No way boring @Maywalk.
It is a fascinating insight into a time gone by. 
Wow, @Maywalk, I’ve just caught up with this. How wonderful that you wrote down all these memories from your childhood, such a marvellous legacy to pass on to your children and grandchildren. Thank you so much for sharing with us - and no, you are most definitely not boring us!
More please 
CHAPTER FOUR
WAR AND EVACUATION…
I never got to know my family of two older brothers and an elder sister until I was let out of the home on a weekly basis from the age of six. I was finally sent home in 1937 in time for the Jubilee celebrations.
My family had moved back to London in 1932 from where they originated from to 218 Neate Street in Camberwell, South East London.
I recall having a flag put in my hand to wave about and the good old “knees up” as the Londoners called it. I began school at Coburg Road with one eye still covered up to try and make the bad one work. I had to wear a patch over one eye ever since I started to crawl because of the eye trouble that the illness left me with.
It had made me very unhappy because of the names that the children called me, such as Popeye or Nelson and it made me very aggressive in my character. I silently vowed that I would never hurt anyone like that when I grew up.
As I got settled in with the family I soon found out that my mother and father were always at each other’s throats. We never had one day go past without a row of some sort. I got used to the arguing and pot throwing over the years.
Funnily enough if anyone interfered with them and perhaps would ask them to calm down my mother would tell them to “Sod off ! When I want any help from you I will ask. Meanwhile this is between me and my husband.”
When things were alright between them and money was not so tight they used to take me to New Cross Dog Track on the Saturday night.
Our journey would take us along The Old Kent Road. We would stop at the Lord Nelson first where they would stop to wet their whistles as they told me but being naïve I could never fathom out where their whistles were. I had never seen them use one.
My mother would be dressed in a large picture hat with a dress that had beaded petals falling from the waist over a full skirt and Dad would be dressed up in his “whistle and flute” as he called his best suit.
As we moved further on down The Old Kent Road we would call in at the Thomas a Beckett public house.
This was where all the famous boxers trained.
I was very often patted on the head by them as I sat on the step waiting for my parents to come out.
I hated these trips to the dog track. I would much rather have been at home picking out tunes on the piano which incidentally I learnt to play quite well over the years.
During the summer of 1939 I was hearing talk of a nasty man called Adolf Hitler. It was snatches of conversation that I heard when the grown-ups were talking together and I had been told to go and play in the passage ( a long narrow hallway in the house ).
Children were being sent away from their parents to safety areas, whatever they were.
It seemed very strange to me that as soon as I got to know someone as a friend they were sent off to the country. Houses were being issued with funny corrugated shapes that were called Anderson air-raid shelters that had to be put in a hole that was dug out in the back garden, if you had one.
Gasmasks were issued and everyone had an identity card.
We had practised at school with our gasmask’s for ten minutes every day and were told if the air-raid siren went off to get under our desks.
This poem tells of the times we had to practise putting the masks on………………….
Everyone had an identity card and a gas mask too
Nasty horrible things to wear, stuck to you like glue.
It was a daily ritual to practice wearing that gas mask
None of us liked doing it because it really was a task
Teacher would then come round to see if it fitted snug
Pulling at the head strap she would give it quite a tug.
I wouldn’t mind but it was supposed to keep us alive,
But how if we had to wear it long would we all survive?
I was glad when we finally stopped that daily routine
But we still had to carry it no matter where we’d been.
We were never parted from it even when visiting the loo
But as soon as the war ended they disappeared from view
copyright—Maisie Walker 2005— all copyrights reserved.
September 3rd 1939 was a lovely sunny Sunday morning and to me there seemed to be a hush over everything. At 11am it came over the relay wireless that Mr Chamberlain had said we were now in a state of war with Germany. I can still hear my mothers anguished voice saying " Oh sweet mother of mercy! My boys, my boys."
The hush from outside suddenly became a cacophony of voices. All the neighbours gathered on their doorsteps talking about what would happen if old Hitler got to England. I felt terrified in case I was sent back to the Sisters of Mercy home.
I was relieved when my mother said that Hitler or no bleeding Hitler she was still going hop-picking the next day and taking her kids with her.
