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Chapter Five

"A Stranger and Afraid" is a true story of how the Author, as an eight year old, experienced the unhappiness of being evacuated with his "bully" cousin Kathleen to a Quaker family in Somerset. From the outset, the strict family discipline of his "uncle and auntie" added to his misery of being separated from his family in London. Chapter Five describes his first day at the village school and his introduction to the fierce headmaster."

"It's seven o'clock, time for school."
      Oh no, Thursday. The day that I had been dreading all week. My hand instinctively went down the inside of my clothes, the same as it had every morning since that first fateful morning. Oh no, please make me dry, I prayed. My brow was already damp with sweat, as it was every morning, in anticipation of finding the worst. It's warm but is it dry? I wondered. I was so unhappy here. Kathleen was crying again, wanting to go home. Why should we stay here and suffer this way? I was never wet at home and nobody wants to understand how unhappy I am.
      "Everybody up! Girls wash first, breakfast is ready," added Auntie, ignoring Kathleen and removing the blackout blinds. "Porridge this morning."
      Margaret stirred, sat up, stretched, and reluctantly threw off the bedclothes causing a draft that I could feel on the other side of the room.
      "Come on, Kath," she said encouragingly, "you'll enjoy school in my class. You remember what I told you about Miss Williams? She has a lovely accent and I'm sure you'll get on well with her." She put her arms around Kathleen as she sat up. "Let's go and wash together."
      The girls slouched out of the room, leaving me with the opportunity to sit on the bed. I was dry. Dry. Why should this be such a big thing? With that fear put in its place, it now remained for me to get off to school without incurring any more rebuffs. The shoes may prove to be the stumbling block.
      I shuffled into the kitchen for warmth. The range fire glowed and the perennial kettle was puffing away with its steam curling up in patterns to the ceiling where it disappeared. My pyjamas hung listlessly at half-mast, being too big for me, but helping to cover my feet that felt the chill of the blue and grey lino.
      "No time for warm-ups," laughed Auntie. "The bathroom's free. Don't forget those ears," she added, sentencing me to the coldest room in the house.
      I noticed that the small blobs of water were already slowly running down the walls, caused by the warmth of the washing water condensing on the cold walls. Well that's what Uncle had said the previous day. If it is cold in the bungalow now, what will it be like in the winter? Uncle had explained that because the bungalow was built with corrugated iron, the rooms got very hot in the summer, but let the heat out of the bungalow in winter. I thought that my own home was cold enough, but I felt much colder here. The outcome was that I must have washed in record time and I slipped quietly back to the bedroom to avoid anyone being suspicious.
      Breakfast passed off in a very subdued manner. Kathleen was obviously still upset, but unnoticed by Auntie. My reason for disinterest in talking had something to do with shoes. They were not in the kitchen or bedroom and the subject failed to surface until the garden door opened, letting in more draughts that annoyed Margaret sitting immediately behind the door. Her protestations were stifled, however, on the triumphal entrance of Uncle, carrying three pairs of shoes. So I wasn't the only one who had failed to clean my shoes yesterday. Uncle made the point that this would be the first and last time that we could expect to get out of the chore. In future, there would be a shoe inspection at teatime. My shoes smelt of polish and Uncle must have had a really hard time with them. The caked mud had disappeared and he had even replaced the laces, one of which had been knotted for a long time.
      "There," he boasted as he saw me inspecting them. "That's the way shoes should be, shining, almost good enough to use when you're combing your hair," he laughed. "Anyhow, that's the way I want to see them each day."
      Some hopes, I thought, as I slipped them on, noticing that one of my socks had a hole in it. I hadn't seen it when I first put them on after washing. I hid it quickly in case Auntie got cross.
      "Come on now," called Auntie, balancing the last of the plates in the sink. "Five minutes and you must all be on your way to school. Three bags of sandwiches here on the table, the girls have got jam, and you Arthur will have the last of the beetroot. I heard you saying how much you liked it when your Dad made beetroot wedges for you at home. Your milk money is on each bag and there should be enough for the two days this week and all next week. Bring home any change if the teachers only take this week's money, don't forget."
      I don't know why we ran up the drive. I always ran to school at home but it wasn't because I was ever late. School was something that I enjoyed so I suppose that I preferred to be at school than to be with my sisters at home. But today was different. I was frightened and school held no attraction for me. I would have no friends in the class and the teacher spoke with a strange accent that made it difficult for me to understand her. Suppose I got the cane! I couldn't bear to think about it.
