- Location of story: Whitland, Carmarthenshire
- Background to story: Civilian
- Article ID: A8697289
- Contributed on: 20 January 2006
My new school, Erith County, had originally been evacuated to, of all places, Ashford in Kent, right in what later became known as ”bomb alley". I have no idea what the thinking behind this was, but in the summer of 1940 it moved to Whitland, in Carmarthenshire. My parents opted to send me there; the alternative was to go to Dartford Grammar School (then under the formidable Major Pochin. It now has a Mick Jagger Centre, named after a former pupil. What the Major would have made of that can only be guessed at!).
Evacuation was an incredible adventure. I had never been away from my parents before, unless you count the occasional "sleepover” as we now call it. We duly turned up at the Belvedere building with our luggage. What the others felt I do not know; I suppose my feelings were a mixture of apprehension, resignation and excitement - that seems about right.
We all went up to Charing Cross by train, escorted by a couple of masters who were then unknown to us, of course. We went by Underground to Paddington, which was a novel experience, as my family always used buses when we went to London. We left Paddington at 11.55; it was a long journey. Already, wartime traffic was delaying trains. I remember we seemed to wait for ages in Reading and again before we got to the Severn Tunnel (another novelty!). Passing through the more industrialized parts of South Wales we wondered what we were in for, but the sun glistening on Carmarthen Bay as the line went along the coast near Ferryside stirred even we boys, at an age not noted for scenic appreciation.
Arriving in Whitland we were led over to where a crowd of locals were waiting. I have heard these occasions described as “like a slave-market", but that is hardly fair in our case as we had already been allocated to various families. I was placed, with my junior-school classmate Alan Bennett, with the Perkins family in an oldish terrace house in a side street. Mr. Perkins was a tanker driver with the United Dairies who had a processing plant in the town. With three boys of their own it was quite a houseful.
We were given the next morning off to get ourselves properly settled in and orientated and duly appeared "on parade" in the afternoon. We shared some facilities, the gym and science labs, with the town's own Grammar school. I well remember that first "parade”; a prefect conveniently walked by and we were told how we should "jump to it" if one of these (apparently!) tall and important-looking creatures told us to do something. For some reason I never found out (did I even ask?) there were only half-a-dozen or so "Erith Boys" in that first intake, so we were temporarily combined with the existing classes. I remember the tall, scholarly Mr. Matthias whose son William later became a noted Welsh composer, and kindly, deep-voiced Mr. Llewellyn. Lessons were in English, except for a Welsh lesson which seemed mainly to be concerned with vocabulary. As the locals were all Welsh-speaking anyway, this seems odd; unless it was to fill in; until we had our own classes.
Not long afterwards another group arrived making about sixteen, which was evidently considered enough for us to be taught separately by our own masters. (The ones who decided not to be evacuated went to Dartford Grammar School, as previously mentioned). Apart from the gym and labs there was no room for us in the main School, so we had some lessons in what had been the hall of the local primary school, an old building with the classic four, or maybe five-abreast “desks", Edwardian-style. I remember once getting cramp and very quietly asking my neighbour to move so I could stretch my leg out, only to be called out for "talking" and given a slap. I thought it was so unfair, and still do! We none of us liked that particular master.
The French master was fairly alarming; only much later did it dawn on us that it was all an act, but you made sure you did your French homework first! He would breeze into the room saying something like "I want the Principal Parts of 'avoir', beginning with you….!". (But nobody failed French when it came to the School Certificate!). All the other masters were quite easy to get on with; especially a Mr Bonney who acted as a sort of "housemaster-cum-welfare-officer". We also made use of two different chapel vestries, so, what with that, the main building and going "home" to dinner, we did a fair bit of walking but, and what a contrast to the ever-complaining age we live in now, nobody told us we were working under difficulties; we just "got on with it", come rain, come shine (and there was a lot of rain!).
Although the people we stayed with were kind enough it was all a bit of a "culture shock", possibly for them as well as us. I felt quite homesick at first, because it was all so strange, but eventually settled down indeed, in the end I wanted to stay on! Some of my classmates were rather put out by the absence of a cinema, but I never went much, anyway. We would explore the surrounding country (on foot) which was quite a novelty as the locality was much more "countryfied" than Bexleyheath, and very much hillier.
