Anumber of former evacuees still possess the treasured postcards and letters that were sent to or from their families during the war. When schools were evacuated, anxious parents had to wait for a postcard from their child to confirm their safe arrival and new address. As part of this, prior to evacuation, the schools had given each child a pre-stamped postcard, bearing their parents’ name and address. Children were instructed to send these cards to their parents when they reached their new billet.
George Osborn remembers writing his postcard:
We were given a postcard before leaving Portsmouth for the Isle of Wight. We had to send it home to our parents when our new address was known. The Portsmouth Evening News said later, ‘Between the lot of them they wrote the first human documents of the war.’
The postcards, crumpled and tear-stained, which arrived through parents’ letter-boxes, show that they probably did. I was not given a postcard because it was assumed that a five year old boy would not be parted from his sister, so her card would suffice for the two of us. Unfortunately this was not the case and we were sent to different billets.1
Younger children were instructed, by their teachers, to write messages that would not upset their parents, such as ‘Dear Mum and Dad, I am living with nice people. I like it here and am very happy. Don’t worry about me.’2 On one occasion, this had tragic consequences for one little boy and his family. He had left his new billet, placed his postcard, with the same message, in the letter box then went for a walk. Sadly he fell into the canal and drowned. His family were advised of his death that evening, but the next morning his postcard with its tragic message arrived at their home.3
James Roffey remembers sending his postcard home:
Soon after I arrived at my billet near Pulborough, I wrote my postcard and took it to the postbox just down the lane. Years later my mother reminded me what I had actually written, which was ‘Dear Mum and Dad. We have lost John and the stinging nettles got me on the way back to the hut they call the lavatory.’
Fortunately I was with my sister, who would have sent a much more reassuring message; well, she was five years older than me.4
Allan Barnes’ postcard home began with a rather blunt message. It simply noted, ‘I have gone’, though he did go on to state that his address was ‘c/o Mrs Blackman, 11 Madeline Road, Petersfield’.5 In some cases it was the host family who took the time to confirm an evacuee’s safe arrival. In Maidstone, for example, the family who took Dorothy King into their home sent a telegram to her parents: Dorothy arrived safely at 10 Beech Drive Maidstone.’6
Terence and Jack Frisby’s mother devised a brilliant scheme for their postcard. It was their own secret communication code to make evacuation exciting for the children and to reassure their mother that they were being well cared for. Terry recalls:
Just before we left home our mother had said, ‘Now listen, both of you. Look what I’ve got here. It’s a postcard. And it’s in code. A secret code. Like the Secret Service. Only this is our own secret code. Read it, Jack.’ This was exciting stuff, the postcard was stamped and addressed to our parents. Jack started to stumble through it. ‘Dear Mum and Dad, arr – arr – arrived safe and well. Ev – ev – every.’
I snatched the postcard from him and rattled off, ‘Everything fine. Love, Jack and Terry.’ Mum was furious with me. ‘Give that back at once. I told Jack to read it, not you. He is the older one, you do as he says. Always.’ ‘I don’t see why.’ ‘Always,’ she repeated. The word was flung across the room at me cutting through my disobedience, telling us both on a deeper level just how serious all this was.
Jack completed the reading of the card, uninterrupted. There was a pause then Jack ventured nervously, ‘But what’s the code?’
‘When you get there,’ Mum continued, ‘you find out the address of the place where they take you, then you write it on the card there.’ She had left a space. She continued to both of us. ‘Then you post it at once. All right? Now listen, I’ve only got one card so you’ve got to stay together or I won’t know where one of you is.’
It was her final shot on the other subject that was eating her. We were disappointed. ‘But that’s not a proper code.’ ‘No. Now this is the code. Our secret. You know how to write kisses don’t you?’ We agreed with ‘eargh’, ‘yuck’ noises to show our distaste for such things. She waited for the ritual to subside. ‘You put one kiss if it’s horrible and I’ll come straight there and bring you back home. Do you see? You put two kisses if it’s all right. And three kisses if it’s nice. Really nice. Then I’ll know.’
In the anxiety and horror of this major crisis in her life – our lives – our mother, and perhaps our father too, had come up with something for them and us to cling to in the chaos.7
Soon after they arrived at their new billet, the moment came for Terence and Jack to fill in the card to send home – as well as making use of the secret means of communication agreed with their mother:
In bed on the first night in our new home we stared at Mum’s postcard by candlelight and considered our code. Jack held the pencil. ‘How many kisses shall we put?’ Suddenly our new – surrogate – mother was with us. Jack slipped the postcard under his pillow – too late. She had seen it but said nothing. She asked us to call her Auntie Rose then said ‘I’m going to put out the candle if you’re ready?’ ‘Could you leave it please? We got to do something. We got to send a card to Mum and Dad’ ‘This one?’ She had moved round and produced the postcard from under the pillow, saying ‘Is that your writing? It’s very grown-up.’ ‘No it’s Mum’s. We’ve got to put your address on it,’ we replied. She said, ‘Well you’ve done it haven’t you. Yes that’s more like your writing. That’s not how you spell Liskeard. I’ll do you another card in the morning. A nice new one with a picture. How’s that?’ ‘No, no. We got to put something else on.’ ‘What’s that?’
She was met with silence. ‘Well?’ she asked gently. ‘Er – kisses. We want to do it. By ourselves.’ She stared at us, reading something special and prepared to give us our heads now that she knew we were up to no mischief. When she spoke again the voice was even more gentle, more reassuring than she had sounded so far.
‘All right then. You do it by yourselves, is it? That’s right. You got something to write with?’ ‘Yes. Here. Pencil.’
She left us. ‘How many kisses?’ said Jack. ‘I vote three.’ I had no doubts. Jack continued to take his older brother responsibilities seriously, saying, ‘There’s no taps in the house, no electricity. And no lavatory.’ At last he said what we were both feeling. ‘It’s like being on holiday only there’s no sea.’
