The Tin Box

By Anne Blythe Daley

The Tin Box is a simple story of love, grief and loss. It is a story which has happened to so many girls and women. Yet there is the complexity of relationships and emotions and how they affect and alter lives. The story is set against the backdrop of World War II, the Children's Evacuation and post-war London. Lucy enjoys a brief blaze of happiness before her life is torn apart by betrayal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Blythe Daley
• Release date: Mar 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458135827

Anne Blythe Daley

Anne Blythe Daley is my pen name. I have been an ink smeared scribbler for most of my life, experimenting with many different genres and modes of expression. I have finally found my niche in short stories and novellas. As with most people, I write best about what I know best. The stories in Blackwell Station are a love close to my heart - they are about where I come from and are a part of who I am. The Tin Box is based on a true story of someone whom I love very much.

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THE TIN BOX

Anne Blythe Daley

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Anne Blythe Daley

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Lucy

1940-1949

Sometimes, I think my life began in 1948 and ended in 1949.

I turned 16 in the spring of ’48 and London after the war was the most exciting place to be in the world. There were still lots of soldiers about, the dance halls spilled music and lights and fun into the streets and I was enjoying every minute.

I was as green as London’s spring and a very shy. Back then I was tall and skinny but with an English complexion and lovely, long, thick hair. To my way of thinking, my life so far had been a colourless, boring go-round of drudgery. Now, I had a job in a shop that put a few shillings in my pocket, some new clothes and best of all, a sweetheart.

Shall I tell you something about myself? I think I want you to understand me, even though it has taken me all my 75 years to comprehend myself. Here are the essentials -

I was born Lucy Elizabeth Davis in North London in 1932. My father was a carpenter and we lived in an old house, on an even older street. In 1940, when my most vivid recollections begin, I had an elder brother, Sean and a younger sister, Joan – we were all 2 years apart. Outwardly, I don’t think our family appeared much different than any other. We were working class. Our parents worked very hard and our pleasures were simple. I went to school, I made a few friends. It was inwardly, behind the walls of our row house that made our lives different from others. It wasn’t exactly an unhappy childhood but although I could not have articulated such feelings then, I know now that I felt a lack. Of what? Love certainly. And that depth of emotion or the ease and strength of character – an inner poise if you will – that you feel when you know you are secure in the love and protection of your parents, or anyone for that matter. The only love I knew then was what I felt for my siblings. From my parents, there was little but coldness and sometimes, fear.

In our house, there were no gestures of love, no hugs, no kisses, nor any caring touches or soft moments. If you were hurt or sad, you got on with it. If you could not or would not, you were, as my father frequently said to me an odd one.

My mother was a stern and cold woman - my father only a little less so. Never do I remember a loving word or gesture, not even from my earliest memories. I always wonder what I had done to displease them so. Somehow, they found me less than satisfactory. I have often wondered if either of them ever really knew love at all. But perhaps I’m just being an unkind middle child. My younger brother Mick, who came along later was Mother’s pet – mayhap all the affection she could not show us was somehow given to him. Yet even now, after all these years, my fists clench when I think of them.

I might still have never come to think of them in such a fashion but in the spring of 1940, Mother and Dad made a decision which would change our lives. My older brother and I were sent away from our home in North London, away from everything that we knew. We were sent to Cornwall during the children’s evacuation of London. I was 8 and Sean was 10.

War declared in September of 1939 had meant little to me. Sean found it all very exciting. He knew the names of all the different types of planes and what was going on, every battle, every skirmish. He would scrounge for pictures from the newspapers and put them in a scrapbook. He wanted the war to last forever, or at least long enough so that he too, could go and fight the terrible Germans.

I could have cared less – all I wanted was to play with my best friend, Alice, who lived next door and go to school. I loved school, although I certainly didn’t say this out loud to anyone but Alice. I enjoyed learning new things, opening a new reader for the first time, doing my sums.

But even I could see that the war was changing our lives. We each had a gas mask and now, we had to take it with us to school every day. I hated it. It smelled funny and made me feel claustrophobic and woozy. I carried mine in its cardboard box but it was in protest. I never stopped wanting to throw it under a bus or find a way to permanently lose or hide it. I fervently hoped that the Germans would never gas us but then, I was never really sure what being gassed meant exactly. Then there was rationing, curtains to be drawn at night, only one dim light on after tea. I remember telling Mother that it was just an excuse to send us up to bed earlier. I also remember that I got a smack for my sauciness.

They, my parents that is, did not consult us on the decision to send us away of course. That was unheard of. The opinions of children were not opinions at all – that was just sauce as Mother said and she would sooner have showed her knickers to the postman than consult with us. Both Sean and I had sensed for some time that something was in the wind but we couldn’t reckon what it might be. To this day, I do not know exactly why it fell to Sean and I to go.

I can remember the morning we left with aching clarity. It was Mother of course who came to my room very early. She had a small traveling case, the rucksack I used for school and of course, the ever present cardboard box. The case had a large tag attached to it with string but I couldn’t quite see what was written on it. The little room I shared with my younger sister Joan was cool and slightly damp - it was raining.

With the steely tone in her voice I knew well, she told me to get up and get myself washed and ready. When you heard that particular pitch to Mother’s voice, you understood it brooked no objection. If you did not understand, if you