Evacuees, episode 4
Created | Updated Aug 17, 2008
(If you are new to this serial, you may like to begin by reading episodes 1 & 2 at A39606311 and episode 3 at A39683974 )
“We’ve had a good few months here but I don’t think I can face a winter like the last if we’re still stuck up here.” Not for the first time Ivy’s mother expressed her exasperation about the lack of progress in finding suitable alternative accommodation for them.
“I’ve done my best, mum, but you know what it’s like. The countryside is filling up with people like us evacuated from the cities. There’s no room in the cities because of the bomb damage. We are going to have to face up to the possibility of being here for a good while longer.” Ivy remembered only too well the last 3 winters. There had been more snow in each of them than for many years. She and Frank had married on New Year’s Day, one of the coldest days of January 1940. In the village last winter it had been a struggle. The cold and the condensation in the old terraced house they shared with another family had been difficult to bear. Sonny had been sick for much of the time and there had been many sleepless nights leading to disagreements with the other family. That’s why they had sought somewhere else. That’s why the summer months here at The Gate had been such a relief. But it was difficult and was getting more so as the autumn wore on. The walk to the village and back could be quite pleasurable in fine weather but, as Ivy had found to her cost only last week, in wind and rain it was the opposite of pleasant. And the wind always seemed to be blowing down the hill making the climb twice as hard. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like in heavy snow.
There was another problem. The house was damp. It hadn’t been evident through the summer months but now that there had been several days of rain the flag stone floors had begun to sweat as moisture rose from beneath. It was hard to see how this would be any better for Sonny than the condensation in the other house. Her mother, too, had a weak chest. A bout of pneumonia brought on by cold and damp could finish her off.
With the rain the babbling brook and the waterfalls that ran behind the house and in which Frank had seen such possibilities had become raging torrents.
Through the summer the two women had become used to the sounds of the countryside. The cawing of rooks and crows in the pine trees at the entrance to the property, the song of blackbird, thrush and peewit and the gentle lowing of the cattle. Now they were sometimes kept awake by the roaring of the wind in the trees and the rush of water over the two falls. The path round the side of the house to the spring to collect buckets of water, a pleasant enough walk on dry grass in summer was now a slippery thoroughfare of squelching mud, sometimes under water as the culvert that carried the brook under the path was too small to take the full volume of water that poured down from the hill after a storm.
As the days shortened and autumn gave way to winter the feared frost and snow failed to materialise. It seemed that, after 3 of the worst winters in living memory had added to the deprivations of war, nature at least had relented. Christmas and New Year came and went. There was not much by way of celebration. Food rationing made sure of that but at least they had their home grown vegetables to accompany the cockerel they’d been given by Mrs Pritchard.
After Christmas there were some frosty nights and a few brief snow flurries. All 3 of the occupants of The Gate suffered colds which for a while were difficult to shake off. The elderly Scottish general practitioner that served the area, Dr. MacCullough who everyone knew simply as “Dr. Mac”, had visited to examine Sonny.
“Aye, the wee bairn has a sore throat. His tonsils are enlarged. Have ye any honey in the house?”
“There’s a small jar in the pantry,” Ivy confirmed.
“That’s as good as anything I could give him. A wee spoonful afore he sleeps each night should help.”
Whether it was indeed the honey or merely the natural course of events, Ivy would never know, but the boy did become less miserable in a few days.
Soon it was spring again but there was no end in sight to the conflict on the European mainland. Frank’s letters were becoming less frequent and it was months since he had visited. Most of his leaves were of 48 hours duration or less. The journey from Cambridgeshire to Hereford was long and arduous. It began with a train ride to London where he had to get from Kings Cross to Paddington. Once arrived in Hereford there was a bus ride to Peterchurch and then the walk up the hill to The Gate. Even if it was possible to make connections with minimum delays it would have taken several hours leaving him only a short while with Ivy and his Son. It was so much easier to remain in London at his parent’s home.
And so the weeks and months wore on with the two women and the small child settled into a steady routine. Ivy was unsure whether it was the “austerity” diet or the country air but they seemed to be thriving. Sonny especially, after his bout of tonsillitis in January, was now full of energy trotting around the farm yard and the grassed area next to the house. Between them Ivy and her mother found it a full time occupation keeping him away from the brook and the many other dangers to be found in the vicinity of the house.
Before they knew it the child’s second birthday was past and Christmas again fast approaching. It was midway between those two events that the letter arrived.
…regret to inform you…18th November…raid on Mannheim…missing, presumed dead…
Those were the words she had dreaded. Now Ivy was on her own once again. Not “on her own” literally but, as the most able member of this odd trio she was the one who would have to make all the decisions. She was the one who would have to take responsibility for the welfare of the other two. There was nothing new about this. She’d been in that position for 14 years now. Ever since her father had died when Ivy was 12 she’d had to take on responsibility for looking after her mother. Hands crippled with arthritis and chest easily susceptible to infection the older woman was unable to provide for herself and her daughter. So Ivy had given up the opportunity provided by a scholarship and instead left elementary school to take a series of factory jobs. To begin with she had worked in the sweet factory and then in Simpson’s clothing factory where she had become a skilled tailoress with a role in the section that made up prototypes for new lines.