I cannot remember much about the Christmas, except that we had a goose for my first and only time; it seemed rather greasy I recall. (Don't forget that poultry was not commonly eaten in those days; a chicken at Christmas was the only poultry we ever ate). Despite having seven people in the house already, space was found to fit my mother in for three days just after Christmas. I well remember her telling of the long, tedious journey, the train being diverted over some relatively obscure routes in the Cardiff area. She travelled just after what has been called “the second Fire of . London", December the 29th 1940; plenty of fires were still burning as she went from Charing Cross to Paddington, although mostly further east. When she left my room-mate’s mother came for another three days, two welcome breaks.
I had always had some interest in railways, but Whitland was the junction for both the Pembroke Dock and Cardigan branches and had its own engine shed where about twenty locomotives were based, so there was quite a lot to interest us. Two of my friends from Junior school were billeted at Cilpost Farm, about a mile-and-a-half North of Whitland itself. My room-mate and I were sometimes invited there; nobody minded the walk! The farm had no electricity (nothing unusual in that); oil lamps were the rule.
My pocket-money was 1/6 (one shilling and sixpence) a week, plenty for my modest needs. One classmate received 2/6 ("two-and-six”) a week, but the rest of us privately thought this was overdoing it! Someone discovered that the station booking office had copies of "The G.W.R. Engine Book, Numbers, Types and Classes" at a shilling each. Between us we bought the lot. I still have mine; now a much-sought-after collectors item, even though modern reprints are available. This book really got me seriously into the subject - more later!
In the New Year (1941) I developed Impetigo and it was decided I would be better treated elsewhere (with such a houseful and a contagious condition I can see the thinking behind it). I was taken to a hostel in New Road, Llanelly. There were perhaps a dozen other lads there, some of them from Liverpool and who evidently thought nothing of climbing fences and roaming the docks. Although they were nice enough to me, it was another culture shock. I remember being pretty fed-up with the situation and for once in my life kicked over the traces by refusing to get up one morning. I was eventually persuaded, but I think somebody must have “got the message" for I was soon moved to another hostel in Murray street, where the atmosphere was much more congenial; not that anyone was positively harsh or unkind in the previous place, I just did not "fit in" there.
All this time I had no schooling; why books were not sent to me I do not know. I passed the time reading, drawing and going for walks, usually near the station, where you saw a different lot of locomotives (i.e., I was becoming infected with a much longer-lasting disease - railways!). Letters from home were usually about what was going on in Bexleyheath, how an "oil bomb" (I never did find out what those really were) had hit Woolworths and so on, but the biggest surprise was that Dad was now working in a factory for the first time in his life.
As with my brother and his painting 'and decorating gang, work slowed down markedly. Dad did some work for private individuals, but quite a lot of it was passed on to him by well-known shops such as Hide's of Bexleyheath or Mitchell's of Erith. People often thought we were moving, not realizing that the furniture vans outside our house were work coming and going! (Another bit of history: We had an embossed sign "C.P." to be placed prominently in the front window when we wanted the Carter Paterson van to call. Such was life when few people had the telephone. I was sixteen when I made my first call, carefully reading the instructions in the call-box).
Through some connection or other Dad was offered a job at Fraser and Chalmer's engineering works in nearby Erith. At that time offices had "'real" wooden furniture, properly upholstered, rather than steel-and-foam-rubber, or worse still, plastic horrors that came later. Hitherto the carpenters had maintained the office furniture as best they could, but now the firm had a "real" upholsterer.
Dad worked on a balcony annexe to the carpenters' shop which was probably just as well, as they gave him a hard time in some ways. For one thing, we owned our own house, which made him a "capitalist". In vain did he point out that he achieved it through hard work, and careful management. If he accidentally knocked a box of tacks on the floor he would pick them up of course. That wasn't right "Whadderya doin' that for? - the firm's got plenty of money!" Pointing out that waste is bad, Iet alone in wartime, simply got him labelled “A firm’s man - not one of us". In the queue on pay day he would get snide remarks like, "I dunno why you need to queue up, you’ve got enough money!" (This because. we owned our own, very modest, house). At the age of 58 after being self-employed for 30 years this was another world indeed! (and, by the way, made him a staunch anti-trade unionist, but that's another story).
Mum always was a great letter-writer; her frequent letters certainly enlivened life in the hostel. While there I had my 12th birthday. I saw a decent-sized box arrive by post. If only it could be for me…it was!It contained books and assorted goodies (no sweet rationing yet).