We agreed three but I had an idea. ‘We could put four kisses. The more we put, the happier Mum and Dad will be.’ We ringed the card with kisses and posted it next morning.8
One London family did not receive any postcards from their children. Concerned, one of the parents wrote to Buckinghamshire Council – though we can guess at what the response actually was:
My four children left John Hopkins School, Croydon, Wednesday, 2 October 1940 to your county, we do not know whether they are kidnapped or starving or sent somewhere else. I think it down right dirty and disgraceful to keep us waiting for news, there is no excuse.
My boys have stamped addressed envelopes and papers to give to the lady who is in charge of them and they have not even dropped us a line. It is now days. As for my two little girls, I have not the slightest idea where they are. If the people in your town are so mean I had better have my children home at once.9
When evacuees wrote to their parents, some wanted to explain how unhappy they were. However, they were aware that their letters might be read by the family they were living with. One girl recalled, ‘If I wrote to Mum saying I wanted to come home, I would be told to write another letter and say I was happy where I was.’10
John Mathews was unhappy in his billet. He was underfed and locked in his bedroom when not at school with no toys or books. He sent two letters home:
It was obvious that our letters were going to be censored, so in the first one I wrote the sort of thing one should – ‘Having a wonderful time, wish you were here.’ Then the following morning I somehow managed to steal an envelope and stamp and wrote a rather more truthful letter home. The gist of it was that if something didn’t happen quickly, I was going to run away. Two Saturdays later my mother turned up at the door to collect me.11
Not all communication home was tinged with sadness or unhappiness. Evacuees’ letters often contained a wonderful mixture of everyday life, family affection and news of the war. As the historian Dr Claire Halstead Ph.D points out:
Wartime evacuees’ letters are valuable historical records. Not only do they reveal the impact of evacuation and familial separation but they also enable historians to examine how evacuees themselves, perceived their new circumstances and surroundings. While diaries and memoirs naturally include one’s recollections or memories, evacuees’ letters are time capsules and offer a window into the mind of a child.
Phyllis Hanson was seven years old when she was sent from the family home in Forest Hill, London to Newdigate in Surrey, where she was cared for by Mrs Ada Tullett. In common with many wartime households, neither the Hansons nor Mrs Tullett owned a telephone. Making calls was a lengthy process which involved setting a time and day by letter, then waiting at a telephone box for the call. Arrangements were duly made for Phyllis to receive calls from her parents at a call box in Newdigate. Perhaps it is because of such complications and difficulties that most of Phyllis’ communication with home was, as in the case of most evacuees, by post.
In one letter, Phyllis revealed that she was aware of the bombing of cities and towns that was taking place – this, of course, being the reason for her move to rural Surrey: ‘Dear Mum and Dad, thank you for the sweets. I received your parcel safely thank you. I hope you’re not bombed out. I hope you are safe and well. I am.’12
When Allan Barnes was evacuated, his first letter home described his journey and the billeting process in Petersfield:
We came in an electric train, the journey took us about an hour. My hands are jolly sore though from carrying my case.
It is a very nice place I have got, there is a boy (9) and two girls (8 and 11). We were counted 11 times in the course of the journey. The evacuation people here are daft because the person in the house offered to take 2 small children so that I could go in a house with a friend of mine but the daft people wouldn’t let me. You can guess we were tired when we got there and they kept taking us round in circles (daft lot). Mrs Blackman has just told me to tell you that she will do all she can to make me comfortable and happy, she thought this would stop you worrying about me. Write often, it will make me feel nearer you and more at home.13
Dorothy King was eleven years old when she was evacuated to Maidstone. She wanted to assure her mother that she was safe, despite the air raids on Maidstone:
Dear Mummy, I received the letter and parcel. We had a lovely French lesson on Saturday. Miss Hinton taught us some little French songs. Does Daddy know ‘Frère Jacques’? We have been doing square routes with Miss Davies. I think they are most interesting. I can play ‘There is a lady sweet and kind’ on my pipe! PS. I have not been hit by a bomb yet. PPS I have not been gassed yet. PPPS I have not come in contact with an air gun yet.’14
The letter also contained three of her drawings – a child with a bomb over her head, a child being shot by a gun and a child wearing a gas mask. Looking back at her letters today, Dorothy explains how she felt whilst writing them: ‘When I read the letters that I wrote during the earlier years, I find little reference to the war, except occasionally in a rather jokey way. I wrote home regularly. The letters sound chirpy enough, but I know that sometimes I sat over them crying alone in the dining room.15
Some of the letters sent by Mrs King to Dorothy, whilst she was billeted with Mrs Lees in Bedford, also survive. The following letter was sent just after Dorothy had paid a short visit home:
Thanks for your card, glad to hear you arrived back safely. I returned all the way with Mrs Perrell which was much nicer than returning alone. I hopped on a tram at Abbey Wood because I wanted to get to the stores and it was nearly 5 o’clock.
I suppose you wore your new coat today? Just in time because it is turned bitterly cold here. I haven’t had a chance to go to John Lewis’s as yet but will do so as soon as possible and see what I can get. We are in the middle of air raid at present. It is very quiet but we have had a series of bumps. Your shoes will be ready Saturday week. Daddy took them, I had to work or I might have got them finished before.
