It was the autumn of 1943, the blitz over London and its suburbs was intensifying when my parents decided it was time to find somewhere a little safer for us. When I say us, I mean myself a lad of 7 years, and my baby sister who at that time was around 9 months.
We lived in a little end of terrace house in Norbury, South London and every night we were obliged to scramble into our air raid shelter for protection, but the introduction of Germany’s ‘flying bombs’ meant that our safety could no longer be guaranteed. My Mother’s brother and sister had already made the move to Dorset with my cousins, and it was therefore quite natural that she should write to them to see if any accommodation could also be found for us.
It was not long before my mother, myself and younger sister found ourselves in the village of Leigh. How we travelled there, I cannot remember, but we were evidently expected and were taken to stay at the vicarage in the centre of the village. Reverend and Mrs Back made us welcome and gave us a large downstairs room at the rear of the property as our ‘bed-sit’ for as long as we needed it.
The vicarage was reached by a drive from the main village street and the local school was situated to one side of the gateway. Village life was strange for me, and I didn’t make friends or see much of the local children outside of school. The school was very small by comparison with the one I had left behind and consisted of only two classes. As a Londoner, I was treated with suspicion and it took me some while to get used to the mixed ages of my classmates, and the fact that our teacher taught us on every subject.
It was my role, every morning before school to walk down the vicarage drive to the farm which lay on the opposite side of the road on the corner of the road leading to Yetminster. I took a milk can with me and this was filled up with fresh cows milk by one of the two ‘foreign’ men who were working there. I subsequently learned that they were Italian and although resident in this country at the start of the war they had been taken into custody and then assigned to work on the farm at Leigh. I still remember their funny accents as both they and I grappled with payment for this daily milk supply. My mother used to take us out for walks at the weekend, and we walked for miles all around the local lanes and when necessary as far as Yetminster where they had a few more shops.
Staying in the vicarage, we felt obliged, of course, to attend the parish church services. The church was a little way along the village street and then down a side turning. The services were strange to me and I soon became bored. On the other hand, my uncle who was living in the nearby village of Evershot was a Methodist lay preacher and would come over to Leigh every few weeks to take a service in a little chapel. I looked forward to those times as it was good to see someone who I knew and also I would more easily follow the service.
It was after the finish of one of my uncles evening services that there was great excitement. On coming out of the chapel we were greeted by smoke and it was soon obvious that the thatched roof of one of the cottages was on fire. The cottage was opposite the chapel and backed onto the grounds of the vicarage. After returning to the vicarage I was permitted to go and stand in the garden and watch the firemen at work. The old thatch had, for economic reasons, been covered with corrugated iron sheets and the firemen had to get these off before they could hose the burning straw. Sadly they were unable to prevent the fire spreading throughout the cottage and come next morning only the walls were left standing. I remember the stench of burnt wood and straw was around for days and I still clearly remember the lady and her family who occupied the cottage throwing their belongings out of the windows into the garden in a desperate attempt to save as much as possible.
My mother found it very difficult living in the confined space of the bed sitting room and eventually arranged for a sort of holiday for us in Evershot. We walked with my sister’s pram to a little railway station called Chetnole Halt, where we boarded a Great Western Diesel Railcar painted chocolate brown and cream, and travelled to the next stop which was another little halt at Holywell. This no longer exists. We then walked some distance over East Hill into Evershot. We were put up by a lovely lady who lived in Summer Lane opposite the farm on the corner of The Common. Her name was, I believe, Mrs Gilham and she lived there with her son who must have been in his teens at the time.
Although I only stayed at Evershot for two weeks and visited the village on perhaps only two or three other occasions, I remember more about it than Leigh where we stayed for several months. Having my cousins already living there meant that I was soon caught up with village life and they made sure I was not left out of their activities. As our break was during normal school term time they were all at school during the day, but I remember waiting for them at the school gates and then going off with them to explore the countryside around the village.
My uncle was working on the local Melbury estate and lived in a lodge with his family. I remember visiting them and seeing all the good things that my uncle was helping to grow. My Aunt from the other family, together with my cousin David were living in a cottage in Fore Street that was the home of the local bus driver. Whether or not he owned the bus I do not know but he regularly ran a one man service to the towns of Dorchester, Yeovil and Sherborne. I never got a chance to go on this bus, and I was very envious of cousin David who was allowed to go with him, and was given the task of issuing the tickets to the passengers as they boarded the bus.
Mrs Gilham made us very welcome, and the cottage was very cosy. Her son, who name now escapes me, often played a game of ‘lotto’ with me which I thoroughly enjoyed. Lotto, of course, subsequently evolved in ‘Bingo.’ We never played for money but just for our own amusement, and as a seven-year-old with time on his hands any thing like that was very welcome. I also remember the pictures on the wall of the cottage which I found fascinating and was forever asking questions about them.
Sundays in Evershot were different. We all went to a little chapel where I found the services much easier to follow. To be able to sit with my cousins and just enjoy their company seemed to make this strange existence much easier to bear.
I recently returned to both Evershot and Leigh for the first time in 63 years. I was surprised to find that I did not recognise much of Leigh. It did not help to find that the vicarage has now become a nursing home, the old school along side the drive to what is now a nursing home has been turned into housing, and the farm to which I trotted each morning to collect milk is now derelict. Sadly, I did not recognise any other building or road in the village; so much had changed in the intervening years.
Evershot was different. As I drove down Fore Street I immediately recognised the row of cottages where my cousin had lodged with the bus driver, although I must admit to having totally forgotten the raised footpath all alongside one side of the road. It was also strange to see the road full of parked cars. To see private cars in those rural locations during the war years was very rare and I think we used to walk along the roads as there was just never any traffic.
Then reaching the junction with Summer Lane I immediately recognised the turning and especially Mrs Gilham’s cottage. I did not attempt to find out who lives there now or to ascertain whether her son is still around. I just took some photographs to remind me and then drove away leaving those memories behind me.
As my wife and I drove on to our home in Sussex we marvelled at how far my mother and I used to walk in those days and how much we enjoyed the countryside. It is a different story now with so many vehicles travelling along those once quiet byways that it is just not the same.
