Table of Contents
PART ONE Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
1. Gateshead, September 1939
2. Falmouth, 5 March 1942
3. Falmouth, 8 March 1942, morning
4. Falmouth, 8 March 1942, morning
5. Falmouth, 8 March 1942, afternoon
6. Falmouth, 8 March 1942, afternoon
PART TWO Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
7. Falmouth Harbour, 15 March 1942
8. Falmouth, 18 March 1942
9. Falmouth, 22 March 1942
10. Falmouth, 22 March 1942
11. Falmouth, 22 March 1942
12. Falmouth, 25 March 1942
13. Aboard ML12: 26, 27, 28 March 1942
14. Aboard ML12, 28 March 1942
15. Falmouth, 27 March 1942
16. Falmouth, April 1942
PART THREE Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
17. Southampton, May – June 1942
18. Guildford and Wimbledon, July – September 1942
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
19. London, September – December 1942
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
20. Southern France, December 1942
21. Southern France, December 1942
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
22. Southern France, December 1942
23. London and the Isle of Wight, April 1943
24. Gibraltar, February 1943
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
25. London, May 1945
PART FOUR Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
26. London, June 1945
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
27. Gateshead and Newcastle June 1945
28. London, July 1945 – September 1946
29. Kent and the Isle of Wight, April 1946 – February 1947
30. Cambridge and London, 26 and 27 March 1947
31. London, 28 – 29 March 1947
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
Caroline Ross on Writing The War Before Mine
the war before mine
BY
CAROLINE ROSS
HONNO MODERN FICTION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have many people to thank. My father-in-law, Ted Kiendl, first interested me in the raid and through him I met the late, wonderful Billie Stephens, a commander of one of the launches that took the commandos to St Nazaire. Billie put me in contact with the also wonderful Micky Burn, a captain in 2 Commando, who lives and writes in Penrhyndeudraeth in North Wales. Billie and Micky were of enormous help and encouragement to me, as was another special man, Laurie Humphreys, one of the original child migrants shipped from England to Australia in 1947.
I lived for a time in the north east of England, for which I retain a great affection. I thank my good friend Mo Scott and her mother May for many enjoyable and inspiring conversations.
A section of this novel was written as part of an MA in Imaginative Writing at Liverpool John Moores University. I would like to thank the tutors Aileen La Tourette, Jim Friel, and, most particularly, Jenny Newman, for their wise words and generous support extending way beyond the call of duty. I also thank my friends Ros Moruzzi and Dave Mack for their very helpful feedback.
Lastly, I would like to thank my husband, Teddy Kiendl, who, in knowing a lot about war, illuminated for me the experiences of men in combat, and the relationships between them, in ways both unexpected and very moving.
Caroline Ross
Llanfair Dyffryn Clwyd, August 2008
In memory of my father,
Stephen Ross
PART ONE
Memoirs of a Child Migrant, 2006
I’m holding in my hand the bit of paper that’s supposed to tell me who I am. The handwriting is rounded, kind of friendly; the ink – after 60-odd years – still black and sure; the paper authentically curled at the edges. Looking at it I think, hang about mate, you’ve got it wrong. This is the truth; it must be.
But I know I was only four when I was put on the SS Asturias in 1947. This birth certificate, showing my age to have been five years, three months and seventeen days, is a lie. Someone made it up. Some very Christian nun changed the facts because you had to be at least five to go. I wonder how she swung it?
Because I was so young, I’ve only got a few pictures in my head of life on the ship. I hated being on deck because the sight of the endless sea petrified me. I suppose I was used to interiors, corridors, confining walls. When we docked, the land around the few buildings stretched away like the sea, huge and empty.
Frankie remembers much more than I do, because he was nine when we left England together. Meeting up with him again has been – I can’t really describe it – very emotional.
‘Is that you, Littlun?’ he said, looking up at me. ‘You’ve grown a bit.’
Frankie. I’d never forgotten him, though it’d been more than fifty years. He’d always been in the background, sort of hiding in the bushes and peering out now and again to remind me I didn’t have a right to be happy. I recognised not so much the face as the taut set of it, the pain lines now carved into brown, weathered skin. The lopsided walk was new.
