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?” shesaid 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.
• 18 •
“A poor start”
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.
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?” shesaid 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.
• 18 •
“A poor start”
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.
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