It was a well known thing for Londoners to go for about three weeks hop-picking every year. They classed it as a working holiday that got them away from the London smog and they could see a bit of green countryside.
It was during the third week that we were there when a German plane got through our defences ( such as they were).
He spotted us working and decided to use us as target practise. We all dived into the hop-vines for cover and Thank God there were no casualties because one of our fighters came along and a terrific dog fight was going on above us when the Spitfire shot the Jerry down.
We were all excited when we saw him bail out of his plane because it was on fire and came floating down in to the adjoining field.
Everyone left what they were doing and ran to the next field armed with whatever they could find to clobber the pilot with. He was still extricating himself out of his parachute so he had no chance to run anywhere.
It was a phoney war up until the June 1940. Everything was still going on as usual apart from railings and various other things like old pots and pans being given up for the war effort. We still had to take our gasmask’s every where we went but up to that time it was like the sword of Damocles waiting to strike. Posters were put up saying “Careless talk cost lives”. There was the blackout to contend with and things were beginning to get in short supply.
My father came home from the docks one day with a beautiful blue grey kitten that had been abandoned by its mother.
My mother took to that kitten and it became her shadow.
She would share her rations with Blue as she called him and when he got wounded by shrapnel she would nurse him back to health.
She would not have it put to sleep like many pets in the London area were because of the bombing raids. This was in case the animal ran off in fear and most probably getting killed or wounded in a gruesome way.
It must have been a terrible decision to make for all who had and loved their pets.
It was after Dunkirk when the bombing started in earnest and it got steadily worse as the days turned into months. It was a nightly ritual to get the flask of tea, blankets, candle and sandwiches ready to take down the Anderson shelter which incidentally was always swimming in six inches of water.
We could tell by the sound of the engines of the planes whether they were friend or foe. Blue always gave us warning at least 10 minutes before the siren went by clawing at the door or what was left of it. We knew that we had time to grab everything to make our way down the shelter. It was a living nightmare to go through the continual bombing night after night. My mother was continually praying with her rosary in her hands. When we emerged each morning still alive it was a miracle. It was better still if we could have a cup of tea and a wash to take the grime out of our eyes from continual dust and smoke of the fires and buildings that had collapsed.
One night stands out in my memory so vividly that I can still hear the screaming bombs and the Anderson rattling as the bombs reigned down on us. It was the night that hundreds of German bombers droned over dropping bombs to set all the docks afire. To say it was horrific would be putting it mildly. The scene that met us the next morning when we finally saw the light of day was horrendous. We felt as though we were standing in the middle of Hell. Fires were raging all round us and I could see bodies smouldering among the rubble of houses. The smell was putrid and we could only cope by putting something round our faces to try and filter the smoke and smell of burning flesh away.
The top part of our house had been completely demolished and yet my mothers beautiful ebony piano was still intact under the blankets that she had covered over it.
Even at the tender age of 10 years I wondered WHY the God that my mother was always praying to had taken our neighbours lives but left a piano.?
Believe it or not, to have a piano in those days was a status symbol.
Similar to a Rolls Royce car in the drive today.
That night has been etched in my mind ever since. If it had not been for our heroic R.A.F we would not be here today to tell the tale.
We spent most of our time down the shelter after that. There was a public house across the road from us named the Hop-pole and the piano found shelter down in the cellar until we found a safe place for it. It was well used by any who were partaking of the dregs from the beer barrels when raids were on. Especially singing songs relating to what they would do to Hitler.
Christmas Day 1940 was a stark time but it was quiet from the bombs for once and we were living in the shelter by his time because our house had gone.
I wrote the following poem about that particular Christmas Day and it depicts the fierce community spirit that everyone felt at that time.
A CHRISTMAS DAY MEMORY.
I sit and ponder about a certain Christmas Day many years ago
I remember very plainly of having no home and no place to go.
The year was nineteen forty in the middle of the London Blitz
Jerry pounding us with bombs, he tried hard to break the Brits
We finished up in our air-raid shelter to keep us from the cold
Listening to the bombs dropping down as hell began to unfold.
