Remember Me (11 page)

“What’s going to happen to you, Gladys? Are you getting married now?” Marianne asked.

“Not till it’s all over. I’ll look for war work. There’ll be plenty of jobs going. Even the milkman’s joining the army. He told me this morning. I always fancied working on the buses. A clippie, you know. Clipping tickets. Now you go up to bed. You look done in,” Gladys said kindly.

“Thank you, Gladys, and for all the good meals and everything. Goodnight.”

Marianne didn’t have much to pack; she’d done most of it. Only last-minute things were left. She washed out her underclothes and hung them out of the window, so that they’d be dry by morning. She checked the room to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She wasn’t glad or sorry to leave. It was just a room she’d been lent. It had never really felt like her own.

Before she went to bed, she wrote a note to Mr. and Mrs. Abercrombie Jones to leave on the hall table in the morning:

She read it over. Aunt Vera and Uncle Geoffrey had done the best they could. They didn’t know about children, and they thought being foreign was something to be got over, like measles. They probably wouldn’t see each other again.

In the morning, she shook hands with Gladys. “Thank you, Gladys. One day I might ride on your bus. I hope so.”

“Good luck, Mary Anne.” Gladys patted Marianne’s shoulder awkwardly, and handed her a big lunch bag.

On the way to school the postman stopped her. “Off to the country, are you? My lad’s going too. You’ve got a card today. Glad I didn’t miss you.” He rummaged in his bag and handed Marianne a plain white card. It was written in pencil, which had faded a bit. It said:

Marianne put the card in her shoulder bag. Her father seemed very close to her at that moment. It felt almost as if he were walking beside her, reminding her to be brave.

“Postie,” Marianne called. “Thank you very much. Good-bye.”

Her suitcase felt much lighter. She wished she could tell Bridget she’d heard from her father.

I
t was strange being in the school’s assembly hall so early. Every girl’s eyes were riveted on the headmistress. Miss Lacey led the school in prayers for a safe journey, then she said: “The next time we talk to one another as a school, we will be in a strange hall, in someone else’s building. None of us know when we will be back here in St. John’s, or even if our school will still be standing after the war. We are setting off on the biggest adventure of our lives, and like our brave soldiers, sailors, and airmen, we do not know where we are going or what awaits us. We do know that homes will be provided for us in places of safety.

“I am proud that our school is part of the greatest exodus from the city that has ever happened. Be good ambassadors wherever you go, so that the generous people who are opening their homes to us will be glad that they have done so.”

The girls filed back to their classrooms in total silence to the
strains of the organ playing “Land of Hope and Glory,” The music had never sounded more eloquent.

When Miss Barry handed out luggage labels, Marianne’s hand shook. It was only nine months since she had worn one of those. Everyone in class had to print their names, and that of their school on one. Then they tied the labels round their necks with bits of string. A girl put up her hand and said, “We’re not likely to forget our names. Do we have to wear these?”

“Yes. In the event of an accident, that label may be an important means of identification,” said Miss Barry.

No one spoke another word after that.

Miss Barry smiled and said, “Time to read one more chapter.” She opened
The Railway Children
and continued reading to the class. They’d reached the part where the rock falls on the railway line, and Peter, Bobbie, and Phyllis have to find a way to stop the 11:29
A.M.
train from hurtling off the track.

The bell rang.

“That means the buses are here,” said Miss Barry. “I’ll take the book with me and once school recommences after the holidays and we are settled in our new classroom, I shall finish the story. You may line up and walk to the gates, and remember Miss Lacey’s words: ‘Be good ambassadors wherever you go’ … and don’t forget to bring your gas masks!”

Outside the gates of the playground, a line of buses was waiting. Marianne saw that someone had written
GOOD-BYE HITLER
in chalk, on the side of one.

Now that Bridget was on her way to Canada, Marianne didn’t have anyone to sit with. The only empty seat was beside Hilary, whose regular partner had been sent to relatives in the country. Hilary edged as far away from Marianne as she could.

