was married, Ivy was at full time work, and dad was on long distant driving – not that he would have done much at home. Maureen and Brian  were small so I stayed at home to help them and mum. I never went to school for five months or more. (Dolly would have been only eleven. Alec was born on 15th January 1945  just before her birthday on 6th February.) The Doodle Bugs and V2’s were still dropping, but not so bad now. I think Bobby was home and working also, then he went  to India in the Catering Corp. When mum was due to have Alec she sent me to get the midwife who lived at the Chequers, near Terry’s mums. (I believe she lived in the Heathway at the Chequers Corner.) The midwife had a shelter  in her living room with a large cage over it. (This must have been a Morrison Shelter.) Alec was born in the small room downstairs; mum had a bed in there. I was in the next room with Maureen and Brian. The midwife called us in to see  the baby. Alec was 10 lbs born, looked like a two month all. Funny I knew mum had the baby but didn’t know where it came from! Us kids never knew in those days. Mum got a clot in her leg so she had to stay in bed for a while. So I had to look after  her and the baby, and the other two, and there was shopping and everything to do. Ivy stayed home for a while to help. I remember we scrubbed the scullery out one day, dad came home and said it was not clean enough and made us do it all again. The Doctor  told mum she must not have any more children, and that she was lucky the clot didn’t shift from her leg. Later mum had to have the veins stripped out. Dad was a very selfish man who only thought of his own needs, and mum was never strong enough  to stand up to him. And he certainly never had any time for us children.

There are so many things I remember. Like going to the Dolls’ Hospital with Mrs Stokes and you. Going to Weston-Super-Mare with Mrs Stark, we visited a relation of hers there, and having fagots for tea! Seeing the beach all wired off and lots of  airmen there. I suppose the war did us a favour as we would never have lived in the country or learnt to love the countryside. Though very sad for lots of people, especially the ones in the camps in Germany and the Far East. I read a book about evacuees  in which Michael Cain and his little brother were sent to Wales and they were badly treated. His brother ended up with a broken arm, and after the war he still used to hide bits of his bread because they were both half-starved at the place they were at in Wales.

Harry’s family (Harry is Dolly’s husband.) went to the Kent hop-fields during the war when things got bad; but mostly they stayed at home. They then lived in Finnymore Road. Harry was born in East London, over a stable.  His dad was in the Merchant Navy before the war, then moved to Dagenham. His Aunt Ivy lived just up the road, Vincent Road. June was born in 1943, and then his dad had a stomach ulcer which burst. Them days they took half his stomach away and told him  not to smoke or drink alcohol, but he still did both – though he always suffered for it! Harry’s mum Marie died of a brain clot just after we returned home to New Zealand after we visited England in 1974, and his dad died of a heart attack  eighteen months later. We were glad we managed to see them.

Please excuse the spelling and writing. It took me a while to put together but once I got going I could go on forever – remembering things. We certainly had to grow up fast. I wish I had kept in touch with everyone, but as a child you only live  for the day and don’t think of the future much. Also you don’t appreciate what people do for you at the time.

Memories of an evacuee
Robert ‘Bob’ Owen

I was about eleven and a half when I was evacuated. To me it felt like a great adventure as the train left Dagenham to pick up the Royal Daffodil Paddle steamer from London Docks.  The boat usually took day trippers from London Bridge to Lowestoft via all the seaside destinations, but today it was taking us to Great Yarmouth, me and my younger brother Ronnie. (In fact we all walked down to Fords’ Jetty where we embarked  on the Royal Daffodil, mum and seven kids, to Lowestoft. You will find more detail of this journey in memories of the other siblings.)

Our first billet was with Mr and Mrs. Long, a poor elderly couple, who lived in the village of Bradwell. Although I can’t remember anything but their kindness, the billet lady took us away after about two weeks as we were both sleeping on the floor  with only one blanket between us.