Because of Frank’s absence marriage had made little difference to this state of affairs. She was no longer the breadwinner but she was “in charge” making and carrying out key decisions about their lives. But she had always assumed that things would change when the war eventually came to an end. Then Frank would take over and she could settle into a subservient role. And when Sonny got older she could return to the tailoring or take up dressmaking.
True, she had begun to have doubts about this scenario for the future. The infrequency and brevity of Frank’s letters in recent months had caused her to wonder, more than once, if he would still want to be with her after the war. But she had dismissed such thoughts every time they’d surfaced choosing to believe instead that it was the stress and sheer terror that Frank faced almost daily that caused him to say so little. Now, perhaps, she’d never know. And if there was indeed another woman she too would be facing a future of shattered dreams.
Meanwhile Ivy’s future stretched ahead as a monotony of endless days of carrying water, trying to keep the cottage clean with its damp floors and torn wallpaper, trying to dream up appetising meals from a limited range of ingredients. On the plus side there was the garden which enabled her to augment the list of ingredients with fresh fruit and vegetables throughout most of the year.
There was another winter to get through with her mother’s weak chest and the arthritis that always seemed worse in cold and damp weather. And Sonny was still suffering from sore throats at regular intervals.
There was still no end in sight to the war. At least the Germans had made no attempt thus far to cross the channel. No doubt, Ivy thought, their war machine was being inhibited by the raids carried out almost nightly by men like Frank and his crew.
She had kept in regular touch with her friend from her days at Simpsons. Jessie Lane had told her about raids in and near her former home in Stoke Newington. Ivy couldn’t help agreeing with Jessie when she said Ivy was in the best place.
As the months wore on Ivy obtained the names and addresses of the families of Frank’s fellow crew members. One of them wrote back. Teddy Clements was the radio operator on Frank’s crew and a year younger than Frank. His mother sounded very nice in the letters she wrote. They kept up the exchange.
In the summer Jessie wrote telling her about the latest German weapon, the flying bombs or doodlebugs as Londoners called them. But there was good news too. The wireless was talking about landings by British and American troops on the coast of Normandy and Holland. Perhaps the war would be over soon.
“We’ve had a good few months here but I don’t think I can face a winter like the last if we’re still stuck up here.” Not for the first time Ivy’s mother expressed her exasperation about the lack of progress in finding suitable alternative accommodation for them.
“I’ve done my best, mum, but you know what it’s like. The countryside is filling up with people like us evacuated from the cities. There’s no room in the cities because of the bomb damage. We are going to have to face up to the possibility of being here for a good while longer.” Ivy remembered only too well the last 3 winters. There had been more snow in each of them than for many years. She and Frank had married on New Year’s Day, one of the coldest days of January 1940. In the village last winter it had been a struggle. The cold and the condensation in the old terraced house they shared with another family had been difficult to bear. Sonny had been sick for much of the time and there had been many sleepless nights leading to disagreements with the other family. That’s why they had sought somewhere else. That’s why the summer months here at The Gate had been such a relief. But it was difficult and was getting more so as the autumn wore on. The walk to the village and back could be quite pleasurable in fine weather but, as Ivy had found to her cost only last week, in wind and rain it was the opposite of pleasant. And the wind always seemed to be blowing down the hill making the climb twice as hard. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like in heavy snow.
There was another problem. The house was damp. It hadn’t been evident through the summer months but now that there had been several days of rain the flag stone floors had begun to sweat as moisture rose from beneath. It was hard to see how this would be any better for Sonny than the condensation in the other house. Her mother, too, had a weak chest. A bout of pneumonia brought on by cold and damp could finish her off.
With the rain the babbling brook and the waterfalls that ran behind the house and in which Frank had seen such possibilities had become raging torrents.
Through the summer the two women had become used to the sounds of the countryside. The cawing of rooks and crows in the pine trees at the entrance to the property, the song of blackbird, thrush and peewit and the gentle lowing of the cattle. Now they were sometimes kept awake by the roaring of the wind in the trees and the rush of water over the two falls. The path round the side of the house to the spring to collect buckets of water, a pleasant enough walk on dry grass in summer was now a slippery thoroughfare of squelching mud, sometimes under water as the culvert that carried the brook under the path was too small to take the full volume of water that poured down from the hill after a storm.
As the days shortened and autumn gave way to winter the feared frost and snow failed to materialise. It seemed that, after 3 of the worst winters in living memory had added to the deprivations of war, nature at least had relented. Christmas and New Year came and went. There was not much by way of celebration. Food rationing made sure of that but at least they had their home grown vegetables to accompany the cockerel they’d been given by Mrs Pritchard.
