Growing Up in Wartime England

The memories of Tom Davies

My wartime experience was very ordinary. I was approaching 12 years of age (12th November 1939 my actual 12th birthday) and lived in Aboyne Road, Neasden, London NW10 with my parents and my sister (8 years older) and brother (4 years older).

Just prior to the declaration of war, I was evacuated with other children from Wykeham School. I remember mustering in our usual classroom with our personal belongings and gasmasks, with an identifying label pinned to my jacket. With the teacher’s encouragement, we told jokes, and did various other things to entertain (I attempted a rather poor imitation of Claude Dampier — a “silly ass” comedian of the time whose trade mark was a monocle). Outside, a local ice-cream vendor called, I believe, Jo Coletti, was there with his horse-drawn ice-cream cart, giving the children free cornets. Poor Jo Coletti might well have been interned — I certainly never saw or heard of him again.

Eventually, we boarded buses by class and were driven to Cricklewood, where we alighted and went into Cricklewood Dance Hall/Roller-skating rink. We walked round the rink and then marched to Cricklewood Station and boarded trains that took us to Bedford Town, thence by bus to Clapham village some two miles N.W. of Bedford. Some other classes were taken, I believe, to Kempston, south of Bedford.

If I remember correctly, we alighted outside Clapham village hall. I, with three other lads from my class, were then billeted on a Mr and Mrs Langley. Very soon, two of these lads went to join their younger brothers in other places for I seem to recall being called in with only John Daley, classmate and friend, to sit with the Langleys in the study to hear Mr Neville Chamberlain announce “a state of war exists between England and Germany”. At this distance, I cannot recall my feelings at the time, probably excitement and possible home-sickness, but not, I believe, fear. Home-sickness because I remember being a bit tearful later on, after a couple or so visits home, during school holidays.

At first, we had no or little regular schooling; then, I seem to remember, having classes, on alternate days, in the Hall and Village School. Later on we were integrated with the village children — perhaps numbers of the evacuees had returned home.

Sadly, Mr Langley died some months after we arrived but, fortunately for John and me, Mrs Langley kept us on. I say ‘fortunately’ for it was an interesting, L-shaped house, the “leg” of the L being a large added extension. At the back, there were two large lawns — as well as vegetable areas and fruit trees. The lawns were on two levels, well-kept and sweeping down the river Ouse, where there was a cut out bay and landing stage for a full-sized punt. Then a narrower strip ran for about a 100 yards along the river, rather more natural, with a diving board and hut on stilts for changing. This was separated from other gardens by a marshy area.

My time in Clapham was immensely enjoyable. John and I had the use of the punt which we propelled and steered with paddles. We swam and fished, picked greengages, plums and apples, etc. in season!

We also “helped” a local farmer with haymaking, sometimes drove a horse and cart muckspreading, grubbed out the riding stables (his daughter’s) and even collected horses from the fields, riding bareback! Also, for a short time before our departure, we assisted in their small dairy.

I have very fond and grateful memories of this time which instilled in me a love and continuing interest in nature.

I returned home some time in late summer of 1941, I think it must have been, for I had only a term, or part of one, before leaving school at 14 and starting work in January 1942 in the Accounts Section for Oxford University Press in Press Road, Neasden.

There, having changed from the office to the warehouse where I preferred to be with my friends, I did turns at fire-watching, staying overnight, ostensibly to secure the warehouse and offices from incendiaries but, in actual experience, playing darts and doing the things lads would do together under those circumstances — for we had no call on our doubtful efficiency at fire-fighting! While there, though, during the V1 flying bomb attacks in 1944, one day I was on watch on the flat roof of the reception offices while an air-raid was in progress, when a V1 approached, cut out, descended and exploded a short distance away. I suppose we had sounded the klaxon alarm for staff to take cover. They sent me on my bicycle to look for the place of the incident which, I discovered, was in Lansdowne Grove near Neasden Station, some half-mile away. The news was received with relief, no-one having relatives there.

Soon after, I changed jobs, working for Marshall and Simpkins “Book Centre”, a book wholesalers and distributors, ostensibly to do the same sort of work but actually being sent out delivering books with a van driver. This was interesting since our route was mainly in the City. To me, the City had a strange fascination. One could see St Paul’s Cathedral from almost any angle because of the surrounding bomb sites — mostly tidied up and made safe. The Cathedral almost, it seemed, untouched and normal, stood out defiantly among the jagged remains of shored-up buildings.

