Hi Group, and in particular Patrick in Perth, Western
Australia.
I, like Betty, also find myself an outsider in the
current excitement being experienced
by the East Enders, but enjoy the stories and can
appreciate their excitement.
But Patrick, we do have something in common, I too am
a *'Sandgroper',
living in Perth, Western Australia.
Born in Portsmouth, Hampshire. Our house copped a
direct hit on Saturday
afternoon, 24th Aug 1940. (I was four at the time).
Normally, we were home on Sat.
afternoons (on returning home people were digging for
us in the rubble!)
Snap decision found us, during this air-raid, in the
Anderson shelter at my
grandmother's house! Our family lost almost
everything; the only
exceptions being these three things found in the
rubble.
1. An old Ferguson Valve Radio that still worked! Old
Welsh dresser
having falling across it.
2. My Teddy Bear, his coat was never the same and his
squeak was silenced.
3. My tortoise, hiding near our Anderson shelter with
a badly chipped
shell and one leg missing. He lived for years
afterwards.
We eventually ended up in the then small village of
Thatham, near. Newbury,
Berkshire from 1941 to 1946. Here, I attended the
evacuee school
housed in a small church hall down a lane near the
Broadway. Two classes
with ages ranging from 4 to 15!
Is there anyone out there who attended this school?
Maybe a shot in
the dark, we were a comparatively small group of kids,
but amazing things do
happen! My name Margaret Milne.
Emigrated in August, 1969 with my then young family
and now 'ex' husband.
(Another story! This one you don't want to know about!
; o] )
We arrived with three kids 11, 10 and 2.
At the time Australia offered a better lifestyle for
us
(husband in the building trade) and better prospects
for our kids growing
up. Although we have seen Australia follow the same
sequence of events
making it very similar, in some respects, to the
England we left to avoid, it
has not been a bad life.
I now have seven grandchildren. Only twice been back
to UK, 1990 five
weeks (Mother sick) and long service leave, nine weeks
holiday in 1994.
Have to be honest though, although it was good to see
the relatives and seek
out the old haunts, I couldn't wait to get back to the
open space living
and 'layback' lifestyle and approach to life here in
Perth. I still melt
in the heat though! ; o] But after 29 years I
think I may just decide to
stay! ; o]
I see Alan & Joan are also fellow Perth people.
How many more can we find
out here I wonder?
* 'Sandgroper' For anyone wondering, this is the name
given to us
residents in the State of Western Australia by other
Aussie States (we have
wonderful sandy beaches).
Congratulations on the growth rate of our group -
amazing!
Margaret - Perth.
=========================================================================
It was at Junior School in 1946, that I had my first
encounter with a
Banana! It was brought to school for play lunch by one
of the 'rich'
kids! It was I grant you, a long time ago, but I
recall it as though it were yesterday.
This boy and his banana were like a magnet. He even
held it above his head
to make sure saw it! Grouped around him in the
playground, we jostled
for position, as we watched enthralled as he peeled
this strange yellow
fruit. From the first bite we drooled as he slowly ate
it, pausing for
effect as he told us just how nice it tasted. He was
obviously enjoying
his 15 minutes in the spotlight!
By the time the last mouthful was swallowed, we were
desperate to 'try'
for ourselves.
All that remained was the banana skin, which he had
tossed so flippantly
into the garbage can.
No one said a word, but questioning eyes glanced from
one to the other and
then back to the smirking banana eater. Still in
silence the knowing eyes
took the vote, and total agreement was returned.
We leapt into action. Our common goal and top priority
to retrieve that
precious banana peel.....
Here I pause to ask whether any of you have ever
licked the inside of a banana
skin....... If not, take my tip, you don't want
to!
The excitement and anticipation of our first
experience with a banana was
quickly quelled with cries of "Yuk!" Coupled with the
realization our
uncontrolled desire for a taste had lead us to
actually raid a germ ridden
garbage can to obtain our prize, didn't help our
disappointment. We
collectively made another silent agreement. We hated
this boy who had been
responsible for introducing us to this disgusting
yellow fruit, called a
banana. But, not as much as the fruit itself which we
hated with a
passion!
Margaret (Perth, Western Australia)
=========================================================================
From: sepierce@powerup.com.au
I wonder if one of you can help me. I am trying to
remember the reason why
my mother would have got the local council road
repairman to grab me by the
ankles when I was about two or three and dangle me
over a boiling tar-pot.
It's my earliest memory I think, and I seem to
remember seeing or hearing
many years ago that it was quite common for children
to go through this
trauma because it had some benefit to the lungs!
Hi Stan
The others are quite right about the tar fumes.
I still have a slight chest problem even now from a
particularly bad case of
measles during the war at age seven. No vaccine for
measles way back then.