We were sent instead to stay with another old couple, Mr and Mrs Paine of the Nook, Hill Lane, Bradwell, near Great Yarmouth, Norfolk – an address I can remember even to this day. I recall their unusual home – made out of two railway carriages  arranged to form the letter ‘T’. With the compartments gutted, rooms and bedrooms had been made. As was usual the toilet was outside. Monday was baking day. Mrs Paine would prepare the same cakes every week and the familiar smells became  welcoming and homely. Mr Paine tended his small holding. He had been a soldier in WW1; shell shocked and suffering terrible fits since the poison gas attacks in France, he was unable to work. So the 10 shillings and 6 pence [52.5p] they received per child  from the government certainly helped, as did the 4s and 6d [22.5p] they received from their lodger. Despite working 7 days a week from 5 am to 8pm, feeding and cleaning out bullocks at the local farm, the lodger only got 8 shillings [40p], and even managed  to pay me 6d [2.5p] for helping him slice roots for winter feed.

We joined the local children in their village school – the 60 or 70 of us evacuees doubling its original number. Although Mr Evans, our teacher from Dagenham joined us, both he and the school’s resources were over-stretched and unable to  provide anything but paper for drawing and a book to read. We were never really taught anything.

Now, this had become home for over a year when, in 1940, Germany took France. The East-coast of England, once a safe haven for children, became too dangerous and we were all sent to the safety of Wales or the Midlands. I don’t know why Ronnie didn't come with me, but he ended up in Wales and I was sent to Harbury, near Leamington Spa, Coventry.

Standing in the village hall, the ladies and gentlemen sorted through us evacuees as they would cattle. Strength was the greatest asset and having been used to hard graft, I was quickly picked. I went to Marlow’s – a large farmhouse just  on the outskirts of Harbury. All the other houses in the village were arranged in a row. There was a pub, a church and the Co-op that supplied almost everything to Harbury and the other villages. I remember, from the roadside, looking onto the large farmhouse  standing proudly on the right of an even larger yard, rows of barns were to the left. Within the garden on the left of a wide gate stood an enormous walnut tree, spreading its branches to shade our lawn in the summer months and providing us with an abundance  of walnuts in the autumn. It stretched right across the road.

Within the house, many rooms were off limits, but I had my bedroom which I can’t remember much about. I do remember the kitchen with large hams hanging from hooks and thick slices being cut. Fresh vegetables were grown or traded with other farmers.  Occasionally, we killed a pig; this was illegal as the Ministry said that all were to go to market. My job was to set light to straw and singe off the hairs before the pig was cut up. Butter and cheese came from our dairy. There was no shortage of food,  I ate well; but I was a worker – not a guest. I was never allowed in the lounge. I know there was a piano in there as I sometimes heard it played by their son when he was on leave – tunes that when I hear them today take me, for a few seconds,  right back to Harbury. Neither was I allowed in the dairy, even though every day I brought milk to its door.

As our neighbour was the local head-master, Mr Marlow had easily got permission to keep me at home rather than add to the swelling numbers of children in his school. I would be more use working on the farm! And looking back, work I did. Whatever the weather  or time of year, the cows needed milking. At 6am I would cycle two miles through lanes and fields to collect them, always it seemed, from the farthest field, and led them back to the sheds. They would need minimal persuasion as food was waiting. Here  on my own small three-legged milking stool, I was joined by Mr Marlow and between us it took about two hours to milk the herd. It was essential to hold their tails down with your head whilst milking; otherwise they’d pass yesterday’s food  and swish it right in your face. The cows were kept in calf so their milk didn’t dry up and it certainly never seemed to. Every day I would cycle with two churns, each carrying three gallons, one on each handlebar, down the steep hill back to the  farmhouse dairy. I was glad it was downhill, but it took acquired skill to avoid spillage. Whilst I ate my breakfast of cornflakes and cold meat, Mr Marlow would set to work with the heavy stuff. Loading two hundred-weight sacks of barley, wheat or oats  high in the barn. I was amazed by his strength; I never saw him eat.

The farm machinery was powered by horses. I enjoyed sitting behind them raking the hay in bundles. The iron shafts of the plough would knock against my legs as I walked behind the horses and I often had enormous bruises. The ploughed furrows were alternately  filled with two things we collected from the villages. The first was ash from their fires and stoves; the second was human waste collected from their outside privies. The ash could be collected during the daylight hours, but Thursday, Friday and Saturday  evenings after 9pm was set aside to collect the human waste. This was my worst job. Beneath each toilet sat a bucket – always full to the brim – just waiting to be moved; just waiting to splosh out over the edge and run down your leg into  your boot. You can imagine the smell!! I always tipped some out before I moved it and I tried to carry a bucket in each hand to make it more stable. The shit cart was pulled by Dick, an old carthorse, who didn’t need leading as he knew his way  around the village. Made of metal the cart measured about 6ft by 4ft and was chest high. It was a very heavy job lifting the buckets whilst trying not to spill the contents. One day Dick trod on my big toe! To this day I have to cut the nail with pliers  and the sight of it could scare the horses! I’d be home about 11pm, but I can’t remember washing! And so the furrows were constantly being filled. We grew the loveliest tomatoes and cucumbers ever, and the corn grew twice the height of any  ‘untreated’ corn.

