A Chelsea Concerto

by Frances Faviell

  One of the Belgian refugees who had arrived alone without any family was a young girl, Catherine. She was almost nineteen, and very pretty, but looked pinched and worried. Her identity papers stated that she had been employed as a domestic help in Brussels and several of the ladies on the committee were eager to have her in their Chelsea households.

  When I questioned Catherine as to whether she would like to do this, she was curiously reluctant to agree. She began to cry and said: ‘I am going to have a child – can’t you see it?’

  Now that she told me it was obvious.

  With patience I got her story out of her. An orphan, she had lived since childhood with an old aunt in Brussels, and had worked since she had left school in the household of a well-to-do shop-keeper in Brussels. She seemed to me to have worked long hours for very little money, and to have had little time for pleasure or enjoying herself. When she was eighteen she had met and fallen in love with a young mechanic who worked at a garage near the shop. They planned to marry when she was nineteen, before which age her aunt considered her too young. When the Germans invaded Belgium her fiancé had been called up immediately. He had wanted to marry her before he left for the Front so they went to the Burgomaster but Catherine could not produce her birth certificate and she could not marry without it. She had been born in England during the 1914-18 war when her mother had been a refugee just as Catherine was now. The Burgomaster had written at once to the town of her birth, but before the certificate had arrived her fiancé had been sent to the Front and in the sudden calamitous events she had no idea where he was. When the German troops were advancing on Brussels she had gone one morning to her employer’s shop as usual, to find it closed, shuttered, and deserted. A note on the door said, ‘Catherine, Gone to the country – advise you do the same.’

  She went back to her old aunt. ‘Go to the coast,’ said the old woman, ‘there are thousands tracking for the ports. Make for England. Your parents went there in 1914, and you were born there. If you stay here the Germans will see from your identity papers that you were born in England – and you will suffer for it. Go quickly – I shall be quite all right.’

  She had helped the old woman to bury everything which she had valued deep in the garden, and to put other things up in the loft before she left.

  She soon fell in with a great stream of people fleeing with their carts and bundles for Ostend, and amongst them she found a school friend, Mathilde. The two girls kept together during the whole nightmare journey. They were machine-gunned, dive-bombed, they hid in ditches and hedges when the German planes came remorselessly at them. Many of the families in the great flow had small children and they hampered both the parents and the others. Bombs fell constantly, killing whole families, and machine-gun bullets injured many of them. But the stream of humanity went on like a great caterpillar to the coast. I asked what they had done with the dead and injured. Catherine looked blank. ‘What could we do?’ she said, in surprise. ‘We just left them there.’

  She had felt sick and ill from her pregnancy and although she was sturdy she felt again and again that she could go no further, but her friend Mathilde urged and encouraged her on. Just before they reached Ostend and the ships were already in sight a bomb fell right in the ditch into which they had flung themselves when a Heinkel dived low. When the cloud of dust and smoke had cleared she saw that Mathilde was dead. ‘She just lay there – without a head,’ Catherine finished dispassionately.

  There had been British troops embarking at Ostend as well as a great mass of Belgian trawlers and fishing boats. None of the Belgian boats would take her – they had all their own friends and families. A British boat on which troops were embarking took her and several women with her, after warning them that they stood a greater chance of being torpedoed, bombed, or machine-gunned because of the troops on board. They did not care – they were past caring now and accepted gratefully. Just as they were leaving harbour a Heinkel dived and released two bombs and one of them hit their ship. Catherine found herself in the water and clung to a piece of wreckage until she was rescued by a small fishing boat. Several British soldiers were picked up by the same little craft, the owner of which did a splendid job hauling survivors of the British ship on board in spite of the constant bombing going on all around. They got away safely although pursued for some way by German planes. ‘Then,’ finished Catherine, ‘the RAF chased them back and lots of them fell blazing into the sea, and it was getting dark and we made for Dover and the WVS gave us cups of tea.’

  She said wryly that she had hoped that the explosion which hurled her into the water would have lost her the baby – but no, it was still very much there and would be born illegitimate. She was extraordinarily sensitive about this. As several girls I knew were in the same condition and seemed to accept it as part of the war effort this was surprising. ‘In Belgium,’ she said, crying again, ‘they write bastarde on the birth certificate.’ I couldn’t believe this, and assured her that in Britain we did no such thing and that in any case her baby would be British as she was. I said I would write at once for her birth certificate and this I did.

  Next day I took her to a pre-natal clinic where they said that apart from anaemia she was in good health which, after all she had been through, was encouraging. The baby would be born early in October. Catherine was somewhat reassured by my promising to look after her and I got her transferred from the house where The Giant and his wife were, to one of the other houses for which I was responsible. Here there was a very kind woman, with her husband and two children, who would, I knew, be good to Catherine because I had told her the girl’s story, Madame R being one of the very nicest of the refugees.

  I felt sorry for all these Belgian children with no schools to attend. All London schools were now closed, and except for the English lessons which I was giving them, they were learning nothing. Later they would have to have some kind of schooling. The Lyçée Français was willing to take some of them, but it had evacuated to the north.

