A Chelsea Concerto

by Frances Faviell

  My young friend, Sally Clapcott, whose father had been Mayor of Chelsea, had recently married a young officer. They had exactly three days together before he had to join the BEF. On the last day I had met them – scarcely more than children walking hand-in-hand round and round Sloane Square. They couldn’t bear to say good-bye. I had seldom seen anything more moving than these two young people, recently so radiant at their marriage, now white and tense with the anguish of parting. I thought how lucky it was that the man I was going to marry was still in England.

  On June 1st the newspapers had photographs of the BEF arriving back from the battlefields and with them were a number of French troops. But in families with a son, husband, or fiancé there was still unbearable suspense wondering if he would be amongst those coming back. Fresh batches of civilian refugees were arriving with the troops, and once more I was summoned to Dover to help with the Flemish- and Dutch-speaking ones.

  This time the port presented an amazing scene. The harbour itself was so thick with ships that it would have been possible to walk across it passing from one vessel to another. The place was one seething mass of khaki. Troops were lying about utterly exhausted all over the place. The platforms on the station were a mass of sleeping khaki bodies which did not stir when the officials stepped over them. There were some French troops with them but they did not lie down or sleep. Tense and alert, they stood and watched the sky. The mass of ships in the harbour was a wonderful sight but an even more wonderful target. The civilians, many of whom had been wounded by bullets and shells, had only one idea – to get under shelter. They found it agonizing to have to stand at all in the open. Our own troops were so tired that they just slept anywhere, with no emotion except sheer exhaustion visible on their faces, turned up to the sky watched so fearfully by the foreigners.

  I worked for a long gruelling day until relieved by another Flemish-speaking nurse late next evening, and this time the misery and wretchedness of displaced humanity was one of sheer stark horror. And yet I could not look at all the grey tired faces of our own troops without intense wonder and gratitude that they were home – that with the horror of bombing and machine-gunning which had accompanied them – the RAF covering them and fighting for their protection all the way – it was surely nothing short of a miracle that such numbers were safe on their own shores. The troops had learned not to talk – not so the civilians. They poured into our ears tales of Dorniers, Messerschmitts, and Heinkels attacking them and of hundreds of them being shot down into the sea by the RAF. And not all of our boys came home.

  After my return to London Mary rang me up excitedly to say that she had heard from Garth and that he was in England and would soon be home. He had been torpedoed but was all right; his letter had been written in Plymouth.

  Three days later Garth Underwood [now Professor of Biology at University College of the West Indies, Jamaica] walked into my studio. Gaunt and pale, he was otherwise unchanged. To me he was still the growing schoolboy who had so often, with his sister, Jean, spent Saturday afternoons and Sundays in the studio and played games with me and eaten quantities of buns.

  Sitting, as he always did, almost astride rather than in a chair and munching the buns of which he was so fond, he told a terrible story of his experiences in getting out of France. He looked so young that in spite of his uniform it was difficult to believe that he was actually back from the horrors of war.

  After a terrible journey from Brittany Garth’s unit had reached the Lancastria, which was taking on the thousands of troops in the bay of St Nazaire, when a Heinkel had dropped four bombs on the ship. One bomb went down the funnel of the ship and blew the whistle, another had exploded in the bowels and caused a panic. There were over 5,000 troops on board and only 2,000 life jackets. The story of the ensuing stampede and sickening lack of any discipline or authority was one of the most appalling things to which I had ever listened.

  Garth could swim, but not well, and he managed to reach a minesweeper which was about a mile away. There were any number of vessels in the bay but none of them appeared to be picking up survivors from the Lancastria, which, listing to starboard, was rapidly sinking with her decks overflowing with troops, many of whom could not swim. ‘It was a lovely, still, sunny day which made the whole thing seem more unreal. As, at last, I approached the minesweeper the stern of the Lancastria disappeared and it seemed as if the ship had touched the bottom and rolled over on her side. She was still crowded with men – as many as could were still standing and they were singing “Roll Out the Barrel”. As the waves came up they washed off the remaining men – there was as yet no indication of any boats being sent to pick up the survivors – and all those who could swim were making for various transports in the bay.’ He told me the whole episode in detail and I wrote it down then and there. It is a terrible story and reflects little credit on those in authority.

