Child from Home (21 page)

At the far end of the yard there was an old wooden shed with open areas of grassland at each side. On the roof of the granary was a white-painted dovecote but all we ever saw going in and out of it were pigeons, and Eva had to explain that, ‘Pigeons with their pink chests and bronze backs are known as turtledoves and their fledglings are called squabs.'

When the weather was dry we were allowed to play in the field behind the school at break times and sometimes lessons were held in it. There was no playground at St Mary's hall and the church graveyard was out of bounds to us. If it was too wet and muddy we had permission to go in Mr Pulleyn's courtyard on the understanding that we did not move or damage anything. We made dens in the prickly straw bales stacked in the barn, getting our arms and legs scratched and sore in the process, and we scrambled up the wooden ladder to the loft as nimbly as spiders. Wide-eyed with wonder we gathered round to watch the men as they worked on the black, open-topped vintage car that had large, shiny brass lights, thin white-walled tyres and wire-spoked wheels. They cranked the old engine with the starting handle until it puttered into life, but the long metal handle had been known to suddenly whip back. It could break a thumb or crack the wrist if it was not held properly and released at the moment the engine fired. We giggled excitedly when we were allowed to sit on the shiny leather back seat that was forward of the back axle so that the passengers were not bounced about too much. The highly polished, wooden dashboard gleamed in the weak winter sunshine as I sat on the box set into the wide running board and the car was driven around the yard. We took turns at squeezing the rubber bulb that made a deep honking ‘parp' come from the shiny brass horn.

The Pulleyns were a respected and long-established family in the village and Eva was the youngest. Their family tree had many branches and its roots had been firmly set in the local soil for generations and members of her family had built many of the houses in the village. Some, like her sixty-year-old uncle, Robert James Pulleyn, were to play an important part in the civic affairs of the area, becoming Lord Mayor of York from 1939 to 1940. The founder of a successful firm of building contractors, he owned the Grand Picture House on Gillygate and was still an eminent member and alderman of York City Council.

Mr Wray, whose flat cart was known locally as a rulley, delivered our coal, which was neatly stacked in hundredweight hessian sacks next to a pair of heavy metal scales. Humping the sacks on his leather-clad shoulders, he emptied them into the coalbunker. The bottom of the coalhouse door must have scraped across the path for a long time, as it had left an arc-shaped mark on the flagstones.

Leaflets and items appeared in the newspapers under the title ‘Food Facts' giving advice on how to make cheap and tasty meals and how to cope with the food shortages. The aim was to help people make the best of what was available, and one of the recipes, using vegetables, no meat and a little fat, was for Woolton pie. Although some were helpful, many of the food leaflets became known as bumf (i.e. bum fodder) and ended up hung on a loop of string in the village lavs. Mrs Harris listened regularly to the five-minute wireless programme called
The Kitchen Front
that was broadcast at 8.15 a.m. from Tuesday to Friday, while Dot would stand at the sink washing the breakfast dishes; when she was finished we set off for school.

During the half-term holiday Mam, Aunt Hilda and Uncle John paid a short visit. Jimmy and I enjoyed being seen with our Uncle John as he was now sporting sergeant's stripes on his army uniform that had knife-edged creases. Being in the forces gave a man standing and Gran felt proud to sew the stripes on for him. He was on embarkation leave again and his battalion had been in training near Dorchester and in the Cheddar Gorge area. On seeing the long list of dos and don'ts pinned up on the Harrises' kitchen cabinet he said, ‘It's worse than being in a prisoner of war camp.' The belts and cane that usually hung there had disappeared and his words were to prove to be prophetic. He told us that during the recent snowstorms, ‘Our platoon got cut off at the notorious Porlock Hill and we had to dig our way out to get back to camp.'

Each time Mam had to go it became more and more heart-rending for both of us, and just before leaving, she held me close and cuddled me into the warmth of her well-rounded bosom. Tears welled up in her eyes and in my mind's eye I can still see the red double-decker bus, with its advertisement for Tower Ales distorted by my tears, as it left for York. That night, and every night, I knelt by the side of the bed and prayed to God asking him to keep Mammy and Daddy safe until the war was over so that I could go home with them again.

