Aged 9 (in 1943) I lived at Belmont, Harrow, Middlesex.  It was decided that I was to be evacuated.  Just before I went I made a small wooden aeroplane, painted it and left it in Dad’s shed.  In the excitement of going away, I forgot to take it with me.

Mum and I went to Harrow and Wealdstone Station.  Hundreds of children with very large labels hanging around their necks, with their parent(s), boarded the train and headed north.

Evacuees left the train at various stations along the way.  We got off at Brownhillls.  Coach to Senior Girls School, where girls provided and served refreshments.    It was a sunny day and it was all very pleasant.  Then by coach to Whittington School in Staffordshire.  Into a large Victorian Classroom.

I have vivid memories of the house called “Callingwood”, where I was to live for some 9 months.  A large main gate and long gravel drive leading up to a large grey stone house with a large front door.  I was so taken by the splendour and quality.  (There were no servants.)  In the lovely front dining room were Mr and Mrs Coxe.  Their 18 year old son, Eric, was away at Stubbs Agricultural College.  While Mum spoke to them, I looked around the room; very high quality and looked comfortable.  But what are the wooden rings on the sideboard? 

Then it was my turn to speak to Mr Coxe (a Captain on leave from the Army).
“Well, would you like to stay here with us?” 
“Yes, sir.” 
“We will have to fatten you up a bit.  You are very thin, aren’t you?” 
“Yes, sir.” 
“What time do you go to bed? 
(I once went to bed at midnight.)  “Twelve o’clock, sir.” 
Mr Coxe went into army officer mode.  “Twelve o’clock!  Good God, man, you’re not getting enough sleep!” 

Mum explained that that was a one-off and between 8 and 9 pm was normal.  And so it was agreed that I stay.  Mr Coxe went back to his unit.  Mum gave me my case and 12/6d pocket money (62½p), a kiss and left by car.  I went to my room.  What a pleasant surprise!  Light and airy, well-decorated, well-furnished and a comfortable 3 foot bed.  Unpacked case – put clothes away – pocket money into dish on chest of drawers.  I felt that I was going to be happy here.  Mr and Mrs Coxe were in their fifties and upper class.  I felt privileged to be in such a nice house with such nice people.  Then I came down to dinner.  I saw that the wooden rings were for table napkins.  Such refinement!  I was too excited to eat much, although the food was nice.

After dinner Mrs Coxe said
“Would you like to have a look around the farm?” 
I could not believe my luck. “Yes, please.” 
“Off you go then.”

I went through the large kitchen, scullery and conservatory to the patio.  Built into the rear of the house was an outside WC - very handy! – and a laundry bigger than my Mum’s kitchen; large sinks and draining boards, large mangle and wash boiler.  Could not resist turning the handle on the huge mangle!  Then down the path through the garden – a gardener came twice a week.  The garden had a high wall on one side.  I have liked walled gardens ever since.  Everything seemed so large compared with my house and garden at Belmont. 

I came to a large walk-through shed; bins of barley, corn and mash (chicken feed), benches and tools.  Out the other side was a farm yard – old and new buildings, garage and car and food boiler.  I was soon exploring the old buildings.  Mrs Coxe came down to see how I was getting on.  Warned me not to touch the straw-cutting machine; rusty, but blades like razors, hand operated, but could perform instant amputations.  I was left to continue exploring.

Then up to the house via the orchard.  Up one side of the house with lean-to greenhouse attached.  Through the tennis court and I came to a small wood, through the wood to the gravel drive and large gate (always open).  Then up the gravel drive to the other side of the house.  Through the rose garden with rustic tables and seats, to the side gate, which led to Back Lane.  Hedges stopped callers from seeing into the property, all carefully thought out.

The house had six bedrooms and a large hall with marble floor.  A big old grandfather clock stood in the hall.  The large kitchen had quarry tiles, one of which was broken when Captain Coxe allowed the Home Guard to do rifle drill in the kitchen – “because it was raining”.  Only one half of the house was used in the War.

The next day I had to register for school, now that I was settled in a home. 
“I will take you and show you where it is”, said Mrs Coxe.
Down the drive, across the lane to the stile on the Croft (a large field).  To my horror, the Croft seemed full of cows and we had to walk through them.  I was very nervous about cows.  I did not want to be bitten, gored or trampled.
“Come one!  They won’t  hurt you and mind where you step.”
We came to a cattle gate at the other side, turned left and down to the school. 

I was soon enrolled and sitting in my class.  I had a lady teacher and was pleased to find the class slightly behind as compared to my old school.  The headmaster took the only other class, in the room where I had arrived about a week before.

