- Contributed by
- Glenn Miller Festival 2004
- People in story:
- Peter Palmer
- Background to story:
- Article ID:
- Contributed on:
- 01 September 2004
In the winter 1940, when I was five and a half, my father who was a civil servant arranged for my mother, brother and myself to be evacuated to Somerset.
We were billeted with a Mr. & Mrs. Murphy whose only interest in taking evacuees was a monitory gain.
We, the three of us, had to stay in one room at all times. All our meals were taken in our room, where all three of us slept, and all our recreational time was spent in this room. The only time we were allowed to leave was to go to the bathroom.
My brother and I attended the local school and on the way home we would steal coal from the local slag heaps so that we could have a fire this being our only luxury as the Murphy’s had confiscated all our toys.
After about six week there was a bomb dropped about a quarter of a mile away from where we were staying, the first we had had since being there.
Mrs. Murphy was very upset and made a great fuss, crying and shouting. My Mother, who by this time was fed up to the back teeth, told Mrs. Murphy what she thought of her and said this was one small bomb a far distance away and that when we were home, we had been having this sort of thing daily.
My Mother then telegrammed my Father to say we were coming home, as anything was better than how we were living and we caught the next train home.
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