I remember being sickened by the open-traps they used for rabbiting and when Dick was shot because he had dropsy. Funny times, watching Mr Marlow trying to break in two wild horses used to replace Dick. After securing the plough and standing between the  horses, Mr Marlow moved them on. The sound of the rusty cart startled them and they shot through the 6ft wide front gate even though they measured 8ft across. Up and down the field they ran, exhausting themselves and probably nigh on killing Mr Marlow;  but after breaking into a more healthy sweat they were broken. What a laugh when the same wild horses were scared whilst pulling the shit cart – you can imagine the sight! I had a full cart-load and was trundling along the lane when a plane flew  low overhead and the horse bolted. There was I hanging onto the reins trying desperately to get him under control, leaving a stinking trail behind as we belted along the lanes. Suddenly after great effort by me I got him to stop, the contents of the cart  flew up right over me and the horse, we were in right old mess.

I can’t really remember having breaks or holidays, only walking alongside Mr Marlow and neighbouring farmers on Sunday shoots. I thought them very skilful, killing all those foxes and rabbits; but looking back they must have used thousands of cartridges;  I was never invited to shoot. The only time I ever took the horse and trap (old mare Dolly with bad feet) into Leamington was to go to the cinema; when I got back I was told off for being so long. I was paid 4 shillings [20p] a week for working a seventeen  hour day. Mr Marlow was a hardworking, mean old b****** who would try to get away with not paying me if he could – I hated having to ask him for my money.

When I was fourteen I had to leave; I had been there for eighteen months. I can’t remember leaving, or how I felt at the prospect of returning to Dagenham. I knew what to expect at home, and I wasn’t too keen on the job my mum had arranged  for me. She, like many others, used the local  pawn shop and had arranged a job there for me; near the church in Old Dagenham Village. At the beginning of the week my mum would bring in a small parcel and hopefully collect it at the end of the week. Usually  it contained the Old man’s suit and he would want it for when he visited the pub. I worked there for just two or three weeks before joining the Co-op in Five Elms.

Lowestoft today has changed beyond all recognition. Fishing boats no longer come in, and all the sheds have long gone – mind you it’s been 60 years! I can still cast my mind back to our walks to Gorleston-on-sea; me and my young friend Penny.  Over 5 miles it was to get to this busy fishing port, where ladies gutted the fish and pushed sticks through their gills and give us a few to take home for tea. They never took a penny for them; this was the only time we tasted fish during the war.

When I joined the army I did my training at Norwich. Imagine how proud I felt all dressed in my uniform, boarding a train to make a surprise visit on Mr & Mrs Paine. They made me so welcome and when it was time to go back to Yarmouth Station Mr Paine  took me all the way there on his horse and buggy.

Once on my way back from holiday in Wales I stopped off in Harbury. The past 50 years seemed to have taken their toll on the village I remembered. Although the barns were still there, the farmhouse was gone. Maybe it was a fire, I don’t know, but  a new house stood in its place. In the field opposite, across the way from the old farmhouse I once called home, new properties had been built. The land, where once stood the walnut tree was bare. It was sad seeing the changes, certainly not all for the  good, but it didn’t spoil the memories I have of that special place. That special place that took me from a brutal life in Dagenham – showed me a different world for too short a time. It gave me experiences I would never have had if I had  stayed at home, and a real love of the countryside. On reflection, despite all the hard work, being evacuated was to me like being on a marvellous holiday. In fact it was by far the best part of my childhood.

A few years later I was called up into the army and was off to India – but that is another story.

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How I nearly became famous!
Katie Avagah

Early 2012, after giving a talk to the Barking Historicals, re my family’s evacuation during the war, John Blake KINDLY put it in print in the Association’s News.  That is when I nearly appeared on ‘The One Show' and became famous.

