Jam Sandwiches: Perspectives of World War 2, Immigration, and Illness

By Myrt Z. Cooper

Can you imagine growing up in the English countryside during the Second World War? Amidst the darkness of night, bombs dropped over our heads. War was all we knew.

After the war, our family crossed the Atlantic to start a new life in Canada. Everything was different. Attending a new school in a new country with different words and different clothes made it difficult to fit in.

Years later, the doctor suggested we take my aging mother to a specialist to be diagnosed. We wondered if they would be able to help her.

Take a walk with me from 1939 to 1990. We'll have a lot of jam sandwiches along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781773707204

Book preview

Jam Sandwiches

Copyright © 2020 by Myrt Z. Cooper

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-1-77370-719-8 (Paperback)

978-1-77370-720-4 (eBook)

Foreword

Jam sandwiches were a staple food in time of war and in times of poverty. Could we have lived without them? Jam is sweet and holds two slices of bread together.

Love, care and kindness were the jam that held our lives together in times of:

The horror and fear of war – when we were little children.

Ridicule and poverty in a new country – that made us unhappy.

Illness – seeing loved ones suffer.

I have written about some of the things our mother told us and my own memories of things that happened, between 1939 and 1990. Of course, I don’t remember exactly the words people spoke, but I have often used conversation to tell what happened and how we felt.

Thanks, to my husband for his patience and help. Thanks also to my family for their encouragement. Thanks, especially to my grandchildren for their help with computers!

1

After a busy day, Mum and I sat by the open kitchen window sipping our tea, and watching the sinking sunlight making the muddy waters of the Fraser River gleam.

Myrt, yesterday, when you turned fifteen, I was thinking that I should tell you about some of the things that happened when we lived on the farm in Suffolk.

As the sunset faded, Mum took us back to a black night in England, at the end of April 1940.

Two days before Britain declared war, in September 1939, the government had ordered us to put blackouts over our windows every night, from dusk until daylight.

Oh, I remember those wooden frames covered with thick black paper, I said, interrupting her story. Every evening before dusk, you used to lift the blackouts up and fit them into the window frames. Then the bombers flying overhead, couldn’t see the light from our candles or the glow from our coal fires, and drop a bomb on us!

As you know Myrt, our house had a cellar, two passages (hallways), five staircases, and seventeen rooms. A few rooms had two windows and your playroom had three windows. I couldn’t lift so many awkward blackouts, and fit them tightly into all the window frames each night, and then lift them all down again in the morning. When Dad was out on Home Guard two or three nights a week, he couldn’t help me. When we didn’t put the blackouts up in some rooms, we kept the doors of those rooms closed until daylight.

After a very busy day, I gave four-year-old Abe, three-year-old Margaret and eighteen-month-old Paul, some bread and milk (broken bread in a bowl with hot milk poured over it and a sprinkling of sugar) for their supper. Then I went upstairs with them and put them to bed.

I was looking forward to sitting cozily beside the fire in the dining room and reading by candlelight for a little while, before going up to bed. But first, I put the jug of milk away in the dairy. Then clearing the bowls and cups from the dining room table, I went to put them in the scullery sink. As I hadn’t put the blackout up in the scullery, I left the burning candle in the kitchen.

Opening the scullery door and hurrying across the dark room – suddenly I tripped, hurtling across the room – dishes flying and smashing – my tummy landed on the edge of a steel milking pail, my legs hit the hard brick floor...I tried to get up, but I think I must have fainted. The next thing I knew, I was lying flat on the icy cold brick floor, shivering uncontrollably. I lay there for several minutes. I had to get up. I couldn’t leave the children alone upstairs all night! A piercing pain stabbed my tummy as I staggered to my feet, and made my way slowly up the stairs to bed.

The pain got worse. I longed for Dad to come home. But he was on Home Guard. He and another man from the village were walking back and forth through the sleeping village with their rifles – making sure that, as bombers flew over, no glimmer of light showed from any of the houses, and watching in case the enemy landed. I wished I could send him a message. I needed him to come home, but I had no way of contacting him.

With another stabbing pain, the baby, I had been carrying for about five months, was born – much too soon! I did what I could, but she didn’t breathe. I held her close and tried to keep her warm, but there was no hope for her...I couldn’t even see her in the darkness, but I gently traced her little face with my fingers, as if I were blind.