When dinner time came I had to cross the Croft on my own.  The cows had moved to the other side of the Croft, so this time I was lucky.  And so it was always a matter of luck with the cows, but after a month I got used to them.  The village boys said “Don’t worry, just push them out of your way” and demonstrated with the nearest cow.

After a few days Mrs Coxe said “Would you like to help me feed the poultry?”  I agreed and we went down to the big walk-through shed, mixed up the feed, filled the water cart and off we went.  I found it quite interesting and learned a lot about the poultry.  We collected the eggs and brought them back on the feed trolley.  I was quite happy and doing something useful.  I always helped if I was asked to.  I was not told to help, but Mrs Coxe would say “Would you like to help me?”  I think this was when she was tired or not well.  Without asking, I was told that I could have bonfires, if I wanted to, because her son used to enjoy a bonfire.  “How lucky can I get?”

One day I went with Mrs Coxe to some cottages to collect the rents.  Soon the whole village knew I was the boy staying with Mrs Coxe.  I was so lucky.  I had the best of both worlds.  I had the whole farm to play in and, if I wanted company, there were nearly always friends playing on the Croft.

Just before the Spring Bank Holiday, the teacher said “Take a book from the library (a bookcase in the classroom) and read it in the holiday.  You will have to write about it after the holiday.”  In my wisdom I chose “The Charge of the Light Brigade”  2½ inches thick with small print.  I gave up after four pages; it was too detailed.  Once more I was lucky, as the teacher did not ask us to write about the books we were supposed to have read.

In the middle of the Croft was a sand pit; it was the meeting place for aspiring young smokers – boys only.  Sometimes we would meet for a smoking session, hidden away from adult view, quite oblivious to the fact that clouds of smoke gave the game away.

At school we were asked “Do you want to help with the harvest for three weeks?”  Not really, I thought, but the village boys explained – three weeks off school and one pound a week wages.  So I put my name down and got a form for Mrs Coxe to sign.  “It’s hard work, John, but it you want to go I will sign.”  I gave the form to my teacher and on Friday I got my instructions.  Baxters’ Farm, 8.00am Monday.

“Where is Baxters’ Farm?”
“Just along the lane, John.”

On Monday I set off with the packed lunch from Mrs Coxe.  In Baxters’ farmyard I met eight other boys.  All aboard the cart which the horse “Captain” pulled.  We arrived at a huge potato field and the farmer paced out our plots with larger plots for adults, marking the plots with sticks in the soil.  The tractor came round pulling the potato harvester which left the potatoes on the surface.  We had to pick them up, put them in wicker baskets and leave them for Captain to bring the cart around.  They were then put into a potato clamp and covered with straw awaiting collection by the Ministry of Food.

It was hard work and back ache was a problem.  At the end of the day I walked back along the lane, tired and dirty with back ache.
“I told you it was hard work.  Jump in the bath.  You will feel better,” said Mrs Coxe. 
I filled the bath well over the prescribed “five inches of water” deemed enough by the Ministry of Power.  After all I was working on the land for the war effort.  As I had my dinner, Mrs Coxe asked
“Will you be going again?”
“Yes” I replied

I got used to the work and at the end of the three weeks I had three pounds.  Not that I needed the money.  I still had my 12/6d pocket money, less 2/- from when it was my turn to buy the cigarettes.  Mrs Coxe seemed surprised and proud that her evacuee boy had stayed the course for three weeks and the village boys respected me for working alongside them, doing one of the hardest farm jobs.

Back on my farm I asked Mrs Coxe
“Why is there a goose wing in every shed and building on the farm?”
“We use them as brushes to clean the benches,” she replied.
I tried one out and they really worked, getting into corners much better than a brush.

One day after feeding the chickens we collected eggs from the nesting boxes and under the hedges.  Sometimes eggs were laid on the floor of the hen house.
“I can get them,” I said.
“No, John.  You will get bitten by fleas.”
Going into the hen houses was usually done by Mrs Coxe.  Having mastered my fear of cows, I was not frightened of a few fleas.
“OK, but I have warned you.” 
In I went.  That evening I started to get itchy, big red sores where I had been bitten.  The itching got worse and I found more and more bites.
“I did warn you,” said Mrs Coxe, who went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of ammonia and cotton wool.
“Go to the bathroom and dab this on all the bites.”  I did and the itching stopped.
“Do you still want to help in the hen houses?”
“Yes, of course,” I replied now that I knew how to stop the itching.
“They won’t bite you after two weeks.”
I thought to myself how will the fleas know when two weeks is up?  But, sure enough, after two weeks I was never bitten again.