Christmas was fast approaching but no presents were in sight
It was dangerous for Santa to travel in the war stricken night.
At least that was what I was told by my fourteen-year-old brother!
No stocking put up for a Christmas, just comforting each other.
Christmas Day dawned and the firemen were so tired and weary
This did not deter them, they battled on as they remained cheery.
Along came a water cart at last to get water for a cup of Rosie Lee
How would the British survive without their cup of cheering tea?
We managed to have a quick wash to greet that Christmas morning
In case we were bombed again and had to heed the air-raid warning.
But it remained quiet, a deathly hush that seemed to envelop us all
A Christmas Day that remained in my memory that I can well recall.
It was like sitting on the edge of a volcano just waiting for it to erupt
Suddenly the sound of voices was heard the silence it did interrupt.
A radio was playing and the choristers were singing a rousing song
Many joined in the chorus as the voices made us all feel strong.
For those who have never witnessed a moving scene such as this
I thank the Lord! It was something that I would not have missed
I have never had that feeling of awe since that fateful day long ago
A kindred spirit amid a city razed that brought forth a certain glow
Of pride and joy that existed for a short time as we all started to sing
A song called “Santa Claus is coming to town” with voices in full swing
Its well over 65 yrs since that awesome day, I give thanks I am still alive
I very often wonder how through all that hell we managed to survive.
I hope and pray it will never happen again to any future generations
And may everyone be thankful as they enjoy their happy celebrations.
copyright—Maisie Walker 2004-- all rights reserved.
…
Just after Christmas the Germans came back to give us another pounding.
My mother was by this time fed up with trying to keep what bits we had left together and we moved to number 168 further along the street that had a factory built nearby.
We started using the factory cellar to stay in during the night raids. This house too was bombed so we were once again with no home.
In the February 1941 my mother decided to go to the authorities to see if she could be evacuated with her children. My eldest brother was already in the airforce. He was called up as soon as the war started. My sister was too old at 17 to be evacuated so she stopped with my dad but my other brother who was 14 years old and my mother and myself were told to be at the school by a certain time to board the bus.
We arrived at the appointed school with our gasmasks and tickets tied to our coats. Even the mothers had a ticket pinned to them. After a nightmare journey through London in a bus during a daylight raid we got to the station.
We were then herded on to it, like cattle by a bossy woman who kept shoving us into line.
I was rather worried about this because my mother had a very short fuse and I was edgy in case she shoved the woman back.
I was relieved, apprehensive and excited when we finally pulled out of the station heading for an unknown destination.
We had been on the train for about half-an-hour when a Jerry plane spotted us and used us as target practice.
Once again we came under machine gun bullets. It was a work of art for all of us to try and get down on the floor of the train because it was packed out with evacuees plus pregnant women who were being evacuated.
With a bit of luck we were coming up to a long tunnel and the train pulled to a halt to give the Jerry time to scarper.
As we pulled out again we could see that a Spitfire had come to our rescue and let the Jerry have full blast of his machine guns which resulted in the Jerry plane spiralling down to earth taking the pilot with it. The vociferous cheer that shook the train gave vent to all our fears.
We arrived in Loughborough at the Central Station at 7-30 in the evening.
We all had to walk to the Y.W.C.A. but fortunately the moon was shining that night and it helped us to fumble our way through strange territory in the blackout.
When we got to the Y.W.C.A. we were given a potted meat sandwich that was curled up at the edges and a black cup of tea but to us with being so hungry, dirty and tired it was like a four course meal.
I can recall someone saying that he was so hungry he could eat a " horse between two bread carts". I have never forgotten the giggle that went round our tired war weary group at that remark.
…
Photo below showing an Anderson shelter similar to what my family were in on Xmas Day 1940.
No central heating then ir lovely cooked dinner. It took us all our time to keep warm.
Since this was written and published it was 80years ago so another 15 years has to be added on.
Also showing a gas mask that we had to wear each day for ten minutes practise when at school.
It is now 81 years since that memorable Christmas Day.
Tomorrows chapter will deal with how different parts of the UK had language difficulties even though we were all BRITISH, plus my mothers way of dealing with it. 
