The Sisters of Battle Road

by J. M. Maloney

  About the Book

  A tale of sisterhood and its unbreakable bonds in the shadow of the Second World War

  In 1939 Annie Jarman and her six young daughters were evacuated from their south London home and sent to the Sussex countryside to wait out the war. Refusing to be parted, they faced the unknown together, never imagining just how much their lives would change.

  From the trials and tribulations of leaving London, the destructive horror of the Blitz and terrible family tragedy to dances, romances and the triumph of making a new life in the country, The Sisters of Battle Road is the compelling true story of six ordinary girls in extraordinary circumstances.

  Today, Mary and Joan, Sheila, Kathleen, Patricia and Anne are six remarkable women who have lived to tell the tale.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Family Tree

  Prologue

   1  All or None

   2  Battle Road

   3  Fitting In

   4  The Telegram

   5  All for One

   6  Christmas Tear

   7  Dancing and Romancing

   8  War Bride

   9  D-Day, Doodlebugs … and Delivery

  10  Farewell, Hailsham

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This book can only really be dedicated to Mary, Joan, Sheila, Kath, Pat and Anne, whose story it is. But it is also for the grandparents I never knew, Pierce and Annie. Through their daughters I enjoyed discovering something about their lives. I feel a little closer to them now.

  Prologue

  Annie.

  ‘SHEILA!’

  A weak voice called out from one of the bedrooms at 18 Battle Road. Hearing the call, a girl ran towards it quickly. Squinting through the dim light in the sparsely furnished room, she could see her mother, Annie, lying on the bed.

  ‘Will you wash my hair for me, love, if you have time?’ Annie asked quietly. ‘I’d like to look half decent.’

  At eleven years old, Sheila was always happy to do anything she could to help her mother, and during this latest bout of crippling illness, which had seen Annie in and out of hospital and confined to bed for weeks, she was more eager than ever.

  Rushing back to the kitchen at the other end of the hallway, she boiled a pan of water on the stove, then poured it into a large tin jug. Carefully carrying it back to the bedroom, she set it down on the little wooden table next to Annie’s bed, before returning to the kitchen to grab two bowls from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer and a packet of Oxydol soap powder from under the sink.

  Wartime rationing and shortage of money meant they could no longer obtain the jar of soft soap that they once used to wash their hair. Now they had to look for alternative options. Sheila picked up the soap powder, which they used to clean their clothes, and shook some of it into the smaller of the two bowls. Adding a little water, she stirred it to form a paste.

  Gently helping to ease her mother up into a sitting position, she put a loving arm behind Annie’s narrow shoulders and adjusted the crumpled pillows. Standing at her side, she poured the warm water over Annie’s bent head, using the second bowl to catch the drops beneath. Then, she gently massaged the soap paste into her mother’s hair before rinsing it out. With a towel, she dried her thinning hair and combed it through tenderly.

  ‘Thanks, love,’ said Annie.

  Sheila looked at her mother with concern. ‘You will still be here when I come home from school, won’t you, Mummy?’ she asked.

  Annie smiled. ‘Of course. You’ll be home before I go.’

  That evening, the ambulance arrived as planned. With a sinking heart but a determined smile, a frail Annie said goodbye to her five youngest children as the ambulance men carried her out to their vehicle, destined for a hospital ward in faraway London. The eldest daughter, Mary, had not yet returned home from work. Joan, the next oldest, was in charge. She picked up their two-year-old sister, Anne, and, cradling her in her arms, traipsed back up the stairs, followed by her three younger sisters. Spotting them at the upstairs window, Annie raised her thin, pale arm to wave goodbye and each girl waved back sadly, their eyes brimming with tears.

  It was May 1941, the second year of country living for the six Jarman sisters, who had been evacuated from Bermondsey in South London to Hailsham in Sussex at the start of the Second World War. And everything was about to change.

  CHAPTER 1

  All or None

  The sisters of Abbey Street (from left to right) Mary, Joan, Sheila and Kath.

  ‘WE’RE STAYING TOGETHER, whatever happens,’ Annie Jarman told her six daughters. ‘I won’t let anyone split us up.’

  It had been a long and tiring day for the Jarman family. Just the day before, German troops had crossed the border into Poland, and any hope of avoiding war now seemed lost. Having invaded Austria and Czechoslovakia, and announced plans to increase his military and naval strength massively, Hitler’s influence and aggression as head of the Nazi party had continued to increase. The British Government had been discussing plans to move children from the cities and into safer parts of the countryside for years, should Germany start to bomb Britain, and now they were finally putting their grand evacuation scheme into place. And so it was that the Jarman sisters – Mary, fourteen; Joan, twelve; Sheila, nine; Kath, seven; Pat, five; and baby Anne – found themselves on a train with their mother, bound for Sussex, leaving behind the threat of the bombers but leaving their father too.

  As she had a child under the age of five, Annie was one of the few mothers allowed to be evacuated with her offspring. This gave her great comfort – she couldn’t imagine how less fortunate women were feeling – but at the same time she fretted that they might be split up when they reached their destination. They were, after all, a large family. Who would have space to take them all? Surely there was a limit to how kind and generous people could be? Her husband, Pierce, who tended to fret about his daughters’ wellbeing at the best of times, had been equally worried.

