When two lives collide, p.16
When Two Lives Collide, page 16
The village was buzzing with gossip: who had organised it? Miss Webster, the Church Primary School’s sassy new teacher, was already the prime suspect. Miss Webster, with her ankle length tartan skirts and low cut frilly gypsy blouses was definitely the front runner. Her regular Saturday night crowd at The Queens Arms had already posted her as the prime target. Every Saturday, she played the latest tunes on the pub’s rickety upright piano, enthusiastically leading her followers into an evening sing-along. Some said she was already dating a Major from the American Camp. After all, her rented cottage was in the lane leading to the camp. There was one racing certainty: Reverend Jones would never recommend his flock to boost the numbers of dancing feet during his fire and brimstone sermons.
Hilda longed to practice her dancing. Particularly, since she’d met the gorgeous Arnie Packard. Hilda’s life had changed. A young woman’s developing thoughts and emotions invaded her every waking hour. Unrepeatable feelings—who could she tell—certainly not her mother. Her body continually pulsated with an overwhelming desire. But what was her desire? She knew there were new places her body must travel. At night, as she lay restlessly, her hands discovering even greater satisfaction.
Chapter 3
1942–1943
News had spread as far as Andover, almost ten miles distant, of the impending dance to welcome the Yanks to the tiny Hampshire village. For sure every girl, single or not within striking distance would be there. Every possible ‘prisoner’ would be taken for every Yankee boy was a target. Endless stories of money, nylons, chocolate bars and untold goodies unavailable to everyone in ration hit war torn Britain had swamped every corner of northern Hampshire.
Strains of Chattanooga Choo Choo resounded from the village hall. Across the village green, those unlucky enough to miss out on admission to the Church Hall, cavorted in the open air to the highest noise levels the little Hampshire village had ever heard. For sure, passing aircraft would have been attracted to the sounds, accompanied by flashing lights, emanating from Des Stainer’s Swing Band’s stage lighting. Swamped by the hordes attending the event, the main road through the village was now blocked off; unknowingly, forming part of the dance party overflowing from the village hall.
With the influx of unexpected visitors, both pubs heaved with excited customers. An increasing cacophony from the rapturous pub goers’, strained even Des Stainer’s efforts to blast through Glenn Miller’s latest repertoire. Hordes of hopeful women arrived swelling the village celebrations. Their only interest, the might of the American armed forces. Every Yankee soldier had been given orders that uniforms would be worn. Colonel Larry Pedderson was determined to show respect to his hosts, providing a spectacle of American military discipline.
Arnie and Kurt wasted no time leaving camp, heading for the village hall. It was obvious that nearly four hundred American soldiers would swamp the village hall and flood the two nearby pubs. Although, many had been allocated tickets for the dance, it was soon clear there were two main attractions for the gathered Yankee soldiers. Both, the Queen’s Arms together with the First In Last Out, who had created extra bars outside their respective pubs. Dozens of barrels filled with best bitter and brown ale had been arranged to supply the throngs of impatient soldiers.
Of still greater interest, the influx into the village of hundreds of young and some not so young, determined women. Rumours were abound of their ability to supply, nylons, chocolates and a slice of their overpaid wages. Naturally, most hot-blooded Americans bursting with pent up physical thoughts, released from camp for the first time in over a month would play along with any receptive female.
Apart from the rectory, the residence of Reverend Jones and his frumpy wife, there was not a light to be seen anywhere throughout the village. Whatever the reports of the horrors and unspeakably harrowing events occurring throughout Europe, tonight was everyone’s escape. To a man, the opportunity to have fun, dance, sing and for most, get stinking drunk was accepted wholeheartedly. Even Hilda’s parents, devout followers of Reverend Jones, relaxed for the evening, joining the festive celebrations.
Soon, Hilda’s parents were lost in the crowd which had taken over the centre of the village. For once, offering Hilda a golden opportunity to slip away from the restrictions usually enforced each workday evening. Hilda’s instructions were clear: by ten o’clock she must meet her parents at the war memorial, across from the village hall. Her punishment for failing to meet her curfew was cast in stone. Extra garage duties for one month, plus a firmly secured bedroom door on the dot at eight o’clock every evening.
