|
 | |  | |
Don McDouall was evacuated from London during World War II when he was five years old. He was sent to the small country village of East Hanney to live with Grans and Grampy at a house called Tamarisk. He now lives in Australia.
It was the final spring of the war. I was down on my knees scrubbing the floor when Grans said 'The war is over!' I turned around and looked up at her not knowing what she meant. The woman repeated herself. Then as an afterthought said 'You better put the bucket and brush away. The war is over!'
I walked as if in a dream out into the back garden and slowly emptied the heavy bucket of suds onto the garden. I could hear what sounded just like a football crowd. I walked towards the pub. People were yelling and everyone was smiling one of the kids I knew grabbed me.
He danced me around yelling 'We won. We won. We won the war!' Well for the rest of that day I went around in a complete and utter daze. That night I couldn't sleep because tomorrow I was going home!
Always, for what seemed all my life, I was going home when the war ended. Now for some unknown reason I was frightened, very frightened because the war had indeed ended. It had all ended and for the first time that I could remember there was no war!
The next day there was a 'Victory' parade in the village. I can remember there were a lot of carthorses pulling wagons and dung carts. There were pony traps and bicycles. The carts and horses were all dressed up. There was flags and bunting everywhere.
I can remember so well sitting on a high-wheeled hay wagon pulled by four of Grampy's draught horses. Then there was all the dancing in the street! Later as the evening wore on everyone slowly got drunk. Everyone danced with everyone and as I walked back home I cried and cried my heart out. I was the last Londoner and my mum had still not come for me!
Later there was a big `Victory` parade in the nearest town, which was Wantage. I remember walking there with all the other village kids. It was a Grand parade with marching soldiers and bands and everyone stood around saluting everyone.
But afterwards I had to walk home. My legs started to really ache, especially my left knee. So I rested awhile in the ditch alongside the road and soon fell asleep. When I awoke it was daylight. The sun was just coming up. I felt really great because today my mum would come and get me! I just knew she would. I started to hurry, perhaps she was already at Grans!
My leg was hurting something awful by now as did my back. Then along came the milk cart and I got a lift. I remember even now the way the milkman looked at me. He had known me for the last four years. The man had a great mass of black curly hair and always needed a shave. I had done the milk run with him many times.
He reached over and ruffled my hair as I finished gushing out my home going plans. 'Good luck young Donny, you'll be needing it' he said.
I rushed back to Grans but there was no one there. I wasn't brave enough to ask when mum would come. I reassured myself time and time again, of course my mum will come! But deep down inside my gut I had this awful feeling, maybe she had forgotten me. Or maybe Grans was right all along, my mum didn't want me!
I waited all day at the turn off to the railway station. I waited all the next day. I remember just standing there, waiting.
I came home from school one day in a great hurry. I was always expecting my mum to be waiting for me. I use to imagine I could see her standing out near the front gate, holding my sister's Esther and Junes hand.
It was perhaps a week since the war had finished. There was no-one waiting at the gate. With my heart in my mouth I walked into the kitchen. Grans was sat as usual at her place at the table reading. She pointed to the wall near the door. Then said 'Your clothes are in that sack. You don't live here anymore. I got a letter from the government. You are to go and live at the 'Pound'. Go on now. Get out of here!'
I must have looked like a stunned rabbit. Grans made a threatening gesture towards me. I picked up my worldly possessions and ran out. The Pound she had said. I just couldn' believe it.
The Pound ('Poundcroft') was a house down the far end of the village. A large white mansion with very large gardens around it and an even larger high brick wall right around it. It had been called the 'kids prison' for as long as I could remember. Us village Londoners had always felt sorry for them.
'Poundcroft' was in fact a home for London evacuees who missed out on getting 'foster homes', but I didn't know that. To me it was the 'kids prison' and I was being sent there.
| |  | |  |
To add a comment you must first login or join for free, up in the top left corner.
|
|