Well dear, must stop now. Cheerio for now dear, Kindest regards to Mrs Lees, fondest love, Yours, Mummy.16
Mrs King’s second letter shows she and Mr King were missing their daughter’s presence at home:
Seems very lonely here without you especially teatime. Just when we get used to it you’ll be home again. Let us know in good time won’t you? Daddy has a nasty chesty cough and has felt a bit dizzy. I hope it is only a cold. Must stop now dear as I have a lot to do, Fondest love, Mummy.17
In early September 1939, a Newcastle family, the Hodges, were torn apart by evacuation. Mrs Hetty Hodges was evacuated to Carlisle as a voluntary helper, with her youngest daughter, Mary, and thirteen other children. Her husband, Sydney, worked for the Board of Trade and remained behind, whilst their eldest daughter, Betty, was evacuated to Keswick. Their letters tell an emotional tale of family separation and also outline the practical arrangements that had to be made during wartime. A few days after his wife’s departure, Sydney wrote to her in Carlisle:
My dear Hetty, I know you were very upset the morning you left and worrying about Betty, but I think it will be quite all right as Betty will be with nice people and receive some education. In any case I think you could easily go over to see her later on. Keep your chin up and keep yourself as interested as you can looking after the kids. By the way there was a telegram on the gates of the Central High School from the Mayor of Keswick, stating that the people of Keswick were determined to do all in their power for the children who are quartered there. As regards myself, I have been working very late. I was there till 2 am this morning and I’ve just started again. As regards the house I haven’t decided anything definite but I shall probably try to get the furniture into store and tell the landlord that I have to give the house up. The streets are so dark at night that it is difficult to get home.
I may try to get accommodation somewhere but haven’t made my mind up yet. I can get all the food I want in the canteen here. Owing to the late hours I work I cannot look after the cat [Tinker] and I’m sorry but he will have to be destroyed. I think it will be the best dear. Mr Spence was hoping to get a car and take me to Carlisle today but he couldn’t do so. If he had I was going to bring the cat over to you. Don’t worry about me. I shall take every precaution I can. Perhaps things won’t be so bad as we think. My job is here in any case. I think you had better write to the office here in future so that I can always be sure of getting your letters. Well dear that’s all for now. Keep smiling and don’t worry. All my love dear to you and Mary your loving Syd.18
A few days later, Syd wrote to his daughter Mary:
I received your nice letter this morning and it was lovely. I thought you would like the teddy bear and I hope to be able to send some other things for you. I don’t know whether I can come over on Sunday with Mr Smith as I think one of us will have to work and Mr Smith can bring over some more things in his car. I know you will be happy where you are and you have nothing to be afraid of so try to be cheerful and brave and look after Mummy for me.
If I can’t come on Sunday I will come another day, when the railway service is more settled. Mummy can buy your new doll at Carlisle but not now, but a little later on. I will let you know when to buy it. I hope Tinker will be able to stay with you. I am quite all right and looking forward to seeing you all again. Lots of love from your loving Daddy.19
Mrs Hodges then wrote to her eldest daughter, Betty, who had been sent to Keswick:
My dearest Betty, Mr Smith brought a lot of our clothes over in his car as Daddy has closed up the house and put everything into store. Mr Smith also brought Tinker so he has been evacuated too, and the lady here loves cats and has made him very welcome. I hope you are comfortable in your billets and are being good and doing everything to help the people you are with. The people in Carlisle are being very kind to the children of West Jesmond! We are in a very nice billet, Mary and I together, but I have a lot to do with 14 children to look to. I have to take them out when they are not at school, which doesn’t start until next week.
Well dear, all we have to do now is to pray that this will soon be over and we shall be altogether. I have your Girl Guide uniform here so I will send it over with some new pyjamas when I get some money from Daddy. Do write soon. I hope you’ll start classes soon, that will give you something to do and think about. Daddy says he is quite alright so keep as well and happy as you can. Take care of your money and don’t spend too much – especially sweets – you don’t want to get bilious. Well darling, I must stop. We are always thinking about you. Lots of love from Mary and I, your ever loving and devoted Mother.20
Betty quickly wrote back to her mother:
I am quite at home in my billet and I make the bed in the morning, wipe up all the washing up, peel the spuds and do various jobs about the house. Auntie Peggy doesn’t let me go out by myself at all so you see she is taking great care of me. The people in Keswick are being very kind to us all as well. How on earth did you get hold of 14 children. I nearly fainted on the spot when I saw it. Nine would have been enough, but 14 – phew!
I don’t spend much except on stamps and postcards and you will be pleased to know that I’ve only had one penny Crunchie so far. Miss O’Dell told us that we were to give all our pocket money to our form mistresses. Most of the girls, Enid tells me, are grumbling like anything about it, we are allowed four pence a week for ourselves and if we want any more we have to tell our form mistresses why. I’m having my hair washed in a minute so I must stop. Give my love to Tinker five times over. A kiss to yourselves 10 dozen times, from your loving daughter, Betty.21
She also enclosed a letter for her sister:
When your letters came about 9 o’clock and I read the news I nearly cried with happiness … I’m glad you are happy in your new home. I’m as happy as I can be without you. I’m afraid I must close now too as I am writing a letter to Mummy. But Mummy will read it to you I am sure. Give Tinker a big kiss from me, you are lucky having him with you. But I shall see him soon I’m sure. Don’t fret about the news dear, we will pull through and the Poles have done a lot haven’t they? And take no notice of what the Germans say, they only do it to try to frighten us. So goodbye for now, your ever loving sister Betty.22
Terence Frisby remembers writing his weekly letters home:
Our weekly ordeal was the letter home and Auntie Rose was adamant. We were never allowed to miss. I regarded it as a chore to be endured.
One winter evening I sat at the table chewing a pencil whilst Auntie Rose mended socks with a letter from her son, Gwyn, on her lap. She was upset and not inclined to be indulgent to my whinges. ‘I can’t think of anything to write.’ ‘You say that every week.’
I was as foolish as ever and said, ‘You’ve read that letter from Gwyn hundreds of times.’ She replied, ‘And I shall probably read it hundreds more. They said he was only going training back home in Wales. Now they send him abroad. Abroad. Where? Haven’t they ever heard of embarkation leave?’ Her voice had risen to a querulous high and she stared at me as though it were my fault and I had the answer. Auntie Rose continued. ‘In the last war Jack was the only one who came back alive to our village in Wales. The only one. It’s why we left; every woman staring at me as if it was my fault.’