  Garth was a student of biology and had the scientist’s eye for detailed fact so that he had missed nothing. He was interested in facts, not emotion – and even when facing death he had noticed all the little fish stunned by the explosion, and later when his transport was finally reaching Plymouth he had remembered that amphioxis were found off the Eddystone! Delivered in his flat, boyish way his appalling story made such an impact on me that for days I could think of nothing else but his last vision of the doomed Lancastria going down crowded with all those young troops standing on the listing deck still singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ until the waves swept them off.

  At this same time Sally’s young husband returned after having suffered horrible experiences when his ship had been torpedoed. More horrible to us was the knowledge that both these young men like thousands of others would have to return to their diminished units, and would undoubtedly be sent overseas again.

  In Chelsea, apart from the food shortage, the black-out, the barbed wire everywhere, the sand-bags and the shelters, life did not appear, at least on the surface, to have changed very much. I sent Garth’s story, as he had told it to me, to my mother in Plymouth. He had particularly praised the kindness of the Plymouth people who had received the half-naked survivors with wonderful warmness and generosity. When later it was announced that four-fifths of the BEF had been saved all I could think of was those young men on the Lancastria. I couldn’t bear to hear ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ pounding out from the pubs and clubs at night.

  During the anguished week-end of Dunkirk thousands of school-children were registered in Greater London for evacuation. The figure was something like 611,772. Thousands who had been evacuated at the outbreak of war had drifted back to London again. There had been no air raids, they had grown homesick and their parents longed for them and so they had unobtrusively returned. The Admiralty announced that 228 British naval vessels and 625 other craft took part in the withdrawal of the troops from Dunkirk, that 6 destroyers and 24 minor war vessels were lost, and that more than 335,000 men had been brought home from Dunkirk by June 5th. But The Times, a few days later, had long lists of missing officers in the casualty notices. In the afternoon of Sunday the 9th, when walking along the Embankment with my fiancé, Richard, and Anne, a fireman of the River Fire Brigade whom I knew from ARP practices shouted to me…‘Some of them will be coming along soon, we’re going to give them a rousing cheer.’

  ‘Who?’ I shouted back.

  ‘The little boats,’ he replied, ‘and one of our fireboats is due back too.’ The news had spread, for when we hurried along to Westminster Bridge a large crowd had gathered. And almost at once they came, those little dirty battered boats I’d seen like shrimps in Dover Harbour, their paint scraped and marked, and all down the river the river stations of the Fire Brigade gave them a tremendous cheer, as did the crowds gathered on all the bridges.

  They came in little groups of two or three, led by a tug with eighteen motor launches in tow, a lovely brave sight. Even now it brings a choking sensation when I think how I’d seen them there exposed to the peril of air attack in that crowded Dover Harbour
and then saw this unobtrusive, unheralded return to their own moorings after the dangers they had faced to bring our boys safely home. I said as much to Tom Baynes, whom I saw in Chelsea Reach cleaning up his boat next day. ‘What d’you expect?’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Can’t hang out the flags till the war’s over. Like the boys, we didn’t want cheers – all we wanted was to slip away home and sleep.’

  Chapter Seven

  JUNE, usually the loveliest and gayest month of the summer, having begun grimly with Dunkirk, was to prove a fateful one this year. The evacuation of children went on again for six days. The stations were full of those same train-loads of young laughing or weeping faces being seen off with a gallant flutter of waving hands and handkerchiefs. But this time good-byes were more painful. Events had cast their shadows and many parents who had scoffed before were now apprehensive as to how far the onslaught of the Nazi armies would take them. If France gave in would they reach England? But it was unthinkable that France would not beat the Germans, hadn’t she beaten them and driven them out of France in the last war? Hadn’t she always been a strong military-minded nation?