I was weighed every week and one day, while playing on the farm with a hammer, Mrs Coxe said
“Come on.  I will weigh you.”  “You have put on some weight, John,” as I stepped on the scales.  Then she noticed I was still holding the hammer.   “Put it down on those sacks.”

A few days later Mr Coxe was on leave and working on the farm. 
“Have you seen the hammer, John?”
“Yes, but I can’t remember where I put it.”  I was upset because I had let him down.  Mrs Coxe came to my rescue. 
“I know where it is.  It’s not John’s fault.  I told him to put it down in the grain store.”

The village boys showed me all the good places to play.  A bridge over a disused canal for swimming and diving from the bridge, not that I could swim, but they did.  And a tall hedge in a meadow, shading a crystal clear stream where we caught crayfish, was a lovely place.  We relaxed in the shade and spoke of “old times” – a month ago when a Spitfire did a victory roll over the potato field while we worked.

As autumn approached it got cooler.
“Would you like to get some coal in for me, John?” asked Mrs Coxe. 
“Yes, OK,” I said.  I went to the coal yard only to find huge chunks of coal, the size of suitcases.
“I can’t get them in the bucket,” I said.
“You will find a small pick out there.”  So I spend ten minutes playing at coal miners.  Easy work and good fun.

When Mrs Coxe went to the hairdresser in Lichfield, I was left at the cinema.  She always paid extra for a good seat for me.  I remember seeing “The Cross of Lorraine”, a black and white war film.  Seeing it on TV recently brought back good memories. 

Sometimes Mrs Coxe’s son would come home from college and I helped him pick fruit in the orchard.  Mrs Coxe asked me
“Would you like to throw the windfalls in the orchard over the fence into the goose field?”
I did this, but noticed that one goose was crippled (trodden on when young), unable to keep up with the rest chasing after apples.  So I threw them so that that goose was always first and probably got more than the others.

One day Mrs Coxe said
“Someone is taking eggs from the nesting boxes.”  This was happening at night.  I was very annoyed.  Someone was stealing “OUR eggs”.  I offered to stay up all night and catch the thief, but Mrs Coxe thanked me and said it was a police matter.

After learning to handle eggs with care, I was surprised to come home one day to find Mrs Coxe packing the egg crates, banging nails in with a hammer.
“Won’t they break?”
“No, they are too well packed.”
The LMS rail lorry was waiting in the lane to take them to the Egg Marketing Board.

I learned a lot that year and was happy to learn about country life.  Despite the class difference Mrs Coxe never made me feel a lesser person.  She treated me with respect and I her.  She was responsible for looking after me and she took it seriously in all ways.  There must have been times when my cockney accent, clothes and upbringing did not come up to her standards, but she never commented on it.  I, for my part, tried to make up for it by being polite, honest and helpful.  Mrs Coxe never used words like must or must not unless it was for my safety and well-being.  She was never cross with me.  I was never told to work.  She always asked “Would you like to help me?”  I always said “yes”; it was the least I could do in return for her kindness.  Mrs Coxe shopped, cooked, served, washed up, did my laundry, made my nice bed, provided hot water for baths, paid for haircuts, etc.  She was a kind and pleasant person.

When the bombing of London stopped (V1 and V2 bombs) it was time for me to return to Belmont.  I waited with Mrs Coxe, suitcase packed, in the lovely front room where I had had so many nice meals and chats with Mrs Coxe.  Mum arrived by car (taxi).
“Has he been a good boy, Mrs Coxe?”
“He’s been a very good boy, Mrs Collier.”
They talked for five minutes and I thanked Mrs Coxe and said goodbye.  We went to the car standing on the gravel drive that I had trodden many happy times.  I noticed that Mrs Coxe had tears in her eyes.  We got into the car and I waved.
“Why is Mrs Coxe crying, Mum?”
“That’s because she’s been looking after you and now you’re going away.”
I gave a final long wave and Mrs Coxe continued waving.  The car turned into the lane and that was the last time I saw Mrs Coxe.

Back in Belmont I went to my room.  It seemed so small.  I had been spoilt.  I went to my Dad’s shed for my aeroplane.  “The paint will be dry by now.”  It wasn’t there.  “Oh, well.  I’ll make another one.”

And so I was back to my “normal” family life after such a lovely time in the country with Mrs Coxe.

Editor's Note: This piece is reproduced here with the permission of the author, John Collier.