Meanwhile the rapidly-expanding Army had decided it ought to have its own Fire Service rather than tacking it on to local Units. Volunteers were called for and anyone with even slight knowledge of firemanship was "in". As an ex-Leading Fireman (all of four months experience!), brother Tom was promptly sent to the huge Army camp at Catterick (Yorks), given three stripes and made an Instructor in the new Army Fire Service. All this news was in Mum's frequent letters, some running to eight pages.
After three weeks of this slightly other-worldly (or so it seemed) existence, following the week in the other hostel, I was deemed sufficiently recovered to return to Whitland. I was taken back by a fairly important looking but kindly man. We stopped for a meal at his house near Carmarthen. Kindly and understanding though he was I was a bit over-awed by his rather splendid house. Coming from a teetotal house, I had never seen wine served at table before (I had orange squash).
Whether it was the impetigo, or whether the Perkins found us too much of a houseful, I do not know, but I went back to a different "host", this time with the Harries family. He was a blacksmith on the railway and his son, Walford, about 30, was a railway fireman (the sort that keeps fires going, not puts them out - what a language English is!). Mrs Harries was, like most married women in those days, a housewife. They were, of course, Welsh-speaking, but always used English in my presence "so you won't think we are talking about you".
The house was semi-detached, with three bedrooms; I had the smaller but perfectly adequate back bedroom, which was nice, as it looked out over the garden to the fields beyond, across a gentle valley. Like so many older houses the back part of the ceiling followed the slope of the roof. The house had electricity, but no gas. Cooking was mainly by the kitchen range, but Mrs Harries had to light up the Primus stove to boil a kettle. There was no hot water; you washed in a basin. The only tap was the cold water supply, fixed to the outside of the kitchen wall. The privy, or "Ty bach" (the "little house") was halfway down the garden, none too warm in winter with only a candle. No mains drainage, just a large metal container, a small shovel and a supply of sand. Once a week the "scavenger" came round at night and emptied out. What a job! Whenever possible, I preferred to use the "facility" at the Grammar School; likewise it was preferable to shower on games afternoon rather than try and bath at the house. (You must remember that bathing was commonly a weekly, not a daily, event for most people in those days. Showers were completely unknown in ordinary houses). It was a great day when the school showers actually had hot water! But we got used to it.
Shortly after I moved house, my former room-mate also moved - next door, though more by co-incidence than plan. One incentive to have a "vaccee" , apart from whatever billeting allowance you might get; was that the woman counted as having a dependent child and was thus excused call-up for war work. Quite possibly my previous hostess had by now reached the exemption age anyway. Just as we had electricity but no gas, next door had gas but no electricity!
Sometimes I would go out with Mr Harries with his single-barrel 12-bore to get a rabbit for dinner. Son Walford was an expert fisherman, who seemed to know exactly which evenings to go out. “Aren't you fishing tonight mon?" a friend would ask - and return home empty-handed. “You're not going out to night are you?" Sure enough, we would catch several trout for supper. The real treat was a sewin (sea trout) or better still a salmon, but we never had either in my time there. As you can see, we lived quite well; nobody was quite sure what all the coupons were for in the ration book. Everyone knew at least two farmers; there was a great deal of barter and "for services rendered'" my host being a "dab hand" at making and repairing fishing-rods and all sorts of things. Sometimes I would call in at his small blacksmith shop by the engine shed, blow the bellows and learn a bit about his trade.
Talking of trades, I used to pass a clog-maker. In the middle of his shop he had a block on which was mounted an interesting tool. It was a stout blade, about 8” long and 3" deep, loosely pivoted at one end. The other end had a metal rod about 3 feet long with a T-handle at the end. It was interesting to see him using this to shape the wooden base of a clog, to which the leather upper would be attached by large dome-head nails. Nobody in Bexleyheath wore clogs so this was an interesting novelty.
In those days no Welsh pubs opened on Sundays, not officially, anyway, but one could see a steady trickle of “locals” going to the back door! I mentioned culture shocks. We boys had been advised to, take note of the custom of each household we were in (or as my family say, “watch points”). In some houses playing cards were not allowed, in mine I wasn't allowed to ride a bicycle on a Sunday. They were not great church-or-chapel goers; I suspect it was more a case of what the neighbours might think. This rule was later relaxed, anyway.. There were some odd misunderstandings caused by differing uses of words. When I said I would go home for the summer holiday I was asked "How?". I naturally said "By train" (there was an occasional coach, I believe). This was considered cheeky; apparently, they used "how?” to mean "Why?". "Now" meant a short time ago, or in the future, as in "Now I came in" meaning "I’ve only just got in" or "I’ll be there now" meaning “I’ll be there in a minute.” We would sometimes be teased as "Cockneys", which we were not, but we were generally treated very well.
