Evacuees
Created | Updated Aug 14, 2008
“You go in,” the older woman said. “I’ll rest here and rock the pram. I hope there’s not much further to go, my feet are killing me.”
“O.K. mum, I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ivy opened the gate and felt the warmth of the April sun as she moved out of the shade of the overhanging tree branches, their soft green buds just about to burst forth into their summer glory. Her feet hurt too and she was fairly certain there was the beginning of a blister on her right heel. They’d walked for nearly an hour, up the hill from the village then along the seemingly endless flat section of lane before being confronted by the steepness of the climb through primrose clad banks past a long ago abandoned lime kiln up to the ruined castle, where rooks swarmed in the sycamore, horse chestnut and beech trees, and the adjacent farm.
Not entirely sure where to go or whether she’d find the farmer at home, she peered round the farm buildings. Behind a stone built barn that seemed to be hardly in better repair than the castle she found a cobbled yard. Picking her way carefully through the fresh cow dung she approached a door that had long ago been painted green but was now bleached grey by years of exposure to sun and rain. A grey speckled hen clucked as it squeezed under the rotten base of the door. A piece of board had at some time been nailed roughly to the door bottom but was now itself rotting away, allowing cats and chickens to enter and leave at will.
Years ago she would have been repelled by such a sight. Now she was grateful to be far away from the horrors she’d seen less than a year ago in London. In comparison having to knock on a filthy farmhouse door was a minor problem.
“Oo be there?” The voice that responded to her knock was hoarse with age and spoke with the strong south Herefordshire accent Ivy had become used to over the past 9 months.
“Ivy Parker,” she pushed the door open. “I’ve come to see Mr Price about The Gate.” The door swung on its hinges to reveal walls with large areas of plaster missing to expose timber laths. A filthy oilcloth covered a table in the centre of the room. The remains of a meal were on a chipped plate. A half loaf of home made bread rested on a wooden board in the middle of the table. A side of bacon hung from a large iron hook in the beamed ceiling. There was butter too. “No problems with rationing here,” thought Ivy.
“Bill ‘ave gone up there already. You’m to meet ‘im there.” The woman’s appearance confirmed the first impression given by her voice. She sat in a grubby armchair wearing clothes so faded and dirty that any former colour was now unrecognisable. Her greying hair hung lankly to her shoulders. Behind her on the mantelpiece above a feebly glowing fire was a jam jar half filled with milk. More hens pecked their way around her booted feet.
Ivy experienced conflicting emotions. On the one hand there was the urge to set to and clean the place up. On the other was the desire to escape as quickly as possible from the nauseating smell. And her mother and child were waiting.
“Thank you.” The woman, whom she took to be Mr Price’s mother, had made no attempt to introduce herself so Ivy felt no inclination to stay and make conversation.
“Didn’t you ask how much further it is?” Her mother had become increasingly petulant as the afternoon had worn on. Her mood had not been improved by having to stand by the five bar gate listening to the rooks as they swooped cawing among the overhanging branches. At least her 22 week old grandson had remained sleeping.
“It’s about half a mile. Mabel said it was 3 miles from the village and we must have gone 2 ½ by now.”
Ivy took the pram handle, swivelled it around and began walking up the hill away from the castle ruin.
“The rent be10 shillin’ a week. And you do pay the rates.”
“And we can move in straight away?” Ivy was already opening her purse to hand over two pound notes for the first month’s rent.
“Are you sure about this?” Her mother’s irritation had not declined on sight of the cottage. “There’s no running water – no facilities of any kind. And there’s that long walk up the hill when we need anything from the village.”
“I know mum. But we can’t go on living in those pokey rooms any longer. You know that she has threatened to turn us out because of the baby’s crying keeping them awake at night. If we take this for a month or two we can carry on looking and maybe find something better.” She turned to the farmer with his torn tweed jacket, dung encrusted trousers and week old stubble. “You’ll have to forgive us. We had hoped to find something better.”
“I do reckon as you’ll be alright here. It be quiet. There be only the bullocks to bother you. And they’ll be gwine to market in a wik or two.” Ivy resisted the temptation to correct his grammar. The use of old English “be” in placed of “is” was something she was beginning to get used to. As was the concatenation of “going” into “gwine”.
“It might not be so bad, for the summer at least,” she told her mother. “We can grow our own salads and stuff in the garden.”
“I suppose you’re right. And we’re well out of reach of Adolf’s bombs here.”
Mention of the bombs made Ivy shiver. She recalled all too vividly the horrors of the previous summer. She had worked long nights as a telephonist in the ARP control centre beneath Stoke Newington town hall. Passing on the reports from coastal stations as the bombers approached the city had been simple enough, exciting even at times. It was the walk home each morning, not knowing which of her neighbours’ homes would have been destroyed, which of her friends’ families would have lost loved ones. Yes, it was good to be well removed from all that. Having to carry water and dispose of their own sewage was a small price to pay compared to the suffering of city dwellers all over the country and the horrors faced daily by people on mainland Europe.
Here she could concentrate on Sonny and give him as good a start in life as could be possible whilst the war continued. She wondered what Frank would make of the place. She would write to him tonight and tell him about the thick stone walls, the stream at the back with its two waterfalls and the farm buildings which spoiled the view from the window of the main room. It would, she supposed, be many weeks before he’d be able to see for himself. He’d want more than a 48 hour pass to come here from his base in the east of England.