  The arrival of King Haakon of Norway with Crown Prince Olaf and the Norwegian Government as refugees did not dispel this fear. In the FAP argument and conflict of opinion would break out whenever we had nothing to do. We were all young and gave voice wildly about the rights and wrongs of nations and sometimes tempers got high. One of our sisters-in-charge was married to a Fascist, and her views, although absolutely loyal, were more tolerant and differed from some of ours. Our two Commandants, Betty and Ruth, would sometimes intervene and put an end to our disputes by giving us some task to do or test us on nursing and first-aid points. Dr Graham Kerr, young and keen, was giving us an intensive course of lectures on both nursing and first aid, and a gas course had to be attended at Carlyle Square. Almost everyone at the FAP had a fiancé, husband, brother, or boy-friend who had been immediately affected by the call-up. The Mobile Squads were formed of older and more experienced nurses. We had all chafed under the long delay and I was envied for my chance of working for the refugees. I was not so sure about this myself. At the quiet FAP there had been plenty of time for drawing and reading. Most of the girls knitted – but I did this very badly and preferred to draw. Now I found that there was never any time for anything except trying to alleviate the misery of the refugees by attempting to find some of the things they most needed. I was on my feet all day and no matter what I managed to produce it was never right. They were exacting – and any idea I had had that those to whom one gave were grateful was soon dissipated.

  The houses allotted to the different families were sparsely furnished from bits and pieces given by those who didn’t want them. They had a bareness and a grimness which chilled. Having been in many Flemish and Dutch houses and knowing their love of making them cosy with lace curtains, bright pictures, plants, and many ornaments, I went round collecting such objects from my friends. It was astonishing what ‘horrors’ they discovered in their attics and junk cupboards. China dogs, animals, flower pots painted in bright colours, old prints, Victorian pictures long thrust away, all of them, and yards of old-fashioned lace curtains, I seized on joyfully and took them to the bare houses for which I was responsible. I saw that the first urgent need was for those who spoke only Flemish – and there were many – to learn some English. Many English people speak French – but few Flemish. As the Government hoped that the men and many of the women refugees would soon be absorbed in the war drive for munitions it was imperative that they knew the rudiments of English.

  Margerie Scott, who could always find everything, provided a blackboard and I found my facility for drawing extremely useful in the first lessons for adults – both men and women of all ages. They learned with difficulty – many of them could scarcely read and write in their own language, not because they had never learned how but because most of them were fisherfolk and they had had little need to do so. The children were another matter, they learned extraordinarily easily. I promised that the first child who could say a whole English sentence correctly to me, could come to the studio to tea. With them Vicki was a great favourite and the studio a tremendous attraction. I had taught her to stand upright on her hind legs and raise one paw in the Nazi salute when ordered to Heil Hitler and then to fall backwards motionless when ordered to ‘Die for England’. She was quite famous for this performance which she much enjoyed giving and for which she received a piece of chocolate. One afternoon soon after this promise I returned home from the FAP to find almost the whole children’s class waiting in the studio for the promised tea. Mrs Freeth had, as she told me, taken them at their word and let them all in. With much foresight she had run across the road to Mr Ferebee and bought some biscuits and a large cake. I tested the visitors out as to the sentence, all had a short one absolutely pat, except one small, shy child of eight. She was tongue-tied. ‘Send her home. She doesn’t know a sentence, Marraine. Send her home!’ they shouted with the cruelty of childhood, but Mrs Freeth, who had been watching and listening, whispered to her to say after her, ‘I love Vicki’, and this she did, her small face scarlet with shyness and with Victoria clutched in her arms.