Evacuation was an incredible adventure. I had never been away from my parents before, unless you count the occasional "sleepover” as we now call it. We duly turned up at the Belvedere building with our luggage. What the others felt I do not know; I suppose my feelings were a mixture of apprehension, resignation and excitement - that seems about right.
We all went up to Charing Cross by train, escorted by a couple of masters who were then unknown to us, of course. We went by Underground to Paddington, which was a novel experience, as my family always used buses when we went to London. We left Paddington at 11.55; it was a long journey. Already, wartime traffic was delaying trains. I remember we seemed to wait for ages in Reading and again before we got to the Severn Tunnel (another novelty!). Passing through the more industrialized parts of South Wales we wondered what we were in for, but the sun glistening on Carmarthen Bay as the line went along the coast near Ferryside stirred even we boys, at an age not noted for scenic appreciation.
Arriving in Whitland we were led over to where a crowd of locals were waiting. I have heard these occasions described as “like a slave-market", but that is hardly fair in our case as we had already been allocated to various families. I was placed, with my junior-school classmate Alan Bennett, with the Perkins family in an oldish terrace house in a side street. Mr. Perkins was a tanker driver with the United Dairies who had a processing plant in the town. With three boys of their own it was quite a houseful.
We were given the next morning off to get ourselves properly settled in and orientated and duly appeared "on parade" in the afternoon. We shared some facilities, the gym and science labs, with the town's own Grammar school. I well remember that first "parade”; a prefect conveniently walked by and we were told how we should "jump to it" if one of these (apparently!) tall and important-looking creatures told us to do something. For some reason I never found out (did I even ask?) there were only half-a-dozen or so "Erith Boys" in that first intake, so we were temporarily combined with the existing classes. I remember the tall, scholarly Mr. Matthias whose son William later became a noted Welsh composer, and kindly, deep-voiced Mr. Llewellyn. Lessons were in English, except for a Welsh lesson which seemed mainly to be concerned with vocabulary. As the locals were all Welsh-speaking anyway, this seems odd; unless it was to fill in; until we had our own classes.
Not long afterwards another group arrived making about sixteen, which was evidently considered enough for us to be taught separately by our own masters. (The ones who decided not to be evacuated went to Dartford Grammar School, as previously mentioned). Apart from the gym and labs there was no room for us in the main School, so we had some lessons in what had been the hall of the local primary school, an old building with the classic four, or maybe five-abreast “desks", Edwardian-style. I remember once getting cramp and very quietly asking my neighbour to move so I could stretch my leg out, only to be called out for "talking" and given a slap. I thought it was so unfair, and still do! We none of us liked that particular master.
The French master was fairly alarming; only much later did it dawn on us that it was all an act, but you made sure you did your French homework first! He would breeze into the room saying something like "I want the Principal Parts of 'avoir', beginning with you….!". (But nobody failed French when it came to the School Certificate!). All the other masters were quite easy to get on with; especially a Mr Bonney who acted as a sort of "housemaster-cum-welfare-officer". We also made use of two different chapel vestries, so, what with that, the main building and going "home" to dinner, we did a fair bit of walking but, and what a contrast to the ever-complaining age we live in now, nobody told us we were working under difficulties; we just "got on with it", come rain, come shine (and there was a lot of rain!).
Although the people we stayed with were kind enough it was all a bit of a "culture shock", possibly for them as well as us. I felt quite homesick at first, because it was all so strange, but eventually settled down indeed, in the end I wanted to stay on! Some of my classmates were rather put out by the absence of a cinema, but I never went much, anyway. We would explore the surrounding country (on foot) which was quite a novelty as the locality was much more "countryfied" than Bexleyheath, and very much hillier.
I cannot remember much about the Christmas, except that we had a goose for my first and only time; it seemed rather greasy I recall. (Don't forget that poultry was not commonly eaten in those days; a chicken at Christmas was the only poultry we ever ate). Despite having seven people in the house already, space was found to fit my mother in for three days just after Christmas. I well remember her telling of the long, tedious journey, the train being diverted over some relatively obscure routes in the Cardiff area. She travelled just after what has been called “the second Fire of . London", December the 29th 1940; plenty of fires were still burning as she went from Charing Cross to Paddington, although mostly further east. When she left my room-mate’s mother came for another three days, two welcome breaks.