“O.K. mum, I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ivy opened the gate and felt the warmth of the April sun as she moved out of the shade of the overhanging tree branches, their soft green buds just about to burst forth into their summer glory. Her feet hurt too and she was fairly certain there was the beginning of a blister on her right heel. They’d walked for nearly an hour, up the hill from the village then along the seemingly endless flat section of lane before being confronted by the steepness of the climb through primrose clad banks past a long ago abandoned lime kiln up to the ruined castle, where rooks swarmed in the sycamore, horse chestnut and beech trees, and the adjacent farm.
Not entirely sure where to go or whether she’d find the farmer at home, she peered round the farm buildings. Behind a stone built barn that seemed to be hardly in better repair than the castle she found a cobbled yard. Picking her way carefully through the fresh cow dung she approached a door that had long ago been painted green but was now bleached grey by years of exposure to sun and rain. A grey speckled hen clucked as it squeezed under the rotten base of the door. A piece of board had at some time been nailed roughly to the door bottom but was now itself rotting away, allowing cats and chickens to enter and leave at will.
Years ago she would have been repelled by such a sight. Now she was grateful to be far away from the horrors she’d seen less than a year ago in London. In comparison having to knock on a filthy farmhouse door was a minor problem.
“Oo be there?” The voice that responded to her knock was hoarse with age and spoke with the strong south Herefordshire accent Ivy had become used to over the past 9 months.
“Ivy Parker,” she pushed the door open. “I’ve come to see Mr Price about The Gate.” The door swung on its hinges to reveal walls with large areas of plaster missing to expose timber laths. A filthy oilcloth covered a table in the centre of the room. The remains of a meal were on a chipped plate. A half loaf of home made bread rested on a wooden board in the middle of the table. A side of bacon hung from a large iron hook in the beamed ceiling. There was butter too. “No problems with rationing here,” thought Ivy.
“Bill ‘ave gone up there already. You’m to meet ‘im there.” The woman’s appearance confirmed the first impression given by her voice. She sat in a grubby armchair wearing clothes so faded and dirty that any former colour was now unrecognisable. Her greying hair hung lankly to her shoulders. Behind her on the mantelpiece above a feebly glowing fire was a jam jar half filled with milk. More hens pecked their way around her booted feet.
Ivy experienced conflicting emotions. On the one hand there was the urge to set to and clean the place up. On the other was the desire to escape as quickly as possible from the nauseating smell. And her mother and child were waiting.
“Thank you.” The woman, whom she took to be Mr Price’s mother, had made no attempt to introduce herself so Ivy felt no inclination to stay and make conversation.
“Didn’t you ask how much further it is?” Her mother had become increasingly petulant as the afternoon had worn on. Her mood had not been improved by having to stand by the five bar gate listening to the rooks as they swooped cawing among the overhanging branches. At least her 22 week old grandson had remained sleeping.
“It’s about half a mile. Mabel said it was 3 miles from the village and we must have gone 2 ½ by now.”
Ivy took the pram handle, swivelled it around and began walking up the hill away from the castle ruin.
“The rent be10 shillin’ a week. And you do pay the rates.”
“And we can move in straight away?” Ivy was already opening her purse to hand over two pound notes for the first month’s rent.
“Are you sure about this?” Her mother’s irritation had not declined on sight of the cottage. “There’s no running water – no facilities of any kind. And there’s that long walk up the hill when we need anything from the village.”
“I know mum. But we can’t go on living in those pokey rooms any longer. You know that she has threatened to turn us out because of the baby’s crying keeping them awake at night. If we take this for a month or two we can carry on looking and maybe find something better.” She turned to the farmer with his torn tweed jacket, dung encrusted trousers and week old stubble. “You’ll have to forgive us. We had hoped to find something better.”
“I do reckon as you’ll be alright here. It be quiet. There be only the bullocks to bother you. And they’ll be gwine to market in a wik or two.” Ivy resisted the temptation to correct his grammar. The use of old English “be” in placed of “is” was something she was beginning to get used to. As was the concatenation of “going” into “gwine”.
“It might not be so bad, for the summer at least,” she told her mother. “We can grow our own salads and stuff in the garden.”
“I suppose you’re right. And we’re well out of reach of Adolf’s bombs here.”
Mention of the bombs made Ivy shiver. She recalled all too vividly the horrors of the previous summer. She had worked long nights as a telephonist in the ARP control centre beneath Stoke Newington town hall. Passing on the reports from coastal stations as the bombers approached the city had been simple enough, exciting even at times. It was the walk home each morning, not knowing which of her neighbours’ homes would have been destroyed, which of her friends’ families would have lost loved ones. Yes, it was good to be well removed from all that. Having to carry water and dispose of their own sewage was a small price to pay compared to the suffering of city dwellers all over the country and the horrors faced daily by people on mainland Europe.
Here she could concentrate on Sonny and give him as good a start in life as could be possible whilst the war continued. She wondered what Frank would make of the place. She would write to him tonight and tell him about the thick stone walls, the stream at the back with its two waterfalls and the farm buildings which spoiled the view from the window of the main room. It would, she supposed, be many weeks before he’d be able to see for himself. He’d want more than a 48 hour pass to come here from his base in the east of England.
