Dear Frank…

I recently discovered some letters my mother had written to my father between 1941 and 1945. They brought back many happy memories of life in the Oxfordshire countryside to which we had been evacuated from London.

Together with my mother, elder brother, baby sister and grandfather we were housed in the Brewery Manager’s house in Brook Street, Watlington, now sadly demolished.

Old postcard scenes from the village of Watlington, where as a child the writer spent much of the war.
Old postcard scenes from the village of Watlington, where as a child the writer spent much of the war.

My father was doing hospital work so was kept behind. It must have been a worrying time for my mother, having three children and an elderly parent to care for. She relied on the money my father sent each week, but as with many families it was difficult to manage what little money there was, with rationing and shortages.

The Brewery House had been converted into a youth hostel before the war, and the resident wardens, Mr. and Mrs. Parker, were very kind to my mother, often providing her with some bacon, jam or clothes that they managed to acquire.

The letters brought the details of our lives flooding back. One hot summer day my mother wrote:

Dear Frank,

We had a lovely day at Benson today. The children were thrilled with the water and the steamers going up and down. Jo loved her paddling. We were walking around tired and thirsty looking for a cup of tea when I asked a lady if she knew of somewhere. She said we could go home with her, so thankfully wefollowed her. She lived in a lovely big home in its oum grounds and we had a lovely cup of tea in deck-chairs under the apple trees. Apples kept falling in our laps. All the toys were brought out on to the lawn. You can guess what a lovely time was had…

The Town Hall, Watlington - a building which has remained in Christina Towler’s memory.
The Town Hall, Watlington – a building which has remained in Christina Towler’s memory.

During our time in Watlington, my brother and I contracted scarlet fever and were sent to an isolation hospital. Every detail of that first separation from my mother is vivid, even now – the dried egg sandwiches, warm drinking water and parcels from home whose litde treats had to be shared out among all the children.

My mother writes of catching cold after sitting through Gone With The Wind in soaking wet clothes; my brother being in the church choir, something which gave her much pride; my birthday party when she managed to make a cake with the extra sugar my father brought down on one of his visits; and the hair slides she bought with the shilling he left.

Sadly my grandfather died in Watlington: he had been suffering from fits and eventually succumbed. He was buried in Watlington churchyard.

On a recent visit there I was unable to find his unmarked grave. I remembered the spot because my brother and I had watched through the railings when the grave was being dug.

We had been on our way home from fetching bread from Mrs. Eden’s.

The spot has now been left as a wildlife area, the plants allowed to grow unchecked, perhaps a fitting reminder of those turbulent years.

My mother sent letters which expressed the lack of money for the most mundane of things:

Have you got a spare tin-opener knocking around1? I had the sweep in yesterday. It cost 3/-, but all the others had him so I couldn’t help myself…

There were times when the military invaded our quiet lives:

We’ve had plenty of activity all last week but it’s all over now. There were great Churchills (tanks) everywhere. All the pavements and roads were tom up, lumps off the town hall walls knocked down. Never heard such a din in all my days, it was hell let loose. We had them out in the garden and I kept them supplied with hot water best I could, that’s all our boys seemed to want was hot water to wash and shave, the hungry ones were the Canadians. You know how Mrs. P goes on if the kids pick the bushes about – well you should see the soldiers tearing up the bushes for their camouflage. Did I laugh to myself. They didn’t even ask to come in, a sergeant just knocked at the door and said “We ’re in, where’s the lavatories?”

This diversion, and a couple of planes coming down, reminded us of what was happening in the capital. At times my mother despaired of ever getting home. She stated:

We had a warning Sunday night -did you ? What do you think of the war now? I’m beginning to think I shall come home in time to draw my old age pension – if any.

Eventually it all came to an end: we were back in London to pick up the pieces of our lives. What remain with me are happy, sunny days roaming the meadows filled with flowers, black-berrying on Watlington Hill, the narrow, winding streets with their cottage gardens filled with stately hollyhocks and roses, the red brick town hall and the litde village school, and dear Miss Chapman, the headmistress, feared by all but doing a wonderful job with her mixed brood.

Some of the evacuees stayed behind, some marrying into local families and making a new life far from the streets of the city.

We came back, but my richest memories will always be there in that Oxfordshire town.