I had always had some interest in railways, but Whitland was the junction for both the Pembroke Dock and Cardigan branches and had its own engine shed where about twenty locomotives were based, so there was quite a lot to interest us. Two of my friends from Junior school were billeted at Cilpost Farm, about a mile-and-a-half North of Whitland itself. My room-mate and I were sometimes invited there; nobody minded the walk! The farm had no electricity (nothing unusual in that); oil lamps were the rule.
My pocket-money was 1/6 (one shilling and sixpence) a week, plenty for my modest needs. One classmate received 2/6 ("two-and-six”) a week, but the rest of us privately thought this was overdoing it! Someone discovered that the station booking office had copies of "The G.W.R. Engine Book, Numbers, Types and Classes" at a shilling each. Between us we bought the lot. I still have mine; now a much-sought-after collectors item, even though modern reprints are available. This book really got me seriously into the subject - more later!
In the New Year (1941) I developed Impetigo and it was decided I would be better treated elsewhere (with such a houseful and a contagious condition I can see the thinking behind it). I was taken to a hostel in New Road, Llanelly. There were perhaps a dozen other lads there, some of them from Liverpool and who evidently thought nothing of climbing fences and roaming the docks. Although they were nice enough to me, it was another culture shock. I remember being pretty fed-up with the situation and for once in my life kicked over the traces by refusing to get up one morning. I was eventually persuaded, but I think somebody must have “got the message" for I was soon moved to another hostel in Murray street, where the atmosphere was much more congenial; not that anyone was positively harsh or unkind in the previous place, I just did not "fit in" there.
All this time I had no schooling; why books were not sent to me I do not know. I passed the time reading, drawing and going for walks, usually near the station, where you saw a different lot of locomotives (i.e., I was becoming infected with a much longer-lasting disease - railways!). Letters from home were usually about what was going on in Bexleyheath, how an "oil bomb" (I never did find out what those really were) had hit Woolworths and so on, but the biggest surprise was that Dad was now working in a factory for the first time in his life.
As with my brother and his painting 'and decorating gang, work slowed down markedly. Dad did some work for private individuals, but quite a lot of it was passed on to him by well-known shops such as Hide's of Bexleyheath or Mitchell's of Erith. People often thought we were moving, not realizing that the furniture vans outside our house were work coming and going! (Another bit of history: We had an embossed sign "C.P." to be placed prominently in the front window when we wanted the Carter Paterson van to call. Such was life when few people had the telephone. I was sixteen when I made my first call, carefully reading the instructions in the call-box).
Through some connection or other Dad was offered a job at Fraser and Chalmer's engineering works in nearby Erith. At that time offices had "'real" wooden furniture, properly upholstered, rather than steel-and-foam-rubber, or worse still, plastic horrors that came later. Hitherto the carpenters had maintained the office furniture as best they could, but now the firm had a "real" upholsterer.
Dad worked on a balcony annexe to the carpenters' shop which was probably just as well, as they gave him a hard time in some ways. For one thing, we owned our own house, which made him a "capitalist". In vain did he point out that he achieved it through hard work, and careful management. If he accidentally knocked a box of tacks on the floor he would pick them up of course. That wasn't right "Whadderya doin' that for? - the firm's got plenty of money!" Pointing out that waste is bad, Iet alone in wartime, simply got him labelled “A firm’s man - not one of us". In the queue on pay day he would get snide remarks like, "I dunno why you need to queue up, you’ve got enough money!" (This because. we owned our own, very modest, house). At the age of 58 after being self-employed for 30 years this was another world indeed! (and, by the way, made him a staunch anti-trade unionist, but that's another story).
Mum always was a great letter-writer; her frequent letters certainly enlivened life in the hostel. While there I had my 12th birthday. I saw a decent-sized box arrive by post. If only it could be for me…it was!It contained books and assorted goodies (no sweet rationing yet).
Meanwhile the rapidly-expanding Army had decided it ought to have its own Fire Service rather than tacking it on to local Units. Volunteers were called for and anyone with even slight knowledge of firemanship was "in". As an ex-Leading Fireman (all of four months experience!), brother Tom was promptly sent to the huge Army camp at Catterick (Yorks), given three stripes and made an Instructor in the new Army Fire Service. All this news was in Mum's frequent letters, some running to eight pages.