When they got to Paddington Station, the foreground was packed with single and double-decker buses. Inside, there were thousands of schoolchildren from all over London, mothers with toddlers, also going to the country, and volunteers, who handed out slabs of chocolate, cups of tea, and kind words for everyone.

The hardest part for Marianne was seeing all the mothers, and even some fathers, shouting advice, tying hair ribbons, and giving last-minute hugs.

Miss Barry had counted their class twice, making sure no one was missing, and at last it was time to board. They were allocated compartments in alphabetical order, so even if Bridget had been here, she and Marianne might not have sat together.

Once the girls were settled, Miss Barry came round and gave them each a packet of barley sugar. “The best cure for travel sickness I know,” she said, and left them to say their good-byes. Marianne sat in her seat trying not to mind, or look as if she minded, that she had no one to wave to. She must be the only girl on the train without a relative on the platform. She was glad when the guard blew the whistle at last and the engine began to move.

Miss Barry came in again. “Now I’m just three compartments away, and I’ll be in every half hour to check if you’re alright,” she said.

Celia was crying quietly in her corner seat. “I wish I hadn’t come,” she sobbed.

Miss Barry said briskly, “We’ve scarcely left the station, and remember, ambassadors don’t cry.”

“When will we get to wherever we’re going, Miss Barry?” Jane asked.

“I have no idea, Jane, but I suspect we have a long journey ahead, so make yourself comfortable and enjoy the scenery.”

The train was smartly painted in blue with gold lettering and inside, it was comfortable. The seats were padded; there were even armrests.

Miss Barry had told them that today all the railways were reserved for the great evacuation, and no one else could travel. It made it seem like a real adventure.

The girls sang: “Ten green bottles hanging on the wall/ There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over.’ ” They sang the First World War song “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary,” and “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do!” They waved to people standing at railway crossings, and to children sitting on stiles. They played “I Spy,” and saw towns change to villages and farms. All the stations they passed through had the names covered up, so that any enemy spies wouldn’t know where the children were being taken. Then they divided themselves up into teams and kept count of animals. Marianne’s team won by one sheep.

The train stopped often. The girls grew restless. Miss Barry let them go in two’s to the guards’ van, where there was a supply of drinking water in a big churn.

Lucy came back and said, “We’re in Wales.”

“How do you know?” Jane asked.

“Because the guard said, ‘We’re coming into Aberdare,’ and then he said, ‘Not a word, mind.’ I happen to know Aberdare is in Wales because we had a holiday there once.”

Celia said, “Wales is a foreign country. The Welsh don’t even speak English, or not much.” And she started crying again.

Marianne wondered if Welsh was harder to learn than English.

Jane said, “What fun if they can’t understand what we’re saying.”

Marianne could have told them it wasn’t any fun at all, but decided it wasn’t the right moment.

The landscape, which had been a mixture of green hills and little stone cottages, began to change. Now the train plunged into a valley scarred with huge black coal tips, like mountains.

Eight hours after they’d left London, the train drew up into a small station and the girls overflowed onto the narrow gray platform. Buses were waiting for them. The bus driver said, “A friendly little town this is – everything you could want – church, chapel, cinemas, a Rugby team, Woolworth’s.”

The girls cheered.

“We’re going to Old Road School. Everyone’s there, getting ready for you. Bit of a rugby scrum. Lovely,” he said.

It was a gray little town. The streets looked narrow and old-fashioned after busy London. You could smell the soot and something else, sharp and unpleasant. “Tinworks,” the bus driver told them.

When they got to the school, they filed into the gymnasium, where tables and chairs had been set up, and they were offered tea and biscuits.

“We are most pleased to welcome you to Wales, and we hope your stay is a pleasant one,” said a gentleman, who spoke almost as if he were singing, his voice gentle and melodious.

At that moment the doors opened and a stream of people came in and surged round the girls, looking them over, reading the names on the labels, and often talking to each other in a strange language.

“Must be Welsh,” said Lucy, who’d been in the same compartment as Marianne.

Miss Lacey said something to the gentleman and he announced, “Please tell one of the teachers or helpers which child you are taking and give an address. Can’t have anyone getting lost, can we now?” Hardly anyone paid attention to him. The youngest and prettiest girls were quickly signed out. The man spoke in Welsh to the people.