  ‘I don’t want them separated. You’ve got to stay with them, Annie,’ he’d said. ‘Promise me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not letting them out of my sight,’ she’d replied defiantly. ‘It’s all of us, or we come straight back home.’ It was typical fighting talk, but neither Annie nor Pierce could fully appreciate just how difficult things were going to be.

  On the morning of the evacuation, the Jarman household in Bermondsey’s Abbey Street – always a lively place – had been a hive of activity. Pierce had said his goodbyes early, hugging and kissing each of his daughters in turn in the hallway, before leaving for work as a meter collector at the London Electricity Board.

  ‘Be sure to help Mummy out as much as possible, won’t you, Mary?’ he’d said. ‘You, too, Joan,’ he added, turning towards his second oldest daughter. ‘And keep an eye on the younger ones.’

  Both girls smiled warmly at their father, assuring him that they would do as he asked. They were well used to chipping in with childcare and other domestic chores. They knew how much their mother depended on them, and they didn’t want to let their father down.

  Pierce, a tall, lean and pale-skinned man, took a deep breath, fighting back a swell of emotion. He smiled down at Sheila, looking pretty in her ringlets, as usual. While her sisters were excited about swapping London and their school for an adventure in the countryside, Sheila was adamant that she didn’t want to leave her home and friends in Bermondsey.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, Sheila,’ said Pierce reassuringly. ‘You’ll like the country
side. Plenty of quiet for you to enjoy your reading.’

  Sheila did her best to muster a little smile. ‘I want you to come with us,’ she said in a small voice. She would miss everyone but the prospect of being without her father almost broke her heart.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘And I want to be with you too, but I have to work. And I’ll be down every weekend.’

  Kath jiggled her way to the front as Sheila took a step back. ‘Will you be down this weekend, Dad?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘As soon as I know where you are.’ He paused. ‘Be a good girl, won’t you, Kath?’ Pierce was only too aware that Kath, the most tomboyish of his daughters, had a particular tendency to scuffle with other girls, and her stubborn nature was legendary within the family. ‘You too, Pat,’ he added, looking over to a smaller clone of Kath with the same full-fringed bob hairstyle, standing just behind her sister.

  Finally, Annie, holding baby Anne, stepped forward and Pierce kissed them both. ‘Take care,’ he said.

  ‘Bye, darling.’ Annie smiled. ‘Love you. I’ll write as soon as I can and let you know where we are.’

  They shared one final kiss, then, after taking his cap out of his pocket and fixing it firmly on his head, Pierce opened the front door. His family spilled out behind him as he walked onto the grey London street with a heavy heart. How odd it would feel coming home that evening. Instead of hearing their familiar chatter, his wife and daughters would all be gone. Quite where to, he did not know. Like all evacuees and their families, no one was really sure where they were going and the anxiety was palpable. He’d never been without them before and although the idea of evacuation was to make them safer, he felt keenly that he wouldn’t be in a position to protect them from danger. He’d never felt so helpless in his life.

  At the end of the street, he turned and gave a final wave to his loved ones milling on the pavement outside the front door. Then he rounded the corner and felt more alone than ever before.

  Living in a house full of females was not always easy for Pierce, who needed to escape some evenings, money permitting, to the sanctuary of the local pub for a pint and perhaps a game of darts or shove ha’penny – a simple pastime played on a wooden board in which coins would be knocked forward to score points. Nevertheless, he was still very much a family man and always looked forward to returning home after a long day at work emptying coin meters that supplied electricity in Bermondsey. But now he wondered how he would cope.

  Pierce quickened his pace as he walked past grey-brick houses, determined not to keep thinking so negatively and nodding at various familiar men in flat caps also making their way to work. Besides, he wouldn’t be on his own entirely. The family shared the house with Annie’s parents, who had the ground floor, and his three sisters lived just a few streets away. They had always been very protective of their brother and reassured him that they would look after him now, cook for him and do his washing, and he could stay with them whenever he wanted.

  Pierce might have been feeling melancholy on his journey to work but back at the house there was simply no time for such thoughts. After her husband had left, Annie put her mind once more to the job of organizing six children. Their belongings had to be packed into bags and there was a crying baby to settle. The stress and heightened emotion were taking their toll but there was no time to waste. Although she had laid out clothes the night before, last-minute additions, such as soap and toothbrushes, needed to be added.

  They’d been told that each child could take a suitcase but Annie and Pierce didn’t have the money to buy such items for their girls. So, like many other evacuees with limited means, the Jarmans improvised: they packed up their belongings in school satchels, carrier bags and brown paper packages tied up with string. They looked like a ragtag mob, thought Annie, but needs must. Most people were in the same boat.

  The Government had provided guidelines of what to pack and Annie kept referring to the leaflet, checking and double-checking that she had not forgotten anything. They hoped they wouldn’t be gone long – no one could believe a war was really coming – but there was always a chance that they wouldn’t see home again for a long time. For girls, the list included dresses, blouses, underwear, cardigans and handkerchiefs, along with toiletries and something to eat on the journey, such as a sandwich, an apple and some biscuits, and a drink. It was vitally important not to forget the gas masks – which could hang around the girls’ necks – and their identity cards, which Annie pinned carefully to their coats. There would be a lot of people travelling; it would be a disaster to get lost.