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Do those of you who are reading this want me to carry on.?
I feel in limbo at the moment.
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yes please i am enjoying reading your memories
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Yes please can’t wait for chapter five ! 
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Please do it’s amazing history. How hard life was for everyone . How privileged we are all today
Thankyou
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Please do continue, it is absolutely fascinating. you right so vividly. Many thanks for sharing it with us.
CHAPTER FIVE.
SETTLING IN.
When we were finally sorted out at the Y.W.C.A, we were sent with an official who was going round knocking on folk’s doors to see if they could accommodate us. These people must have had their names and addresses put forward at some time or another to say they would take in evacuees. I was a young child of nearly 11 years by then and even I felt degraded having to do this.
My mother must have felt worse because she had never asked anything of anyone.
We were told that everything was organised but I would have said that it was organised chaos.
My mother and myself finally got taken in by a lovely couple from Liverpool and my brother was taken in very reluctantly by a person round the corner.
When we walked in to Dolly and Peter Pendegast’s house in King George Road it was warm and cosy and Mrs Pendegast said that she would run a bath for us.
I thought that I was in heaven as I walked into the bathroom because it was all white tiles and a lovely big bath to sit and wallow in. I was overawed with it.
Such a contrast to our old tin bath that used to hang on a rusty six inch nail that was hammered in to the scullery wall. Before the war started.
This was brought in every Friday night for a bath in front of the fire.
God help you if you were the last one to get in the bath, you finished up muckier getting out than when you first stepped in.
The Pendegasts bathroom was the height of luxury to me.
I forgot how hungry I was while day dreaming in that bath.
My mother and I settled in with Mr and Mrs Pendegast and my mother handed over her ration books so that the combined rations would go a bit further.
On the first Saturday that we were there the butcher walked in handing over the meat and saying to my mother " Aay oop meduck,.ayer mashed?"
Oh dear! that was like a red rag to a bull.
My mother promptly threw the meat back at him which smacked him in the eye, saying “You cheeky git! I have never been with another man in my life. How dare you?"
Mrs Pendegast heard the commotion and came running in to find what the ruckus was all about. The poor butcher said " I only asked if she had mashed"
My mother was all worked up ready to clobber him when Mrs Pendegast explained that he was only asking if a cup of tea was made.
My mother told him that he should talk “bleeding English” because a masher where she came from was someone who fornicated with someone’s spouse.
A typical case of the English language gone mad.
The butcher and my mother became good friends after that incident. Peter Pendegast became a high up official for the Hosiery Union. If I am correct I think that he lost a leg at Dunkirk.
I was still wearing the dreaded eye patch and my mother asked Mrs Pendegast if she knew of an optician because I had not had an eye check up since before the bombing started. Mrs Pendegast suggested going to Ingrams in the Market Place.
I was by this time coming up to puberty and beginning to feel self conscious about my eye being covered up.
I was dreading going to the optician because I was so afraid that I would still have to carry on wearing the blooming patch.
I was sitting on pins as he took the patch off my good eye and gave me a series of tests to find out if everything was in focus.
He then said that I should dispose of the eye patch and start using my good eye to make it stronger after having it covered up for so long. I could have hugged him to death for granting my one and only wish. From then on he was my knight in shining armour.
I went to him for all my eye checks after that and he very often used to stop and have a word with me when I met him out when shopping. Later in life he became a J.P. I never looked back after that and got through my teens without spectacles most of the time and Thank God no eye-patch.
We had to leave the Pendegasts after about five weeks because the German bombers had moved further afield and started to bomb Liverpool and their own family needed sanctuary. We left to go to another billet which was about two miles from the school that I had to go to.
John my brother came with us but I always felt uneasy when the man of the house was about. I mentioned this to John and I can still hear him saying " If he touches you I’ll bash his brains in". That statement, albeit crude, made me feel safer.
John must have told my mother because she came back to the billet one day with a key for a little cottage in Stone Yard that was a part of Churchgate.
We were thrilled to bits to know that we would have our own front door. My mother was getting known round Loughborough because she liked a glass of ale and always finished up in the Nelson. She had a great singing voice and, before she fell pregnant with my eldest brother, was on the music halls.
