During the Christmas holidays, the college had sent one of its letters listing the clothes it deemed essential for an evacuee, and for over a fortnight Mam had been busy washing, ironing, and sewing name tapes on the huge pile of garments the school insisted on.
Tve never had pyjamas before, Mam,’ Billy said.
‘It’s not the only thing you’ve never had before. Looking at this list, anyone’d think you was going on safari to Africa. It’s a wonder they’ve not asked for mosquito nets and a sun helmet. Anyroad, I’ve packed your bucket and spade as well, in case you go on the sands.’
‘I’m not going on me holidays. Mam. I’m being evacuated.’
‘I know that. I’m not daft. But take ’em just the same. You never know when they might come in handy. I’m also giving you some sandwiches, a bar of Cadbury’s and a bag o’ fruit in case you get hungry on the journey. Oh, aye, and when you meet your new “mother”, make sure she gets your ration book, and here’s a nice bag of chocolate biscuits to give to her when you get there.’
On that first Monday of 1941, they made the bus
journey across Manchester together - Billy loaded up with a satchel and his gas mask on his back, a small suitcase in his right hand and his red Blackpool bag in his left.
On the 42 bus, the familiar conductor said:
‘Off to Blackpool again, then, eh, lad? I told you last time you was going the wrong way.’
‘Not this time I’m not. Anyroad, I’m not supposed to say where I’m going; it’s a state secret.’
‘Do I look like a Jerry?’
‘If your right ear was a bit bigger, you would definitely look like the Jerry we have under our bed.’
‘Cheeky little bugger,’ said the conductor good- humouredly. ‘You should be on the music hall.’
Outside the college gates there was a fleet of six double- decker buses waiting to take them to Victoria Station on the first leg of their journey, and a great crowd of schoolboys with their tearful mothers issuing last-minute instructions and advice.
‘Don’t forget your gas mask!’
‘Don’t lose your money!’
‘Change your underpants twice a week.’
Billy reported to Miss Barrymore, who ticked off his name on her clipboard. He gave her his ration book and she handed him a set of labels with his name printed on them.
‘You look like a post-office parcel,’ Mam said as she helped to tie the labels on to his raincoat.
‘I don’t mind - as long as they don’t stick stamps on me face and sealing wax down me ears,’ he said, trying to make a joke and keep the parting cheerful.
‘Keep well lapped up, son. Have you got your hanky? Don’t use your sleeve like that. Don’t forget to wash your neck and behind your ears or you’ll leave a tide-mark.’