Kate Kingsbury's Blog - Posts Tagged "english"
Death is in the Air
Living in London was no picnic in 1945. Throughout the war, my mother had steadfastly refused to allow her daughters to be evacuated. “If I go, we all go,” she announced to anyone who questioned the wisdom of keeping us in a city under siege. So we endured the Blitz, and the incendiary bombs that set houses and buildings ablaze. We did our best to avoid the unexploded bombs that waited in sinister silence for us to stumble across them.
We sat in bomb shelters listening for the ominous drone of the buzz bombs – those infamous unmanned aircraft designed to cut their engines when over London. It took ten seconds for the rocket to fall soundlessly to earth, followed by the deafening explosion that took the lives of so many innocent people. I shall never forget the awful sound of that buzzing overhead, then the sudden quiet when the engine cut out. My sister and I would sit in that terrifying silence and count to ten. Each time we heard the explosion, we knew we’d escaped another brush with death.
By 1945, however, the V2 rockets started falling in London. These bombs were far more devastating than anything that had come before, taking out blocks of houses instead of just two or three, leaving craters big enough to hold a double-decker bus. Even my mother was shaken by the carnage left by these vicious weapons. She shipped us off to the coast of Norfolk, together with three of our cousins, to stay with our grandmother.
Having endured the hardships of the last six years, we were excited about leaving London and the horrors of air raids behind. Nothing prepared us for what turned out to be the biggest adventure of our lives.
Until the next time,
Kate
Death Is in the Air
We sat in bomb shelters listening for the ominous drone of the buzz bombs – those infamous unmanned aircraft designed to cut their engines when over London. It took ten seconds for the rocket to fall soundlessly to earth, followed by the deafening explosion that took the lives of so many innocent people. I shall never forget the awful sound of that buzzing overhead, then the sudden quiet when the engine cut out. My sister and I would sit in that terrifying silence and count to ten. Each time we heard the explosion, we knew we’d escaped another brush with death.
By 1945, however, the V2 rockets started falling in London. These bombs were far more devastating than anything that had come before, taking out blocks of houses instead of just two or three, leaving craters big enough to hold a double-decker bus. Even my mother was shaken by the carnage left by these vicious weapons. She shipped us off to the coast of Norfolk, together with three of our cousins, to stay with our grandmother.
Having endured the hardships of the last six years, we were excited about leaving London and the horrors of air raids behind. Nothing prepared us for what turned out to be the biggest adventure of our lives.
Until the next time,
Kate
Death Is in the Air
Back To The Past
My grandmother lived on the southeast coast of England, facing the North Sea. Her cottage sat just yards from the beach, perched high on the cliffs, with a low brick wall separating it from the coast road. Grandma’s house had no electricity, no gas, and no plumbing. She had been stone-deaf since a child, when a schoolmate threw a slate at her head. She must have been horrified that summer of 1945, when informed that five of her grandchildren were being evacuated from war-torn London and were descending on her to stay for the summer.
At first we were all taken aback by the lack of amenities, but after a while we got used to the routines. Every morning we tramped down the garden path to the alleyway, then up to the well to draw water in large, heavy buckets and carry them back to the house.
Grandma cooked everything over a coal fire. We used rain water from a barrel to wash our hair. There was no bathroom, so we used the outhouse, which was down the garden path, across the alley and into the field. At night we used chamber pots that had to be emptied the next day.
We had oil lamps to light our way up the narrow staircase. There were no such things as computers, video games or TV and no electricity for a radio, so we had to make our own entertainment. The contrast to our homes in London was absolute, and would horrify today’s teenager, but to us, the quiet and peace of the English countryside after the desperate months of Hitler’s lethal bombardments was paradise.
We were surrounded by fields, farms and open grassland. A half hour’s walk got us to an isolated little shop that sold a bit of everything, and was a delight to explore. There we could find painted seashells and scented soap, postcards and decorated china thimbles, buckets and spades to make sandcastles on the beach. Candy was on ration, but the shop sold cherry-flavored throat lozenges. Since they were medicine they were off-ration, and hungry for something sugary sweet we spent our allowance on packets of them.
Smuggling our booty back into the cottage past Grandma’s eagle eye, we climbed the stairs and avidly consumed the lozenges. We spent most of the night being violently sick, taking turns to throw up in the wash basin and the chamber pots. By some miracle we all survived, but to this day I can’t stand the sight of a throat lozenge.
Although the Pennyfoot Hotel is far more luxurious than my grandmother’s cottage, those memories served me well when describing life in Edwardian England. I knew what it was like to live without any of the modern conveniences we enjoy today. I had experienced it firsthand. Room with a Clue
At first we were all taken aback by the lack of amenities, but after a while we got used to the routines. Every morning we tramped down the garden path to the alleyway, then up to the well to draw water in large, heavy buckets and carry them back to the house.
Grandma cooked everything over a coal fire. We used rain water from a barrel to wash our hair. There was no bathroom, so we used the outhouse, which was down the garden path, across the alley and into the field. At night we used chamber pots that had to be emptied the next day.
We had oil lamps to light our way up the narrow staircase. There were no such things as computers, video games or TV and no electricity for a radio, so we had to make our own entertainment. The contrast to our homes in London was absolute, and would horrify today’s teenager, but to us, the quiet and peace of the English countryside after the desperate months of Hitler’s lethal bombardments was paradise.
We were surrounded by fields, farms and open grassland. A half hour’s walk got us to an isolated little shop that sold a bit of everything, and was a delight to explore. There we could find painted seashells and scented soap, postcards and decorated china thimbles, buckets and spades to make sandcastles on the beach. Candy was on ration, but the shop sold cherry-flavored throat lozenges. Since they were medicine they were off-ration, and hungry for something sugary sweet we spent our allowance on packets of them.
Smuggling our booty back into the cottage past Grandma’s eagle eye, we climbed the stairs and avidly consumed the lozenges. We spent most of the night being violently sick, taking turns to throw up in the wash basin and the chamber pots. By some miracle we all survived, but to this day I can’t stand the sight of a throat lozenge.
Although the Pennyfoot Hotel is far more luxurious than my grandmother’s cottage, those memories served me well when describing life in Edwardian England. I knew what it was like to live without any of the modern conveniences we enjoy today. I had experienced it firsthand. Room with a Clue