Anyway she got known for her voice and was asked by many of the local business people to give her rendering of their favourite songs. She often used to be pie-eyed when she got home with all the ale they bought her. I think that this is how she got the key for the cottage.
The cottage had dark green walls and was quite tiny but we were not worried it was ours as long as the rent was paid. My mother went to Armstrong’s the auctioneers and bought a second hand table that used to spin round on the top. If you wanted salt to put on your meagre dinner you very often finished up with someone else’s meal.
She also paid a few shillings for a double bed that had a mesh spring but no mattress. All three of us used to lie on that bed with coats over us. We did not mind because we were all together and it was better than an air-raid shelter. My mother also bought a couple of chairs and a few orange boxes to put our bits in which were then covered with a faded curtain to make it look more homely. It has to be remembered that new furniture was unobtainable unless you were getting married, even then you had to have dockets for it.
Two sugar sacks were dyed yellow for curtains which were put up with two large nails each side of the window with string threaded through a hem that my mother had stitched on them.
I must point out here that sugar in those days was delivered in large sack bags that held a hundredweight. It was then scooped into small blue paper bags for each customer.
There was also a pegged rug on the stone floor.
Whoopee we had a home???
I almost forgot to mention that before we moved in to that cottage my mother fumigated it. She had very set ideas of cleanliness and this was to get rid of any bugs that rested behind the skirting boards or behind old wall paper.
God help anyone if they had bugs.
She also used to rub paraffin on my head to keep lice away.
It kept everyone away never mind the ruddy lice.
The good old days!!!
‘’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’
Showing below two WW2 songs that we youngsters used to sing and the amount of clothing coupons we had.
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Thanks Maver-ric
Thanks Feey.
At least I know that they are being read if anyone gets back to me.
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I’m loving your stories, Maywalk! keep them coming whenever you feel like it 
Maywalk, it is a real gem of a story you are producing. There is a touch of poignancy, sadness, and humour. We are very privileged .
Thanks Pixie and Besoeker.
More to come regarding my mother.
It was the biggest wonder out that she was not locked up in the town we were evacuated to.
CHAPTER SIX
THE TRIBUNAL
While living in the cottage my mother had got a job at the main Post Office and John had started work at Herbert Morris the big engineering firm.
A dis-used chapel was set aside for the London evacuees in King Street that was to house about 250 children and three teachers one of who was nearly blind.
She had been brought out of retirement to teach the infants. This she could manage with the help of two senior girls.
To say that it was crowded would be an understatement but we managed and I even passed my 11+ to go to Rawlins Grammar School but my parents had neither the money or the coupons for the uniform.
The Londoners were looked upon as foreigners because we had come from another part of the country.
We were blamed for T.B. nits, scabies and anything else that was going round.
It took some time for the barriers to come down between the Southerners and the Midlanders.
Once they got to know each other some firm friendships were formed as well as marriages.
It was 1942 and my mother had not received any money from my father to keep us because Mount Pleasant Post Office had been bombed heavily and it looked as though my mothers housekeeping money had gone out in a blaze of glory.
I must add here that though my parents fought like cat and dog from when I can first remember after finally going home to live with them, my father had NEVER kept my mother short on her housekeeping money. It used to come regularly to her all the time we were away from my father.
My mother knew that a special place was set aside for the evacuees in dire straits where they could go if they needed help in an emergency.
I went with my mother to this austere looking building. We were taken to a room where a bald headed man was sitting behind a huge oak desk, on which stood two inkwells, one with red ink and one with black.
He demanded to know what we were there for and my mother said that she had not had any money come through and would like to know if she could borrow some out of the evacuee kitty to see us through until she heard from her husband.
He started ranting at us and scrabbling in the small safe and threw on the desk 3s/6d this is equal to 32 and a halfpence in today’s currency.
Even I as a 12yr old knew that the amount would be no good to keep us until we heard from Dad. Our rent was 5 shillings ( 25p ) a week before buying the rations.
Just as all this happened another woman came in. She was another victim of having no housekeeping money to live on through the same circumstances.
