SEPTEMBER 1939
When we got back the evacuees had arrived. A dozen boys and girls of a sensible age standing in the church hall. Gas masks in a cardboard box, an identification tag around their necks, and carrying a bundle of personal belongings. They huddled together, their feet swimming in big shoes that were clearly badly scuffed hand-me-downs. Some of them looked as if they had never had a decent meal in their lives. Most of them had already wolfed their emergency rations. A block of chocolate, a tin of corned beef, and a tin of condensed milk. Amongst the grown-ups, confusion and resentment reigned in equal proportion. Why us? None of the other villages had been designated as reception areas. Before us stood a dozen frightened children, the farmers eyeing the husky lads, the girls and scrawny boys close to tears. And then a decision was reached that while it was still light we should send them back. Somebody whispered that all these children wet the bed. That half the mattresses in England were awash, and that at eight and six per child it wasn’t really worth it. I looked across at Len, who firmly shook his head. Not even one of them, he said. They can bloody well go back to where they come from. We’re not in the charity business. At four o’clock I noticed that the church bells didn’t ring. It was a decree. No more church bells because of the war. The children stood in silence.
SEPTEMBER 1942
Today an officer came into the shop wearing dark glasses. He seemed a bit surprised that a bell rang when he opened the door. Excuse me, ma’am. He took his hat off. He should have taken his glasses off as well. I wanted to say to him, it’s not sunny out, you know. So you can take them off, you know. Unless you’ve got something to hide, that is. I’ve come to talk to you a little about the service men we’ve got stationed in your village. Oh yes, I thought. It took you nearly three months to get here, did it? Well get on with it then. I’m all ears. A lot of these boys are not used to us treating them as equals, so don’t be alarmed by their response. What are they going to do, I thought, throw themselves on the floor before us if we smile? ‘They’re not very educated boys and they’ll need some time to adjust to your customs and your ways, so I’m just here to request your patience. I see. He relaxes now. Would you like a smoke? No, I don’t. Mind if I do? No, go ahead. So he does. Husband out? Yes, he’s out, I say. What business is it of yours? I think. Smug bugger. That’s what I think of him, standing there in his uniform, telling tales on his fellow soldiers behind their backs. Behind his glasses. Why did you send them to us then? I ask. Why not to some other place? No, no, he says. There’s no problem. We’re not sending you a problem or anything. It’s just that they’re different. We want you to know that you’ll have to be a little patient, that’s all. I smile at him and he smiles back. His white teeth, his confident pose, pulling at his cigarette, lazily blowing out smoke. He really thinks he’s something.
NOVEMBER 1942
I stood outside the church today and stared up at the trees. They’ve worn their leaves shabby. Hardly a breath of wind and they start falling. Ahead of us is winter. And it’s not exactly warm up here on this ledge. The wind gets a good go at us and gives us a pounding. Just thinking about it makes me shiver. I turned up my collar and got ready to carry on with my walk. And then I heard their voices starting up. I knew it was them for nobody else in this village sings that way. Like they mean it. I forgot all about the trees and winter. I found myself just staring at the church and listening to the sound of their voices and-their clapping hands. Across the road I saw old man Williams. He was out with his dog. He stood and listened as though, like me, he too hadn’t heard anything like this before. Just the two of us listening.
DECEMBER 1942
According to today’s copy of the Star, all over Britain standards of behaviour are breaking down. A young woman Air Raid Warden recently said that if gas spattered her clothes she’d have no hesitation in taking them off and walking starkers. According to this woman, every right-minded person in Britain should be ready to do the same. The Star thinks she’s barmy. But they don’t stop there. It is to be regretted, says the Star, that one of the more popular jokes on the factory floor is one which is made at the expense of our boys in the sky. What does an RAF man do when his parachute doesn’t open? He brings it back and gets a new one. The Star wonders if we’re not all the victims of German propaganda that’s designed to undermine our confidence. Apparently, some Star journalist was outraged because when he was in London he was charged 6d. for an apple and a guinea for a pound of grapes. The man who sold them to him then added salt to his wounds by asking him if he’d not heard that there was a war on. I’ve been getting some choice-comments, about tinned sardines and baked beans, for instance. We’ve had a directive to put up their points value because they’ve been proving too popular. It’s hardly my fault, is it? And as for the National loaf. Well, it’s definitely got a khaki tint to it, and it feels to me like paper that’s been repulped once too often. Full of straw-like bits. But if you don’t like it, nobody’s forcing you to eat it. I don’t know why they’re always complaining to me.
JANUARY 1943
I got a letter from Len. I knew it was him before I opened it. Mean handwriting. And addressed to a Mrs Len somebody. My name isn’t bloody Len anybody. Happy 1943! it says at the top. And bits of it are censored. He says that when he comes out he wants us to move away. Further north. Anywhere. But he says that we have to get away from here and start afresh. I see. He claims that he can’t stand the shame and he doesn’t see why I should have to put up with it too. Well, I’m doing all right. They still talk about me when they think I’m not listening, but I’m doing all right. I don’t see why I should have to leave. He’ll have to go by himself, I reckon. He can’t expect me to follow him around like some silly puppy. No, if he wants to go, then he can go. Good luck to him, I say. I’ll have to write to him and tell him this, in a nice way, of course. No need for him to suffer any more than he has to. I’ve got nothing against Len personally. No reason to hurt him. He just needs to grow up a little bit. A lot. And he’d be better off growing up with somebody else. When I get a minute I’ll let him know this. Better he gets it straight. Nothing to be gained by kidding each other. Not now. The best years of our lives and all that. If he wants to sling his hook and go off somewhere, then good luck to him. Good luck to you, Len.