Alone...I felt so alone! Tears seeped from under my eyelids as if they had no strength or will of their own. I huddled under the woollen blankets but they seemed like layers of ice. I was too weak to lift the blackout into the window frame. I couldn’t light a candle or a fire in the fireplace, as the bombers I heard flying overhead, might see the light from my window, and drop a bomb.

Lying there, I longed for comfort, warmth and light.

I had felt so sad when I had realized I was expecting this baby – sad I was bringing another baby into a country at war. However, now that I had lost this little girl, I felt heartbroken.

In the grey of the early morning light, I reached over and pulled Dad’s pillow out of his pillowcase. Using the pillowcase as a shroud I placed the baby in it. Then climbing out of bed, and putting on my dressing gown, I carried my tiny baby down the stairs.

I went out to the garden shed to find a spade. Sadly, I sank that shiny spade into the soft black soil near the fence. I dug a hole beside the dark pond. Kneeling down I laid the baby in her grave. Looking down at her in the soft early morning light, I reached in and pulled the pillowcase up, folding the top of it carefully over her little face. Then with my hands, I gently covered her with the soft earth.

Going back to the house, I climbed the stairs and remade the bed and tidied our bedroom. With a heavy heart, I washed and dressed, getting ready for the day.

Soon Dad would return for a bowl of porridge, before going out to help his hired man milk the cows, by hand. Soon we would hear the children, laughing and singing as they tumbled down the stairs, eager for their breakfast.

Now, I want you to be ever so good and help Mum, today, Dad told the children. I want her to have a good rest, as she feels ill. She needs to just sit by the dining room fire and be cozy. Margaret, will you run upstairs and get your favourite grey blanket. We’ll wrap it around Mum’s shoulders to keep her nice and warm. I can hear the wind coming up, and it makes this room a bit draughty. I’ll try to spend some time in the house this afternoon. The maid will have to wash the milk cooler, tank and pails but I will ask her to also make dinner. If Emma makes the dinner, Abe, you could help her to set the table. Margaret, you can play with Paul, and keep him happy. Be good little pets, won’t you? Dad asked, and they all nodded solemnly.

About ten days later, Dad and I sat beside the fire in the dining room, sipping our beakers of hot milk sprinkled with salt and pepper. We felt exhausted. We’d worked so hard that day. I hadn’t got my strength back since losing the baby. Dad had spent last night on Home Guard and then worked in the fields all day. We sat there quietly, too tired to talk, and too tired to get up and climb the stairs to bed. Just as Dad said, We’d better go up to bed, I felt a slithering sensation in my tummy. What was that? Then suddenly...I felt a strong kick...I was astounded! I was still going to have a baby!

Towards the end of July in 1940, Winston Churchill broadcast a warning that an invasion by the enemy seemed imminent. He called on all able-bodied men to be ready to stand and fight, with whatever weapons they had at hand – even pitchforks! He advised us that women and children should be ready to flee. Because of this urgency, the doctor in the nearby town felt he should make a house call, to check-up on me. He arrived, panting for breath and his lips turning blue. He had to ride his bicycle, because of a shortage of petrol (gasoline). I quickly propped him up with pillows on a bed and had him rest. He had a bad heart and had retired a few years earlier. The government had called the younger doctors away to look after the injured troops, so he had to return to work. After he’d rested and had a cup of tea, he examined me and gave me a good dose of quinine, hoping it would hurry the baby along.

My friend and midwife, Nurse Green, had planned to come down from London to deliver my baby, early in September. Dad went up to the post office and phoned Nurse Green after the doctor’s visit, to ask her if she would come as soon as possible. Fortunately, she didn’t have any other patients booked for early August so she came the next day. A few nights later – while bombs exploded nearby – you were born.

So I should have had a twin?

Yes

I’ve always wished I had a twin.

Sometimes, I think about the plans your Dad and I had made when Adolf Hitler said, in the Autumn of 1939, that Germany would allow passenger ships to travel safely. We decided that, since Hitler had promised we would be able to travel safely, I would take Abe, Margaret and Paul to live in Canada until the war was over. After I booked our passage, I began to feel very sick each morning. I knew that I was going to have another baby – I had felt this way, very early in each pregnancy. I had to cancel our journey. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to take care of my little children on a ship, as I’d never been a good sailor at the best of times. The ship we’d been booked to sail on, was torpedoed and nearly all lives were lost. You and your little twin saved your brothers, sister, and me, from going down into the depth of the Atlantic Ocean!

