My Gran's story about what happened to her evacuee:
At the time of the war my gran was the age of 10, her parents took in an evacuee called Henry Mayo. He was only 5 years old. He lived with them in North Dean where my gran originally lived with her parents and two brothers. My grans brothers names where Derek Bristow, Ken Bristow, and her her parents names where win Bristow and Ron Bristow. My grans name is Marion Babb as she was married but my grandad passed away about three/four years ago. Their evacuee about a year ago came to find my gran to meet her again as they where close friends when the war was on and after it had ended. Unfortunately one of my grans friends new that he had came to find her but her friend didn't manage to let my gran know that the evacuee was coming back to see her. This was upsetting for my gran as she wanted to meet Henry Mayo (evacuee) again, since then they haven't been in touch and this is a real shame. My gran doesn't know where Henry Mayo lives now, and He doesn't know where my gran lives. It would of been nice if they had met again so that I could of got more information.
At the time of the war my gran was the age of 10, her parents took in an evacuee called Henry Mayo. He was only 5 years old. He lived with them in North Dean where my gran originally lived with her parents and two brothers. My grans brothers names where Derek Bristow, Ken Bristow, and her her parents names where win Bristow and Ron Bristow. My grans name is Marion Babb as she was married but my grandad passed away about three/four years ago. Their evacuee about a year ago came to find my gran to meet her again as they where close friends when the war was on and after it had ended. Unfortunately one of my grans friends new that he had came to find her but her friend didn't manage to let my gran know that the evacuee was coming back to see her. This was upsetting for my gran as she wanted to meet Henry Mayo (evacuee) again, since then they haven't been in touch and this is a real shame. My gran doesn't know where Henry Mayo lives now, and He doesn't know where my gran lives. It would of been nice if they had met again so that I could of got more information.
Diary Entry: (Source found from the BBC), Vivian Smith 1944:
1944 - a beautiful summer. I was eight years old. Living in Budleigh Salterton
in Devon which seemed a million miles from Fulham in London. An idyllic life -
country, woods, sea. My elder sister Pat had been evacuated at the age of six
and a couple of years later my mother took my younger sister Irene and myself to
live in the same village to where Pat had been billeted. When the war news was
good we would return to London. When the bombing was heavy we would take the
long and arduous train journey back to Devon. Eventually we were all living
together in a rented cottage plus my young aunt. My maternal grandmother had
died in March that year at what I later realised was a tragically early age of fifty-four. Mum the eldest sister of the family had immediately said that Bunny would live with us. She worked in the local Post Office but had no knowledge of the telegram that would arrive on that terrible morning in July which contained news that would remain etched in my memory forever. Hearing my mother screaming "Pat, Pat - something terrible has happened" I turned over and cried. I knew it was dad. He hadn't wanted to go to war. He was thirty-four. He was married. He had three children. But eventually the calling-up papers had arrived. We went back to Devon. He went t0 Warrington, HMS Gosling, to train and then to Scotland. Mum took it in turn to take each of us sisters to London when he had leave. The last time was before he was going abroad. He was in charge of the luggage at Waterloo and it was my turn. Mum took me to London and amazingly we found him quite quickly. I remember their goodbye kiss and going back to the lonely flat before returning to Devon. He had two younger brothers, both in the RAF but he wanted the Navy and went into the Fleet Air Arm, a combination of both. So how did he die? Not in combat. No just a stupid accident. He was in
Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) swimming during his off duty time. Cramp. Can you believe this? To sail to Ceylon in the midst of the war and die from cramp. He was a joker. He played pranks. People knew he played pranks so when he called out that he was drowning who would take notice. This was good old Alf. Always good for a laugh. Somewhere there are people who must be living with the awful memory that they could have saved him. I cannot blame them. People walked past our local pub and heard his laugh. That's Alf they would say. Must go in and
join him. Always good for a laugh. Maybe he died laughing. We will never know but life was never the same again for my mum, my sisters and myself.
1944 - a beautiful summer. I was eight years old. Living in Budleigh Salterton
in Devon which seemed a million miles from Fulham in London. An idyllic life -
country, woods, sea. My elder sister Pat had been evacuated at the age of six
and a couple of years later my mother took my younger sister Irene and myself to
live in the same village to where Pat had been billeted. When the war news was
good we would return to London. When the bombing was heavy we would take the
long and arduous train journey back to Devon. Eventually we were all living
together in a rented cottage plus my young aunt. My maternal grandmother had
died in March that year at what I later realised was a tragically early age of fifty-four. Mum the eldest sister of the family had immediately said that Bunny would live with us. She worked in the local Post Office but had no knowledge of the telegram that would arrive on that terrible morning in July which contained news that would remain etched in my memory forever. Hearing my mother screaming "Pat, Pat - something terrible has happened" I turned over and cried. I knew it was dad. He hadn't wanted to go to war. He was thirty-four. He was married. He had three children. But eventually the calling-up papers had arrived. We went back to Devon. He went t0 Warrington, HMS Gosling, to train and then to Scotland. Mum took it in turn to take each of us sisters to London when he had leave. The last time was before he was going abroad. He was in charge of the luggage at Waterloo and it was my turn. Mum took me to London and amazingly we found him quite quickly. I remember their goodbye kiss and going back to the lonely flat before returning to Devon. He had two younger brothers, both in the RAF but he wanted the Navy and went into the Fleet Air Arm, a combination of both. So how did he die? Not in combat. No just a stupid accident. He was in
Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) swimming during his off duty time. Cramp. Can you believe this? To sail to Ceylon in the midst of the war and die from cramp. He was a joker. He played pranks. People knew he played pranks so when he called out that he was drowning who would take notice. This was good old Alf. Always good for a laugh. Somewhere there are people who must be living with the awful memory that they could have saved him. I cannot blame them. People walked past our local pub and heard his laugh. That's Alf they would say. Must go in and
join him. Always good for a laugh. Maybe he died laughing. We will never know but life was never the same again for my mum, my sisters and myself.