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Andrews UK - Jacqueline Makkink

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"We are at war," declared Jacqueline Makkink's father to her elder brother in 1939. "This means, Donald, that I shall be joining the army and you will be the man of the house." "What about me?" Jacqueline asked. "Oh, you will be taken care of. You will be sent somewhere safe" came the reply. At the age of six Jacqueline was evacuated from Sheffield to live with violent foster-parents in slum-like conditions in the Peak District. Here she felt anything but safe. In this autobiographical account she describes how she endured eighteen months of being homesick and thoroughly miserable, until at last she ran away and with the help of a kind Italian family was able to be reunited with her mother.

Sujets

Philosophie et théologie

Military history

Memoir

World War II

Derbyshire

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	16 juillet 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9780722349885
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0174€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Fanning the Flames
Jacqueline Makkink

Published in 2020 by
Arthur H. Stockwell Ltd
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe
Devon, EX34 8BA
www.ahstockwell.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Jacqueline Makkink
The right of Jacqueline Makkink to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
The views and opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of A H Stockwell or Andrews UK Limited.

Thanks to Mr Jeffrey Davis MBACP for his encouragement while I was writing my story and my apologies to Lewis Carroll.

Fanning the Flames

“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.” So said the lobster as he posed before a swing looking glass in John Tenniel’s illustration. These words came to mind as I dusted a similar Victorian swing mirror in the home of a ninety-something-year-old client.
I have decided to “throw open the gates of my memory after years of vicissitude”.
Totally convinced that I was looking after a mad hatter, I asked: “Where do I begin, please, Your Majesty?”
An inner voice replied: “At the beginning, where else? And go on till you come to the end; then stop.”
***
I started to work as a carer, on a part-time basis, at age six and five months. This was 1939 and the Second World War had started. Naturally, after so many years – eighty to be exact – my memories are fragmented and possibly unreliable and selective. I cannot remember every detail, so I will resort to what I call ‘padding’. What I do remember about 3 September 1939 is that a lot of grown-ups were very upset. My maternal grandmother was one of them. Not only was she a Quaker and did not believe in wars, but she was left a widow during the First World War and had to bring up two children on ten shillings a week.
It has been said that we take our childhood with us when we grow up. It is impossible to leave it behind. Indeed, for better or worse, we carry it with us for the rest of our lives – a constant reminder of who and what made us the person we became. I was not aware of it at the time in 1939, but I later learned that Hitler threatened to bomb Sheffield, Yorkshire, before London, so consequently a lot of children from Sheffield, including me, were evacuated. I think it was called initially a mock evacuation. Prior to this my great-great-grandmother came to live with us. We had a spare room and according to my grandmother this must be occupied by a member of the family to stop ‘outsiders’ moving in. There was a reason for this, but I was not aware of it at the time. Meanwhile, I had to clean Ga Ga’s dentures twice a day – a job which I loathed. I would hide them, but they were always found.
I had a brother two and a half years older, and I would ask, “Why can’t he clean them?”
“It is not what boys do” was the answer.
There were other unpleasant chores for me to undertake as well, which I hated.
The time came for me to be evacuated.
“Where can I go?” asked Alice.
“It’s not where you can go,” said the Mad Hatter. “It’s making up your mind which of the lovely places to see first.”
“To the Peak District,” said Alice.
“Do you think I should take my best dress?” asked Alice.
No! This nonsense must stop. Being evacuated is a serious business.
I cannot remember how I got there, but I remember standing in a hall ‘over the border’ in the Peak District. We were not allowed to sit. I was offered a sandwich wrapped in newspaper.
“I’m not eating that!” I said.
“Go without, then” came the reply.
I was labelled and carried my gas mask, but certainly no best dresses. I remember a big fat girl with red hair passing me hand in hand with someone who had ‘taken her in’.
Before she left the hall she said to me, “No one’s going to take thee – you’re too ugly.”
After a while someone did – a horrible-looking woman.
“Goo on before I change mi mind,” she said, poking me in the back . I was hoping she would after I heard her say, “I’ll tek this one.”
Then she disappeared and unfortunately came back.
When we got outside she started to push a very old pram which made a ‘clangy’ noise.
I asked, “Miss, why is your baby so dirty? Don’t you ever wash it?”
“I’m not Miss, I’m Mrs Millington and t’babby’s not mucky and ’eaze not an it , ’eaze a boy.”
I never did get to know his name – he was always referred to as t’babby. This is the Yorkshire dialect. There are no h’s in the Yorkshire dialect; t’ represents the . This was Derbyshire, but the Millingtons came from Bradford, Yorkshire, I learned much later. Getting used to the dialect was very difficult, despite coming from Sheffield.
The Millingtons lived in what used to be a shop. Every time the door opened a bell rang. I was introduced to “mi ’usband, Mr Millington”. There were two other ‘kids’, as they were called: Bruce, who was my age and still wet his bed, and Vera, two years older than I . We had to share what the Millingtons called a bed – two mattresses one on top of the other. Vera also had a ‘nocturnal enuresis’ problem. There were only two bedrooms and one led into the other. Very strange. Mr and Mrs Millington occupied one bedroom “wi’ t’babby” and Bruce, Vera and I occupied the other. I had to learn that “Please yourself ” became “Please thi sen.” You became thee. If I asked a question the answer would be “Dint thi mam learn thee nowt?”
The children did not have any toys – not a ball or skipping rope – nothing. There were no books to read . I missed Sunny Stories , Beano and Film Fun plus of course some books and going to the library. I’m not saying that my background was privileged, but I did have my own little room and my brother had his own, so I did not enjoy sharing with two strangers. On reflection, I must have been a complete nightmare.
There’s very little wonder that Mrs Millington lost her temper with me one day and screamed – using the F-word – “Shut thi [bleep] gob. Tha’s done nowt but complain ever since thee arrived. Tha only ’ere cos tha mam dint wan yer. I’d never send my kids to live wi’ [bleep] strangers.”
Vera, who never missed a trick, heard everything and repeated it to some others at school. If F were for feathers there would have been feathers flying around all day long. Mr Millington was the same.
I would ask questions like “Why do you have newspaper on the table instead of a tablecloth?” or “Why do we drink out of jam jars?

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