During the war, when Aunty Nell was on leave for a few days, she came down from London to visit us. One day we sat by the kitchen fire enjoying a good cup of tea. The other children were at school, so you had no one to play with. Running around the table, you dodged back and forth, sometimes running under the table, squealing and jabbering away.

What are you playing Myrt? Aunty asked.

I’m playing catch (tag).

She continued to watch you.

Myrt who are you playing with?

I’m playing with my twin sister.

Turning to me, she asked in surprise, Did you tell her?

No, I haven’t. Perhaps I’ll tell her when she’s older. I’ve only told you, Nurse Green, and of course, Ben.

Oh, how odd! she shuddered.

2

Mum, did you find things a bit easier after my birth? I asked. Then she told me this story:

When expecting my babies, I always felt ill, so my health improved after your birth. But, I became very tired as you never seemed to stop crying. Because of the lack of food and having so little rest, I couldn’t nurse you. We had to feed you cow’s milk and it didn’t suit you – but we couldn’t get anything else.

One hectic morning you were crying in your pram (baby buggy) outside, someone was knocking at the door, Dad was waiting for me to serve his dinner, and old Mrs. King was coming down the driveway with her cup, to buy some milk. I felt absolutely worn out!

I answered the door and a woman – a stranger – stood there crying. She couldn’t bear hearing you cry because her baby had sounded just like you before he died. She said that she couldn’t nurse her baby, and he had died because she had to feed him cow’s milk, and he couldn’t digest it. She couldn’t get anything else to feed him. I tried to comfort her, but she got back on her bike and rode away, sobbing broken-heartedly.

Dad called out asking if I could hurry with his dinner, as he had a lot of work to do this afternoon. By this time, Mrs. King was at the door. She stood there quietly taking it all in.

I’ll get my milk later, she said. She peeked into the pram where you were supposed to be sleeping. Could I take her for a walk? she asked.

Oh thank you. I really felt I needed a break.

Off she went, calling out: I’ll just take her for a little walk down the lane and hope I can get her to sleep.

Soon I had dinner on the table. I sat down at the other end of the table from Dad with the two older children, Abe and Margaret on one side, and little Paul on the other side. We always ate our dinner at noon as the farmers felt they needed it, after a hard mornings work. Dad served the shepherd’s pie and I served the vegetables.

Suddenly we heard planes overhead. Whoosh! BOOM! The house shook and then slid sideways and then slid back again; the windows rattled, and dust hovered in the air. Then silence fell. The children’s chairs were empty! They’d slipped to the floor and huddled together under the table. Suddenly it hit me – the bomb had fallen by the lane. Panic crawled up my throat and I could hear a distant voice saying, Oh my baby...oh my baby…oh my baby… over and over again.

Laying his hands flat on the table, Dad pushed himself to his feet. Probably...Maybe...P’rhaps I’d better go...and see. Walking unsteadily...he went through the dining room door, then out of the front door, through the garden, down the road, to the lane…

In horror, I waited and waited...finally: I realized that agonized voice, keening in the room, was mine. For the children’s sake, I managed to quieten myself, but I couldn’t move. I just sat there dreading what Dad might find down the lane. I hoped and prayed my baby was alive! Then the front door opened – what amazing comfort – hearing my baby’s frantic cries!

Dad came in. Here’s your baby m’dear. He placed you in my arms. With his other arm around Mrs. King to steady her, he seated her at the table. Then looking under the table he said, Come my good little pets, sit up to the table and eat your dinner or you’ll be hungry later. I’ll go and make us all a sweet cup of tea. I think I’ll let you all have a heaping spoonful of sugar in your tea today.

Dad brought us all a cup of tea – even the children drank tea with lots of milk in it.

Mrs. King tried to drink her tea, but she shook so badly, she slopped most of it into her saucer. She picked up her saucer and drank the tea from it. That poor old soul, because of her kindness, she had experienced a terribly traumatic hour. I could tell, from the look on the children’s faces, that I would have a lot of spilt tea and some difficulty with their table manners, for the next few days. They would all want to drink their tea out of their saucers!

Ben, after we’ve finished our tea, I’ll see Mrs. King home. Then I’ll go on to the post office, use the phone in the kiosk, and call my father. I’ll ask him to take the afternoon off work and go to all the places in London, that might make baby formula, and see if he can get us some.

