back with Laura.
It had been a relief when the coach had turned off the road and they began to pass places where people actually lived, only a few at first on each side of the road; bungalows and cottages and large houses in their own grounds, but getting closer together all the time, until they came to little streets running off the main road, groups of terraced houses, shops, a church, Caerdovey Town Hall, a garage, eventually stopping in a little sun-scorched square with a war memorial in the centre.
The first coach had got there before them and was empty, most of the children having already been taken to their billets. Only a few stragglers remained, clutching their parcels of clothes and looking pathetic and lost. One little boy had wet his pants and was bawling his head off. The newcomers were shown into a hall with a plaque over the door proclaiming it had been donated to the town by Councillor Wilfred Jones in 1928. They were given a welcome drink of lemonade and a fairy cake while a lady with a lovely sing-song voice read out their names.
Here, miss, Queenie called, when she came to Queenie Tate, Mary Monaghan and Hester Oliver.
Youre to go with Mrs Davies, dears, the woman said. Shell drive you to the Mertons house.
Mrs Davies came up. Her red face was streaked with perspiration and she smelled of mothballs. Isnt it hot? she gasped, but didnt wait for an answer, ushering them back outside into a little black car, like a box on wheels.
Queenie sat in the front; the girls, wide-eyed and plainly terrified by now, got in the back.
She was the district nurse, Mrs Davies explained when they set off, but had taken the day off to help with the evacuees, seeing as she had a car. The billets had been arranged weeks ago, Caerdovey was very well organised, she said proudly. Rather more children have turned up than expected, but Im sure well cope. Most people are only too willing to do their bit and take evacuees, but a few have had to be forcefully told where their duty lay, including Mrs Merton.
Mind you, shes not Welsh, she added, as if this explained everything.
It didnt bode well for the future, Queenie reckoned, if they were being placed with a woman who didnt want them.
You wont see much of her, Mrs Davies went on. She owns a pottery factory on the other side of Caerdovey and shes out most of the time. Mr Merton has never put in an appearance, so she might be a widow, or she might not. No one knows, not even Gwen Hughes, the housekeeper. Gwen lives on the premises and shes the one wholl be looking after you. Youll find her a bit taciturn at first, but shell be fine once she gets to know you.
Queenie didnt know what tacky-turn meant, but got the drift. She noticed houses were getting sparse again. They must be approaching the other end of town.
Here we are, Mrs Davies sang, drawing up outside a large, grim, grey stone residence with small windows draped with blackout. Behind the rickety fence, there was a small patch of grass, yellow and parched, and there was a name, not a number on the plain, wooden door: The Old School House.
They followed Mrs Davies through a gate at the side into a large expanse of more parched grass surrounded by a high, grey wall covered with ivy. A small woman was unpegging washing off a line strung between two trees bearing hundreds of apples.
Gwen, Mrs Davies called when the woman appeared not to notice their arrival.
Ive brought your evacuees.
The woman turned. Her face was as grey as the house and her hair was gathered in an untidy bun on top of her head. The escaping strands had stuck to her neck with the heat. She didnt look faintly pleased to see them, and approached, a mountain of clothes over her arm.
Mrs Merton was hoping wed only get one or two, she said in a dull voice.
Tell her shes lucky to only get three, Mrs Davies said brusquely. She clearly had no time for Mrs Merton.
It had been a relief when the coach had turned off the road and they began to pass places where people actually lived, only a few at first on each side of the road; bungalows and cottages and large houses in their own grounds, but getting closer together all the time, until they came to little streets running off the main road, groups of terraced houses, shops, a church, Caerdovey Town Hall, a garage, eventually stopping in a little sun-scorched square with a war memorial in the centre.
The first coach had got there before them and was empty, most of the children having already been taken to their billets. Only a few stragglers remained, clutching their parcels of clothes and looking pathetic and lost. One little boy had wet his pants and was bawling his head off. The newcomers were shown into a hall with a plaque over the door proclaiming it had been donated to the town by Councillor Wilfred Jones in 1928. They were given a welcome drink of lemonade and a fairy cake while a lady with a lovely sing-song voice read out their names.
Here, miss, Queenie called, when she came to Queenie Tate, Mary Monaghan and Hester Oliver.
Youre to go with Mrs Davies, dears, the woman said. Shell drive you to the Mertons house.
Mrs Davies came up. Her red face was streaked with perspiration and she smelled of mothballs. Isnt it hot? she gasped, but didnt wait for an answer, ushering them back outside into a little black car, like a box on wheels.
Queenie sat in the front; the girls, wide-eyed and plainly terrified by now, got in the back.
She was the district nurse, Mrs Davies explained when they set off, but had taken the day off to help with the evacuees, seeing as she had a car. The billets had been arranged weeks ago, Caerdovey was very well organised, she said proudly. Rather more children have turned up than expected, but Im sure well cope. Most people are only too willing to do their bit and take evacuees, but a few have had to be forcefully told where their duty lay, including Mrs Merton.
Mind you, shes not Welsh, she added, as if this explained everything.
It didnt bode well for the future, Queenie reckoned, if they were being placed with a woman who didnt want them.
You wont see much of her, Mrs Davies went on. She owns a pottery factory on the other side of Caerdovey and shes out most of the time. Mr Merton has never put in an appearance, so she might be a widow, or she might not. No one knows, not even Gwen Hughes, the housekeeper. Gwen lives on the premises and shes the one wholl be looking after you. Youll find her a bit taciturn at first, but shell be fine once she gets to know you.
Queenie didnt know what tacky-turn meant, but got the drift. She noticed houses were getting sparse again. They must be approaching the other end of town.
Here we are, Mrs Davies sang, drawing up outside a large, grim, grey stone residence with small windows draped with blackout. Behind the rickety fence, there was a small patch of grass, yellow and parched, and there was a name, not a number on the plain, wooden door: The Old School House.
They followed Mrs Davies through a gate at the side into a large expanse of more parched grass surrounded by a high, grey wall covered with ivy. A small woman was unpegging washing off a line strung between two trees bearing hundreds of apples.
Gwen, Mrs Davies called when the woman appeared not to notice their arrival.
Ive brought your evacuees.
The woman turned. Her face was as grey as the house and her hair was gathered in an untidy bun on top of her head. The escaping strands had stuck to her neck with the heat. She didnt look faintly pleased to see them, and approached, a mountain of clothes over her arm.
Mrs Merton was hoping wed only get one or two, she said in a dull voice.
Tell her shes lucky to only get three, Mrs Davies said brusquely. She clearly had no time for Mrs Merton.
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