In 1944, during the V2 rocket attacks, I was sleeping in the backroom of my parents two-bedroom Council flat which I shared with my father - we had by then given up using the Anderson shelter in the back garden. My mother, my sister (now married) and her new baby daughter slept in the front bedroom. Both my dad and I woke up, dimly aware of one another and an unusual atmosphere. One of us remarked “something’s happened — we’d better get up!” We did, hastily found our clothes and hurriedly dressed. Mum and my sister were also up and came out of their bedroom. Subsequently, we found all the front window glass had been shattered, plaster had fallen from the ceilings, the baby’s cot was covered with debris but all of us were uninjured. None of us had heard anything, our fox terriers had not barked! I went out the front into the street which was in complete darkness. Treading on lumps of mud, I went to my right a little way down the road. Hearing cries and voices and a dog barking, I went back in and told the little I had discerned. Perhaps, I helped tidy things at home, I now do not know but I was soon out salvaging a woman’s money and her husband’s watch from a kitchen dresser some way up a pile of rubber, the remains of what was once a first-storey kitchen. Floodlights were focused on the devastation as official rescue workers, firemen, medical and police personnel and ordinary helpers worked together, rescuing and salvaging. A V2 rocket had struck the corner of Wykeham School, destroying seven houses in Aboyne Road and severely damaging others, even in Neasden Lane. 7 people were killed and 40 badly inured.

A sequel to this illustrates, in some small measure, the effect on peoples’ lives other than the trauma of death, injury and loss of home. I had a girlfriend, at the time, who lived 1½ miles or so away. She only knew I lived somewhere near Wykeham School, neither did I then know her address. She came to ask an acquaintance of hers, who lived near the school, if she knew whether anything had happened to me. Co-incidentally, I had gone down to the scene again, for some reason, and a touching reunion occurred for, on the evening of the incident, we had been out together!

Normal social life was carried on as much as possible — visiting friends, “going out” etc: in my case mostly to the cinema or theatre. Often during a film, an air raid warning notice would be flashed upon the screen. No-one left and the film continued, sometimes to the sound of ack-ack gun fire. Then, in due course, “all clear” would be shown. On special occasions, when I could afford an outing to the West End cinema and a meal in a Lyons Corner House, I recall having curried whale meat! This was not altogether strange for, now and again, my mother cooked some — possibly it was “off ration”. Though the flavour was strong, it could be disguised by some such treatment — I did not find it objectionable! Also, in the Lyons Restaurant, then in Coventry Street, there was a small live orchestra — probably a quartet or quintet. This consisted of women (to a youth, elderly) in long dresses — to my unflattering memory all looking like Hinge and Bracket characters! But how very enjoyable!

Other memories are of me twice being in Central Middlesex Hospital, Park Royal — once for an appendectomy. How different from now! Then, walking patients used to make the early morning tea and take it round the ward. Also we would assist the nurses to make the beds, learning the proper way! It was all so very friendly and there was much laughter. There were regular visiting hours, only afternoon and evening, which was wonderful for patients and staff alike. Staff could get on with their work uncluttered by people coming in at all hours; patients also had a time of rest. The other thing was families and friends brought in really appreciated treats, like sweets, cigarettes, sometimes beer! Also, sometimes two or three eggs! Nurses would pencil the patient’s name on each egg, which was boiled for breakfast on request. Very disciplined but, in my experience, humane and friendly too!

I have been writing poetry on and off for several years and, triggered by the incident of the V2 rocket and aftermath, a few years ago, I wrote the following :-

Nineteen-Forties Nocturne

The summer eve was warm and still,
Side by side,
They walked in soft exploratory converse;
One likewise exploratory hand touching,
Closed in hesitant, reciprocal clasp —
Time-locked.
Buses intervalled by,
Head-lamps masked, windows blast-protected;
Figures dimly illumined seated in thoughtful pose.
In sudden, urgent, undulating tones,
Sirens began their wailing,
Bringing menace in the summer night.
Eastward:
Searchlights wove patterns in the dark;
Guns, flashed and boomed in concert.
Undeterred,
Each with blossoming awareness of each,
The love-cast couple,
Continued their whispering way
Cocooned in a Venus-woven spell!
Houses from her dimmed parental home,
They parted.
“Friday, then?” he murmured, “Promise”.
They sealed her acquiescent nod,
With a first tender kiss.
*
Wet hair clinging pate and brow,
Raincoat dark with dampness,
In a gloomy, shallow shop-way, he stood
Wrapped in sombre thought.
Dark clouds scudded overhead,
The blustery rain-filled wind,
Lashing him anew,
Mocked,
Eddying damp litter round his feet.
He waited,
An extra hour, he waited,
The cinema queue long-since gone.
Reluctantly he turned away,
Cast lingering glances back,
Persisting in the promise of her presence.
*
Houses damaged and destroyed:
He knew not which was hers;
Could not enquire,
Not knowing her full name.
Disconsolate,
He left the scarred and ugly scene:
Whole and wholesome
She in his memory stayed.

October 2001

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