  King Leopold had not followed his Government to London but was said to be living in complete seclusion at his palace at Laeken with his mother, Queen Elizabeth, while his three children were in France. The refugees still discussed him violently and some of them seemed unable to believe anything good of him, or to give him the benefit of the doubt as to whether or not his intentions were honourable.

  The Giant, having got it into his head that he would have a better chance of being allowed to fish with the British Fishing Fleet if he could speak English, set his whole heart on learning it, and his unfortunate wife had to listen to his homework all day and hear him repeat it. Their little daughter corrected them constantly. When I asked The Giant why he was so violently anti-Leopold he seemed nonplussed. ‘Are you a Communist?’ I asked him. His great swarthy face went dark red. ‘Me?’ he shouted, beating his great chest in the blue jersey in which he had arrived and which he always wore. ‘Me? A Communist? That’s funny, that is! I may grumble at Leopold because he killed his wife by driving too fast – a lovely woman and a good one – but just let anyone attack him and I’d fight for him.’ I forbore to point out that his King had been attacked and that far from fighting for him The Giant had fled.

  He had, however, become one of the most diligent in the English class. I had managed to get his wife some wool to knit him another jersey. We had nothing large enough for him amongst the clothing at Crosby Hall and his blue fisherman’s one needed a wash. She could be seen now with her knitting needles under her arm in the continental fashion and a piece of The Giant’s enormous jersey in the making. He was inordinately vain about his size and despised the smaller men, amongst whom he stood out like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputs.

  Chapter Ten

  MY SISTER in Weymouth was the first member of my family to experience an air raid and her account of the heavy attacks on Portland and Weymouth on August 11th was vivid and frightening. She was working in a munition factory there and described the raid as a terrifying experience. Sixty
German planes had been shot down and twenty-six of our fighter planes were missing. My sister, however, seemed stimulated rather than frightened herself. Small and frail, she had always been fearless and nothing ever daunted her, two qualities which I envied her.

  She described the work of the Civil Defence and Fire Services as magnificent. There had been a lot of casualties, she said, but no one knew how many. This was a subject on which we were to be kept in ignorance all through the war. For reasons of censorship the names of places bombed were never disclosed nor were the number of casualties until some time after the event.

  Refugees had been arriving from Malta, and we VADs were now sent in pairs on duty to some of the hostels where they were living in communities. Far less stolid and sensible than the Belgians, they were rather temperamental, although charming. They were not easy to help or advise, but I found them fascinating as types and some of the children would have made lovely models. All were indignant at having been evacuated from their homes and sent to London, and it was useless trying to explain that it was unavoidable as Malta had to be defended at all costs.

  By the middle of August I was very tired. London was hot, dirty, and airless. The sand blew about from bursting sandbags, and the streets did not get the same cleaning as they once had. The deserted houses with dirty windows or shuttered ones were depressing. I suddenly felt that I couldn’t face one more refugee or listen to one more complaint, and I was depressed as three leading hospitals had rejected me for general training on medical grounds.

  I went to Plymouth to visit my mother for a long weekend. The journey down was appalling. The train was absolutely packed with troops and naval ratings and so crowded that the corridors were impassable. There were a great many parents going to visit children evacuated to the west.

  War-time Plymouth was very different from the town as I had last seen it. The Hoe, from which one looks out at that lovely bay with its landmarks of Mount Edgcumbe and the Breakwater, was full of barbed wire entanglements and whole areas of it were forbidden to the public. Sand-bags were everywhere, and at night it was strangely alien without any lights. The town was full of troops and naval ratings, WRNS and ATS. My mother’s friends were all in the WVS or in the Red Cross. She was annoyed that she was too lame to do much herself except knit for a number of organizations and attend weekly sewing parties. I spent most of my time on Dartmoor where we had lived before my father had died. The moors looked the same – ageless and unchanging, with the bare bones of the earth showing through those parts where the heather and undergrowth was sparse. There appeared to be a good deal of building being done – they were making an aerodrome and various army dumps, but these could not make any appreciable difference to that vast expanse of landscape. I did some long walks, enjoying the grandeur and silence of Dartmoor. Usually, unless you get off the moor itself and descend into the small villages and hollows where the farms huddle in surprising lushness after the bleakness of the moor above them, you can walk all day and never meet a soul except the herds of Dartmoor ponies. But now, in August, I met members of the Mounted Home Guard, former followers of the Mid-Devon Hunt patrolling the moors. They looked splendid on their mounts silhouetted against the sky-line as they scanned the horizon for parachutists and anything of a suspicious nature.

  From one of the farms, as I passed, I heard shrill Cockney voices and the soft Devonshire-cream voice of a woman remonstrating with them, and saw a group of London children who had been received as evacuees by the farmer and his wife. It was extraordinary to hear that familiar Cockney slang out there in the wilds of Dartmoor. I asked the woman how it was working out for we had been hearing of the troubles of those evacuated and those who had to receive them, often against their will. The farmer’s wife, a plump, pink-cheeked woman, said bluntly that ‘they be terrible ignorant – don’t know a pig from a sheep’, but that they were settling down and learning and the boys were helping her husband. She loved them in spite of the extra work they caused her. I asked the three boys how they liked Dartmoor after London. Without exception they replied that they liked it fine. The two little girls were silent. They missed the shops, said the boys scornfully. They actually came from Chelsea! I promised to visit their parents when I returned there and tell them that their children were well and happy. The journey back to London was far less irksome than the one down – people were not travelling into London, they were travelling out of it.