Some weeks later I received a phone call from a young woman asking me about our evacuation on the boats from Ford’s Jetty.  I explained that I was only three at the time and could not remember the exodus; I also had other things on my mind!    I had escaped the clutches (or should I say care) of my older siblings and was chatting up the sailors.
 
Their original idea had been to get all seven of us ‘kids’ together and do the show around that, photos of us embarking with mum, etc.  Few problems here – we didn’t have any photos, not many families had cameras then; my family  is scattered across the World, New Zealand, America, Germany, and mum and one sister have died.

I did have older friends whom I could put them in touch with.  They explained they had first to put the idea before the BBC and would get back to me, and that this could take some time.  Many weeks later I received a call to say ‘the programme  had been commissioned and they had the go-ahead’; they would get back to me.

Weeks later another call, could I let them have my friends details and they ‘liked the bit about me and the sailors’ could they use that!

I had already spoken to two friends who at that time were happy to take part, so I mentioned their names.  I also mentioned the ERA, English Heritage, and of course Mark and Valence House.  They liked the idea of filming at Valence House and the Dig for  Victory Garden.

Another call from Jake of Icon Films, could I put him in touch with Ella and Rosie.  We had a chat and I said I would get permission to let him their phone numbers, this I duly did and phoned him back.  He then had long talks with Ella, who sent him a  copy of her book; and also Rosie.  I had asked Rosie to speak to Tom and get him on board also.  Tom was thrilled to be involved.

This is when it all became confusing – Valence House were approached re filming there; Ella told Jake she didn’t want to appear on the programme; and I fell off the radar!  Lost again, at least in 1939 I didn’t fall off the boat!

I learnt some days later that they had interviewed Tom at his old school, Eastbrook.  They had been to Valence and filmed the ‘40’s room’ and the ‘Dig for Victory Garden’.

I have seen some pictures – not for release yet; it looks good.  I will let you know when it is to be shown – if of course someone lets me know!

If you are interested in the ‘Exodus of the Owen family’ you will find it on:-

www.barkinghistory.co.uk

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The Evacuation 1940 and 2013

Katie Avagah

The Evacuation 1939

‘Come on, then Lady,’ let’s see what it’s all about, then.’  Silly really, I’m feeling quite nervous.   I expect they are all very frightened,  and missing their mums already.  Strange old world we live in.  Old Jones has been fussing around these past weeks.

‘Whoa there, Lady! here we are.’  Sounds as if the train is just pulling in.  Well bless us, some are just babes.  Look at them all, with their little gas-masks and cases; looks as if some are very upset and have been crying.  They all look  so tired; it’s been a long old journey. Looks as if they need a good old wash too. Their teachers look worn out.

Councillor Jones is heading my way; let’s see what he has to say!  ‘Hello Mrs Cooper, you did say you would take boys, didn’t you.  Not many want young boys, older ones perhaps, to help around the place, but not the younger ones.
                                                                             
‘Of course, Councillor, boys, girls, what’s the difference; they’re all children.’
 
‘There are three boys here, brothers; they seem quiet and well behaved.’

‘I’m sure they’ll all be happy running around our farm.  Hello boys, how would you like to come and stay on our farm for a little while?’

My sons have just joined up, Peter in the Air Force, and John in the Paratroopers.  They could have been exempted but they wanted to go and do their bit; so we have two Land Girls instead.  We’ve had a few laughs at times but they soon learnt our  country ways; and they appreciated our country food and why we wear sturdy shoes and wellingtons!

‘Well boys, let’s introduce you to Lady, and then we’ll be on our way.’

‘Mrs Cooper! Mrs Cooper!’

Oh no, Councillor Jones again, and with his little secretary and her little note book; funny little thing she is.  Now what do they want.

‘Mrs Cooper! This little family, no one wants four children. I don’t suppose .... just for a few days .... until...?’

‘Well, that’s seven!  Five boys and two girls, there’s a thing!  Whatever will father say!’

Hey up! Lady, let’s get home.  I’m certainly in for a busy time!