      Margaret was puffed out by the time we had passed Dan Lovell's farm, so we slowed to a walking pace, down the first part of a hill alongside the quarry and the cowshed where Reece had said that Dan Lovell and his wife milked the cows. We could hear Dan singing and Margaret laughed as he missed most of the words of the song and just la la'd the remainder. Apparently, he always sang like that. Further down the road was a junction and two men were working at a signpost. They were digging it up ready to put it on their old lorry with several that they had removed earlier. I remembered Uncle George telling me on our way to Bristol last week that all signposts and town names would have to go, just in case enemy agents or soldiers landed. It would be more difficult for them to find their way around without the signs, so we would have to get used to roads without the directions as well.
      We had no time to stop and watch. After going round a double bend we came to a rocky area just opposite a wide entrance to the large green-roofed Mendip Hotel. Margaret indicated that we had to take the path to the right, called The Rocks, as this was a short cut to the school end of the village. She pointed further down the hill. There we could make out the church spire and to the right, I recognised the low school building nestling by the avenue of trees. It seemed miles away and it was starting to rain.
      "Blow it," said Margaret, fastening her coat right up to her neck. "It would rain, just as we are going down here. The path gets slippery at the top because we are actually walking on the bare rocks. A little further down it becomes a better footpath and people at the village end call this the Grove."
      I must have been dragging behind a bit and Margaret made a jibe about whether I would have the strength to climb the hill this afternoon when we came home.
      I'll show you, I thought, and rushed between them, knocking Kathleen sideways. Unfortunately for me, the impact was sufficient to put me off balance. In grabbing at a low wall bordering a cottage garden; I dropped my gas mask and the bag containing my sandwiches. This was just what the girls wanted. They laughed as one sandwich broke open and the beetroot landed in a puddle on the path. The trail from the puddle down the slope turned a bright red as I realised that half of my lunch was beyond recovery. The worst bit, however, was that Kathleen taunted me all the way to the bottom of the path.
      We emerged from The Rocks onto the main road by a newspaper shop. About ten other children were walking ahead of us and my stomach tightened as we got ever nearer to the school. The girls linked up with two of Margaret's friends but I avoided the group by pretending to do up my shoelaces. The big black birds in the trees were making a heck of a din and I wondered whether we could hear them in school. Margaret dropped back to fetch me so that we could all cross the road together and suddenly we were at the gate of the playground.
      "This one is not for you," she said, opening the low rickety gate into the yard where we had congregated a few days earlier for the gas drill. "Yours is on the other side of the school and I'm not allowed round there. If you go along the side of the school, you'll see a narrow path that will take you into the boys' yard. There will be plenty of boys in there. I'll see you at home time."
      Not wanting to be seen flustered, I edged round the corner where there was no mistaking the path. I was automatically caught up in a wave of about eight boys all jostling to be first into their playground. Elbows, fists, and barging soon dictated that I would be at the rear. My gas mask box was dented and my self-assurance that was already at an all time low became non-existent. As we passed a green door that probably lead into the school, a combination of a trip from one boy and a push from another, resulted in me lying prostrate in the entrance. Fear summoned me to get out as quickly as possible and I hurried into the playground where I huddled against a high wall bordering the tall trees that housed the black birds and looked to see how wet my coat was, after falling.
      "Who are you?" ventured a solitary red haired boy with his socks hanging over his shoes. "I bet you're a vaccy. My Mum told me to watch out for you vaccys because you will all be big bullies, though, if you ask me, I don't think you could blow a fly off a cow pat. I'm Derek White. I live down by the lake."
      "I'm Arthur," I returned, but before I could find anything else to add, a shrill sound on a whistle brought almost dead silence to the playground, the exceptions being the noisy cawing of the big birds perched on the highest branches and a group of boys wrestling over in the far corner of the playground. The short, slim frame of the teacher moved smartly towards the boys who were still oblivious to the impending trouble. The teacher arrived at their side and gave a deafening blast on her whistle, just by the ears of two of them.