Hilda had nearly three hours to extract as much freedom as possible. Hopefully, savouring every minute of her precious time away from her parents. Moreover, she had to keep her actions from the prying eyes of her parent’s chapel going friends. Hilda knew they would report anything deemed unchristian back to her family. No one in the village had ever experienced crowds on this scale, or cast eyes, on so many gorgeous young men. Even the young Englishmen who attended last year’s service of remembrance in full dress uniform held not a candle to the masses of young Americans tonight overrunning their tiny Hampshire village.
“Well hey, don’t you look a picture?” Arnie eased away from several other soldiers, staring admiringly at Hilda.
“Not gonna introduce you to these renegades. In case you slope off with one of them,” he smiled, his determined gaze fixed on her.
Hilda’s stomach was exploding. Created by thousands of rampant butterflies wildly cavorting, woken by the gaze from Arnie’s shining green eyes. Hilda’s face was burning. Even the soft pink face powder she’d stolen from her mother’s dressing table was failing to hide the obvious signs of her excitement.
“Hilda, let’s stroll and talk a while,” Arnie guided her hand, leading a shy yet willing teenager away from the flock of revellers. Like many newly-formed couples, Arnie and Hilda sought solitude from the shindig in and around the village hall. As they ambled past the Chapel, she turned her face away. Knowing those who supported the fire and brimstone taught inside would be mortified if she was spotted in the arms of a Yankee soldier.
Over the ensuing weeks, Hilda found ways to sneak away to meet Arnie. Most times, their clandestine meetings held deep in the forest that adjoined Shadwell’s Forty. And then he was gone! As with other girls attempting to track down the love of their lives, all were blocked from any access to the American camp.
“No one here of that name.” Always the callous yet efficient answer for those trying to breach American security.
Early one misty morning in early October, Hilda’s mother, already suspicious of her daughter’s mood swings, stood silently close by the family’s outside toilet. Now understanding yet furious of the sounds of retching coming from her daughter. Hilda’s condition now ordained that she would be visiting ‘Aunt Beth’ until the following May.
Hilda had little choice, removal from the village was imperative. Within hours of the retching incident, Hilda was placed in quarantine. Her bedroom now her prison, until her parents could remove her from the safety of prying eyes and wagging tongues. Particularly from the chapel folk who thrived on a good scandal. Whatever the outcome, Hilda’s young heart was broken. Her mother was unaware Hilda had fully understood the changes in her body. Her daughter aware she was carrying Arnie’s child long before her mother had witnessed her morning sickness. Even before Arnie had disappeared, she had shared her secret with him. Hilda had expected Arnie to run for cover, but no, she could rely on him. But it was different. Now Arnie was gone; maybe he had escaped, requesting an immediate transfer, or maybe he had been posted to the front line. Whatever the explanation, her dark-haired Jewish lover was gone.
Aunt Beth was a charming spinster who lived in a rambling manor house, a short distance from the Hampshire market town of Basingstoke. Aunt Beth provided full-term confinement shelter to a number of girls. Mostly from middle-class families, or those such as Hilda’s parents with sufficient income to cover the costs of ‘Aunt Beth’s’ assistance for girls in need. Girls were encouraged to arrive at the manor, no later than twelve weeks into their pregnancy. Aunt Beth’s time frame allowing three courses of action to be considered.
‘Aunt Beth’ childless herself, preached to her new patients and their parents of motherhood and the potential difficulties of single parenthood. Many of her girls were unable to deal with the stigma attributed to becoming an unmarried mother amongst many God fearing village folk. For that eventuality, Aunt Beth had a queue of couples, mostly childless, who would adopt whatever child was available.
