The Incomer

The second war changed many, many lives, many for the worse, a few for the better. For me the war had an effect on my life far bigger than anything else I would experience. Through it I suffered profound grief but also met a family which changed my life for the better.

I'm Jimmy Hudson and I was a seventeen year old lad in 1939. My family had a small terraced house in Bethnal Green. There was mum and dad and my two year old twin sisters Val and Shirley. The girls were an unexpected "surprise" for mum and dad – they had given up any hope of any more children after me. Dad had been a railwayman, an honest, hard working guy. I was a typical London kid, hard as nails and always ready for a spot of bother. The big love of my life was boxing. I spent as much of my spare time as possible down the local gym, I loved the feeling of being strong and fit. I was a handy lightweight and had won a few local championships, although my last fight had left me with blurred vision in my right eye and I had decided to take a break until it cleared.

I had left school at the earliest opportunity and started work with Harry Fletcher, the local coal man. Lugging the sacks of coal not only earned me a handy wage, it also kept my body in top form.

The biggest thing in my life was my family. It was in fact endemic in our part of London that families stuck together and so did neighbours. Although I was a bit of a handful I would never do anything to give my parents a hard time.

My best friend, Charlie Marsden, lived two doors from us. Charlie was a few months older than me and a very useful heavyweight boxer. Six foot six tall and built like a brick out-house, Charlie was a real tough guy.

One day in March 1940 Dad signed up. As a railwayman he was in a reserved occupation and didn't have to sign up, however he wanted to 'do his bit'. Mum took it badly, especially since it was my 18th birthday later that week. When I got home from work on the day of my birthday Mum and Dad were sat in the kitchen. Mum had been crying.

"What's up?" I asked.

Mum pointed at an official looking brown envelope on the table – it was my call up papers.

"He's only 18," she sobbed to Dad. "He's too young to fight."

I presented myself at the local recruitment office fully expecting to enter the army. I could see from the look on the recruiting sergeant's face that I would fill the bill, that was until I had the medical.

"Tell me, have you had the problem with focussing your right eye for long?" the doctor asked me.

I explained that my last fight had been a tough one and the other guy had caught me with a good shot on my right eye. I noticed a bit of double vision afterwards but took no notice. I explained the score to the doc.

"Hmm, I thought so," he muttered. "You have a detached retina in your right eye, young man. I have to turn you down."

I was devastated. The idea that I wasn't fit to join the army was unthinkable.

"Sorry son, you'll have to take on one of the reserved occupations., the sergeant will explain."

"Shame lad, you would have been handy in the infantry. It looks like you're going to be a farmer," the sergeant told me.

I looked at him in confusion.

"Men who can't be called up have to do work which will help support the country. If you don't have a reserved occupation, and you don't, then you have to work on the land or in the mines. Lucky for you, very few "Bevan Boys" come from London.

"What are Bevan boys?" I asked, confused.

"Men who are sent down the coal mines instead of serving in the forces, not pleasant work if you're not used to it. Because of your eye sight, the doctor has recommended that you work on the land, farm work most likely."

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A letter in an official looking brown envelope came a week later. I was required to travel to a place called Long Stretton near Cambridge where I would be working with a Mr and Mrs Etheridge. The envelope enclosed a travel warrant and I was instructed to catch a train at nine o' clock from Liverpool Street station the next Wednesday.

As always the case, the time passed like lightning and that Wednesday I found myself with my family on the station platform. A policemen stood with a bloke in a suit the end of the platform. Dad told him my name and the bloke wrote something on his clip board.

"Third carriage from the front," he told dad, pointing at the train.

The platform was packed with children awaiting evacuation and their parents. While younger kids ran around playing noisily the older children, who understood what was happening, looked upset. We walked to the front of the train. Two of the compartments in the third carriage had stickers on them saying "Long Stretton".

I opened the door to one compartment and put my case on the rack. The compartment was filling up so I quickly grabbed a seat by the window. I stood by the window not knowing what to say to mum and dad. Dad tried making small talk and mum stood silently, looking too upset to speak. While I didn't want to leave, I wished that the train would leave quickly so that we could end the agonising farewell.