She shuddered and returned to the present, waving Gwyn’s letter accusingly at me again. ‘Ink on paper instead of a person here in your life. That’s all there is: letters. And every letter from Gwyn is one page long.’
‘Two sides,’ I tried helpfully. ‘It’s not enough. You write two pages home to your mum and dad this week. Two. Do you hear?’ This awful sentence took my breath away. ‘That’s four sides.’ ‘I know how many it is.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I replied. ‘We shouldn’t have to write at all. It was her who sent us away.’ As soon as I had said it I wished I hadn’t. I tried not to catch her eye and muttered, ‘Well, she did’. ‘What?’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ …
Three years later, when Auntie Rose’s son Gwyn was killed in action, Jack and I thought very carefully about our letter home to advise our parents. After a great deal of deliberation, we wrote: ‘Dear Mum and Dad, Just a line to let you know that Auntie Rose and Uncle Jack’s son Gwyn has been killed in Sicily. They are very unhappy. Auntie Rose keeps crying and Uncle Jack keeps going to the bottom of the garden and just sitting there instead of going to work. We thought it would be a good idea if only one of us came home and one of us stayed here with them and became their son. Then you’ve both got one each. That’s fair. We were going to toss for it but Jack said I’ve got to go back to Dartford Grammar School. Jack doesn’t mind not going to the Poly and he can stay here and work on the track with Uncle Jack. He says he would like that. He could come and visit with a privilege ticket.’23
Geoffrey Wright, was evacuated with other pupils and staff from Kelvinside Academy to Tarbet, Scotland. A few days after his arrival he sent this letter to his mother:
Dear Mummy, I can’t find my identity card. Mr Murie wants it now but I have looked everywhere, it must be at home. Matron isn’t so nice as I thought but we have two Nannies – Nansky and Bessy. I make my own bed and I think I have to send things to some laundry.
7.45 wakened, 8.30 breakfast, 9.00 prayers and school. 1 o’clock dinner, free at 3. Tea at 6, prep. 6.45 – 8, supper 8.30, lights out at 9. Good bed, not very homesick! Railway runs so that I can see a bit from my window – I like it.24
One young girl, evacuated from Earls Hall School in Southend to Derbyshire, enclosed some picture postcards with her letter:
Dear All, I hope you are all well at home. We arrived at Chinley at 3.30 Sunday afternoon and when we got out of the train some boy scouts gave us all a half pint bottle of milk. After waiting about twenty minutes we got on a bus to Whaley Bridge. We went to a hall and had a cup of tea and a piece of cake. After about one hour they started to put the children to their new homes.
First the farmer came and said we could go there but the teacher would not let us. Then the vicar came and asked us to go to the rectory but then something happened. After all we were put with Mrs Bailey. As soon as we got home she got tea and when we had finished, Winifred and Yvonne took us to the post box. These postcards are some of the lovely places here, and my bedroom window looks out on a lovely hill. Please send my shorts and my music book. We are all very well. Give my love to grannie, please send this round to Ian, Love Kathleen.25
June Somekh received regular letters from home: ‘My father used to write to us either every week or fortnight and enclose money for our foster carer. Mother sent us parcels of goodies. Father did not feel that the allowance for children was enough to feed us adequately, so he sent extra money.’26
Lily Dwyer also received gifts: ‘At Easter we got parcels from home – Mum sent an Easter egg for me and also one for Mary. Mum also sent me a Holy Communion dress which she must have had to save up for as she had no money. The Bishop came to Gresford for our communion.27
Len Page received a memorable parcel from his parents:
One day I received a card from Chipping Norton station to collect a parcel. It was a full size bike which had belonged to my sister May who was still in London. That bike was the best present ever, for no more the mile and a quarter walk to school. Sometimes it was a source of revenue as one boy at school would give me three pence to ride it about for the school dinner time. But this came to a stop when Mr. Knight who was on point duty outside the town hall caught the boy on my bike (it being a girl’s sports bike) and he thought he had pinched it!28
Patricia and Peter Campbell received this letter from their father:
I am real glad to know that you and all the others are so happy and that you are settling down in your new surroundings all right. It’s great to hear from you and to know that you are all getting on so well. Both Mammy and I miss you all very badly indeed, especially at the week end.
I saw from the Folkestone Herald that you got a great welcome in Wales on your arrival, I see Peter’s photo there, perhaps Mammy will send you on the paper for you and Ivy to see. I understand you are not too far away from the boys, I do hope you will look them up now and again and see that they are all right. I see they have all written to Mammy and quite good attempts they were too, they all say they are very happy and have not mentioned about coming home, well that is the way to be. After all, you are all in a very safe place, safe from all the dangers of Air Raids, etc, we have had quite a lot of ‘sirens’ for the past few days, nearly every night they visit us, guns and searchlights too.
We have not heard from Ivy for the first couple of days and Mammy was getting a bit worried about her, but I see she has now written and that she is settling down as well as the others. I’m afraid I will have to go away very shortly now to Hammersmith, but it won’t be for a week or two yet anyway – if and when I do go I am taking Mammy and Grandad and all and we shall make a new home there – so that when the war is over and you all come home again it will be to London you will be coming home to, not Folkestone.