Hampshire, was now becoming a sanctuary for allied troops from The States and Commonwealth countries. It was no coincidence that their arrival was directly responsible for the rapidly increasing number of illegitimate children. Aunt Beth found the first alternative, abortions, alien to her strong belief in motherhood. If, after counselling the girl and her family, her teachings fell on deaf ears, Aunt Beth would politely request them to remove the girl from her care.
If the expectant mother and her parents agreed to keep the child, Aunt Berth insisted that the birth take place under her confidential guidance. But Hilda had absolutely no chance of keeping the baby, which was due in May 1943. For her mother had insisted to Aunt Beth’s third and most popular answer to the problem. Adoption. Aunt Beth would select an adoptive couple, chosen well in advance of the birth.
Hilda’s mother had one stipulation, they must be devout Methodists, with the child christened and brought up into the faith. There was to be no contact between the couple, Hilda or her family. Aunt Beth had dealt with many such cases, always insisting the new-born child be left with her alone for at least seven days prior to handing over to the selected couple.
And so it was that I was deposited unceremoniously into this world. My mother taken from me, my grandparents having already expunged me from their Christmas card list.
Chapter 4
1943–1944
I was born in May 1943. By then, the world had already seen the evacuation of our brave soldiers from Dunkirk. Also the arrival of many thousands of Americans and Commonwealth troops to assist pushing Hitler back from our doorstep. I had arrived, an illegitimate child, a product of the early Anglo-American war effort. Like many thousands of unwanted war babies, I was adopted shortly after birth, speedily arranged by the understanding ‘Aunt Beth’. My future thereafter dictated by an infertile Welsh Methodist and her downtrodden English tractor driver husband. My mother’s unrelenting, evil Draconian brand of parenting shaping my future years.
During the early months of 1944, with the war well under way across Europe, it was clear that the invasion of Europe was being prepared. My father tried again and again to sign up into one of the tank regiments without success. As much as he tried, over and again he was ordered to continue his vital farm work, breaking new farming ground to enable additional crops to be harvested. During 1944, he was sent away to Devon where large expanses of farmland were to be broken up. His only concession to military service that he was permitted to join the Home Guard. My mother, now having her adopted child was left alone, learning now in her late forties, the delicate unrehearsed matter of child rearing.
Doris, her younger sister, was living with her young son John near Cardiff in South Wales. Her husband Cyril, a petty officer in the Royal Navy, had recently been seconded to a destroyer, dispatched somewhere out in the North Atlantic. Both sisters could see the benefits of living together in Hampshire, keeping the children away from the constant bombing of major cities of South Wales and attacks on Southampton docks.
During the first months of 1944, massive troop movements could be observed, moving men and machinery south towards the South Coast. Just inland, between Southampton and Portsmouth, new camps were set up, soon to be overcrowded with troops from all the allied countries.
As my first birthday drew closer in May 1944, the sisters decided they should join other parents lining the village streets, waving encouragement to the troop movements flowing south through our village along the A34. Doris was already a practiced mother with her son John nearly eighteen months old. Doris had already noticed that her sister, now possessing an adopted child, showed none of the required attributes of motherhood. In fact, Doris had taken to offering parenting advice, which she felt would aid her sister lacking motherhood skills.
On her arrival in Hampshire, Doris had made changes to her new shining black Swan pram, allowing both John and myself to be transported together. Sandwiches and freshly-cooked Welsh cakes, together with a Thermos of tea was loaded onto the carrying tray of the Swan pram as Doris pushed the double-ended pram towards the village.
As they approached the centre of the village, a number of locals were already standing outside the Cart and Horses pub; fervently waving Union Flags at the heavy war machinery rumbling past. Across from the pub where the pavement had finished, Doris stopped the pram, allowing a line of Bren Gun Carriers to pass by. Both women covered their ears as the deafening rattle of tracked vehicles swamped the cheering from villagers along both sides of the road.
Just three weeks earlier, Private Eddie Pulsar had lied about his age, determined to pass the recruitment tests laid down by the Durham Light Infantry. Claiming to be nineteen, the sixteen year old was immediately sent for driver training in one of a new batch of Vickers-Armstrong, Bren Gun Carriers. Although tests on rough ground had been extensive, the fickle controls of the Bren Gun Carriers had not been fully exposed to a host of new drivers barely tested on metalled roads.
