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Don McDouall was evacuated from London during World War II when he was five years old. When the war ended nobody came to take him home and he was sent to 'Poundcroft', a children's home in the village of East Hanney.
Every year for as long as I could remember there had been a fete in the village of East Hanney. There was always lots to see and do and plenty to eat. All the village fetes I had been to in the past had been held in the large lawned gardens of the big house where only the rich lived. This year however the fete was being held in the gardens of 'Poundcroft', the children's home where I now lived.
I couldn't believe that they were actually going to hold a fete at the place where I lived. The organisers may have got permission from the real owners of Poundcroft or perhaps it was to put to rest once and for all, the notion that the 'Pound' was not a children's prison as everyone in the village seemed to think.
There was much hustle and bustle. I remember raking gravel paths and whitewashing a wall. The actual day of the fete is etched into my mind very clearly. There were people milling around in swarms. Men and boys pushed handcarts and wheelbarrows and women and girls carried bundles and baskets. Slowly the stalls took shape and were loaded with all manner of goodies.
The large tents went up that housed the flower show and the vegetable show. The pigs squealed in their makeshift bailed straw sty's and the chickens making a din in their wooden cages. I remember it was a hot day. I had on a clean shirt and trousers that actually fitted with socks and plimsole's on my feet. I was washed and my ears were clean and my hair was cut.
I had grown and put on quite a bit of weight. Some of my village friends now wanted to know me again. Heather, my best friend while I lived at Grans, was there too. I showed her and some of the boys I knew all over the house. Heather told me later that her dad had said all along that the 'Pound' wasn't a Borstal!
It was a glorious day. The vegetables had red and blue rosettes sticking in them. Great heaps of apples were everywhere. There were baskets of large juicy plums and bushel baskets of yellowing pears that anyone could help themselves to. There was jugs brim full of sherbet lemonade and cool cider to drink.
The school kids put on miming shows where you had to guess what they were supposed to be like 'The Bisto Kids' or 'Saxa salt ...See how they run', remember the chickens with the salt packet following them? The antics of such acting caused ripples of loud laughter. Then there was the 'Miss showgirl' where all the young girls lined up, showing off their legs!
As night fell, the boxing started, just kids at first about fourteen years old and as the evening wore on the older blokes beat the hell out of each other. There were cries of 'yellow!' whenever some bloke had decided not to fight or worse still had run away from his opponent. There were bloodied noses and black eyes all round. Later the dancing started and slowly that wonderful day came to a close. That day was the last joyous day for me for a very long time.
I had been living at the 'Pound' for around thirteen weeks. It had been thirteen weeks of absolute heaven. Then not long after my eleventh birthday my world again came tumbling down.
Don McDouall, Australia, 2001
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