It soon became a ritual at home, as soon as my cough
started up it was head
under towel over jug of very hot water with some
special 'coal tar' liquid
in it from the chemists. On bad days I remember
actually asking for it,
it did open the airways and make breathing much less
difficult and
definitely less painful. I understand it is still used
by some today to
ease chest problems.
A lot of those old remedies are coming back.
But being held up by your ankles and dangled over a
Tar Pot, by a road
repairman (a total stranger) at such a tender age, is
hopefully, a thing of the past.
Still, we have to remember life was a lot more
difficult then. Then our
parents must have had to take advantage of anything
that presented itself,
however traumatic we saw it to be, if they were
convinced it would be good for us.
Margaret (Perth-Western Australia)
=====================================================================
Hi Gang
Your story of painted wood burning Brian got my 'old'
memory triggered.
I was only 4 years old when on 24th August, 1940 my
families
terraced house in Portsmouth was totally demolished. A
'present'
sent airmail, almost 1 year into the war, had made a
direct hit.
This is my first memory of this smell. Even now as I
talk about
it, I can smell it, 59 years later. A common enough
smell in
the next year or so, whenever passing a bomb site not
long after
another 'delivery.'
Was informed later, it was the combined smell of brick
rubble,
smoldering wood and explosives from the bomb.
Another smell lingering in my memory is of stagnant
water when
passing one of those big water tanks (rather like a
crude version
of the above ground swimming pools of today). These
water tanks
were found dotted around cities, on waste ground, the
water to be
used for putting out fires after an air raid. Remember
stirrup pumps?
I guess we all remember that rubber smell too, when
being taught
as a young child on the correct way to put on your gas
mask!
The worst reaction I have to a wartime memory trigger
is not a
smell but a sound!
My family left the bombing target area of the Royal
Naval
Dockyard city of Portsmouth in Hampshire for the
considerably
more quiet country area of Thatcham in Berkshire in
1941, when I
was only five. But up until then, the day and night
was
frequently disrupted by the wailing of the Air Raid
Warning
Siren! All these years later, on hearing this sound in
an old
movie or similar, the hair on the back of my neck
stands to
attention and I shiver. I have tried not to let it
happen but
failed miserably.
Just a little bit of trivia on the subject of living
in other
countries that may amuse some. Brian signed off his
email with
a 'Cheerio for now'! OK being Brits we know that is
'Bye see
you later'! Not here in Australia, they call a
greeting a
'Cheerio'! They also send 'Cheerios' to people
(messages).
Maybe something to do with being upside down do you
think! Lol
; O]
Didn't migrate until August 1969 with my three kids,
11, 10 and 2.1/2, my first husband was 36,
and I was 33 so our circumstances were
different. But no less a big step into the
almost
unknown. I guess we were a lot
luckier than some. Within a week the two
older kids were
in school and my then husband was working as a
bricklayer. Seven weeks later we
moved
into our brand new
home. We quickly found we
were included in BBQ invites by my husband's
workmates and I met a lot of the local ladies
through my children's school friends.
We didn't
take long to feel welcome. Until
Christmas! We had been used to celebrating
with our large
families in UK and now there was only the five of
us.... Plus it didn't feel right being so hot
and
spending Christmas day at the
beach...... Never really got used to
that. lol
All in all we made a good transition and the kids all
did well. Our marriage of 19 years
ended
in divorce in 1975, but that was not Australia's
fault.... I would never have left Perth
in
2000 to come to the USA had it not been for that
wonderful man I met on the internet and was
happily married to for a memorable 20 months, before
his fatal heart attack in 2002. I think I
will
eventually return to OZ, once I have all the ends tied
up here. I do have a lot of friends
here in this Retirement Park, but my family
are in Australia, Canada and UK, I have no
family here in
the USA. The
reason I'm here is hard
to understand. Life in OZ was very
different than it is here
in the US, in many ways.
In my own personal circumstances, OZ wins hands
down.
But maybe that's not part of the wider plan the man
upstairs has set out for me, I still think he
pulls the strings.
I had a friend who was 8 in 1952 when this family
(Dad Mum & one brother) migrated by ship
from UK.
On the last leg of the trip his mother got sick
and was put in quarantine. On arrival she was
placed
in a quarantine camp south of Fremantle in Western
Australia where she was kept for six
months.
From his description this place was rather like
old army barrack huts with rounded tin roofs (not
unlike
giant air raid shelters). His father was left to
try and set up a home and get the boys into
school and
find himself work, while only being able to visit
his wife at weekends and even then they were
kept
well apart for obvious reasons. They
must have constantly thought they should not have
decided
to migrate. But they did settle down after
all these problems and spent the rest of their lives
in Perth.
The home we bought on arrival was on a new estate and
our neighbours were Yugoslavians. They
were only allowed to live in their new home at
weekends... Only the father spoke a little
English,
enough to get work and it was policy then (1969) that
they all had to speak enough of the language
to understand and be understood by others before being
'released' into the community.