Such was the fatal problem for sixteen-year-old driver, Private Eddie Pulsar. Manfully, he wrestled with the controls of his charge as he dodged an over exuberant well-wisher scampering across from the pub. With super human efforts, Private Pulsar managed to slide the four ton, twelve foot long beast away from the excited villager, but his vehicle was now out of control.
Doris and my mother both grabbed the handles of the Swan pram in a vain attempt to pull their children from the path of the sliding machine. Private Pulsar, suddenly aware his machine was sliding through forty-five degrees to his left, grabbed mindlessly at every lever and stamping on each pedal within reach. Instead of straightening under the instruction from the various controls, Private Pulsar’s efforts caused the Bren Gun Carrier to sweep further left.
As the left hand track crashed to a halt against the wall of the local garage, my cousin John sleeping in the front end of the pram took the full force. My end of the pram was torn away, pitching what remained of the once shining Swan pram between the non-revolving tracks. Nothing could be done for my cousin, as his pulped body was dragged away, meshed into what remained of the pram.
Apparently, it took three weeks before I regained consciousness, by which time, what remained of my crushed cousin had been buried. Our accident was soon yesterday’s news as the D Day invasion began attempting to free Europe from the Austrian despot. I had arrived just a product of the Anglo-American war effort. Now John and I were just another statistic of the ongoing conflict.
Chapter 5
The ’40s – Early ’50s
Throughout my countryside childhood, I was never made aware of my adoption. Although the physical differences from my adoptive parents were obvious to any honest onlooker. At thirteen, I stood just over six feet with bright blue eyes shining from what I was later to understand were Polish facial characteristics. In contrast, my adoptive parents needed assistance to reach even the lowest kitchen shelves. Discipline handed down from my Welsh adoptive mother was strict, brutal, bordering on methods adopted from Victorian work houses. Raw welts from a frequently used aging besom broom became the norm. However, her favourite form of punishment was custodial. Our understairs larder was sufficient to accept a broken-hearted, frightened little boy. Hours of screaming for release were always left unanswered. Punishments of the severest order being her watchword. In our house, smiles were never on the menu, laughter non-existent, with never a hint of praise for my efforts at school, or indeed any from my endless chores around the home.
From an early age growing up in Hampshire amongst village farming folk, I was sheltered from the evils that befell those existing in our great cities. I was also unaware how different city dwellers perceived themselves to be streetwise and sharp, light years ahead of their country bumpkin cousins. As a broad generalisation this may be accurate. But let me put the record straight from my experiences, although short lived. Many ‘city slickers’ were underdeveloped in survival skills compared to the gypsies I came to know and respect. A short yet beneficial lesson administered by one Jim Mills, a member of our local gypsy hierarchy, was to remain with me.
I grew up with my adoptive parents in tied accommodation on one of the largest estates in Hampshire. Rapidly, I understood the gulf that existed between us and the Lords, landowners and tenant farmers. In these enlightened days of equal opportunities, instant communications, travel, with a society however corrupt, leaving all but a few hungry. But during my childhood, both hunger and subservience existed. Although in truth, we always found food, however spartan, much filched from the farm in one form or another.
My father started his work at seven each morning, rain or shine. The winter months gave a slight rest break. Allowing him Saturday afternoon and occasionally Sundays to tend his garden, forage for firewood then reluctantly attend service at our sponsored Methodist Chapel. For ours was the heart land of bigoted Methodism funded by our boss J. Arthur Rank. Probably, the largest contributor to the church, hopefully ensuring his eternal salvation. Now I am being unkind. For although with hindsight, it was because of his Wesleyan principles that created the dictatorial penury we were forced into. Strangely, at the time, life appeared basically comfortable through our ignorance of the greater world. Our life existed around the estate environment that the soon to be ennobled Lord had developed. Ensuring, his estate was firmly ensconced as the inescapable centre of our universe.