  On my return I found that there was a lot of trouble again with the refugees over the food in the canteen, Seraphine having failed to satisfy them. A new rota was made out and was to be strictly adhered to with two women cooking each week, and in this way every man would get some of his own wife’s cooking as well as that of others. Suzanne sorted this all out as she overcame many other difficulties, for the French-speaking refugees were just as full of complaints if less pugnacious than Flemish ones, and some of their problems were more complicated, and consisted of quite delicate points of propriety which Suzanne received with commendable solemnity.

  Catherine, who had been spending most of her time with Mrs Freeth, was relieved to see me back again.

  When I got back she was in the kitchen helping Mrs Freeth to cut up a rabbit. She had put it on a board and was attacking it with a chopper. The expression on her face was so vicious that I asked her why she did it. ‘She asked to do it – she likes it,’ explained Mrs Freeth. ‘I pretend that this rabbit is Hitler – and this is what I’d like to do to him!’ said Catherine, bringing the chopper down on the revolting mess on the board. For a prospective mother this was pretty horrible – but remembering what she had been through owing to Hitler’s march on Belgium I didn’t say anything but just went away and was violently sick. I have always jibbed at eating rabbit – partly because they are so charming and partly because my father considered them vermin. After that exhibition by Catherine I could not swallow a morsel of rabbit even when food became terribly scarce later in the war. It was already becoming more so daily.

  And now we had Canadians in Chelsea, and the billeting officer came to every house and flat to ask householders to billet one or two. It was difficult to find billets for them because so many people had gone away. I agreed to put one up in the small spare room or on the divan in the studio, but explained that I was getting married soon and would not have much room then. It was settled that one should come temporarily in the small room. Kathleen had also taken one in Penty’s room as Penty was still in the country. Kathleen, worried about her own future with work falling off in the Disabled Men’s Workshops, had rented the ground floor of the house opposite where Elliot Hodgkin had his studio, and was turning it into a small shop – a sort of boutique. She had a flair for dress – and knew how to put on her clothes and how others should put on theirs. She had found a very clever cutter and was starting up on her own. She began to get orders quite quickly for she had a wide circle of friends and there was a real need for such an establishment in the neighbourhood.

  I was doing four-hours shifts at the FAP now that many VADs were away on holiday, and frequently Kathleen and I would lunch together. The Canadians ate at midday in their mess but we provided their breakfast and evening meals. The young man allotted to me was really an American who had volunteered with the Royal Canadian Army Service Corps. He was a delightful person, enormous in stature but rather shy, gentle, and detached. His home was in St Louis and he was lonely, as they all were in a strange land without friends or relatives. We all wanted to show them that we were grateful for their having volunteered to come to our aid, and Mrs Freeth and I adopted Larry immediately as one of the family.

  He was soon accompanying me on my rounds to the refugees, and in a very short time produced chocolates and sweets for the children. He spoiled them thoroughly, and was delightful with them. We went on some exciting shopping expeditions taking all the children with us in turn, so that they could choose their own toys. He loved children and was at his best with them.

  Kathleen’s billetee, also in the
Royal Canadian Army Service Corps, was even larger in build. He was about six foot five. My young American liked to be called Larry, simply that. His surname was Lawrence and he did not care for his Christian name. Kathleen’s billetee, Cecil Stainton, was also rather shy. He walked with the easy lope of the hunter, and before he joined up had been a trapper in Hudson Bay. There was something very refreshing about both these men, and I liked them.

  Margerie Scott’s broadcasts and letters to friends in Canada had brought a batch of parcels for the refugees. Lovely parcels, thoughtfully and beautifully chosen. Blankets, soft and fluffy, not old and threadbare as were those given by householders when they were turning out. There were jerseys, coats, socks, and shoes, all of the very best quality, every kind of garment, and in the pockets were bars of chocolate and sweets, and every small toilet article which a refugee could need. Naturally they caused trouble as well as delight. Those with old coats resented others having new ones, and arrived at the Town Hall asking permission for the old things to be changed for new. New lamps for old, we called this transaction! But parcel followed parcel, and packing cases followed them, a continuous stream from the generous Canadian people to the refugees of Chelsea so that soon everyone had something new.

  The long pause was over. There had been enemy air activity in the country for some months, especially on coastal towns, and at the end of July the enemy made a large-scale attack on Dover, sending waves of fighters into the terrific aerial battle which developed. Seventeen German planes were destroyed in thirty minutes, so fierce was the fight. It was said that the Germans had used Red Cross planes for reconnaissance before this attack. All we could be thankful for was that for some reason known only to themselves the Germans had not made their attack during those glorious days in June when the ships had been as thick as shrimps in Dover Bay. I remembered the faces of the French troops looking apprehensively at the sky, and the children who had arrived from Belgium and Holland cowering down under anything which appeared to give them shelter.