Frankie lives in some woop woop town up north, likes the wild, he says, prefers animals to people. You could see at the reunion he felt awkward in company. He still has that Pommie way of talking, though he told me he’d never been back. He stared down into his white wine, ‘They helped me,’ he gestured with his glass around the room, ‘this lot, trace who I was, you know, where I came from.’ He took a breath. ‘Forty years before I found out her name. I wrote to her. Came back marked “deceased”. Left it after that. Didn’t want to find out she’d only just died.’
His voice trembled. ‘They told me I’ve three male…siblings scattered round the UK.’ He snorted a sort of laugh. ‘Glad they didn’t call them brothers. Dirty word for us, isn’t it?’ I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off, ‘I can’t afford to go gallivanting over there.’ He drained his glass in one. ‘I bloody hate wine. Let’s have a look for some beer.’
We walked across the room together in search of tinnies – two old men falling into step together after half a century. He’d avoided the word. Mother, mum, mom. A soft sound in any language, a wrap-you-up-warm sound. A word hug. When you’ve never had one, whatever age you are, it’s a word that makes you cry.
1
Gateshead, September 1939
Two rabbit skins hang on the washing line. Da must’ve brought them when he came back late last night. Her head pushed under the blackout curtain, Rosie looks out and thinks how oddly blind all the houses are, the windows of their eyes covered over. Blacked out by her father, who’d managed to get hold of about half a mile of fabric, and sold it a penny cheaper a yard than you could get it in the town.
Rosie pins up a corner of the curtain so some light seeps into the room. It’s still early, before the six-o-clock hooter. She feels her small brother move behind her. ‘No. Wake up. Not in the bed, Alf.’ She hauls his warm little body on to her lap and shunts them both off the bed. ‘Ssssssss. That’s it.’ Alf sways against her as he pees in an unsteady arc into the bucket. ‘Good boy. Go on back to sleep now.’
A creak from the room next door tells her Da is awake and the anxiety returns. He’ll go mad when he finds out, and one word from her could put a stop to it. Da has his boots on. She hears his heavier tread in the scullery and imagines him tearing off a hunk of bread; putting it in his pocket. The door slams and he’s at the top of the steps, running a comb through his thick dark hair, slipping it in his pocket. For a second he’s close enough to touch through the glass, then he trots briskly down, the cuffs on his trousers rising to show polished leather heels. He turns and
ducks under the washing in the yard, a brown hand resting for a moment on one of the skins.
‘If he looks up and sees me,’ thinks Rosie, ‘I’ll tell him.’ But he doesn’t look up. She hears her father’s footsteps fade as he passes down the narrow alleyway into the street.
Mam’s in the doorway, her tired face pink with hope.
‘We’ve got to hurry, Rosie.’ She digs small patches of yellow felt out of her apron pocket. ‘Could you sew these on?’
‘It’s not fair, Mam, going off without a word…’
‘But what would happen if we told him? It’s a chance, Rosie. I’m thinking of you children.’
I know, I know. Trying to make us what we aren’t. Another of your mad ideas. But Rosie fetches the needle and thread and says nothing more.
Out on the street, it’s clear most of their neighbours are staying put. Only Martha, lipsticked and cheerful, is pushing her three bairns along the road, little labels fluttering from their holey cardigans. Mam keeps apologising to the disapproving female faces watching from their steps. ‘I’m going too, Mary. God willing, Jane, they said we won’t be separated with me in my condition.’
Rosie feels their neighbours’ eyes following them up the street and wishes Mam would keep quiet. As soon as they’re out of sight the women’s tongues will start wagging. Chance of a trip out. Only to be expected from the likes of them. It’s in the blood
Rosie pulls the twins along. Jean skips beside her, blonde hair flopping, carrying nothing as usual. John lugs the suitcase. They cross Durham Road, the poster opposite telling them Your Courage, Your Cheerfulness, Your Resolution, Will Bring Us Victory. Rosie can see the meeting place under the clock, and make out the thin form of Miss Robinson, one of the teachers, when a voice stops Mam in her tracks.