  Four schools from Bermondsey were set to travel together, assembling at Pages Walk School before walking the ten minutes to London Bridge station where they would board a train to take them away to the countryside. Now, with time seeming to fly and despite her careful planning, Annie was panicking that they would never be ready in time and would miss the train.

  ‘Girls! Keep the noise down!’ she shouted as she tried to cram a final few favourite possessions – a framed family photograph and her perfume bottle – into her battered old brown case.

  ‘Mum, have you seen my flannel?’

  Annie, her temper rising, turned to Kath. ‘Have you washed this morning?’ she asked.

  Kath nodded.

  ‘Well, for goodness’ sake, Kath, it will be where you left it.’

  ‘I can’t see it,’ said Kath.

  ‘Well, have another look!’

  As Kath walked off, Annie called after her, ‘And make sure your hands are scrubbed extra clean! Nobody’s going to take in dirty children.’

  Of all her daughters, Kath was the one most likely to come home with grubby hands, grazed knees and dishevelled hair, and her younger sister, Pat, was showing signs of following in her footsteps. Annie had often marvelled at how different her daughters were. In stark contrast to Kath and Pat, Sheila was much more feminine in nature and looked forward to having her hair put into trailing ringlets by her mother every morning before she left for school. And while Joan was practical and sensible, Mary had a more carefree nature, which made her quite accident-prone. Two years previously, in the school Christmas production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, she had fallen off the stage whilst dressed as Dopey – she had wanted to be Snow White – and Annie hadn’t forgotten the sight of her clambering back up onto the stage, her wire ears all bent out of shape, whilst the audience howled with laughter.

  So when Annie – in the process of sitting on her bulging suitcase and doing up the clasps – heard a tumbling noise on the stairs, she knew instinctively who it was. Rushing out of her bedroom, she saw Mary on her backside at the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘I slipped,’ said Mary, slowly getting to her feet. ‘I didn’t want to miss the train.’

  ‘If you break your neck, then we won’t be able to go at all,’ her mother retorted.

  Somehow they all managed to get their bags packed and make it to the front door, where everyone waited while Annie did a last-minute check that they had everything they needed. Annie’s parents, Tom and Catherine (known to her friends as Kate), stood in their customary formal fashion as each child took their turn to give them a peck on the cheek and a rather awkward little hug. Annie gave them both a kiss and an embrace herself, and felt a lump in her throat.

  ‘You take care,’ said Kate, who, like her husband, felt it was not the thing to show too much emotion. With that, Annie and her girls trundled outside and set off on foot to Pages Walk School, off the Old Kent Road, and the beginning of a new life.

  In the school playground, as more and more families arrived, the noise became almost unbearably loud. Anxious mums shared their concerns with each other and excitable children chatted and played. Teachers, local authority officials and volunteer marshals attempted to keep order whilst names were checked off the list. It was no easy task in the tumult, but somehow they managed it.

  A long centipede of children and attendant adults eventually began to snake i
ts way through the streets of Bermondsey, along to Grange Road, before crossing Tower Bridge Road, where they could see the famous old bridge looming in the distance. Intermittent calls from the adult supervisors of ‘Keep together!’ and ‘Hurry along!’ were heard along the way as the procession then headed up Bermondsey Street to London Bridge station. Some of the youngsters were smiling and laughing as if off on a summer holiday – there were certainly plenty who had never left London before – while others were in a quieter, more sombre mood, aware that this extraordinary event was a very serious matter.

  Emotions ran even higher once the children started to board the waiting train and gave their tearful parents one last farewell hug, neither knowing what the future held. Many mothers, unable to contain themselves, wept openly and some of the children broke down, too. The Jarman girls chatted excitedly, though – they were, after all, amongst the lucky ones who didn’t have to face the trauma of having to leave their mother behind.

  In the weeks leading up to evacuation, government posters had been plastered all over London proclaiming the likes of ‘Children are safer in the country. Leave them there’ and ‘Mothers. Send them out of London. Give them a chance of greater safety and health’. Nevertheless, with their children’s tear-stained faces pressed to the windows as the train started to chug away from the platform, some parents doubted whether they had made the right decision.

  As the train made its way out of London into a greener environment, the babble of chatter increased. The acres of fields were an eye-opener for many who had never been away from home before, and the sight of cows, sheep and horses caused much pointing, gasping and giggling. With a few countryside trips under their belt, the Jarman sisters felt much more worldly wise, even if the trips had mostly been for recuperation purposes.

  The health benefits of clean, rural air, in contrast to the smoggy pollution of London, had long been advocated by health officials. When she was younger, Mary had contracted a bad case of bronchitis every year and, at the age of seven, had been sent to a charitable convalescent home in Dover, run by Catholic nuns. There, she and other children would attend mass every day, and sleep in long dormitories at night and outside on camp beds in the fresh air during fine days.