Susan Ciavola's Story |
Last year we went home for a nice long touring holiday. We spent four nights in Burpham near Arundel in Sussex, then onto Cheltenham for five nights and then we rented a cob cottage outside of Clovelly. On one of our touring days, we went to South Moulton to revisit the site of my mum and uncle's evacuation. I had visited there four or five times with mum and dad when I was quite young, and remembered the names of people that Mum and Uncle Ray had mentioned. As we were driving down a lane we saw a sign reading "Windwhistle Farm, Bed and Breakfast," it was one of the places mum had spent many happy hours during her evacuation. We drove up the lane to the farmhouse, knocked on the door and the farmer's wife came to door. I asked her how long her family had had the property, and she told me "a few hundred years" I explained that Mum had been there during the war and had mentioned the two sons of the farmer that lived there that she and her brother played with "That was my father-in-law, Come in have a cup of tea with him, he'll be thrilled to talk to someone from the old days." We did go in, and Mr. Selly was thrilled to speak of the old days but his memory was fading in and out and he really didn't remember Mum, but did remember uncle Ray. I was thrilled to be there with the family that had meant so much to my Mum at a really terrible time in her life. My husband was thrilled in being in at the tale end of a really historical event in world history, even if it was in such a small way at the tale end of a little bit of my family's history.
My memories of Sunday Morning---1950's style.
Eyes slowly opening, nose cold. The blankets have been piled high, and winter coats added to supplement warmth. There's a bucket in the corner, but we don't need to go into that do we? Downstairs I can smell streaky bacon, fried tomatoes that have been allowed to turn into a nice runny gravy we call dip ins. Lovely fresh eggs and fried bread just in case any of our arteries look the least bit clear. This is all washed down with lovely cups of sweet strong tea with a drop of stera please. Later after the beds are made, hoovering done and the dinner in the oven, it's a sit down with the news of the world, people, and the reveille while listening to two way family favourites and the Billy Cotton Band Show on the radio, while Dad goes "round the boozer " for a pint before dinner. Our boozer was the Vic on Axe Street in Barking or the Barge Aground in Barking. There is a New Vic Pub, but they pulled the Barge down and didn't replace it. Oh well! I can now smell stale beer, and the Sunday joint cooking.
I had my Tonsils out at five years old; I think at Oldchurch hospital. I don't remember knowing why I was there, but in the morning of the first day all the beds were rolled out into a long narrow corridor and lined up. Then one by one the beds were rolled into the "Theatre". On my turn, I remember the masked faces and the awful rubbery, was that the mask or the either. When I woke up into a different room I was swathed in rubber sheets, with ice packed around my neck. The taste of blood was terrible. Eventually, I was sent back to the ward with the other children. I did not seem to feel quite a well as the others, but I did not seem to care. After a day or two (Still no visits from Mums or Dads that apparently was highly frowned upon) they started dressing the children, except for me! One by one the Mums showed up to take brave little soldiers home, except mine. I was wheeled into another larger ward with what seem like about twenty children, ten on each side. My memory may have distorted these facts. After a few more days, Mum and Dad did show up that must have been on a Sunday, that apparently was the visiting day. I gave the normal tearful sobs and pleas to be taken home and was told that it wasn't time and when my throat was better I could come home. One morning upon wakening, breakfasts were brought around, and none for me. A nurse came along and said, "We have some nice warm socks for you" How strange I was spending my day in bed, and they wanted me to wear socks that came all the way to the tops of my legs. The boy in the next bed was very knowledgeable and filled me in "You're going to have an operation," he said. With the self importance that can only be imparted from a child who "knows something" to a child that doesn't. Fear set in. I was eventually wheeled down to the Theatre again. Apparently, my incision was not healed and had to be cauterized (this is information I found out much later). Upon seeing the masked figures of terror again I screamed for Mummy and was told, "Mummy is not needed here, so just be a good girl and be quiet." The shear cold hardheartedness to this day overwhelms me. I had gotten no explanation from parents or hopital staff. After a couple of weeks I was brought home as if nothing much had happened to me at all. I'm sure that there was worry and concern on Mum and Dad's part, but children were raised so differently and didn't seem to be nurtured by Mum's and Dad's so much back then. Nan and Grandad's were a different story. If you were lucky enough to have a single uncle who loved kids but didn't have any of his own yet, you could write your own ticket!
Anyone remember taking a few coppers at a time to the corner shop for firework night. I remember Barbara's Sweetshop at the corner of St. Ann's Road in Barking would keep track of your deposits for you so that the week of Bonfire night you could go in and buy what seemed like a fortune of fireworks. Funny, I don't remember anyone getting hurt or maimed with the fireworks as they do now. That must be my selective memory setting in. Although we did seem more respectful of things that could hurt us in those days and on the whole try to use them wisely. Although there were always the little sods that used to love to throw penny bangers at us girls, and we loved to scream and giggle about it. Oh memories,,,,,,,as they say "youth is wasted on the young."
I left school (Eastbury Secondary Modern) in July 1963, My first job was at Tote Investors Ltd., on Ludgate Street in Blackfriars. I was in the Addressograph department. There were hundreds of metal plates with the account holders names and addresses on them and we (the other school leavers that had just been hired) kept them in alpha order and pulled them when the monthly statements were due and the punters were notified if their accounts were up or down. We all thought that they must all be millionaires, we all came from homes where a shilling each way was a big gamble. Working 'up in London' was a great adventure for us. Getting on the district line at Barking station every day, straight through to Blackfriars. Luncheon Vouchers. Season ticket on the train. What fun we had all five quid a week. Mum got 30/- housekeeping money a with the rest it was clothes train pass, food and pictures on a Saturday night. Usually in Barking, East Ham or Upton Park. I remember saving up for a pair of Shoes in Fisher's in Barking; they always had the latest styles before anyone else. They also fell apart before they were out of style. Mum and Dad always warned me, don't buy cheap shoes at Fisher's. Would I listen? not bloody likely, all my mates shoes were falling apart too. I was happy. Gerry thanks for one again bringing up a subject that rattled some long forgotten happy memories. All the best Sue
As a kid I enjoyed stamp collecting. I kept my stamps in a big Manila envelope and my hinges in an old Elastoplast tin. I eventually moved up to an album and had many happy hours sticking the stamps in the appropriate places. So much knowledge could be picked up from those tiny squares of paper. It doesn't seem to be a hobby that the kids now generally are attracted to as they were in the past. With e-mail and personal mobile phones letters and stamps will soon be a thing of the past. Cheers all. Sue
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Updated 1/6/2001 |