Now, Pat, be a good girl, do what you can to help the boys and Ivy, also do what you can for the lady who is looking after you all, and don′t forget to remember your prayers at all times, especially for Mammy and me. So ‘little girl’ Ta Ta, I’ll be writing again some other time. I am, Your old Dad.29
In 1942, Ron Gould, the evacuee from Guernsey who was living in Cheshire, wrote to his mother, who had been evacuated to Bradford, Yorkshire:
Dear Mum I am sorry to hear about your being ill, was it a serious operation? I hope you will be able to get out soon. Have you any idea when that will be? I went for a cycle ride yesterday to Pick Mere, that’s a big lake about 6 or 7 miles out. It was a lovely ride. Is the weather nice down there, its boiling up here, well I think that is all for now so cheerio, from your loving son, Ron.30
In Cheshire, another Guernsey child, Frank Le Poidevin, also contacted his mother, who had been evacuated to Glasgow with his brother. Whilst waiting for the family to be reunited, he sent her a note and enclosed some sprigs of wild flowers. His mother kept that note and the dried flowers until the day she died.
When William Crawford’s school was evacuated from Belfast to Port Rush, his parents were employed in the colonial service in Ceylon. William’s son, Bruce, states:
Dad’s contact with his parents was very seldom during the war years, about once a year or so, and only by post. Even then letters were very short, little more than a postcard-sized page, and subjected to heavy censorship especially from the East where the war against Japan was getting going. Dad wrote once a week to Granny in Dublin, and to his parents, again, very short, censored letters. Dad says that the only time he actually missed his parents was at Christmas, but he tried to push the feelings to one side by trying to learn to play the piano.31
Brenda and George Osborn were evacuated to the Isle of Wight and in late December 1939 many of the evacuees received an unexpected Christmas letter. George recalls:
Brenda received a letter from the Mayor of Portsmouth but mine never turned up. ‘The Lady Mayoress and I want to wish you a very very jolly Christmas and Happy New Year. We only wish that it was possible for us to be with you and to tell you this ourselves instead of writing to you. We know you are most grateful to those kind people in whose homes you now live and who have given you so much care and attention. All those who love you would, we know, wish to join us in sending them our warmest thanks as well. We look forward to the time when you will be with us again, but for the present it is much better that you should all remain where you are. We hope that you will all keep well and happy and that this Christmas will be every bit as enjoyable as those you have had in the past. Goodbye and God bless you.’32
Marion Wraight received letters from her mother but had no contact with her father:
I thought about Mum a lot and missed her and my sisters. Mum wrote letters to me perhaps one a month and my sister Jean sent me a £5 note once. My mum sent me a photo of me, which I still have. It has a handwritten note on it which says ‘my little Marion.’ Mum and my sisters went to Ireland to do seasonal farm work and I have a photograph of them doing this. My Dad deserted from the Pioneer Corps – he had shot a corporal during an argument and was in prison for a while. He also attacked a woman in 1943 and beat her nearly to death. This was reported on the front of the local newspaper, and my sister Lilian saw it when it was delivered through her door, this was the first my family knew of it!33
Roisin Toole (née Carney) recalls an activity that was undertaken by homesick evacuees in Kettering: ‘We would write messages to our mothers on tiny scraps of paper and go to the railway bridge near the end of the Headlands and wait for a London train to pass under and try to drop the message on to it, thinking of it getting to home even if we could not.’34
In late September 1939, the postage costs incurred by evacuated children was raised in the House of Commons. The Postmaster General was asked whether he could allow one free post, weekly, between parents and evacuated children, in view of the heavy expense caused to families by evacuation. After some consideration, the Assistant Postmaster General replied: ‘The difficulties involved would make it impracticable to operate such a concession. Moreover, if such a postage concession were granted, similar claims would be received from other groups who feel that they are equally entitled to special consideration.’35
During their first few days in England and Scotland, Channel Island evacuees were able to send letters to the islands and some even received replies. Frank Le Poidevin sent this cheerful letter to his father:
I am enjoying myself very much, are you? I hope that you are. We were travelling in a train all night Friday the 21st. There are a few Guernsey here already and also babys and women. All the Forest school children are here but not in the same room. I wasn’t at all seasick on the boat. We have just been given books, crayons and a lot of toys.36
When the islands were occupied by Germany on 30 June, the postal service ceased and telephone lines were cut. However, five months later, a lifeline was provided when evacuees were invited to send British Red Cross messages to the islands. Initially, they were only allowed ten words per message but this later increased to twenty-five.
It was not until March or April 1941 that evacuees received replies to that first batch of messages and Ruth Alexandre wrote in her diary: ‘What a thrill, the first messages arrived for me from home!’
For child evacuees separated from their families, a family visit was a memorable event. However, as some stories reveal, the parting at the end of these visits could be hard to bear. Some towns and villages set aside certain dates for visits, whilst in others, parents could visit whenever they wished. When Derby School was evacuated to Amber Valley Camp on Wooley Moor, Derbyshire, the Headmaster organised the first visit: ‘Buses will be available for parents who would like to visit the Camp on June 6th. The fare will be 2 to 3 shillings in accordance with the number who use the buses.’37 Thereafter, though, parents had to make their own arrangements – as Gordon Lancaster recalls:
I went home to Derby at half term and my parents visited me at the camp a couple of times. It was quite difficult to visit us if you didn’t have a car. The nearest railway station was Stretton, two miles away, so it was quite a walk. I was quite homesick really but it wasn’t too bad. We had a tuck shop at the camp for sweets and bought things with the spending money received from our parents.38
When Catford Central School was evacuated to Sayers Croft Camp in Surrey, special buses transported the parents:
The parents came once a month, on the last Sunday. Single decker London Transport buses arrived in convoy, sometimes as many as ten or twelve of them. It was a testing time for these parents, particularly when it was time for them to return to their unknown perils of war in London. On the whole the parents made light of the air raids which was natural in their desire not to worry the boys, but their powers of endurance were being severely tested after spending many nights in the air raid shelters.39
After visiting their children, a group of London mothers placed a letter in a newspaper to thank the Truro families who were caring for their children:
After visiting our children on August 3 we must send at once our heartfelt thanks and appreciation for all that the mothers of Cornwall are doing to mother our children. We all noticed how clean, well-kept and happy the children were and how well they looked. We also wish to thank the foster mothers for the kind way they welcomed us into their homes and looked after our welfare until we had to leave. We are sure the time will come when we can repay the hospitality. Mrs AR Martin. On behalf of the mothers of East Ham, London, E6, August 8, 1940.40
Dorothy King lived with several different families and received visits from her parents:
My parents were invited for a meal when they eventually came to visit me and Mrs Merrifield arranged for them to stay with a neighbour so that we could all spend Christmas together. And, at my mother’s request, Mrs Merrifield sympathetically broke the news to me that my beloved dog, Trixie, had died! My second home was with Mr and Mrs Tapley in Bedford, but I stayed there just three weeks. I remember one blissful day before I left them – my mother came with a friend and took me to Canterbury for the day.