Pointing out where Libya was on the large world map, Miss Curry told the assembled school that, ‘British and Australian troops under the command of General Wavell have carried out a surprise attack capturing the port of Tobruk and, during the advance, over 25,000 Italians have been taken prisoner. This great success has helped us to secure the eastern Mediterranean.' Being so young and with the fighting so far away we felt safe here and the facts did not really register. We thought that it was all very exciting and Miss Curry kept us up to date on the fluctuating progress of the war. It was one of very few successes up to that time and, as such, the news was gladly received by the people of Haxby.

That February there were several keen frosts with deep snow lying on the fields and, on the Monday of our half-term holiday, a bone-invading chill crept under the back door and slid across the floor before climbing up our backs. Being washday, condensation misted the windowpanes, distorting the view of the back garden as it streamed down wetting and lifting the edges of the criss-crossed anti-blast tape. The kitchen was the centre of most of the household activity and articles of damp laundry hung everywhere, blocking off any warmth from the fire and adding moisture to the choking fug already caused by Mrs Harris's constant cigarette smoking. She coughed and wheezed as the blue smoke curled up towards the brown tobacco-stained ceiling. The heavy dankness, which hung like a sullen cloud, made us feel listless and lethargic.

Rousing ourselves with an effort, Thelma, Dot, Jimmy, Ducky and I put on our warmest clothes and got the wooden sledge from the garden shed. Mr Harris, who was at work on the farm, had made it in his spare time. We were glad to get out to breathe the clear, sharp, frosty air, which lifted us out of our stupor. Blinking like emerging moles, we came out into the weak sunshine that shone from a cloudless, pale-blue sky and, being low on the horizon at that time of year, it cast long shadows. As we crossed Usher Lane with great care, the icy wind blew the cobwebs from our minds. The surface of the road glittered and sparkled like diamonds as the sun glinted off it and every roof and hedge was white with hoarfrost.

We made our way beside thorn hedges to the frozen Windmill pond that lay at the far side of a snow-covered turnip field, and there was a hard glistening layer of ice on top of the deep snowdrifts. Beside the pond, which we were told was bottomless, stood an old, rusting irrigation pump with its twisted metal vanes creaking and groaning as they turned slowly in the bitterly cold north-east wind. The surface of the pond was frozen solid and we skittered about on it in our hobnailed boots, landing on our backsides more often than we stayed on our feet. For a while we took turns on the sledge, two at a time, while the others held the rope and pulled it along. We whizzed up and down trying not to crash into the crowds of villagers on the ice; most of whom were floundering about and falling down just like us.

We decided that we would slide the sledge down a bank of frozen earth that sloped steeply down towards the ice-covered pond. Jimmy, who was a bit of a daredevil, volunteered to go first but, when the sledge hit the thin ice at the edge, it creaked and then there was a deep, ominous growl as it split open into several clear, green-edged shards. Jimmy and the sledge shot straight through into the icy water, but luckily he did not go completely under the ice and was able to hang on to the floating sledge. A group of grown-ups, on seeing what had happened, quickly dragged him out of the bitterly cold water. He was shocked, shivering and soaking wet but we soon got him back to the house where he was put into dry clothes and warmed through by the fire.

We thought that he would get a really good hiding from Mrs Harris, but she, surprisingly, felt sorry for him. It seems that she had a bit of a soft spot for him, and the canes and belts remained untouched on that occasion. She was, apparently, just greatly relieved that he was all right and none the worse for his icy ducking, and decided that it was best to say nothing and let it pass. Shortly afterwards she turned on me, saying, ‘Just look at the muck on your bum.'

I foolishly replied, ‘I can't see my bum from here.' At which she clouted me round the ear, saying, ‘And that's enough cheek from you!' Stars danced before my eyes and my ear rang.

Several people had accidents on the icy roads and Harold Mann was often late in delivering the milk as his shaggy pony, Monty, had difficulty keeping its footing on the hard-packed, frozen snow. Snow fell from the milky sky on ten consecutive days, piling up in deep drifts by the hedgerows. Mrs Harris and the other women still had their milk ladled into jugs, as glass bottles were hard to come by, and it was not until the end of March that winter loosened its icy grip, with the snow finally thawing leaving heaps of dirty slush at the roadsides.