Meanwhile the bald headed man said as he threw the money on the desk, “You all want to get back where you came from instead of taking money and wanting handouts.”
OH DEAR! OH DEAR!
He had said the wrong thing to the wrong person.
I can see my mother now with that look of anger on her face as she picked up both inkwells on the tray that they sat on and just threw the lot all over him. She was saying at the same time “You cheeky git you! Don’t you dare talk to me like that. I have lost two homes and my family is split up and you say things like that to me. I will brain you, you bald headed git.”
The bloke was spluttering with ink running all down his face shouting out for help. All this was going off while my mother in her anger got hold of the heavy oak desk and just lifted it bodily and tipped it over on him. He luckily saw it coming and moved pretty quickly. I was trying to pull my mother away from the desk where it lay on its side and before she did anything else in her anger. Someone had sent for the bobby and he came in and told my mother she had to accompany him down to the police station.
We went there and my mother had to make a statement why she had gone berserk. She had to report back in a few weeks time because it was going before a tribunal.
I was too young at that time to take it all in and I had NO idea what a tribunal was.
When we finally came out of the police station I can remember my mother saying, “Well, after all that I am still no better off money wise but I know what I will do”
We were on our way home by this time. Our walk home took us past Johnny Marrs the pawnbrokers. My mother made a beeline for his door and when we got in she wrenched an 18 carat gold keeper ring off her finger that had been her mother’s.
She got £3 for it and it had to be redeemed at the end of a month.
The rent got paid and we got our meagre rations out of that £3 but unfortunately the ring was never redeemed.
After a few weeks my mother had to go before this tribunal.
She got off with it because the one in charge said that she had been provoked.
They even hoped that if ever it happened again she would be spoken to correctly.
I believe the other evacuee lady who saw it and heard it went to the police to tell them that my mother was provoked.
OR, thinking back over it, the one who said that she was free with no blame could have been one of those she had sung for.
…
Please remember that it is now well over 79 years now since this took place because I was around 12 years old then and things were vastly different then to the present day system.
Photo of my mother below taken just as the war started.
After she had her golden locks cut off to pay for her finger to be stitched back on her hair went a lot darker.
Here to is a list of what rations we got each week which were very often cut if things got too bad.
WW2 Food Rations.
This is the ration for one adult per week.
BACON and HAM ……… 4ozs ( 100g )
MEAT …………………… to the value of 1s.2d ( 6p today ). Sausages were not rationed but difficult to obtain : offal was originally unrationed but sometimes formed part of the meat ration.
BUTTER ………………… 2ozs ( 50g )
CHEESE ………………… 2ozs ( 50g ) sometimes it rose to 4ozs ( 100g ) and even up to 8ozs ( 225g )
MARGARINE ……………… 4ozs ( 100g )
COOKING FAT …………… 4ozs ( 100g ) often dropping to 2ozs ( 50g )
MILK …………………… 3 pints ( 1800ml ) sometimes dropping to 2 pints ( 1200ml ). Household ( skimmed, dried ) milk was available. This was I packet each 4 weeks.
SUGAR …………………… 8ozs ( 225g )
PRESERVES ……………… 1lb ( 450g ) every 2 months
TEA ……………………… 2ozs ( 50g )
EGGS …………………… 1 shell egg a week if available but at times dropping to 1 every two weeks. Dried eggs ----- 1 packet each 4 weeks.
SWEETS …………………… 12 ozs ( 350g ) each 4 weeks.
In addition, there was a monthly points system.
As an example of how these could be spent, with the 16 points that you were allocated you were allowed to buy one can of fish or meat or 2lb ( 900g ) of dried fruit or 8lb ( 3.6kg ) of split peas.
Babies and younger children, expectant and nursing mothers had concentrated orange juice and cod liver oil from Welfare Clinics together with priority milk.
This milk was also available to invalids.
School meals were started in the war because mothers were working extremely long hours to help the war effort.
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I just love your mum 
She was a firebomb Susan. She had a very short fuse and as I said she very often embarrassed me but at the same time I felt proud of her.
Another tale coming up of her fiery nature.
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