Grandad managed to find two tins of powdered formula. He took the train from London – 100 miles – to one of our neighbouring towns. He then walked to our house, about three and a half miles. Two weeks later, I had to call him again and he found three tins and brought them to us. About three weeks later, I thought I would have to call him again. However, the woman who had lost her baby came to the door; she said that she didn’t want me to lose my baby, too. She had been riding her bike through all the neighbouring villages and had found a man who kept goats. She had brought me a bottle of goat’s milk, and the name and address of the man who would be willing to sell me more if the milk suited you. The milk suited you and I was very, very grateful!

Just past the woods, in a field near the lane, dark khaki coloured furrows cutting across the rolling hillside, hold the drizzle of rain. In the midst of this field, the exploding bomb left a huge crater: reminding us of the ugliness, and terror of war.

Over the next few years, however, the crater has become a pond: with moorhens swimming on it, dragonflies – clicking their iridescent wings – flying above the shiny black water, colourful butterflies fluttering among the wildflowers – primroses, cowslips, lady’s slippers, and violets – growing on the grassy banks, and a few fascinating frogs – always just out of reach – paddling at the water’s edge. What a wonderful place for a picnic!

3

When we were little children living in England in World War II, we often asked a lot of questions about things we didn’t understand.

One day we asked Mum, Why does Aunty Bessie live at our house?

Aunt Bessie came to live with us after Myrt was born. Before that Uncle Harry and Aunt Bessie lived in a flat (apartment) in London.

This is the story that Aunt Bessie and her neighbours told us:

When the air raid siren sounds a warning tonight, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to get up and go to the underground station! I just can’t do it anymore! Harry fretted.

They had been getting up nearly every night, the last few weeks, and going to the safety of the underground station, so far below the streets of London. So many people sheltered there. They could never find an unoccupied seat. Although, they took blankets with them, lying on the cold, hard concrete floor made their rheumatism very painful.

When the siren goes tonight we will just stay here, agreed Bessie. This area of London has been almost completely destroyed, so surely they won’t drop any more bombs near here. It’s too much for us, in our nineties – we’re too tired to get up and go.

What a dreadful night! Tons of bombs bombarded London – exploding and destroying wherever they fell. Uncle Harry and Aunty Bessie tried to sleep but the noise of the bombs nearby made it impossible! Suddenly an explosion deafened them. Harry screamed in agony as he was thrown to the floor.

‘‘Bessie, Bessie are you all right?" he cried. There was no answer!

Fumbling for the candle and matches that had fallen to the floor, he lit the candle. Crawling to the bed he pulled himself up. Looking over at his wife, he saw that a huge piece of the ceiling had fallen on her. Her face was the colour of death. He thought she was gone.

Oh, Bessie; oh Bessie, he moaned.

Her eyelids flickered and then she opened her eyes. With an amazing surge of strength, he began pushing the ceiling aside – just a few inches at a time. Finally, he pulled her free. Gathering her up in his arms, he struggled over the debris. Then he carried her – the love of his life for over 70 years – down the four flights of stairs, and out of the block of flats. He laid her down gently on the icy, black tarmac, and then dropped down dead beside her – their deathly pale faces just visible in the moonlight – as their neighbours returned from the underground station.

Harry was Dad’s oldest cousin. ‘Aunty Bessie’ had no close relatives. Dad’s brother and sisters all had many other responsibilities. They couldn’t take such a badly wounded woman into their homes. They decided that she would live with us, as I’m a nurse.

How sad! Uncle Harry must have loved Aunty Bessie very much, mustn’t he, Mum? Margaret asked. Aunty Bessie has never walked again, since that bomb dropped on their flat, has she Mum?

No she hasn’t, the falling ceiling damaged her spinal cord. She must miss Uncle Harry so much after seventy years of marriage. I hope all of you will stop and talk to her as often as you can when you pass our bedroom door. Otherwise, she’ll feel so lonely. We gave her our bedroom because it has a fireplace, and we need to keep her warm during the cool weather.

It cheers her up when you talk to her about what you do, and what you see when you play outside. I know she likes it when you pick her some wildflowers and put them in water in a jam jar. Can you imagine not being able to get out of bed and go outside for a walk?

Aunty Bessie needs a lot of loving care. Mum always reminds us, because she doesn’t want us to forget to be kind.

Aunty Bessie can only eat soft foods. At tea time Mum cuts a thin slice of bread, spreads it with margarine and jam and pops another slice of bread on top. Then she cuts off all the crusts.

Aunty Bessie really enjoys jam sandwiches because she likes jam. She also enjoys them because she likes to feed herself. She can manage to eat them without any help because the jam holds the sandwich together. We usually have to hold other kinds of sandwiches for her or they fall apart. She can’t feed herself with a fork or a spoon because the food falls off, so Mum has to feed her most of her meals.