By this time cooked dinners had become available to the pupils of both schools, which was a real boon to parents that worked. The meals were served from the counters, hotplates and gas ovens newly installed in the corner of St Mary's hall, and the ovens helped to keep the place warm on cold days. The meals were brought by van from the cookhouse at Strensall army camp. The overcrowding meant that the dinners had to be served in two separate sessions and we were pleased to learn that we would have to finish our morning lessons a little earlier to allow time for the hall to be prepared.

The milk was delivered in aluminium crates with the one-third-of-a-pint bottles stood in wire compartments. They were stacked outside in the playground at the back of the main school, and when playtime arrived we often found that they were partly frozen, with plugs of solid cream standing about an inch above their necks. We sucked on them as if they were creamy iced lollies. During the long spell of snow and icy weather the crates were brought into the classroom a little earlier and placed near a green cast-iron radiator to thaw out. The bottles had thick, waxed paper seals that had an indented portion that you pushed in with your thumb. At playtime Harry, Ducky and their pals made slides on the icy playground and had great fun adding a few more bruises to the collection that they had already acquired.

Earlier in the year, the army had set up a searchlight in a field on the western side of Moor Lane opposite the Home Guard blockhouse. We went up there to help fill the sandbags and, when we were given a penny for our troubles, we were thrilled to bits but we soon tired of it. It was too much like hard work and there were easier ways of earning a penny to spend on sweets. Harold Mann often gave us a penny for helping him on his milk round.

Sometimes we heard distant explosions from up Moor Lane way, where the Home Guard were practising lobbing live hand grenades into Beresford's pond. At first they had no Mills bombs, so they used potatoes or large stones instead and, on finding out, Mrs Harris retorted, ‘It's a waste of good potatoes if you ask me!' Their ammunition was stored in corrugated-tin huts on the grass verges alongside Cross Moor Lane, and these were guarded and kept well padlocked at all times. We would have liked to watch the action but they had closed off the road with Home Guard men manning the roadblocks.

At the end of March, we learned that Uncle John was home on yet another embarkation leave. He had been vaccinated again and issued with a khaki drill uniform (KD), so it looked certain that he was going to see active service; but this time in a hot, desert region. There were rumours that they were to join the Middle East Force (MEF) in Egypt. All their equipment and stores were packed and they were ready for the off.

In January the amount of meat allowed to each adult per week had been reduced, and it was then reduced further to only one and tuppence worth (nearly 6p). In February the off-putting, muddy-looking wholemeal bread – the so-called National loaf – was introduced. It was a heavy blow when jam, syrup, marmalade and treacle were put on ration in March; collectively a total of 8 ounces (227g) per person per week being allowed. Rationing was at its lowest level so far and it was even officially forbidden to feed crumbs to the birds. From that time onwards Mrs Harris would only let us have margarine or jam on our bread – never the two together! The margarine was thinly scraped on and off again and we seldom tasted jam or syrup. We lived mostly on bread, lumpy potato, heavy suet dumplings or we had rabbit meat made into stews or pies as it was not rationed and was readily available. We were growing kids and were always ravenous so we ate whatever was put in front of us or we stayed hungry. After every meal our plates were always shiny and clean, as we soaked everything up with bread or even licked the plate when Mrs Harris had her back turned.

Nature Study at school now took the form of walks beside the piebald ploughed fields armed with bags, nets and a wide variety of containers. We skipped along in pairs, with the girls hand-in-hand with their best friends, and we added our spoils to the cluttered-up nature table. Drawing things, which I enjoyed, helped me to remember details of shape, number of legs, parts of an insect's body and suchlike, and I was to find this approach invaluable later in life. In March, when the weather turned slightly milder, we collected frogspawn and watched the tadpoles hatch out to hang on the stems of the pondweed in their fish tank. The tiny frogs lost their tails and were then obliged to leave the water, feeding on aphids by shooting out their very long, sticky tongues, which happened so quickly that it could not be seen by the naked eye. They had, by that stage, to breathe through their newly formed internal lungs. At this point we trooped along to Widd's pond and released them back into the water, which had become churned up and made murky by the dabbling, beady-eyed ducks and the shy and furtive moorhens.