sent to us here, not to mention all the mothers with small children, and I’ve got problems with some of them which are a great deal more serious than yours. Just give it a little longer, my dear. School will be starting again on Monday. You and the other evacuees will be attending in the afternoons, the local children in the mornings. Perhaps that will ease things a little for you. But Miss Gilbert hasn’t any complaints about you, Ellie, and Mr Gilbert stated how helpful you’ve been to him.’
‘I don’t mind Mr Gilbert,’ Ellie said quietly, afraid Miss Gilbert was listening outside the door. ‘I’ve been ’elping ’im line coffins with scrim and I quite like it. It’s ’er!’ She jerked her head towards the door.
She couldn’t adequately explain how unpleasant it was to feel she was being watched constantly, or how she felt something nasty was about to happen.
‘Have you heard from your mother?’ Mrs Dunwoody was aware that almost all of the evacuees’ problems were just plain homesickness.
‘Yes.’ Ellie frowned. ‘The theatre she was working in ’as closed down and until it opens again she ain’t got a job.’ Her mother had made light of this, saying she was going to work as a waitress in Lyons Corner House, but Ellie had sensed she was very anxious about money, because she’d said she couldn’t manage to enclose any pocket money just yet.
Mrs Dunwoody was the wife of a banker and lived in an elegant detached Georgian house by the Abbey. Until these evacuee children landed in the town her only real contact with the working classes had been her servants. Her eyes had been opened in the last week, though, when she met the children from Stepney. A great many of them didn’t even have a change of underwear; they had holes in their shoes; almost all of them were undernourished and they spoke so badly.
Ellie, however, was as fat as butter, had decent clothes and it was obvious from the girl’s demeanour that she was not only well loved and cared for, but also sensible enough to appreciate that in an emergency such as this, sacrifices had to be made.
‘Well, you mustn’t add to her problems,’ Mrs Dunwoody said gently. ‘I’m sure all the theatres will open again soon, especially as they haven’t had any air raids yet in London. Let’s see how you feel once you’re back at school, eh? Write Mummy a nice cheerful letter and keep your pecker up. If you still want to move in a few weeks’ time, I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Ellie gave a glum smile. Mrs Dunwoody was kindly enough, but she hadn’t really grasped anything she’d been told. She was just another of those rich do-gooders, like the ones who swanned down to the East End and made sympathetic noises about slum conditions. She didn’t understand why Ellie resented Miss Gilbert reading both the letters she wrote and received. Or what it felt like to be hungry all the time and treated worse than a Victorian scullery maid. Neither could she understand Ellie’s dilemma that even if she could tell her mother the truth about what it was like in this house, she was reluctant to do so because sending Ellie the fare home would strain her mother’s finances still more.
‘I’d better be going.’ Mrs Dunwoody got up. ‘I’ve got so many serious problems to deal with, children wetting the bed, others with lice. Some children won’t eat, others are stealing food. As for some of the mothers with babies!’ She shook her head, as if baffled by it all. ‘Would you believe that one mother complained because it was too quiet here? I don’t think it dawns on some people that this country is at war and we have to put up with a few inconveniences.’
Chapter Three
Dagenham, March 1940
Bonny Phillips stood at the top of the stairs, ears pricked up. It was after ten on Friday night, and she’d been sent to bed an hour earlier, but a certain tension between her parents during the evening and now their raised voices had made her creep
‘I don’t mind Mr Gilbert,’ Ellie said quietly, afraid Miss Gilbert was listening outside the door. ‘I’ve been ’elping ’im line coffins with scrim and I quite like it. It’s ’er!’ She jerked her head towards the door.
She couldn’t adequately explain how unpleasant it was to feel she was being watched constantly, or how she felt something nasty was about to happen.
‘Have you heard from your mother?’ Mrs Dunwoody was aware that almost all of the evacuees’ problems were just plain homesickness.
‘Yes.’ Ellie frowned. ‘The theatre she was working in ’as closed down and until it opens again she ain’t got a job.’ Her mother had made light of this, saying she was going to work as a waitress in Lyons Corner House, but Ellie had sensed she was very anxious about money, because she’d said she couldn’t manage to enclose any pocket money just yet.
Mrs Dunwoody was the wife of a banker and lived in an elegant detached Georgian house by the Abbey. Until these evacuee children landed in the town her only real contact with the working classes had been her servants. Her eyes had been opened in the last week, though, when she met the children from Stepney. A great many of them didn’t even have a change of underwear; they had holes in their shoes; almost all of them were undernourished and they spoke so badly.
Ellie, however, was as fat as butter, had decent clothes and it was obvious from the girl’s demeanour that she was not only well loved and cared for, but also sensible enough to appreciate that in an emergency such as this, sacrifices had to be made.
‘Well, you mustn’t add to her problems,’ Mrs Dunwoody said gently. ‘I’m sure all the theatres will open again soon, especially as they haven’t had any air raids yet in London. Let’s see how you feel once you’re back at school, eh? Write Mummy a nice cheerful letter and keep your pecker up. If you still want to move in a few weeks’ time, I’ll see what I can arrange.’
Ellie gave a glum smile. Mrs Dunwoody was kindly enough, but she hadn’t really grasped anything she’d been told. She was just another of those rich do-gooders, like the ones who swanned down to the East End and made sympathetic noises about slum conditions. She didn’t understand why Ellie resented Miss Gilbert reading both the letters she wrote and received. Or what it felt like to be hungry all the time and treated worse than a Victorian scullery maid. Neither could she understand Ellie’s dilemma that even if she could tell her mother the truth about what it was like in this house, she was reluctant to do so because sending Ellie the fare home would strain her mother’s finances still more.
‘I’d better be going.’ Mrs Dunwoody got up. ‘I’ve got so many serious problems to deal with, children wetting the bed, others with lice. Some children won’t eat, others are stealing food. As for some of the mothers with babies!’ She shook her head, as if baffled by it all. ‘Would you believe that one mother complained because it was too quiet here? I don’t think it dawns on some people that this country is at war and we have to put up with a few inconveniences.’
Chapter Three
Dagenham, March 1940
Bonny Phillips stood at the top of the stairs, ears pricked up. It was after ten on Friday night, and she’d been sent to bed an hour earlier, but a certain tension between her parents during the evening and now their raised voices had made her creep
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