‘Susan Mullen! You’re never going on the ’vacuation?’ It’s Aunt Betty, staring at them all in horror.
‘I’m taking them where it’s safe.’ Mam’s voice went up a notch. ‘You should send your kids too.’
‘My bairns are safe at home, where these should be.’ Betty looks at Mam narrowly, ‘What does our Sammy have to say about it?’ A pause. ‘Our Sammy doesn’t know, does he? You’ve never told your own husband.’
‘We got instructions to go,’ pleads Mam.
‘Instructions is it? Taking the bairns away from their father to some gadgies you never even met? Come on home with me now before Sammy finds out.’ Betty turns to Rosie. ‘I thought better of you, girl. Leaving me in the lurch. You ought to have more sense, encouraging your Mam to do something so stupid.’
Rosie struggles with herself. ‘Mam knows what she’s about, Aunt Betty.’ A rush of yellow-tagged kids swirl around them and Mam lunges forward, pulling them all with her. When Rosie looks back, Betty stands watching after them, a stern rock in a moving sea of children.
Miss Robinson ticks off names. ‘I’m afraid you have to say your goodbyes now. No parents are allowed on the platform.’ Mam pulls aside her coat to show her big belly. Miss Robinson peers at it over her glasses. ‘Yes I remember, Mrs Mullen, you’re coming with us. And Rosemary?’ Miss Robinson rubs her forehead unhappily. ‘Didn’t you leave school last year?’
‘No Miss,’ lies Rosie.
Miss Robinson scribbles on her paper and they go through the barrier. But they have to wait hours, the sun growing stronger all the time and everyone getting hot and sticky. Rosie worries that her aunt might go looking for Da, and he’ll appear on the platform and drag them all home. Not that she’d find Da very easily, and not that Betty, who made a living buying and selling second-hand clothes, was likely to give up one minute of a day when there’d be a load of kids’ clothes going cheap. But still, Rosie feels greatly relieved when at last they board the train for Middleton-in-Teesdale.
Miss sends Rosie up the carriages to do a head count and to make sure none of the children has got in with the wrong party. Some of them are from places like Bensham and Teams, snotty-nosed with big starey eyes and grey knees. And their clothes… Aunt Betty wouldn’t give tuppence for a sackful. Rosie thinks how pleased people will be to take her family rather than these scruffy kids.
But as it turns out, nobody wants them. They stand for hours in a huge church hall while people circle round, gawking, choosing. There isn’t even a chair for Mam. It’s six in the evening and almost everyone else has gone when a farmer, bringing with him a strong animal smell, nods over towards Jean and mutters in Miss Robinson’s ear, ‘I’ll take her and the mother.’
Miss explains that the family does not wish to be separated, making this sound very tiresome indeed. Another man wanders round jangling a set of keys, wanting to lock up. Miss keeps raising her eyebrows in their direction and saying God willing she’ll finally get a nice cup of tea and her bed. The farmer’s near the door when Miss hurries over to him and says something in a low voice, but Rosie hears his reply quite distinctly. ‘The rest of them look like gypsies.’
But he turns, walks back and takes off his tweed cap.
‘Your teacher here tells me you’ve got Spanish blood.’ Mam says yes, that’s true, on her husband’s side. The farmer looks at them doubtfully.
Miss confides in a loud whisper, ‘John here’s very strong, Mr Pudsey. Well, all the family are hard-working and reliable. And of course the allowances paid for such a number add up to quite an amount, I would imagine.’
Mr Pudsey thrusts his big red face at them. ‘And you’re not too grand to share a room, the lot of yous?’ Rosie looks anxiously at Mam. But she says no, of course they don’t mind, if he will be so kind as to have them. ‘Then you’d best follow me.’ He leads them outside to a waiting horse and cart and they all climb in.