      "When will you louts remember that the school bell cannot be used anymore unless there is an invasion and in the meantime you will have to obey this whistle? Can you hear it now?" she called sarcastically, nearly bursting the eardrum of another boy climbing to his feet and catching the full sound of the instrument. "That is the last warning. Next time, it will be a visit to Mr Headford."
      The mere sound of his name sent a cold shiver down the spines of all in the yard. Although I had never seen him, the name Headford meant pain in my brain.
      Lines of obedient scholars suddenly appeared and I realised that each line represented a class. I stood still, by the wall where several other boys of no fixed abode were stationed. On seeing us, the teacher mellowed. She suggested that we might like to follow the last group into the school and wait outside the first classroom door. Somebody would be along to put us in a class, she thought.
      None of us spoke. The fear of not knowing produced a lump in my throat and fullness in the pit of my stomach. The outside door opened three times and on each occasion, we all turned abruptly in its direction, in ignorance of what to expect. Each entrance was of a boy, late and all too concerned with getting somewhere fast to notice that eight new intakes of their own age were standing, lonely and unwanted, in their school. The fourth time left us in no doubt that we had been noticed. The door crashed against the far wall. A grey-haired, thin man strode in, leaving the door to swing back on its heavy curled hinge re-engaging its lock with an unnecessary bang that must have been a signal throughout the school that Mr. Headford was on his way. Surely this must be him. The confirmation came with gale force.
      "Why are you boys standing here?" he roared. "You learn nothing in corridors, unless it is because you are waiting to see me. Then, you will learn that it is best not to be sent in the first place. Understand?"
      "We were told to wait here," ventured one of the boys. "We are evacuees."
      "I can tell that. You don't speak properly for a start. However, we shall soon alter that. I do not like evacuees. You look scruffy; your hair is untidy and there is no room for you in our village. In addition, I am told that another bunch is coming from London next week. Get out of that door and go across the path into the hall. Sit quietly and don't talk."
      It was with a sort of relief that we jostled to get out through the door as he went in the other direction. There was nobody in the hall, but it was obviously used for lessons. We took off our coats and arranged ourselves quietly in the few iron desks at one end of the room. For what seemed like an age, nobody spoke. We were probably imagining that Mr Headford had some divine power of knowing when boys misbehaved and he would know exactly when to appear to his advantage. Then gradually the ice melted and we found ourselves talking in pairs. Derek and Maurice were next to me and had only arrived from near London two days earlier. Both were billeted with Mrs. Hatter at the Seymour Arms in the village and neither wanted to talk about it. We all became quiet again and it was just as well. The familiar charging through the door could mean only one thing. Yes, Mr. Headford, followed by three girls, including Kathleen, who looked as though she had been crying. The girls threw their coats onto the table with ours and quickly found desks, slightly away from the boys. Mr. Headford rummaged through some drawers and removed sheets of paper, which he promptly dropped on the floor.
      "You lad, come and pick up the pile and give one sheet only to each of you," he shouted, prodding the nearest boy, who ran to obey. "We have no plans for you this morning so you will stay here until break time. Then we shall see. I have told you, I dislike all evacuees in Blagdon, so you will not find me tolerant of anything but the very best work. And woe betide any of you who thinks that you can get away with shoddy work. Hurry up with that paper. What is your name?"
      "Emmanuel Fogee," replied the boy, sounding a bit older than me.
      "Sir," screeched Mr Headford. "Don't be so rude next time, it's Sir."
      I felt a shiver go down my back and I tried to sink lower into the desk, hoping that I couldn't be seen. Emmanuel had just about completed his task when the voice boomed out again.
      "Paint boxes are in that cupboard over there. Share one box between two. Water and jam jars are in that room at the end. Get on with painting a picture and it had better be good. You will be told when you can have a break, but no talking."
      We moved as one, all fearing that the slightest step out of line would spell disaster in the form of an enraged tiger. We bumped in our anxiety to get the tools quickly. We overfilled the jars, leaving trails of water across the floor and one unfortunate lad had the misfortune to drop a paint box, allowing half of the squares of solidified paint to spray in all directions. He struggled to gather them up, but as fast as he picked some up, he dropped others. Seeing his predicament, one of the girls went to his aid, only to receive an earful of abuse from Sir. With a clicking of his tongue, Mr Headford made for the door that he slammed to give the best effect of his displeasure.