Christina Towler

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Dear Frank…

I recently discovered some letters my mother had written to my father between 1941 and 1945. They brought back many happy memories of life in the Oxfordshire countryside to which we had been evacuated from London.

Together with my mother, elder brother, baby sister and grandfather we were housed in the Brewery Manager’s house in Brook Street, Watlington, now sadly demolished.

Old postcard scenes from the village of Watlington, where as a child the writer spent much of the war.
Old postcard scenes from the village of Watlington, where as a child the writer spent much of the war.

My father was doing hospital work so was kept behind. It must have been a worrying time for my mother, having three children and an elderly parent to care for. She relied on the money my father sent each week, but as with many families it was difficult to manage what little money there was, with rationing and shortages.

The Brewery House had been converted into a youth hostel before the war, and the resident wardens, Mr. and Mrs. Parker, were very kind to my mother, often providing her with some bacon, jam or clothes that they managed to acquire.

The letters brought the details of our lives flooding back. One hot summer day my mother wrote:

Dear Frank,

We had a lovely day at Benson today. The children were thrilled with the water and the steamers going up and down. Jo loved her paddling. We were walking around tired and thirsty looking for a cup of tea when I asked a lady if she knew of somewhere. She said we could go home with her, so thankfully wefollowed her. She lived in a lovely big home in its oum grounds and we had a lovely cup of tea in deck-chairs under the apple trees. Apples kept falling in our laps. All the toys were brought out on to the lawn. You can guess what a lovely time was had…

The Town Hall, Watlington - a building which has remained in Christina Towler’s memory.
The Town Hall, Watlington – a building which has remained in Christina Towler’s memory.

During our time in Watlington, my brother and I contracted scarlet fever and were sent to an isolation hospital. Every detail of that first separation from my mother is vivid, even now – the dried egg sandwiches, warm drinking water and parcels from home whose litde treats had to be shared out among all the children.

My mother writes of catching cold after sitting through Gone With The Wind in soaking wet clothes; my brother being in the church choir, something which gave her much pride; my birthday party when she managed to make a cake with the extra sugar my father brought down on one of his visits; and the hair slides she bought with the shilling he left.

Sadly my grandfather died in Watlington: he had been suffering from fits and eventually succumbed. He was buried in Watlington churchyard.

On a recent visit there I was unable to find his unmarked grave. I remembered the spot because my brother and I had watched through the railings when the grave was being dug.

We had been on our way home from fetching bread from Mrs. Eden’s.

The spot has now been left as a wildlife area, the plants allowed to grow unchecked, perhaps a fitting reminder of those turbulent years.

My mother sent letters which expressed the lack of money for the most mundane of things:

Have you got a spare tin-opener knocking around1? I had the sweep in yesterday. It cost 3/-, but all the others had him so I couldn’t help myself…

There were times when the military invaded our quiet lives:

We’ve had plenty of activity all last week but it’s all over now. There were great Churchills (tanks) everywhere. All the pavements and roads were tom up, lumps off the town hall walls knocked down. Never heard such a din in all my days, it was hell let loose. We had them out in the garden and I kept them supplied with hot water best I could, that’s all our boys seemed to want was hot water to wash and shave, the hungry ones were the Canadians. You know how Mrs. P goes on if the kids pick the bushes about – well you should see the soldiers tearing up the bushes for their camouflage. Did I laugh to myself. They didn’t even ask to come in, a sergeant just knocked at the door and said “We ’re in, where’s the lavatories?”

This diversion, and a couple of planes coming down, reminded us of what was happening in the capital. At times my mother despaired of ever getting home. She stated:

We had a warning Sunday night -did you ? What do you think of the war now? I’m beginning to think I shall come home in time to draw my old age pension – if any.

Eventually it all came to an end: we were back in London to pick up the pieces of our lives. What remain with me are happy, sunny days roaming the meadows filled with flowers, black-berrying on Watlington Hill, the narrow, winding streets with their cottage gardens filled with stately hollyhocks and roses, the red brick town hall and the litde village school, and dear Miss Chapman, the headmistress, feared by all but doing a wonderful job with her mixed brood.

Some of the evacuees stayed behind, some marrying into local families and making a new life far from the streets of the city.

We came back, but my richest memories will always be there in that Oxfordshire town.

Christina Towler

More Stories

Cork-board background Bottom