It’s dusk by the time the big feathery-footed horse pulls them clear of the town and starts up a long narrow lane towards shadowy hills. The motion of the cart soon sends the twins off to sleep, Alf’s head on Rosie’s lap, Robbie’s pressing on her ribs. Jean sits chattering beside Mr Pudsey. Mam’s face is grey, her eyes half closed. As the horse plods uphill, the houses thin, then disappear altogether and they are among bare hills, where it seems impossible that anyone could live. Mr Pudsey, charmed by Jean’s giggles, grows more friendly, occasionally turning his broad red face over his shoulder to address a remark to the rest of them. ‘And you, Miss Indian Princess, how old might you be?’
‘Fourteen,’ lies Rosie.
A small white-painted house glimmers on the hillside.
‘Is that your house, Mister?’ says John.
Mr Pudsey nods. As they near the place they can see, flanking the house, a huge corrugated iron barn. John hops down to open the gate and they trundle up a rutted lane through a tumble of sheds and a few wandering cows. On the hillsides all about them are hundreds of bleating sheep, whitish blobs in the fading light. Alf and Robbie wake and start grizzling.
A woman stands in the doorway and regards them sourly, but it seems Pudsey rules the roost, because after a few muttered words from him she sits them down in the dark kitchen, ladles out bowls of thick barley broth, and plonks a big pot of tea on the table. When they’ve eaten, she leads them up a flight of stairs to a room with faded rosebud-patterned wallpaper, and gives out cushions and prickly woollen blankets.
Mam asks about getting to Mass on Sunday, and Mrs raises her eyebrows to the bumpy ceiling, as if to say ‘Catholics too!’, replying that it will be ninety-nine per cent impossible unless she fancies walking the four miles down to Middleton and while she’s on the subject she hopes they realise it isn’t a lovely holiday in the country they’ve come on, there’s plenty of work to be done and another thing, if anything at all goes missing, they’ll be out on their ears.
Who does she think she’s talking to? thinks Rosie. Mucky cow with a face like a blind cobbler’s thumb, but just before the dam bursts Mr Pudsey comes along to see how they’re settled and changes his mind about having them all in one room, offering John a raised platform at the end of the passage, reached by a little ladder. John clim
bs up, spreads out the blankets Mr Pudsey gives him, climbs down, climbs up again, asks if the whole bed is really his, and the farmer laughs and tells him he’d better look lively because it’s time for the nightly round of the farm.
Rosie watches as Mam hangs the picture of the Sacred Heart from a nail in the wall and then lies down on one of two beds, her hands crossed on the top of her swollen belly.
Feeling anger against everything and everyone, particularly Mam, but unable to voice it, Rosie quietens Alf and Robbie by pushing open the window and lifting them on to the deep sill to look out into the darkness. The breeze, clean and grassy-scented, chills their cheeks. Something not quite a dog barks and the farm collies start up, howling and yammering. John’s excited voice comes clearly through the air, ‘Have ye’s got a gun Mister?’
The barking stills, the voices fade. Night wings beat only a little way above their heads. The ghostly sheep move on the hill. Once she’s settled the twins on the floor, Rosie goes top-to-toe with Jean. She listens to John and the farmer come in, the banging shut of the bolts and feet on the stairs. Calmer now, she hears in her head Da’s slow tread up the steps to the three empty rooms, and feels glad to be away from him.
Life with the Pudseys isn’t the new and better life among well bred people and elegant things Mam had imagined. But as the baby in her begins to take over, she becomes more content. Between darning Pudsey’s terrible old socks and patching Mrs’s sheets, Mam starts to make little rompers. She can’t get enough of the smell of Vim and devotes hours to cleaning the pockmarked sink.
For Rosie it isn’t happiness exactly, but the possibility of happiness that makes life better. Miss had said that once she got the school going down in Middleton, she’d send word to Rosie to come and help with the younger ones, so she allows herself to dream of one day being a teacher. They see few people, so there are fewer people able to look down their noses at them, and though the Old Cow does her best to make up for it, you aren’t forever reminded of where you belong.
The War Before Mine Page 1