We saw round the Cathedral and I had my first Knickerbocker Glory. Events like that compensated for a lot! I then moved down the road to the home of Ivy and Bert Waller and when my mother first visited me there, she and Ivy established an immediate and lasting rapport.
During 1944-1945 I didn’t go home regularly. The Doodlebugs had started appearing during one of my holidays at home and the house had been damaged just after I had left home to return to Bedford. My father returned from seeing me to the station to find my mother and grandmother covered in dust and sweeping up glass. He was most unwilling for me to come home after that.41
Peter Staples made special arrangements when his parents came to Norfolk:
The local signposts had been removed, so when my parents visited, I wrote ‘Old Rectory Lane’ on pieces of paper and placed them in hedges so my parents could follow them and find us. Mr Scarff and my Dad got on very well and they took several of us kids to the cinema at North Walsham, with Mr Scarff asking my Dad to do 50mph on roads where it would have been suicidal to do more than 30. Besides which I don’t think his car could reach 50. When my parents returned home again, I cried, but was soon fine as there was so much to keep me occupied.42
Richard Singleton’s parents travelled from Liverpool to Wales to see their sons:
Every time our parents paid us visits Aunty would ask Sian, a girl from the farm about a mile away, to clean the house up. One day when Dad, Ron and myself were in the hay field. Mum came to Dad and said ‘Do you know how many fleas I caught in the boy’s bed?’ ‘No’ said Dad, ‘How many?’ ‘Thirteen’ she replied. ‘They’re not heat lumps our Richie has, they are bloody flea bites.’
Mam must have got over the fleas as she wrote to Grandma saying Ron and I looked well. One time when they came they took Ron and I to Aberystwyth where we had a meal then the four of us went on board a boat with other people. Everyone was given a fishing rod with bait then we all cast our lines. Everyone must have caught at least a dozen mackerel. Then Dad took us to an arcade, he must have gone through a bit of cash but we never won anything. The chap must have felt sorry for us as he gave Dad a teaspoon with ‘Aberystwyth’ on the handle.43
Barry Fletcher remembers one family visit which ended badly:
My mother was not able to visit Feckenham very often, public transport only brought Mom from Birmingham to Astwood Bank and a two-mile walk in all weathers made it a long and slow journey. Each visit about every 6 to 8 weeks was awaited with eager anticipation bringing sweets, cakes and a little pocket money and each visit passed all too quickly, ending in sadness.
During one visit Mom brought me my Dad’s watch recently repaired - he had died in May 1939. I was thrilled to have his watch on my wrist. All during Mom’s visit I kept checking the time, it was a wonderful feeling. Later in the afternoon it was time for Mom to walk back to Astwood Bank to board the bus. On these occasions I would walk halfway before returning on my own. I said goodbye to Mom and set off back to Feckenham. Almost by Barrett’s, I realised the watch and strap was no longer on my wrist. Retracing my steps I searched until dark but couldn’t find the watch.44
Phyllis and Pat Hanson received occasional visits from their parents and Mr Hanson would often cycle the fifty to sixty mile round trip from London to Dorking to see his little girls. The family still have the letter which contained arrangements for visiting days:
For the convenience of parents and friends of the evacuated children in Newdigate, the village school will be open on the first Sunday in the month from 12:30pm to 5:30pm to coincide with the arrival and departure of buses. Cup of tea 1d, slice of cake 1d, will be available and picnic lunches brought by the visitors can be eaten in the school. There will be an extra visiting day on Sunday, March 16 to start the scheme, when it is hoped that parents will be able to come.45
Mr Hanson was not the only parent to cycle a great distance to visit his child. One mother cycled from London to Oxfordshire to see her child: ‘It had taken two days for her to get there. She expressed great satisfaction at what she saw, and wished that other mothers and fathers could see the surroundings in which these children are.’46
Jim Davey remembers his first parental visit:
Mother and father came down to visit Betty and I just before Christmas 1939, this was the first that we’d seen of them since September. They came down for the day, left our Christmas presents and returned home in the evening.
Later I was evacuated with my school to Rossall, Lancashire, and we were allowed to go home at the end of each term. We had a specially chartered train which took second place to all the goods trains, troop trains and regular trains.
The first time that I came home for the holiday was Christmas 1943 and the train was four hours late. Our parents had been waiting at Euston station all that time. It was a strange sort of evacuation as we were able to come home for several weeks at the end of every term but it was also a big wrench going back to school again.47
Philip Doran remembers a ‘secret’ day out arranged by his foster mother:
One day Mrs Roberts announced that we’d be going on a day’s outing, the destination was to be a secret. We boarded the bus full of anticipation, the bus took us to Caernarfon where we transferred to a train; we still had no idea where we were going. It was a complete surprise to us when the train drew into Central Station; we were back home, home in Liverpool. Mrs Roberts had managed to glean certain information from us and so she knew that the number three bus would take us to the Dingle, just a short walk from where we lived.