The three girls, 10, 12, 13 were all schooled
extensively in English and the Mother had to attend
daily
lessons at the barrack like buildings that made up the
'camp' of migrants. These were brick
built
but they shared laundry and bathroom facilities
with one or two other
families. Apparently they had
agreed with the OZ Immigration
requirement they all learn basic English if they were
accepted for
migration to Australia and understood this could be a
twelve month plus period.
In their case it
was 12
months.
This was in 1969 it will be interesting to know when that
rule was relaxed....
Margaret (aka Chatterbox)
Hi Gerry & Gang
I didn't having any siblings during the war but did
have uncles and
cousins who were in the Royal Navy and RAF and in a
couple of cases
paid with their young lives. My cousin a pilot at the
tender age of
18 was one of many who were shot down over Holland and
he was buried
in the war graves cemetary there. The Uncle who was
lost not long
after getting married was serving on HMS Barham when
it was sunk.
Several others, like many who served their country,
were scarred for
life with the events they had experienced.
My father dreamed of being in the Navy, like his Dad
and Uncles, when
growing up, but poor eyesight ruled him out during
peace time. When
WWII started he tried again as recruits with glasses
were being
accepted. But much to my mother's secret relief he was
knocked back
again as he was skilled in the manufacture of
torpedoes and at the
time working in Portsmouth's Naval Dockyard and he was
considered far
more useful in the war effort staying in that
position.
The continual air raids over Portsmouth with the aim
of trying to
knock out the then biggest Royal Naval Dockyard in the
world brought
about the evacuation in 1941 of as many of the war
related depots
within the targeted Dockyard as possible, complete
with employees to
safer country areas. This included the Torpedo Depot
where Dad was
employed to be moved to Thatchem in Berkshire. This
came about a
year after our home, close to the Dockyard in
Portsmouth, had been
bombed and reduced to rubble during a prolonged air
raid on the
afternoon of Saturday 24th August 1940.
This was how I become an 'evacuee' with a difference.
I was
fortunate enough to be evacuated with my mother and
father. Being
part of the evacuation of children from various parts
who were sent
to the then small farming village of Thatchem in
Berkshire, we were
all to attend a separate school, labelled by the
locals as "The
Evacuee School"! This school was housed in the vilage
church hall
with two teachers, resulting in two classes with
students ranging in
age from 5 to 15. The local children attended their
own school and
viewed us as very strange City kids to be avoided if
at all
possible. ;O] The male of the two teachers was
also considered to
be the Headmaster. He was in fact a retired Army
Officer (Mr Woods)
who under the circumstances did a good job of making
sure we all had
a reasonably good understanding of the basic three
R's.
This guy had another hat he wore in the evenings and
on weekends.
He was the Commanding Officer of the Home Guard. My
father became a
proud member of the Home Guard too. They were supplied
with ill
fitting Army uniforms and proudly displayed the badge
of the Royal
Berkshire Regiment. Dad would spend many hours
polishing his badge,
boots and buttons. Mum tailored Dad's uniform to fit a
little better
and suddenly had several more requesting her services!
They then
proudly proclaimed they had to be the smartest Home
Guard unit in the
country.... Being one of the first to join this local
group my Dad
was issued with a real rifle. This firearm worried Mum
but Dad was
very mindful of it and took very good care of it,
keeping it out of
my way. I was about six/seven years old. Dad worked
the night shift
for many years so most of the time he was home I was
at school.
I don't think there are any of us in the group who
have never
seen "Dad's Army" on BBC TV and laughed loud and
long..... But from
the experience of having my Dad in the local group in
Thatchem that
TV Series was not too far from the truth. They covered
a large age
range up to very old and various backgrounds and job
experiences, but
they all wanted to be ready to protect our village if
called upon to
do so. Yes it was true, some of them only got wooden
gun shapes to
practice with as there was only a limited number of
real guns
available. Heaven knows what they would have done had
our village
been invaded. It would have to be very dark for anyone
to be fooled
by these wooden replicas. They did also have an old
artillary gun
though with two big wheels, a gun barrel arrangement
and
ammunition!! Every Tuesday night the locals in the
village would
not venture out of their homes because they were
scared of the "Home
Guard" group. Why? This was the night the Home Guard
dismantled
the Artillary Gun, which was kept behind the same
Church Hall we
called school and then carried it in pieces to the top
of the hill
overlooking the village. Once there they would put it
together
again and fire it three times.... After this had
echoed over the
village they would dismantle it once more and bring it
back down
again. From what I heard at the time and later from my
parents it
seems some of the locals were more worried about the
Home Guard than
they were of an ememy invasion bringing them harm.
:O] I think Dad
missed the closest he could ever get to being part of
the military
services when they were demobbed. They had to give all
the stuff
back, with the exception of their cap badge which Dad
kept for years.
Keep smiling everyone.
Margaret.