      I hated art in any form. I hated it at school in London where the teachers used to laugh at my inability to draw straight lines or keep the colours within shapes. I even hated the drawing books at home that only required a wet brush to bring out the hidden colours in the magic pages. I was sure that my Mum and Dad had foreseen my lack of artistic skill by giving me a name that started with the letters ART. We had no pencils in the room although two of the boys had stubs in their pockets. So I was expected to produce something freehand. What on earth could I do? After an age of time during which I just looked around at the others to try and get some inspiration, I wet my brush and transferred a bright red paint splodge onto the lid of the box, mixed it with more water and proceeded to cover the whole page with a red background. What to do now? I studied the page waiting for a picture to appear but none came. The lull had its blessing because the paper had a chance to dry, but still I had no inspiration.
      I eyed the yellow. After all, red and yellow were my favourite colours. I cleaned the lid of the box with my hankie and scraped at the bright yellow square. In a haphazard way, I found my brush drawing nearly straight lines, about a half inch apart from one side of the paper to the other. When I had completed six of these lines, I started joining them at intervals.
      "Hey," said Maurice, eyeing my work, "what are you going to do with that brick wall?"
      "Brick wall?" I replied quizzically. "Brick wall? I suppose it does look a bit like a wall," and laughed shyly. I was still unsure, but if I could make it into a wall, then perhaps I could make a picture after all.
      Then came the inspiration that I had been looking for. Yes, of course, a brick wall! London was full of posters in the streets, all showing a bright red wall with yellow pointing between the bricks. But what were the words on the wall? I found a new urgency in mixing the yellow, getting carried away with the amount that I was producing. But the wall was completed just as the words entered my head. The yellow joined the red on my hankie and a pale blue mix filled the lid of the box. It should have been white, but there was none in the block marked "white" in the box, so blue it had to be. In a very jerky writing, the words took shape and in no time at all I had finished.
      "What we want is Watney's." I had no idea what it meant, but I had finished the picture. My hand ached with the gripping of the brush, but now I needed somebody to tell me how good the picture really was.
      My excitement turned to a cold sweat as we heard the inevitable striding and coughing of the headmaster. Flinging open the door so that it crashed against the wall behind it, he lurched into the room and bellowed at the nearest two boys who were still smiling at a previous conversation that they ended abruptly. He glanced at several pieces of work without comment and I suddenly saw that he was flexing that cane between his hands, bending the rod in anticipation. I felt him coming up behind me and I shrank in fear of the inevitable outburst. It came with an alarming shriek.
      "What do you call that," he shouted in exasperation. "What a waste of paper. Don't you know we are at war and we must not waste anything? I can see what sort of place you have come from, but it will not do for me. Stand up."
      He grabbed at my arm. "This will teach you to waste paper." He held my hand up high, opened my knuckles and brought the cane down with a force that took my arm from his grip. He regained his balance and shoved me back into my desk.
      "Let that be a lesson to all of you. If your work falls short of my required standard then you will suffer."
      There was utter silence as he slammed the door, leaving me with the embarrassment of trying not to cry with the pain and worse, the thought that Kathleen had seen it all happen. I could feel my heart pounding, but even more pressing was the intense hurting of my hand. I didn't know whether to close my fist or to stretch it open. It stung, whatever I did. As the blood started circulating again the pain got worse. Maurice was the first to break the silence.
      "Whenever I got the cane, I put my hand under the cold water tap," he volunteered. "Old fishface is a pig isn't he? He was just looking for somebody to cane and you had to be unlucky. I'm glad it wasn't me," he sighed.
      I took the chance to go to the tap, without looking in Kathleen's direction. The cold water made my hand go even redder and I wasn't sure that it was having the right effect. But it gave me the opportunity to dash some water over my eyes to lessen the possibility of tears being seen and I rejoined the class just as Miss Treasurer entered the room.
      "Right, we can sort you out now, so listen carefully, and find out your classes. Then you can have a break for milk. All of the milk is put in your classroom each day and the milk monitor will give you a straw."
      She proceeded to call out our names and allocate us to one of three classes. Her gentle voice came floating across the heads of the other children as if she realised that I wanted something gentle, something to soothe my stinging fingers. Her mousy hair almost reached her shoulders before curling under. Her floral dress was bright and contrasted with a wide belt at her waist. Her perpetual smile showed off her colourful cheeks and I found myself willing her to call out my name to join her class. In one minute thirty seconds she had transformed my whole world. She had created my first feeling of happiness since I had left home. I had no fear of her; she was not trying to make me feel uncomfortable; she did not criticise me when I hesitatingly gave my name in response to her question; I wanted, above all, to please her and to have her as a friend.
