Summer 1939, and the weather is glorious. A coach – the motorised kind – is winding its careful way through the narrow, twisting, sun-dappled lanes of rural West Sussex. On board are 30 young war evacuees, with three teachers, from some of the poorest parts of the East End. There is excitement, but there is also trepidation – none of the children know where are they headed.
As a huge grey-stone house reveals itself to them, there is a collective gasp. ‘My little brother, Len, was convinced we were going to see the King and Queen,’ one remembered, years later. The house that came into view was Parham, a beauteous survivor of Elizabethan splendour, perfect in its ‘E’ – or ‘H’ – formation.
A warm welcome
The wonders