After Christmas there were some frosty nights and a few brief snow flurries. All 3 of the occupants of The Gate suffered colds which for a while were difficult to shake off. The elderly Scottish general practitioner that served the area, Dr. MacCullough who everyone knew simply as “Dr. Mac”, had visited to examine Sonny.
“Aye, the wee bairn has a sore throat. His tonsils are enlarged. Have ye any honey in the house?”
“There’s a small jar in the pantry,” Ivy confirmed.
“That’s as good as anything I could give him. A wee spoonful afore he sleeps each night should help.”
Whether it was indeed the honey or merely the natural course of events, Ivy would never know, but the boy did become less miserable in a few days.
Soon it was spring again but there was no end in sight to the conflict on the European mainland. Frank’s letters were becoming less frequent and it was months since he had visited. Most of his leaves were of 48 hours duration or less. The journey from Cambridgeshire to Hereford was long and arduous. It began with a train ride to London where he had to get from Kings Cross to Paddington. Once arrived in Hereford there was a bus ride to Peterchurch and then the walk up the hill to The Gate. Even if it was possible to make connections with minimum delays it would have taken several hours leaving him only a short while with Ivy and his Son. It was so much easier to remain in London at his parent’s home.
And so the weeks and months wore on with the two women and the small child settled into a steady routine. Ivy was unsure whether it was the “austerity” diet or the country air but they seemed to be thriving. Sonny especially, after his bout of tonsillitis in January, was now full of energy trotting around the farm yard and the grassed area next to the house. Between them Ivy and her mother found it a full time occupation keeping him away from the brook and the many other dangers to be found in the vicinity of the house.
Before they knew it the child’s second birthday was past and Christmas again fast approaching. It was midway between those two events that the letter arrived.
…regret to inform you…18th November…raid on Mannheim…missing, presumed dead…
Those were the words she had dreaded. Now Ivy was on her own once again. Not “on her own” literally but, as the most able member of this odd trio she was the one who would have to make all the decisions. She was the one who would have to take responsibility for the welfare of the other two. There was nothing new about this. She’d been in that position for 14 years now. Ever since her father had died when Ivy was 12 she’d had to take on responsibility for looking after her mother. Hands crippled with arthritis and chest easily susceptible to infection the older woman was unable to provide for herself and her daughter. So Ivy had given up the opportunity provided by a scholarship and instead left elementary school to take a series of factory jobs. To begin with she had worked in the sweet factory and then in Simpson’s clothing factory where she had become a skilled tailoress with a role in the section that made up prototypes for new lines.
Because of Frank’s absence marriage had made little difference to this state of affairs. She was no longer the breadwinner but she was “in charge” making and carrying out key decisions about their lives. But she had always assumed that things would change when the war eventually came to an end. Then Frank would take over and she could settle into a subservient role. And when Sonny got older she could return to the tailoring or take up dressmaking.
True, she had begun to have doubts about this scenario for the future. The infrequency and brevity of Frank’s letters in recent months had caused her to wonder, more than once, if he would still want to be with her after the war. But she had dismissed such thoughts every time they’d surfaced choosing to believe instead that it was the stress and sheer terror that Frank faced almost daily that caused him to say so little. Now, perhaps, she’d never know. And if there was indeed another woman she too would be facing a future of shattered dreams.
Meanwhile Ivy’s future stretched ahead as a monotony of endless days of carrying water, trying to keep the cottage clean with its damp floors and torn wallpaper, trying to dream up appetising meals from a limited range of ingredients. On the plus side there was the garden which enabled her to augment the list of ingredients with fresh fruit and vegetables throughout most of the year.
There was another winter to get through with her mother’s weak chest and the arthritis that always seemed worse in cold and damp weather. And Sonny was still suffering from sore throats at regular intervals.
There was still no end in sight to the war. At least the Germans had made no attempt thus far to cross the channel. No doubt, Ivy thought, their war machine was being inhibited by the raids carried out almost nightly by men like Frank and his crew.
She had kept in regular touch with her friend from her days at Simpsons. Jessie Lane had told her about raids in and near her former home in Stoke Newington. Ivy couldn’t help agreeing with Jessie when she said Ivy was in the best place.
As the months wore on Ivy obtained the names and addresses of the families of Frank’s fellow crew members. One of them wrote back. Teddy Clements was the radio operator on Frank’s crew and a year younger than Frank. His mother sounded very nice in the letters she wrote. They kept up the exchange.
In the summer Jessie wrote telling her about the latest German weapon, the flying bombs or doodlebugs as Londoners called them. But there was good news too. The wireless was talking about landings by British and American troops on the coast of Normandy and Holland. Perhaps the war would be over soon.
