We Passengers

Chapter 4

'It's been nice having a man around the house again.’ Those were Mum's first words when Trevor read to us the words on the piece of Government paper which said that he was to report for duty in five days time.

'Mum!’I scolded but Trevor only chuckled,

'Don't worry Mrs Lord,’ he said (he never has got used to calling her Mary, even since we were married), 'I'll nip over and sort out these Jerries and I'll be back before you know it.  It'll be like I've never been gone.’ Of course I cried and, of course I tried to think of anything that might keep him out but I knew it was useless; always been strong as an ox, my Trevor, so I knew that he wouldn't be pardoned for health reasons and with no kids or a job that made him more valuable at home, there was nothing for it. Not that there's anything wrong with working in his Dad's shop of course; he's good at it and, between us, we do alright but, he isn't a farmer or a policeman and those were the kind of jobs that kept you in dear old blighty then.  As awful as it sounds, those last few days were a bit like a holiday; a couple of times Trevor rode with me for the last hour or so of my shift then took me to tea at Selfridges then the buses gave me that last day off on compassionate grounds and we borrowed his cousin's car and drove all the way out to West Wittering and had a picnic on the beach, bundled up in blankets against the weather with its March chill in the air. It was a peaceful few days during which, through a kind of unspoken agreement, the papers and what they meant was rarely mentioned and then the day came and with it more tears although I had vowed to be brave. The days that followed were strange and empty; I went to work and back, spent time with Mum and even, once or twice, went to the dances with the girls but it felt as though I were just treading water, just getting through one thing and then another with little purpose or thought. Things were better once the letters started coming through. Although they were often short and sometimes hurried, just having them made me feel easier, knowing that he was out there - miles and miles away but still there. Sometimes I'd get angry; railing at the government being allowed to send husbands, sons and fathers overseas without so much as a by your leave and Mum would tut and tell me that we all have to do our duty to Queen and country. She came to the East End a while back of course, The Queen. She turned up in her big car with all her minders and we all lined the streets like good little servants, smiling and waving as she spoke to the chosen few then got back in her car and breezed off back to Buckingham Palace. Funny how excited everyone got about the whole thing, like a quick visit made up for the fact that we'd had our homes bombed and our men were being sent away in droves. Still, she made the effort, I suppose. Mum hadn't been so good that day so, by the time I got to Waddington Street, the pavement was packed with people and I only got a brief glimpse of Her Majesty before she was whisked away. Mum was upset that she missed it of course, even though I told her there really wasn't that much to see. Missing out on everything Mum is, because of that evil illness. Like today, for example; it would have done her good to get out of the house and see a bit of countryside but it wasn't to be.

'There'll be other trips,’ I told her, ‘better ones and she said “I suppose so,” like she didn't really believe it.

London's behind us now and, although I was never much good at geography, I'm guessing that we're not far from Mitcham as the train slows and then finally stops at a station that's so small it doesn't seem to even have a name. Looking out of the window on the opposite side, I can see that we've stopped because there's another train ahead of us, it's tail almost touching our driver's cab so it looks like the two might join together at any moment. As I watch, the doors to the other train open and suddenly the tiny platform is filled with the voices - and bodies - of small children, so many that they have to be herded down the platform and through the waiting room so that more of them can disembark. Some are carrying proper suitcases but more are clutching their meagre belongings to their chests in paper bags tied up with bits of string. Many are crying and I suddenly realise as I spot the buses at the roadside, that these are evacuees; children being taken away from the city in droves to the relative safety of the countryside where they will live with strangers until Mr Churchill deems it safe for them to return. It always seemed rather exciting to me, the evacuation thing, even, I thought, a bit like an adventure but then it was Nancy's turn and I had to take her to the station where she clutched my hand with a panicky grip as the lady tried to persuade her to let go and to get on the train. She's only eleven, Nancy, and far too little it seemed to me to be shipped off on her own but Mum said it was for the best, that she'd be better off in the country than in London with the bombs and shelters and endless smog. She's with a family in West Sussex now, crammed into a small house with a middle aged couple and five other children and she writes me letters about going to the seaside and the new friends she's made at her new school. Although the letters are happy, I still remember the tears and the terror as she was forced onto that train and, most nights, I go to sleep wondering if Mum really was right after all. The few adults present have finally managed to get all of the children off the bus and are now pairing them up, making them hold hands as they're led through the tatty waiting room to the waiting buses and I say a silent prayer that they'll all end up with good people; kind people, like Nancy has. Now that the children from the other train have been despatched, we're on the move again and I wave at the last of the stragglers, a couple of little girls with matching coats and pigtails and they solemnly wave back before disappearing from sight.