Damn, I need to stop starting new stories ^^; Writing in first person perspective for once, after studying 'Property' by Valerie Martin on my english course. This'll be more serious than my other fics, I expect...
My life was turned upside down by evacuation, not in 1939 but in 1940. My horizons were narrow, just those of a patriotic young boy at a boarding school in Surrey. Then suddenly a voyage on an ocean liner over the Atlantic in a convoy with other ships, guarded by a battleship and five destroyers and being received by an unknown American family. We were some of the 3,000 British children who enjoyed the amazing generosity freely given by American families.
From school blazer and cap and gartered long stockings to corduroy knickerbockers, dungarees and baseball cap, from boys-only to co-education, from pounds, shillings and pence to the decimal system – there were abrupt changes. But American schools were welcoming. Every morning, American children salute the flag and recite the pledge of allegiance; for us, they thoughtfully placed a Union Jack that we could face. We were soon caught up in American rituals such as Halloween and Thanksgiving and quickly accepted hamburgers and hot dogs.
After three years, my father came on a mission to Washington and phoned up. My comment as I put down the phone was: "Gee, he talks just like in the movies." I can still recite American poetry and sing the college songs we learnt around the campfire in the summer. We returned home on an escort aircraft carrier, and on arrival walked past our mother without recognising her.
Not every overseas evacuee looks back on the time with pleasure. But my younger brother and I, despite the five years family separation, regard the experience as a blessing for which we have always been grateful.
Michael Henderson is the author of See You After the Duration – the Evacuation of British Children to North America (PublishAmerica)
I was 14, when the first bombs fell. Evacuations had already been taking place since nearly a year beforehand, but my family, being of high class and, consequently, exceedingly stubborn, decided to ignore the Government Scheme. My father especially was of the opinion that such a rallying of the masses was akin to the herding of common sheep, stating that no child of his would be involved in such a ridiculous operation. He was supported in this decision by my eldest brother, Scott. He fancied himself as an expert on military matters, despite never once serving for the armed forces, and frequently criticised the exaggeration of the reports in a manner I found so utterly conceited that it was all I could do not to throttle him.
However, as the situation became more and more dire, and my siblings and I lay in our beds at night paralysed with the fear that any second now it would be our house to fall victim to the explosives, my parents came to the conclusion that the circumstances could no longer be ignored. In order to provide an alternative to the current evacuation plans, my father was quick to renew contact with an old associate of his, a well-respected businessman residing in America. I'd heard of how other children of my own age and class had been shipped off 'across the pond', as the saying goes, and I must admit that such a venture didn't appeal to me in the slightest. Nevertheless, it soon became apparent that this was exactly what my father had been conspiring towards.
By the September of 1940, the decision was finalised. I was to be sent to America.
After discovering the details of our plight, the businessman, one Richard Jones, had immediately offered to take me in. He had a large Georgian-style country house in one of the Southern States, a fact that my mother often repeated, perhaps in the hope that the presence of english architecture would somehow wring a sense of enthusiasm on my part. Not that I had any say in the matter. Nor was I exactly sure why she was so keen that I favoured the decision, as I had long ago come to the conclusion that my parents entertained the illusion that 'youth' was synonymous with 'absolute obedience'.
As it was, I was reluctant to admit that judging from the grainy photographs my father deigned to present me with, the Jones' home was indeed an impressive structure. The cream stone of the pilasters and cornices contrasted nicely with the red brick of the main house, sash windows set in the higher stories under the overhang of the side-gambled roof. I confess that I found myself immediately taken with the building. However, what fascinated me more was the group of figures aligned in front of the house. I vaguely recognised Mr. Jones and his young wife, having met them some years ago when they visited on the premise of some business opportunity in the city, yet the identity of the two blond children beside them was unknown to me. Upon enquiry, I was informed by my mother that the taller of the boys was Mr. Jones' son, Alfred. The near-identical blond was apparently his cousin Matthew Williams. I was surprised to hear that Matthew had been taken into the care of the family after the untimely death of his own parents, a sample of information that worried me somewhat.
"Is Mr. Jones partial to the company of young boys?" I remember asking. I received a cuff round the head for such a comment.
