red-headed milkmaid who wore a riding jacket and britches at all times. She made the trip regularly down our grassy slope, carrying a small milk churn with a one-pint and a half-pint measure clanking against its side. We provided the jug and she filled it to our specifications. But the quiet farming existence, shared by many retired army and business people, suddenly found itself geographically in the front line of activity during the war.
Two years before war was declared, Hitler had invaded and occupied Austria, the Sudetenland and what remained of Czechoslovakia. When he set his target on Poland, he was warned by Britain that, unless he withdrew his forces from Poland's western frontier, "a state of war would exist between Great Britain and Germany," as the then Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, put it. Unheeding, the Germans thrust forward into Poland and war was declared. After a heroic battle, Poland was forced to cease fire on September 27, 1939 - less than four weeks later. For the following eight months, very little happened, one exception being the many losses sustained by our naval and merchant ships. This period of waiting came to be known as the "Phoney War", though it was definitely an uneasy peace
One area of activity in the village provided a great challenge, entertainment, chit-chat and patience but, most of all, generosity of heart. Towards the end of September 1939, the British Government decided that, sooner or later, London would be the target of many air raids. People who had willing families or friends living in the country were advised to send their children to them to get away from the city to a safer place. But what was going to happen to the children whose families were less affluent, yet whose homes were in the most vulnerable areas of London? The solution to this problem was soon sorted out. The pupils of many city schools were evacuated and sent by bus, accompanied by their teachers to designated towns and villages in the country. We, at Pett, were informed that the children from a school not far from the docks in the East End of London would be arriving the following week. This meant that about one hundred children would need homes - quite a challenge for such a small village as ours.
We had one spare bedroom in our bungalow, so my mother and I decided that, between us, we would volunteer to take on two of the evacuees. A meeting was set up at which all the volunteers were given a general idea of the responsibilities they were about to undertake. "The children will all arrive with enough clothes to keep them going for a while and they will attend school five days a week, either in the village hall or in the village school house," they informed us. "The rest is up to you", they added, "to keep them, feed them and make them feel wanted". For this service, we would be granted a very small allowance - barely sufficient to cover the cost of the children's food with nothing left over for extras.
As we did not own a car, two little children were brought to our home by a couple of volunteers. Then, after introducing us to Alice and Ernie, the volunteers left hurriedly to take more children to their billets. We forgot to ask if they had brought a suitcase with them. Sitting Alice and Ernie down in the kitchen, we gave them some milk and biscuits. "How old are you, Alice?" my mother asked. "I'm seven and ee's six," she said, pointing to her brother. After they had consumed their snack, we showed them their room. Seeing that the children had no luggage with them, my mother said to Alice, "Have you got a suitcase with your other clothes in it, or was it left in the bus?" "Naaw!" she replied. My mother pressed on, "Perhaps your Mum packed them in a brown paper parcel and gave it to the Headmaster?" "Naaw!" said Alice again, "we wasn't given nuffink." The problem was - that we had nothing for the children either!
For the first night, they both slept in their underwear. It seemed quite normal to them. "How can we wash their clothes unless they have some sort of night attire?" we asked ourselves. It would be days before we could go to Hastings to buy any children's clothing, and we needed coupons to purchase them anyway. Instead, we made our first purchase at the local general store and bought the children a toothbrush, toothpaste and a face cloth of their own. On the second day, we looked through the linen cupboard to find what could be spared. A flannelette blanket came to light. It was white with a wide bright blue stripe at each end. "That'll do for Ernie's pyjamas," said my mother. She went to work skilfully and, by evening, Ernie was all dressed up at bedtime in what looked rather like a present-day jogging suit. He was very proud of the blue stripes on the trouser legs and the other splash of blue which was draped prominently across his chest on the pullover top. He said that it made him feel like a footballer. Alice had to wait till the following day, when we cut up one of my nightdresses and turned it into a smaller version of the same.
On their second day with us, we noticed that they each spent quite a lot of their time vigorously scratching their heads. "Is your head itchy?" I asked. "Yus!" came the reply from both of them. It was time, we thought, to take them to the bathroom and inspect those tousled heads more closely. I took charge of Alice, while my mother tackled Ernie who wriggled more than his sister. I was not sure what I was looking for, but I learned to identify the problem very quickly. Yes, there were plenty of lively little critters running back and forth, stirring up itchy feelings in the scalps of the poor little kids. Fortunately, my mother knew of a "Victorian cure". Next day, I took the bus to Hastings in search of "quasha chips", which I obtained from the chemist's shop (drugstore). On returning home, we boiled the chips in water and used the solution as a shampoo. After two or three applications, there was harmony once more in both the heads and the home. About a week later, we were given a minimal quantity of small underwear from the school's emergency supplies.
The children had been living with us for nearly a week. Their "little friends" had disappeared and the routine of our living together was beginning to fall into place. On their first Sunday with us, we decided to celebrate by inviting my uncle and aunt from next door, to join us for a midday dinner. We sat around the dining table in anticipation of sharing an excellent piece of roast beef, two green veg. and roast potatoes. What more could one ask for, with the addition of Yorkshire pudding that was just out of the oven? We adults began to eat with enthusiasm - it was delicious. But our little guests just sat and looked blankly at their plates. "Now, eat up dears while your dinner’s nice and hot," my mother said. "Naaw!" Alice replied. "Do you want yours cut up into smaller pieces, Ernie, so it will be nice and easy to eat?" I asked. "Naaw!" was Ernie's reply. "It won't taste good when it's cold," my aunt added. "Don't you like it?" my mother asked. "Naaw!" said Alice. "Niver don't I!" chimed in Ernie. "Try and eat some of it," we pleaded, "or you'll be very hungry later on." "I don't wannit," said Alice pushing her plate away from her. “I don't wannit niver," echoed her little brother.
My mother decided that persuasion was getting her nowhere and, maybe, she might have more success by asking questions instead. "What do you have at home for Sunday dinner?" she asked kindly. For the first time, Alice showed some interest in the subject and in the audience sitting around the table. She drew herself up to her full height, for she was on home ground at last. She took a deep breath and, with great confidence, said in a loud voice, "WE 'AVE BEER AN' DONUTS!"
It took a great effort to hide the smiles on our faces, but my mother was the first to overcome the difficulty, and promised that we would all have donuts for tea next Sunday if they ate up their dinners now. However, on their first Sunday with us, they settled for bread and jam and milk instead. We began to understand the difficulties of the changing way of life these little children were going through.
For over two months, Alice and Ernie lived with us. We grew quite fond of them and I think they liked us too. Once a month, a bus came from London to bring the parents for a day's outing to be with their children. The trip was free by courtesy of the London County Council, but, alas, our two little kids were disappointed each time. Neither of their parents appeared, no reasons were given, and they did not receive any letters. It was sad having to make up excuses for their parents' neglect.
By November, the Government had a change of mind. It decided (wisely, as it turned out later) that Pett would also be an unsafe area very soon. So, with about a week's notice, the school children and their teachers were evacuated once again to somewhere in the west of England. The village returned to its normal quietness during the days of the "Phoney War". Regrettably, we never heard any more news of the little six-and seven-year olds who had begun to be part of our family.
During that first winter, the beach was still accessible. At low tide, we could walk out to the water’s edge, picking our way between rocky pools and clumps of seaweed across stretches of rippled golden sand. It was part of the entertainment