      It worked. My internal pleading paid off and she smiled as, at last, she said that I would be with her class, together with Emmanuel and Maurice's brother Derek. Miss Treasurer dispatched the other children to their rooms and then spoke to the three of us, asking about our hometowns, where we had been billeted and had we any friends with us. She sympathised with me when she realised how far I had to walk to school with Margaret, but she added that Margaret had never been late, so she hoped that I would be the same.
      "I expect that you all feel very strange in this school and in Blagdon. Everything at your new homes must appear different and I expect you are having difficulty with understanding our dialect. Yours certainly sounds strange to me! But I'm sure that you will soon settle down and I'll always be here if you want to tell me anything that needs sorting out. It will also be very awkward next week when a whole lot more evacuees will descend on our school, so it will take a lot of getting used to, trying to find out what standard of work you have been taught. It may well be that we shall have to adjust some of the classes to balance out the differences."
      Oh no, I thought, I am going to please you all the time and make sure that I stay with the lovely Miss Treasurer.
      "Right," she said, quietly, "let's go and meet the other classmates and enjoy the milk. Then I can tell you about my plans for this term."
      On entering the classroom I suddenly felt insecure. Standing in front of the class whilst Miss Treasurer introduced us made me blush and the more I tried to forget it, the worse I felt. For once, I regretted my name as the class burst into laughter when she told them that my name was Allwright. But there was more chuckling when Emmanuel Fogee gave his name and Miss Treasurer stepped in and, quietly but firmly, ended the frivolity by suggesting that nobody could choose their name. She also mentioned several people that she had known who had the most peculiar names and we all laughed together.
      The milk was in a grey metal crate and there were thirty cardboard topped one-third-of-a-pint bottles. A milk monitor had been appointed and he was already giving out the straws. At the nod of her head, Miss Treasurer indicated which row of children should go to the crate and they quietly slid out of the old metal framed desks to collect their drink. The desks were more ancient than any I had ever seen. They reminded me of my Mum's sewing machine at home, except that Mum's machine had a foot treadle that we used to play with and annoy Mum by making it go faster and faster. The desks had no treadle, of course, but they were the same size as Mum's machine for each child. The wooden tops were scarred with inked initials and scratches. My desk had obviously been the target for a boy with a penknife and I wondered how many times DA had been caned for his artistry. Each desk had a rounded furrow for pens and pencils to lodge and the furrow led to a hole, into which a white china inkwell was seated.
      I lifted the lid of my desk and to my surprise, there was no box arrangement, but instead, there was a shelf at the back, upon which several exercise books, a pen, and a couple of chewed pencils were perched precariously. With the lid raised, I realised that had there been a box I would have been prevented from sitting close to the desk without hitting my knees on it. A disadvantage soon came to light when I dragged my chair closer to the desk and my knees caught one of the protruding books on the shelf and it fell to the floor.
      By lunch time, the stinging had gone from my hand, although it was still quite red. The safety of being with Miss Treasurer was occasionally endangered by the reminder that Mr. Headford was only two rooms away with the top class. His quick-fire temper surfaced each time that some unfortunate pupil dared to upset him. During the lunch hour, we sat with our sandwiches at our desks after which Miss Treasurer ascertained that it was not raining, and ordered us out into the playground. The other evacuees joined me by a gate into a garden, but to our horror we saw Mr Headford coming in our direction and, pushing between us, he went through the gate. It was his house entrance and it was his garden. We beat a hasty retreat to the far side of the playground where we leant unhappily against a flint wall bordering the high trees.
      It was ages before anybody came anywhere near us, but just before the whistle went the ginger headed boy ventured to tell the others that his name was Derek White and that he lived down by the lake opposite the railway station. Emmanuel and the other Derek were quick to ask about the railway but the whistle interrupted the chat. We ran to where the lines were already forming to go back into school. The afternoon was taken up by writing names and class number on several exercise books and the newcomers to the class were issued with a pen, pencil and rubber together with a reading book and an arithmetic exercise book, both of which had been severely marked and torn.