She drinks her tea and her gruel out of an invalid cup. It’s made of china and it has a spout! Beside the spout, half the top of the invalid cup is covered with china so that – when Mum puts the spout in Aunty Bessie’s mouth and tips it up – it doesn’t spill on Aunty Bessie’s nightdress.

One evening, Mum gathered us all around her, beside the dining room hearth. We need to talk about emergencies, she told us. Many sad things happen during a war, but we don’t want to dwell on them too much. But some important things must be discussed.

I had a chat with Aunty Bessie yesterday. I explained to her that if a bomb falls on our house, I will try to get you all out safely, then I’ll come back for her.

Aunt Bessie said, Yes, you must look after your dear little children first! Only come back for me, if you can do so safely. Don’t risk your life for me. I’ve had a good long life. I would rather be left to die than cause harm to come to you or the children.

We didn’t know what to say. Think of the horror, if no one came to rescue you, and you couldn’t even get out of your bed!

Then the chorus began: I love Aunty Bessie!…I love her too!…I hope she’ll be safe!…I’m going to thank her for trying to keep us and Daddy and Mummy safe!

You can all help, to keep us all safe, Mum explained. If an emergency arises you may not even realize it, and I might not have time to explain. Our lives may depend on doing the right thing...quickly. Whenever I ask you to do something, I need you to obey me at once! After you’ve done as you’re told, then you can ask me ‘why’ if you didn’t understand!

Of course, after we’d obeyed we didn’t usually ask why – because we couldn’t get out of doing it then! Are we really such good children?

We understand why we must obey our parents quickly. And our Mum and Dad are kind and try to teach us to be kind, too. However, our mischief, our cheekiness, our quarrelling, and most often our imaginations, certainly get us into lots of trouble. After we had expressed our undying love and care for Aunty Bessie – and her mind began to cloud – she would often call out to us when we passed her door, and ask us if we were getting up or going to bed. We thought it was a very funny question, and would giggle and tell her it was bedtime, as went down to breakfast!

4

Another older woman, Grandma (which is pronounced Grand Mar) is living in our house, too. She lives downstairs in two rooms on the other side of the front entrance hall. She has a narrow kitchenette, and a big parlour and bedroom combined. We always call these rooms ‘the-room-the-other-side.’ One of Daddy’s sisters lives with Grandma and takes care of her. We really love Grandma and Aunty Martha. Grandma is in her eighties and isn’t very well because she has a lump.

Sometimes we sit on her bed and she teaches us to sing songs. My favourite one goes like this:

Give said the little stream

Give oh give

Give oh give

Give said the little stream

As it hurried down the hill.

For I’m sure I know

That where’er I go

The grass grows greener still.

Grandma feels ill more often, lately. She rests more and more. Some days she doesn’t feel much like having all of us boisterous children visiting her. It seems as if they have a soft spot for me – because I’m the youngest. They always invite me in.

Although I had just turned three years old, there was one day with my Grandma that has remained a very clear and precious memory.

My oldest brother Abe said, I think we should all go and visit Grandma this morning. Myrt come and stand at the door of the-room-the-other-side. You knock and when they say ‘who’s there?’ you say ‘Myrt’ and then when Aunty Martha opens the door we’ll all go in.

I knocked at the door and when they asked who was there, I said Myrt, and the door opened. Aunty Martha took me by the hand and said, Come in my little lamb! Then she sent the others away. From that day on, my nickname was, ‘Suffolk Black Face.’ (A breed of sheep from our own county.)

They had a nice warm coal fire burning in the grate. I settled down cross-legged on the fireside rug in front of Grandma. We have several of these cozy hooked rugs in front of the fireplaces in the house. The back of them is made of old sacks from the barn. The women used the best pieces of cloth, from old worn-out clothes, to make the top. They cut pieces about as long as my hand and twice as wide as my thumb, and pulled them through the sacking with a hook, and knotted them in place until the sacking was completely covered. The rugs look very nice. The edges of the rugs are all dark colours and make a good border, but the middle is a mixture of brighter colours. Mom said some of these very big rugs had taken them two years to hook, as they sat beside the fireplace in the evenings.

I sat there looking at my grandma who was sitting in her cozy deck chair. Daddy told me that they slung her chair with the piece of velvety brown and orange carpet instead of canvas, to make it more comfortable.

I waited quietly while she slept. I know