  Mrs Freeth, who had never been outside England and who was in fact a real Cockney, soon proved that language is no barrier to friendship, nor is knowledge of other countries necessary in helping foreigners. She was quickly at home with all the families and knew their names, ages, and characters far better than I did. Whenever they came – and they always came – and rang the bell of my home Mrs Freeth dealt magnificently with them. If it was some household thing which they wanted to borrow she would take them into the kitchen and they could point to what they needed. When, however, it was a more personal matter – and they arrived in floods of noisy tears – she would give them a cup of tea and settle them in a chair or doing some small job with her until I arrived.

  They had to be escorted to obtain identity cards and ration books and some of them to the police station for a kind of screening where an officer of the CID had to interrogate the men in particular. I was surprised at the patience and niceness of everyone at the police station, and at the apprehension of the refugees at even having to enter any place connected with the police. We sometimes had a good laugh when reading over the documents made in answer to questions put to them through me.

  ‘Married?’ asked the police officer to the man who had arrived alone. ‘Yes, I see you are married. Is your wife here in England?’

  ‘No,’ with a vigorous shake of the head. ‘She got left behind.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the officer, writing busily. ‘That’s a pity for you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the man simply. ‘She had served her purpose. I can get a new one here.’

  ‘Did she refuse to come with you then?’

  Another vigorous shake of the head. ‘No. I took good care not to give her the opportunity.’

  One woman who was asked where her husband was, said furiously, ‘How should I know? On the night we were to embark he must go off to the Café du Port to say good-bye to some floozie – well, I hope he’s still saying good-bye to her – under the Germans! The dirty pig!’

  Others who had been torn apart through no fault of theirs but by the ravages of war were suffering intense anguish, without news, or hope of any news of their loved ones. The tact and patience shown by the interrogating officers struck me as wonderful. They were quite young – and both of them expected to be called up very shortly. The older men would have to carry on – as they would in every profession and walk of life.

  Almost all the refugees were suffering from some complaint and it was my job to take them to the out-patients’ department of St Luke’s Hospital. There was one middle-aged woman who came to tell me that she simply could not resist stealing from shops. A perfectly respectable married woman, her two sons and husband had escaped with her. ‘I see something – a garment, a tea-spoon, a piece of china – and I must have it just as I had to have a
rtichokes when I was expecting my sons. Yes, both times it was artichokes – and out of season too.’ Shortly after telling me this she was in a chain store and saw a small saucepan. The urge came over her so strongly that she picked it up – then she turned round and bolted – and came to me. ‘Marraine, you must take me to a doctor,’ she begged.

  I took her to St Luke’s to a young and brilliant doctor there who was already interested in the refugees. He listened to my story with enjoyment. ‘She needs psychiatric treatment probably,’ he said laughing, ‘but we just can’t deal with it now in war-time. We’re too short staffed everywhere. Tell her that I’ll give her some pills – and that whenever she has this urge she is to think of prison and to take one. She is to carry them in her bag always.’ Madame C was delighted. Some time later when I was again in the hospital with another batch of sufferers the young doctor asked me how the would-be shoplifter was. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘she says your pills are wonderful. She hasn’t lifted a thing. She takes a pill and it works like a miracle. The police would like to know what those pills are, they know plenty of people who need them.’

  ‘They’re aspirin,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s more likely the thought of prison that does the trick.’

  ‘No,’ I assured him. ‘It’s the pills – she’s convinced of it.’

  The refugees ate in a canteen in the basement of a house in St Leonard’s Terrace. Their rations were pooled and the women took it in strict rota to cook the midday-meal. This led to trouble very often. Some of the women were better at cooking than others and the men would grumble and say that they couldn’t eat the food. One elderly and remarkable woman, who had come alone, had undertaken to do the cooking for them all as she was too old for war work. Her name was Seraphine and she had a striking personality and could make any grumblers literally shake with fear. She had some extraordinary power over others. A number of the ladies on the the committee had undertaken to help the refugee wives in buying food and arranging the menus. Suzanne, who was wonderfully practical, and accustomed to running a large household economically, was kept very busy with the constant problems arising from this communal cooking and eating.