      The afternoon eventually came to an abrupt end when a hand bell sounded in the next room. The immediate babble of pupils, the noise of scraping chairs and calls from the teacher for less noise, meant that our class could start putting all our books under the desk lid. Miss Treasurer singled me out to hope that I had enjoyed my first day, adding that tomorrow she would start finding out whether or not I liked arithmetic.
      I suddenly remembered my gasmask that I had left in the hall where we had our first encounter with "Whacker Headford", as Derek had nicknamed the beast. I rushed to the room, fearing that I may get caught, but luck was on my side and the bent box with its dirty string was still there. Confident that I had forgotten nothing, I put on my cub cap and coat and ran down the path to the road, just in time to see Margaret and Kathleen disappearing round the bend. It didn't take long to catch them up. However, I soon wished that I hadn't.
      "Who got the cane today?" teased Margaret. "All I've heard today is that somebody got sore hands. I'm glad it wasn't me," she taunted.
      I could feel my face warming to a bright red, confirming all the rumours, as if that was necessary. I stayed silent whilst Kathleen threw in her version of how I had poked out my tongue at the head, which was a blatant lie. Having said that, Kathleen embellished the story with the added untruth that I had done it hoping that Mr Headford would not see me.
      "No wonder you got the cane," said Margaret, "although I heard that you got it for wasting paper. Mum won't be very pleased when she finds out. On your first day, too!"
      "I can't help it if I can't paint," I blurted. "It's just that old Whacker wanted to cane an evacuee and I happened to be the nearest. I never poked out my tongue. Kathleen is a liar and she knows it."
      I was close to tears because I felt the more I denied it, the guiltier I looked and the redder my face became, until in sheer desperation, I laid into Kathleen and punched her ear. By this time, we had started climbing up the Grove and, being a bit steep, it allowed me to run away from Kathleen who was intent on catching me. For once I was too quick. Being a bit fatter than me, she was soon puffing and stopped for breath.
      Without turning round, I ran all the way to the top of the Grove and out onto the Blagdon Hill. By this time I was also puffing, but kept going at speed until I reached Fairhaven.
      I was relieved to find Auntie Floss smiling as I kicked off my shoes and entered the kitchen.
      "You're early," she said. "Did you like the school and where are the girls?"
      "I ran away from them because Kathleen was telling lies about me," I ventured, hoping to get support and soften the row that would inevitably follow as soon as the story of my caning surfaced. I wanted to tell Auntie of the episode and to tell her that it wasn't fair. But just as I thought that I was raising the courage to tell her, the door burst open and Kathleen rushed at me, twisting my ear.
      "That's for punching me," she yelled, pushing past, swinging her gasmask and catching me off-balance. Auntie couldn't believe her eyes or ears and for a second or two she just stood with her lips quivering. Taking the opportunity of a lull in our wrestling, she shouted at us to stop immediately. Margaret tried to calm the atmosphere by giving a sequence of events, but Auntie latched on to the point where I had cuffed Kathleen in the Grove and that was enough.
      "Arthur, go to your room at once. I will not hear of you fighting in the streets and certainly not hitting girls. What will everybody think? Now, you go and stay in your room until Gerv comes in."
      No sooner had I closed the bedroom door than Auntie came rushing in, quivering.
      "And what's this about you getting the cane today? And on your first day! I don't know if I can stand much more of your behaviour. Get undressed. There's no tea for you today. You will learn before you are much older that I will not put up with your sort of antics. Get into bed."
      I was already half undressed when she turned at the door and asked for the lunch bag.
      "I hope that you haven't left it at school. If so, you may have to go without tomorrow. You can't have a clean paper bag every day." She was feeling in the trouser pocket and out came my hankie, all splattered with paint. I snatched it from her and sat on it, unable to take any more. My unhappiness was complete and I was unable to control the sobs. Auntie ranted on about, young Gervase's hankie, but I was past the point of trying to explain the dreadful experience of pain that I had suffered at the hands of the bully headmaster. Now, a different kind of bullying was continuing at home and nobody was interested in the fact that I was all alone and seemed destined to upset everyone around me, even though I didn't mean it.
      The door slammed and opened immediately. Auntie returned to put the blackout blinds in place, leaving me in complete darkness. My first day had been a disaster.

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