SEPTEMBER 1939

When we got back the evacuees had arrived. A dozen boys and girls of a sensible age standing in the church hall. Gas masks in a cardboard box, an identification tag around their necks, and carrying a bundle of personal belongings. They huddled together, their feet swimming in big shoes that were clearly badly scuffed hand-me-downs. Some of them looked as if they had never had a decent meal in their lives. Most of them had already wolfed their emergency rations. A block of chocolate, a tin of corned beef, and a tin of condensed milk. Amongst the grown-ups, confusion and resentment reigned in equal proportion. Why us? None of the other villages had been designated as reception areas. Before us stood a dozen frightened children, the farmers eyeing the husky lads, the girls and scrawny boys close to tears. And then a decision was reached that while it was still light we should send them back. Somebody whispered that all these children wet the bed. That half the mattresses in England were awash, and that at eight and six per child it wasn’t really worth it. I looked across at Len, who firmly shook his head. Not even one of them, he said. They can bloody well go back to where they come from. We’re not in the charity business. At four o’clock I noticed that the church bells didn’t ring. It was a decree. No more church bells because of the war. The children stood in silence.