“Oh, David, look – twins. There’s alike they are.”

“And how old are you, dear? Twelve – well now, that’s good. Nice and tidy, are you?”

A lady asked Marianne, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Marianne Kohn.”

Miss Barry was quickly at Marianne’s side. “Mary Anne is a Jewish refugee from Germany.”

The lady took a step back. “Oh, I see. No thanks, then. Jewish and German? I don’t think so. Wouldn’t be proper, would it?” she
said to Miss Barry, as if turning down some strange exotic fruit. She moved on.

Slowly the hall emptied. At last only Lucy, two older girls who Marianne didn’t know, and Marianne were left.

“I know what’s wrong with me,” said Marianne, “but why haven’t you been chosen?”

Before they could answer, Miss Barry said, “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with any of you. The billeting officer, Mr. Evans, hadn’t expected quite so many of us. Now he’s made arrangements for you for the next couple of nights, till more permanent billets can be found. Doreen and Jeannie, you’re going to sleep in the nurses’ hostel. Some of the probationers are only a little older than you are. Lucy and Mary Anne, you go to a Methodist home for girls. Get a good night’s sleep, and don’t worry.”

“Excuse me, Miss Barry,” said Lucy, “I’ve broken my glasses. I sat on them on the bus and cracked the lenses. I can’t see properly.”

“We’ll sort everything out tomorrow,” said Miss Barry. “Doreen and Jeannie, come with me. Goodnight, girls.” She left Marianne and Lucy with a distracted billeting officer.

The girls picked up their luggage.

“Follow me, then. We don’t have far to go,” said Mr. Evans.

I
t was almost dark. A few dim streetlights came on. It began to drizzle. They walked up a hill, lined on both sides with small terraced houses. The houses were a uniform gray, the front windows hung with muslin curtains and the front steps level with the cobbled pavement.

Mr. Evans hurried them past a pub – the smell of beer, the sounds of laughter and foreign words spilled over onto the street. A group of men came out, beer mugs in hand, their mufflers shining white under the lamps. They were singing. One of them raised his hand in greeting to Mr. Evans.

“Friday night, see?” said Mr. Evans, as if to apologize to the small visitors for this sign of life. “Members of the Rugby team, the Scarlets, always meet here on Friday nights. Famous we are for Rugby. Beat the Australian Wallabies in 1908. I grew up going to the games in Stradey Park. My father was on the team there.
He’s passed away now.” He hummed sadly, then he said, “ ‘
Sospan Fach
– Little Saucepan.’ I marched to it in the last war. ‘
Sospan fach yn berwiar y tân
,’ ” he sang softly.

“What does it mean?” asked Lucy.

“It sounds like ‘saucepan,’ ” said Marianne.

“Quite right,
bach.
Clever girl, you are. It’s the theme song of the Scarlets. A silly little ditty about a small saucepan on the stove, and a little cat who knocks it over. But there’s nothing silly about our team. Rugby gives us our pride. Wars come and go; the mines shut down; nothing stops us so long as our little red saucepans are on top of the goalposts. Not far now. Getting tired, are you?”

The men’s voices grew fainter. “
Dai bach y sowidiwr, Dai bach y sowidiwr
 …”

Mr. Evans sang along, translating for them: “Young Dai, a soldier, young Dai, a soldier.”

They walked along streets that all looked alike. Everywhere the coal tips looked down on them. As they passed a big square building, there came the most beautiful singing Marianne had ever heard. She paused for a moment to listen.

“I can see you like music. That’s a good sign,
bach.
Chapel, are you?” Mr. Evans didn’t wait for a reply. “Ebenezer Chapel, built in 1891. Fine choir. Well, come along; it’s getting late.”

They stopped, at last, in front of a row house at the end of a side street. A woman in a shapeless black dress answered the door.

“Ah, Matron,
shwmae heno
– how are you tonight? Here are the
two evacuees. Very good of you, I’m sure, to find room for them. This is Lucy and this is Mary Anne.”