Despite the seemingly endless generosity of the Jones family, it became apparent that not all of my siblings would be making the journey with me; we were informed that Mrs. Jones was rather sickly, and thus would not be able to cope with copious amounts of 'youthful excitement' in the house. Scott claimed that, due to his superior age, he would nobly remain in London with mother and father, a statement no one disputed. It was agreed also that Caitlin, my only sister and second eldest sibling, would stay in order to complete her studies. My other brother Aeron received a similar fate.
So it came to be that I would be suffering my effective exile with my youngest sibling, Peter. Much to my disgust, Peter was exceedingly delighted by the whole affair, full of unceasing babble regarding Hollywood and other aspects of the popular culture (if one could call it that) of America, and even spouting American phrases he had doubtless heard on the wireless. In an attempt to distract him, I sent him off to begin packing, as word had come through that we would be leaving within a fortnight. I allowed myself a short time to rest in the study, a room I found infinitely comforting despite the fact that it was usually out of bounds to anyone but my father and our maid, Laura, a young woman several years older than myself who I viewed as an older sister. After checking that I would not be disturbed, I retrieved a battered book from the writing desk and made myself comfortable in father's chair. It was a copy of 'The Wind in the Willows', my favourite book as a child. I instantly lost myself in the illustrations accompanying the text; the image of Toad in his motor car was one I always found particularly amusing.
I didn't realise that I'd fallen asleep until I was woken by Laura entering the study. I stirred and my presence must have startled her, as she let out small gasp and clutched at her heart. Then her expression changed and she smiled softly, an unreadable look in her eyes. Following her gaze, I looked down at the children's book still clutched in my hands, and flushed in embarrassment.
"Oh! I was...looking for a book for Peter," I hastily amended, ignoring her knowing glance. She nodded and said nothing, though I believe she would have laughed were it not for my status as the son of her employer. I took my chance to escape, leaving the book behind in my urgency.
With 10 days left until our departure, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that I would have to begin gathering my possessions in preparation. Upon entering our shared bedroom from the first floor landing, I was surprised to see a suitcase left open on my bed and waiting for me. A few necessities had already been packed, including my nightwear reserved for trips away from home and general clothing. I smiled at myself at the sight of a tattered book perched on the top of the folded clothes, and silently thanked Laura for her kind heart.
I busied myself with collecting oddities from around the room, specific garments which I thought I may need and certain items with more...personal value. After a moment's pause, I reached for the stuffed rabbit propped against my bed, casting a guilty look over my shoulder before hugging it and placing it gently in the case. My father disapproved of my love for the toy and ordered I get rid of it, yet I could never bring myself to do so; it had been a gift from my late grandmother.
With that, I left the room, intending to pack my day bag closer to the date. I passed Laura on the stairs and gave her a shy smile, which she returned brightly. I heard a scoff from below, and looked down over the bannister to see Scott sneering up at me. I glowered in defiance, then he shouted up at me, "Fraternising with the servants again? You need to find yourself proper friends, Arthur."
My good mood instantly dissipated.
The time passed quickly, and soon enough the day arrived when we were to embark on the first stage of our journey. Father's driver, Adams, was to escort Peter and I to the railway station, where we would then take a train to the South coast and board the liner which would transport us across the Atlantic. The good byes were awkward. We stood outside our home, gazing warily at the piles of rubble further down the street in the eerie silence that seemed to have enveloped London since the bombing had started. Neither mother nor father cried, though mother hugged us both tightly and promised we'd see her soon; it was one of the most avid displays of affection I'd ever witnessed her demonstrate. Scott gave me a gruff nod, Aeron smiled and patted my back and Caitlin squeezed my shoulder, before kneeling down to hug Peter. I saw Laura watching from the window, a handkerchief pressed to her face. We waved and exchanged farewells, then Adams picked up our suitcases and ushered us into the car. It wasn't until we'd been driving for 10 minutes that Peter started crying. Unsure of an alternative, I wrapped my arms around the boy and whispered what I hoped were comforting words.
The title, 'Beyond the Wild Wood (comes the Wide World)' is from Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame.
Urghhh, probably loads of historical and linguistical inaccuracies. But at least I have a plot for this. Sort of.
Something about the Blitz and evacuation fascinates me...and Wind in the Willows. I love Wind in the Willows. Oh, and in case you didn't guess, this is set in London during the Blitz.
Laura is an OC, she won't be appearing again, so...sorry, Laura xD
~Chinquix