The Dead Serviceman.

 The Blitz had been a severe trial to Mother’s nervous state, never very robust. Now the Doodlebugs had arrived we were all on thorns for the future of the family. It was not merely the violence or her constant fear, but for a home-loving woman, her entire life was put on hold. There was precious food for her to cook us her delicious meals, fabric was on coupons, so dressmaking was difficult, and her flower garden had been given over to a henhouse, a rabbit hutch and rows of vegetables. It was called ‘Dig for Victory’ but the worm-eaten skinny produce we could harvest was more a harbinger of defeat in our house.

Father made a bold decision. We would somehow find the money to give her and all of us a complete change. It was said there was cream to be had in Cornwall (but you had to keep it quiet) and a spell on a real farm after the rigours of outer London sounded like Heaven. The train services were unreliable, with long and uncomfortable waits between connection., There was no food you could eat, and the railway sandwich was a standing national joke.

We had been blitzed, doodle-bugged, half starved and traumatised and it was clear that Mother, whose mental state was fragile in good times, was not going to make it. Father found a Cornish address of a small farm that offered hush-hush prospects of the illegal clotted cream. He was not financially well off, but decided to take his family of three daughters, aged nineteen to eleven on this uncertain journey. Trains were rare as dragons, and there were many changes and even more long barren delays, while we tried to eat railway food and keep ourselves clean.

We reached the final station late in the afternoon, only to find the landlady’s idea of a short walk was a mile at least, with all our luggage. To further our discomfort, this was not on a roadway or pavement but a meandering path over a rock-strewn moor. It had evidently been a wet morning and we slithered about, trying not to fall or drop our cases, alternating between yellow slimy clay and bedrocks.

At last, exhausted, hungry and damp, we found the farmhouse, guided by an elfin girl of about eight whose dialect rendered her unintelligible to us.

We were shown our sleeping quarters which were split between the farmhouse and an upstairs rough conversion of an outbuilding. This is where Peggy and I, who rarely spoke civilly to each other, were to share a double bed of incredible age. Soon after taking up residence in this outhouse, I came out in spots. So did Peggy. The landlady claimed this was chickenpox, and that having it once was no guarantee of never having another attack. We were not so sure, however, and examination of the mattress revealed that it was well and truly infested with bed bugs who were enjoying their suppers every night by sucking our blood.

Joan C. White