Soon the train guard began pacing up the platform shouting for everyone to get on board. I kissed mum and the girls and shook dad's hand.

"Take care son and do us proud," he told me with a catch in his throat.

"Don't forget to write," mum told me. There were tears in her eyes.

I couldn't speak, not trusting myself not to cry.

The guard blew his whistle, waved his flag and the train began to move. I waved as my family slowly receded into the crowd of people. I wondered when or if I would see them again.

I sat down and looked around the compartment. In all there were eight of us. I was the only adult with the kids seeming to range from 5 or 6 up to maybe 12. One or two looked shell-shocked, three kids were crying and the others were squealing with excitement. I looked out the window and watched the scenery change as we passed through the outskirts of London and into the country. The train didn't stop, rushing through stations such as Tottenham, Waltham Cross and St Albans, none of which I recognised. I had only been outside of London once when we went on a day trip to Southend. All these places were new to me.

After quite a time the train began stopping at stations. I looked out the window to see groups of kids getting off the train to be greeted by a policeman and a group of adults. Finally early in the afternoon we reached Long Stretton station. A policemen came up to our carriage and opened the door.

"Out you get, and don't forget your bags," he said in a kindly voice.

I helped him unload the bags and finally found myself on the platform. My first reaction was how small the station was. It had only a single brick building on the single platform. As far as I could see in all directions were just fields.

The policeman began calling out names from a list he had. As their names were called the children were approached by adults from the crowd on the platform. I walked towards the station exit where a man and a woman stood.

"Mr Etheridge?" I asked.

He nodded.

"This way," he said pointing to a horse drawn cart

As we walked I noticed as we walked that Mr Etheridge had a painful limp, his face twitching in pain as he took each step.

After I had put my suitcase on the cart he turned to me and shook my hand.

"Welcome James," he spoke with a strange accent. "I'm Arthur Etheridge"

I shook his hand. His grip was firm and his hand calloused from hard work. The man was just a little taller than me with a wiry but strong looking body and a tanned, weather beaten face. He wore plain, slightly worn clothes.

"My friends call me Jimmy, sir," I told him.

"No need for the 'sir', Jimmy, call me Arthur." He smiled. "This here is my wife Mollie."

His wife was a short, plump woman, with long curly brown hair and a red smiling face. She wore a blue, floral dress with a low cut neck which revealed her full cleavage.

She stepped over, gave me a kiss full on the lips and hugged me to her plump body. She had a pleasant warm smell of carbolic soap. I found the experience very pleasant.

"Welcome Jimmy," she said after releasing me. "Hop on the cart and we'll go home."

I wasn't a great judge but I guessed that Arthur was a lot older than Mollie. I guessed that she was in her late 30's and he was a good ten years older.

The station lay on the outskirts of the village.

Arthur clicked his tongue. "Walk on Jess," he told the horse and the cart nudged into life towards the main street.

"We live a mile outside the village on the Cambridge Road," he told me.

The village seemed deserted with just one or two people walking and a woman riding a bike. There were no cars.

"You'll no doubt find things here a little more quiet than in London," Mollie spoke, seeming to read my mind. "We don't have many cars here, in fact only the doctor has a car."

The village had an almost magical atmosphere which was so different to London. There is something special about the English countryside in late summer. Its difficult to say what but it's a combination of the unique rural architecture of the English village, the lush green landscape and the tranquillity. It is something to be experienced – it cannot be easily described. To my surprise I felt uplifted. Although diametrically opposed to London I felt 'at home'.

The cart left the village and I was struck by the panorama. East Anglia is a notoriously flat part of England and in the clear light I could see for miles.

"On a good day like today, you can see Fred Parkinson's windmill ten miles away," Arthur told me, pointing to the right.

Sure enough I could see the windmill clearly on the skyline.

"What do they use the windmill for?" I asked.

"For grinding corn," Arthur smiled at my naivety.

After about a mile we turned off down a track which led to the farm. At the entrance the was a sign with 'Home Farm' painted in white.