We were only able to stay for the day but it was such a happy day for us all. Mrs Roberts had arranged the trip through the goodness of her heart; little did she know that despite the joy we all felt, it would have a very negative effect on our lives. We returned after a very long day, all of us tired and worn out. That brief spell at home meant that from that moment on, nothing in North Wales could be substituted for our real home and our real family; the pangs of homesickness were now stronger than ever.48
Jean Griffin (née Pare) received regular visits from her parents. ‘Once a month a Midland Red coach, from Digbeth coach station, came to Lydney bringing families to see their sons and daughters,’ she remembers. ‘My mother came every time and got on well with my wartime foster parents, Auntie Lil and Uncle Bill.’49
Marjorie Parker’s family visited Glossop where she and her sister were living with Lady Partington: ‘Mum, Dad and Alan came to stay with us for a fortnight each summer. It was very emotional when they arrived but more so when they left. They always took us to Manchester to buy new clothes and we would go out for walks.’50
Brenda Paulding’s mother made great efforts to visit her children:
Despite working on munitions and having a war-disabled husband and lodger to look after, my mother spent many weekends visiting her far-flung evacuated daughters. She endured the well-known experiences of war time trains, some cancelled, many, often very cold with long waits in tunnels whilst troops or more important cargo went ahead. I remember her arriving on a Saturday and after a cuppa and a snack we went off to the local shops to find me some shoes. Then before leaving she measured me for a dress which she made by hand, with glass buttons. It was to be worn on ‘the walks’, an annual parade with banners around the streets of Macclesfield in which we Sunday School children took part. However due to the postal delay it did not arrive until two days after the event.51
Terence Frisby will never forget his mother’s first visit:
A few days after we arrived, I was watching a train from Plymouth pull into the station. One or two people strode up station approach. I stared in wonder. My mother – my mother, lugging a heavy suitcase – was actually trudging up from the station towards me. She had received our card all right but turned up anyway. I did not rush to greet her; instead, I turned and raced to Railway Cottages. I ran breathlessly indoors. ‘Auntie Rose, Auntie Rose, Mum’s here. My mum is here. She is outside.’
I gulped, excited beyond belief. I didn’t see her reaction, though she must have been flustered, because having delivered the news I turned around and ran straight back to Mum. My mother has often since reminded me of that moment. Her blue-eyed boy recognised her, turned and ran away. Whatever was wrong with him? It had clearly upset her.
She said that all sorts of anxieties took over in those few minutes before I came back. Nothing was wrong at all, of course. I had simply run to tell Auntie Rose. Had Auntie Rose become, in under a week, the first person in my life to share such things with, leaving my mother in the road outside? I don’t know what Auntie Rose thought of Mum but Mum must have trusted Auntie Rose immediately because she told her about the kisses code and our judgement of her. I hope it gave Auntie Rose the pleasure she deserved. After Mum’s first visit Auntie Rose and Uncle Jack were given express permission – if they needed it – to treat us exactly like their own children and punish us when we deserved it. I can think of no better expression of the trust Mum had in them from the word go.52
George and Brenda Osborne were able to visit their mother in Portsmouth for a few days at Christmas, as George later recalled:
It seemed ages since we had seen our house in Portsmouth and when Brenda and I returned to Wootton after the Christmas break, there were fewer than half a dozen of the original fifty evacuees at school. Most mothers had decided to keep their children with them rather than suffer the misery of being parted again. We went back to Wootton because it suited our mother. With us away and father permanently in hospital, she could easily find work. She was delivering milk to the doorsteps of smart houses in the Southsea area and being paid a regular wage which was more than she had ever dreamed of earning before the war. Once every six weeks she came to see us for a week-end.
I remember her visits well because it was the only time we were given egg and bacon for breakfast. She always brought us lots of nice things, like sweets and chocolate, and I was often chastised for asking for these things before kissing her, or even saying ‘Hello’.53
Jean Bell was afraid that she would not recognise her own mother when she visited:
My brother and I were told that our mother would be coming to see us and would be arriving on a train, due to arrive in the early evening. We were sent along to the station to meet her and I was very worried because I did not think I would recognise my mother as we had not seen her for such a very long time. However, she missed the train from Paddington and caught the next one which meant that she arrived very late at night when we were in bed, thereby solving the problem of me not recognising her.54
On one occasion, Lily Dwyer’s parents visited her then took her brother home with them:
One day my mum and dad came to see me. Dad was a merchant seaman so he must have been on leave. It was a sad little visit. They both looked ill at ease although Mrs Bee made them welcome. I was very shy in their company, but I remember feeling really sad when it was time for them to go. They were going to visit my brother in the village. I followed them all the way down the hill and waved to them until they were out of sight.
When I went to school the next day I looked for my brother everywhere. I was taken into the staff room and they told me that my parents had decided to take him home to Liverpool. I missed him so much. Even now when I think about it, I have tears in my eyes.55
John Glasgow occasionally received a visit from his father who was in the Army:
My father would occasionally get a weekend leave and come to take me out. A great treat was a visit to Hythe on Southampton Water. From Winchester, this could be done using four forms of transport. Bus from Winchester to Southampton Common where we would alight and I would go in the children’s paddling pool. Tram to the Bargate, into the penny amusement arcade then on down to the Royal Pier where we would get on the steam ferry across to Hythe Pier. Then onto the pier railway to Hythe itself to a cafe where my father could have tea and I would enjoy a bottle of pop, lemonade or cherryade being a favourite with cake. A great day out.56
Nellie and Reg Cutts cared for Joan and Marjorie Hart in Bletchley and their niece Jean recalls:
The girls’ mother and sometimes father used to visit on the train from Euston. Things were very crowded in the house with Joan and Marj sharing that small bedroom and all of us living in the back room downstairs. The front room was turned into a bedroom for these parental visits, which were always of at least one night’s stay. Despite the crowding, the parents were always made welcome. They brought treats when they came and my uncle, being a butcher, made sure they didn’t leave empty handed!57
A visit from John Payne’s grandmother was followed by tragedy:
In 1944, Grandmother decided to travel from London to visit us and a telegram followed her arrival. Telegrams usually meant bad news and this was no exception. It informed her that one of those flying bombs, doodlebugs, had hit the flats where she lived. She returned home immediately only to find that she had lost her home, everything. The shock brought on a stroke and tragically she died. We returned to London for the funeral and stayed for two or three days. Whilst we were there, doodlebugs came thick and fast. The next noises were ambulances, police and fire engines. We were so glad to get back to the peace of the countryside.58
Anne and Jean Holmes were very unhappy in their Blackpool billet and Anne remembers a simultaneous visit from their grandmothers:
Anne and I were both weeping and begging to go home, so they promised us faithfully they would see what could be done about getting us back to Manchester. As we were seeing them off, on the bus, to go home, I suddenly realised that Jean had crawled out through this little tiny window. She lay down on the tram tracks on Lytham Road and wouldn’t move until they promised to take her home. She lay in front of the trams, stopping the traffic!