The Evacuation 2013
The coach picks us up from Chadwell Heath and soon we are on our way to play ‘host’ in a re-enactment of the Evacuation of School children at the beginning of WW2. Our group is made up of members of Barking and District Historical Society  and Staff and Volunteers from Valence House.  We are heading for North Weald where we will then travel by Vintage Steam Train to Ongar Station, on the Epping Ongar Heritage Railway.  There we will meet and greet the little evacuees and ‘take them  to our homes for the duration of the war’.  This has all been arranged by Helen Spencer from English Heritage.

The evacuees, from St Mary’s, St Joseph’s and St Patrick’s Primary Schools will arrive at North Weald in Vintage Double-decker buses; joining us on the train to Ongar.  The plan being  the children will be arranged into ‘families' of different sizes; we will choose a family and chat to them about life in the country away from the dangers of London; they will then go off with their respective teachers for their picnic lunch, while we have our picnic, then a look around the Station  before heading home.

Like all good plans – they go awry – especially if it involves transport and children!  Our train appears on the track, smoke and steam belching from the engine – remember that smell!  Out come all our cameras and then we settle in  our First Class carriages; now there’s luxury.  Soon we hear the children arriving – but then we wait and we wait!  Apparently one of the buses headed off to Stratford by mistake.  Eventually they arrive and then with a ‘huff and  a puff’ we are away.  I don’t know how excited the children are, but I am certainly thrilled as we clackety-clack through the country-side on this beautiful sunny day.

Arriving at Ongar we are told there is a change of plan.  The children have already started on their lunch-packs, well naturally!  We will have lunch and then meet and greet the children, gradually working our way through the three schools.  We watch  the children alight from the train – their mums have done them proud – they are all dressed for the 1940’s; many of the girls have berets and the boys have caps.  They each carry their gas-mask case; they had their lunches packed  in these not their gas-masks!  Their teachers have dressed the part, though I must say not all appropriately!  One definitely looks like a London Spiv; and one young hussy has a dress well above her knees; I’m not sure what the village ladies would  have made of her! And really ladies you do need sensible shoes in the country. We also seem to have been joined by a young American Soldier; unfortunately pleas of ‘got any gum chum’ are met with a ‘sorry, no!’ I wonder if  he has any nylons!  The Station staff are all dressed in vintage uniforms and immediately come forward to talk to everyone, a very friendly atmosphere.

After lunch we line up ready for the introductions to our ‘families’.  However, if a group of children hear the word ‘toilet’, suddenly they all want to go!  We have the best part of 100 children; in the ladies there are 2  toilets, I have no idea what the situation is in the men’s!  Sometime later....! we start to pick our families and take them off to the ‘picnic area’.  My first choice is three likely lads, nudging and giggling – they tell  me they are from Dagenham and their dad is in the army; then change their minds and he is a Spitfire Pilot. They live near London and there are lots of bombs being dropped.  One of them then drops his head down on the table and gives a good imitation  of ‘breaking his little heart’, ‘I am so upset because I had to say goodbye to my mum and she was crying, and she might be bombed ....’.  He really should consider taking up acting!   I assure them it will all be over soon  and their mums will be able to come and visit them.  I ask them if they would like to stay on our farm and we discuss how they can help with the milking, and how we need to plough up the pasture to grow wheat because we can nolonger bring it here by ship  from other countries; and soon they can help with the hay making.  Then I tell them about going to the farm by horse and cart, and I suggest we go to meet Lady.  Just then another ‘family’ joins our group, 2 girls and 2 boys, so it looks  as if I am to take 7 children home to the farm!  We talk a little longer about living in the country when the call goes out for us all to get back on the train.  This is when another of the children asks if they can see Lady first, so I needed to tactfully  explain that it was all ‘make-believe’ and I don’t really live on a farm.

The children are summoned into their school groups by their teachers and we are asked to get back onto the train first. Soon we are all settled in and the train begins its return journey to North Weald.  Here we watch the children clamber on to their  buses and everyone, quite sadly, waves them off as they disappear down the country road.  It has been such an interesting and enjoyable day for us all.  Though for a few of us it also brought back poignant memories of our own childhood when we made that  journey into the unknown.

Now we just have to wait for our coach to arrive. And we wait! And we wait!  Eventually with a cheer we welcome our coach and driver.  Apparently our coach was delayed because  of an accident and our Driver who was on his way somewhere else, was asked to pick us up first.  Lucky for us he came to the rescue or we may have been looking for someone to take us in for the night!