'Home farm' comprised of a large brick house which faced onto a yard surrounded by buildings. What struck me most was how neat and tidy the farm was. I had always had this image in my mind that farms were messy places with animals all over the place.

"What do you grow?" I asked Arthur.

"Mostly its an arable farm. We grow wheat and barley. We also have a small herd of cows for milk and meat. I'll show you around later."

We pulled up outside the house and we went in. Above the door was a large stone slab with the date 1810 carved in it. The door led directly into the kitchen. It was huge! I had lived all my life in a small terraced house with a bare minimum of rooms. I knew no better and to me the farm house was palatial in size.

Arthur had work to do and left Mollie the task of showing me the house. A passage led from the kitchen to a dining room and sitting room. Mollie led the way up a flight of stairs to the first floor. On the first floor were two bedrooms, the master bedroom and another containing a double bed and a bathroom. In the main bedroom I saw an amazing sight – a huge wooden double bed.

Mollie saw my surprise and explained.

"My dad he were in the army in the first war. He met and married a French girl and after the war he had worked on her father's farm for a short time. His father in law gave the couple a double bed as a wedding present and he brought it back with him when he decided to come home. The two of them died in the flu epidemic just after the war."

Another set of stairs led up and Mollie again led the way. We were in the roof space. The area had been split into two rooms separated by a wooden partition. One room was for me. It had been furnished very comfortably with a single bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. Being in the roof, the ceiling sloped on one side. From the window I had an excellent view across the farm and down to a river.

"Joan and Mary, my daughters, sleep in the other room," Mollie explained. " "They work in the local cottage hospital. They're eighteen so I suppose they're about your age. Oh, by the way, they are identical twins so you might find it difficult to remember which one is which."

My overall impression of the house was that it was decorated and furnished in a pleasant but simple way. The furniture was plain but well made. Everywhere was tidy and welcoming.

"You unpack and come down to the kitchen when you're finished. You must be starving." Mollie told me.

I realised I was hungry and I wasted no time in stowing my clothes. I put my empty suitcase under the bed and went downstairs.

Arthur and Mollie were sat at the table. There was bread, butter and cheese on the table along with a pot of tea. The task of cutting the home made bread always fell to Arthur who deftly sliced the loaf into inch thick chunks with a long knife. The soft bread, salty butter and strong cheese along with Mollie's sweet apple chutney was amazing. I had never tasted food like it.

"Come on lad," let me show you around the farm." Arthur said once we had finished eating.

For the next hour or so we walked the farm while Arthur pointed out the main features and bombarded me with facts. The farm had been in his family for 200 years and occupied 150 acres. It was roughly rectangular stretching down to the river. Apart from the main crops he had half a dozen pigs and a number of hens. This meant that he produced his own pork, eggs as well as butter from the cows. Mollie had a large vegetable area and some fruit trees making them self sufficient in fruit and vegetables. Just down the river was a large patch of ill-kept land. Arthur explained that it belonged to Harold Mays, his neighbour. Although Harold and his son owned the farm they were the worst kind of farmers, preferring to do as little as possible to cultivate and nurture the land. Peter, the son, was an ignorant bully who regularly got into trouble. It was a tragedy that such a good piece of land belonged to such wasters. Arthur admitted that he would have bought the land had he got the money.

There was a large coppice down by the river which provided welcome shade from the sun. We sat down on the bank and watched the river flow by.

"So Jimmy, tell me about yourself and your family."

I realised that they knew as little about me as I did about them. I gave a potted history of my life and my family.

"So you like boxing eh? That needs you to be fit and strong."

I agreed and told him that I didn't know how I'll manage without the gym.

"Don't worry about that, lad." Arthur replied. "The work here will keep you fit."

Arthur pulled his pipe from his pocket, filled it and struck a match. I watched, fascinated, as he puffed clouds of sweet smelling smoke. Neither mum nor dad smoked and I had never wanted to start.

"So your dad's signed up, eh? What regiment?"

"The infantry," I told him.

"Hmm, a dangerous job that. They get all the rough jobs. I just hope this war isn't as bad as the last one."