Eventually our Grandmas were so embarrassed that they went back to where we were staying, got our things and brought us home that night.59
Jean was not the only evacuee to lie under a vehicle in protest. John and Rose Hawkins remembers one particular Sunday visit from their mother:
These visits were welcomed by all the children but proved to pose a terrible strain when the time came for parting. On one occasion a small, tearful boy resorted to lying prone under the wheels of the bus, in a determined effort to delay the parting that he had dreaded so much since his Mother had arrived earlier that day. On one particular day, Rosie and I were waiting for the bus to arrive.
We saw Mom step down and turn with a ready smile in response to our exultant shouts. She hugged us both very tightly then we all turned to make our way up the lane to the farm. We both seized that opportunity to frantically pour out our endless tirade of troubles to her. She looked with quiet concern at our anxious young faces, now pleading to her ‘Please Mom, please take us back home with you. We can’t stand no more of it here, honest.’ We displayed a welter of vivid mauve chilblains, callouses and roughly chapped hands to support our tearful plea.
Seeing our desperate unhappiness, which must have matched her own at being so abruptly parted from us those months before, she replied, ‘But you don’t know what it’s like at home now. Even without the raids, we have blackout every night and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. The rations they give us now are so small we have to go hungry for most of the time.’ I replied, ‘They’ve always had a black out here Mom. When there’s no moon out here, you can get lost going to the lavatory. We’d rather starve to death in Brum with you.’
Our impassioned pleading tore cruelly at her heartstrings and made her mind up for her. She sighed, ‘Well, I suppose if we’ve got to go, then at least, we’ll all go together.’ And so, calling on the Billeting Officer then rather nervously informing our surprised and rather indignant foster parents of her intention to remove us, two overjoyed children hurriedly packed our belongings and happily bade our grim-faced hosts and their farm, a very cheerful farewell.60
For many evacuees there were no family visits. The cost of wartime travel was prohibitive, a matter that was raised in the House of Commons. ‘Some children have been taken a very long distance … some of the parents are far too poor to pay the railway fare for the whole of that distance.’61 Bob Cooper was one who did not receive any family visits: ‘My parents couldn’t visit me as it was just too far away from London and they could not obtain train tickets.’62
Although the majority of Channel Island children had left their parents behind, some received visits from evacuated friends and relatives who were billeted in other towns. After one family visit, Hazel Hall wrote in her diary, ‘Today my brother Rex, who is now in the army, visited me, bringing with him my younger brother Ken whose evacuee school is in Cheshire. It was a lovely surprise and we had a photograph taken!’63
In April 1944, Harry Ingrouille (a resident of Guernsey) and a friend escaped from Alderney in a motorised fishing boat. A German guard was supposed to accompany the fishermen each day, but on that of the escape, Harry told the guard that the presence of a German in the boat might attract the attention of a British Spitfire and they would all be killed.
The journey across the Channel in a small fishing boat was difficult but the men eventually reached Weymouth. They were taken into custody and transferred to London for interview. After their release they visited numerous Channel Island evacuees in the UK, including the Ozanne family in Croydon. Joan Ozanne recalled the event: ‘It was my birthday that day and his visit was a wonderful present as he could tell us about home.’64
Harry also paid a visit to Mr Percy Martel’s Guernsey school which had been re-established in Cheshire and Percy wrote in his diary:
His visit was a marvel, yes a marvel! Harry went into every classroom, and the children’s names were called, one by one. He said, ‘Yes I saw your father and mother just before I left, they are well’ and ‘Your parents are living at …’ ‘Your father is working at …’ and so on.
One boy asked, ‘We had a litter of pigs at our house before I left. Are they still alive?’ to which Mr I replied, ‘No, we have eaten them!’ Afterwards we had lunch with him and he gave us lots of up to date information about conditions on the island.65
It was four years before Lorraine and Lloyd Savident saw a member of their family because of events that occurred on their first evening in Manchester:
We children and our teachers were taken into a big hall and during the night, the air raid warning sounded. We became separated from our school group and spent the night in a shelter with elderly people. The next morning we discovered that our Guernsey school had been moved to another area without us! They assumed we had been killed in the air raid and had sent a message to our parents in Guernsey – just before the Germans invaded the island.
So for four years our family thought we were both dead. In the meantime, we were chosen by Mr and Mrs Fitton, who lived in Hulme. They really only wanted a girl as company for their daughter Brenda, but we told them we didn’t want to be separated so they took us both. They cared for us very well but there were no cuddles.
In 1944 we were in a Manchester park helping to ‘dig for victory’ and a young man in Navy uniform approached us, saying ‘You are Lloyd and Lorraine aren’t you?’ He was our cousin and had somehow found us through the Red Cross! Now our family knew that we were alive!66