After three weeks of this slightly other-worldly (or so it seemed) existence, following the week in the other hostel, I was deemed sufficiently recovered to return to Whitland. I was taken back by a fairly important looking but kindly man. We stopped for a meal at his house near Carmarthen. Kindly and understanding though he was I was a bit over-awed by his rather splendid house. Coming from a teetotal house, I had never seen wine served at table before (I had orange squash).
Whether it was the impetigo, or whether the Perkins found us too much of a houseful, I do not know, but I went back to a different "host", this time with the Harries family. He was a blacksmith on the railway and his son, Walford, about 30, was a railway fireman (the sort that keeps fires going, not puts them out - what a language English is!). Mrs Harries was, like most married women in those days, a housewife. They were, of course, Welsh-speaking, but always used English in my presence "so you won't think we are talking about you".
The house was semi-detached, with three bedrooms; I had the smaller but perfectly adequate back bedroom, which was nice, as it looked out over the garden to the fields beyond, across a gentle valley. Like so many older houses the back part of the ceiling followed the slope of the roof. The house had electricity, but no gas. Cooking was mainly by the kitchen range, but Mrs Harries had to light up the Primus stove to boil a kettle. There was no hot water; you washed in a basin. The only tap was the cold water supply, fixed to the outside of the kitchen wall. The privy, or "Ty bach" (the "little house") was halfway down the garden, none too warm in winter with only a candle. No mains drainage, just a large metal container, a small shovel and a supply of sand. Once a week the "scavenger" came round at night and emptied out. What a job! Whenever possible, I preferred to use the "facility" at the Grammar School; likewise it was preferable to shower on games afternoon rather than try and bath at the house. (You must remember that bathing was commonly a weekly, not a daily, event for most people in those days. Showers were completely unknown in ordinary houses). It was a great day when the school showers actually had hot water! But we got used to it.
Shortly after I moved house, my former room-mate also moved - next door, though more by co-incidence than plan. One incentive to have a "vaccee" , apart from whatever billeting allowance you might get; was that the woman counted as having a dependent child and was thus excused call-up for war work. Quite possibly my previous hostess had by now reached the exemption age anyway. Just as we had electricity but no gas, next door had gas but no electricity!
Sometimes I would go out with Mr Harries with his single-barrel 12-bore to get a rabbit for dinner. Son Walford was an expert fisherman, who seemed to know exactly which evenings to go out. “Aren't you fishing tonight mon?" a friend would ask - and return home empty-handed. “You're not going out to night are you?" Sure enough, we would catch several trout for supper. The real treat was a sewin (sea trout) or better still a salmon, but we never had either in my time there. As you can see, we lived quite well; nobody was quite sure what all the coupons were for in the ration book. Everyone knew at least two farmers; there was a great deal of barter and "for services rendered'" my host being a "dab hand" at making and repairing fishing-rods and all sorts of things. Sometimes I would call in at his small blacksmith shop by the engine shed, blow the bellows and learn a bit about his trade.
Talking of trades, I used to pass a clog-maker. In the middle of his shop he had a block on which was mounted an interesting tool. It was a stout blade, about 8” long and 3" deep, loosely pivoted at one end. The other end had a metal rod about 3 feet long with a T-handle at the end. It was interesting to see him using this to shape the wooden base of a clog, to which the leather upper would be attached by large dome-head nails. Nobody in Bexleyheath wore clogs so this was an interesting novelty.
In those days no Welsh pubs opened on Sundays, not officially, anyway, but one could see a steady trickle of “locals” going to the back door! I mentioned culture shocks. We boys had been advised to, take note of the custom of each household we were in (or as my family say, “watch points”). In some houses playing cards were not allowed, in mine I wasn't allowed to ride a bicycle on a Sunday. They were not great church-or-chapel goers; I suspect it was more a case of what the neighbours might think. This rule was later relaxed, anyway.. There were some odd misunderstandings caused by differing uses of words. When I said I would go home for the summer holiday I was asked "How?". I naturally said "By train" (there was an occasional coach, I believe). This was considered cheeky; apparently, they used "how?” to mean "Why?". "Now" meant a short time ago, or in the future, as in "Now I came in" meaning "I’ve only just got in" or "I’ll be there now" meaning “I’ll be there in a minute.” We would sometimes be teased as "Cockneys", which we were not, but we were generally treated very well.
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'WW2 People's War is an online archive of wartime memories contributed by members of the public and gathered by the BBC. The archive can be found at bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar'
Copyright David Wooderson, WW2 People's War
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