That was a bit of a conversation stopper so we contented ourselves watching a couple of mallard ducks on the river.

"Did you get called up?" he asked after a while.

I explained about my medical and my eyesight.

"Never mind lad, it wasn't your fault," he replied sympathetically.

After a while Arthur tapped his pipe against his boot and stood up.

"It's nearly tea time, let's head back lad."

When we got back to the house I went and got washed. I went back down to the kitchen to see if I could help with tea when the peace was shattered by the sound of running and laughter as two girls ran in.

"Is he here then?" one of them called out.

"Yes dear," Mollie replied. "Jimmy meet Joan and Mary."

"Hello," they spoke almost in unison.

"I'm Joan", one said.

"And I'm Mary."

I was unused to meeting girls and didn't really know what to do.

"P...pleased to meet you," I stammered out, blushing.

The girls giggled.

I had a problem. The girls were the prettiest I had seen. Almost small versions of their mother they had long, curly, brunette hair which cascaded round their faces. They had green eyes which gleamed with wild amusement. Their bodies had a slight plumpness which I found beguiling. Their breasts were full and moved with a fascinating and mysterious fashion. I was in love but the problem was the girls were identical and you can't be in love with two girls. Can you?

"Go get changed girls, teas ready," Mollie told them. The girls stampeded upstairs laughing.

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The two girls kept up lively chatter through tea, telling their parents about what they got up to at work and all the latest gossip. Rather than feeling left out I was content to eat quietly absorbing all that was said.

Arthur left the house after tea to do another couple of hours work and the girls went out to do the milking. That left me at a loose end. Having spent time talking to Arthur it seemed a good idea that I got to know Mollie better. Much to her surprise I offered help her clear up after tea. While she washed the dishes I dried.

"So what do you think of my girls then?" she asked.

"Er... I think they're really nice," I replied weakly. "They seem to be full of fun." I had already noticed a particular "joie de vivre" that the girls shared. They were almost constantly smiling or laughing.

"They've always been like that. Because they are identical twins they're very close. In fact they are the best of friends." Mollie explained. "They have an empathy which no outsider can imagine. They love life and it rubs off on everyone else."

"Oh I should also warn you that although there isn't an ounce of malice in either them they love playing practical jokes on people."

We slipped into an easy silence as we finished the washing up. Finally Mollie dried her hands, turned and gave me a big hug.

"I hope you'll enjoy your time here and try not to worry about your family. We have a simple life here but it's fulfilling and full of love. I hope you can share in that."

It was getting dark when Arthur returned to house, got washed and changed.

"We have a little ritual," he told me. "Every evening we enjoy spending a couple of hours together in the living room. We sit, read or listen to the radio. It's our time together and helps relax us for bed."

Arthur settled down in an armchair and turned on the radio. Mollie and I sat on the couch. She began knitting and I contented myself with listening to the radio. A little while later the girls came in, sat down and began to read. At around nine-thirty Joan, or was it Mary – I couldn't tell which, went into the kitchen and made cocoa.

It had been a long day so I was content to head up to bed at ten o clock. Joan and Mary ran up ahead of me.

"'night Jimmy," they called out and went into their room.

I undressed in the dark and was soon asleep.

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I spent the next two days getting to know the farm and helping with a few small jobs.

"We'll start you on some real work next week," Arthur told me with a grin."

Over the next two days I began to get to know my hosts. Even in such a short time I came to two conclusions. First, while I missed my family, I didn't miss London as much as I expected. There was a profound tranquillity about the village which struck a chord in my soul. I rapidly began to love the place.

Second, there was a remarkable integrity about Arthur and Mollie. Every conversation was not only polite, but they behaved as though they valued my contribution, wishing to know as much about my life in London as I wanted to know about theirs. They seemed to be at peace with their lives with no sign of stress or angst.

Mollie had a tactile, affectionate nature, often giving me a warm, and very pleasant hug.

Very quickly I grew to love these people.

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Arthur's main concession to pleasure was a trip to the King's head pub on a Friday evening after tea.