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And Some Of Us Much Worse

by Pamela Odgers

296 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-1291; ISBN 1-55395-575-7; US$25.00, C$30.00, EUR20.50, £14.50

The life of the author from 1927 takes place in England and the US from 1940-44. It is the story of a privileged childhood, where the author gradually recognizes and rebels against the English class system. Written with sensitivity and humour.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpt       catalogue info

About the Book And Some Of Us Much Worse is the story of Pamela Odger's early life. It takes place from 1927 in England, except for the four war years 1940-1944, when she lived in the United States. It is hte story of a priveleged childhood where she gradually recognizes and rebels against the class system. Written with sensitivity and humour, And Some Of Us Much Worse is an intimate look at growing up in England.

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About the Author To be added

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Sample Excerpt

WAR

The last foreign holiday we had with Mother was to France, one year later, to Varengeville on the north coast. I imagine that Father had tried to dissuade her from this venture, but she insisted and dismissed all the menacing political events as nonsense. I remember when wee all got in the car, Father shrugged his shoulders and said to Johnny, "Well, this time, Johnson, it's the women and children who go to the Front, and we stay home." I did not understand his wry sense of humour at the time.

One day on that holiday there was great excitement, and even panic, among the adults. Copies of newspapers, Paris Soir, were snatched off the vendors and everyone looked worried. I remember seeing a woman look at the paper and then cry, "Oh, mon Dieu. Pas Encore." ("Oh my God. Not again.") Calais was closed to civilian traffic and we sailed back via Dieppe. On September 1st, 1939, the Germans invaded Poland; World War II had begun. France would be defeated in forty-two days and in this war more than thirty million people would perish.

Back at school, one day in the summer term in June, 1940, a girl came up to me in the gym and said, "You twins are wanted in Miss Coward's study."

"Oh Lord," I thought, "what have I done now?" I found Patsy and asked her, "Have you done anything wrong, Patsy?"

She thought a bit. "Not that I can think of. Have you?"

"I don't think so. Well, we'll see."

We knocked on the door. Miss Coward had a pretty study with a rich royal blue patterned carpet on the floor and white walls and windows, and out of the window she could see one of the school's many playgrounds. Most of the time she saw, she said, a forest of legs, of girls who were upside down practicing handstands. "Come in," she said. She smiled at us.

Oh, good," I thought, "it can't be anything bad then."

"You can sit down girls." She paused. "I have received a letter from your mother and you are going to leave school on Thursday, go home to London, and leave for America in a week's time."

"Oooh, how exciting," we smiled at each other.

She continued, "Matron will do your packing for you. You must gather up all your things, from your lockers and desks, and say goodbye to your friends and the mistresses."

My best friend was Pam Wilson. Miss Coward continued, "I shall miss you, girls. You've been good students-my twins."

"Yes, you're your mother's twins, I know, but when you're at school you're my twins. Now run along, and see Matron; she has the message." So we left school in the middle of term. I think we were a bit sad, but mostly excited. We would have left Godstowe anyway in July and gone to Wycombe Abbey in September.

There was an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation in London but we were too young and ignorant to feel fear. signs everywhere read AIR RAID SHELTER, and AIR RAID PRECAUTION. Large glass windows had 11/2 inch wide tape criss-crossing the panes; this was to stop them from shattering into many fine shards of glass in an air raid. The traffic lights had black hoods on them and the light itself was covered in black paint except for a small cross. Unless there was a full moon, driving at night was very difficulty-slow and dangerous- and people avoided doing it. Everyone carried a gas mask. Huge, silver barrage balloons hung over London, ostensibly to protect it from dive bombers.

Mother told us that we would have very little money in America- she showed us what we had, eight five pound notes, ten pounds each. In those days they were large white notes on fine Indian paper with black copper plate engraving on them. Forty pounds, that's all we had. However, I do remember at that time that a large diamond ring with five stones appeared on Mother's left hand; and she never said anything in explanation about it, and told us not to say a word either. When we got to New York the ring vanished, so I assume it had been sold, thus getting some our money out of England. We also had a small Modigliani painting, the canvas rolled up, not in a frame. Mother had some experience with antiques, which came in handy. At that time, at twelve, I did not know much about money but, as an adult, I often wondered what we lived on until Mother got the business going in New Jersey.

The week before leaving, we did a lot of shopping, because Mother told us we would not have money to buy many clothes in the States, so we bought lots of lovely new clothes. One day Patsy and I were bored waiting in the car while mother was buying shoes for Viv. All our passports, identity cards, birth certificates, etcetera were in the front seat and I sat looking through them. I found our parents' marriage certificate and read the date, October 25th, 1925.

"Patsy," I gasped, "look at this."

"What?"

Mummy and Daddy's marriage certificate."

What's wrong with it?" she asked.

Just look at the date- October 25th. Do you know what this means?"

"No."

Viv. She was born in March and they weren't married till October. Viv is illegitimate. Oh, I can't wait to tell her."

I counted on my fingers April, May, June, July, August, September, October*seven months. Seven months too soon. I said, "Naughty, naughty, naughty."

When Viv and Mother returned to the car, we looked at Viv with mock horror and wide eyes.

"And what's wrong with you two?" she demanded.

"Nyee, nyee, nyee. Wouldn't you like to know?"

It's a secret, but we'll tell you later."

Mother said, "I have to go to the post office. You children wait here, I'll only be ten minutes depending on the queue."

Viv turned on us at once.

"Well, what is it?" We got the certificate. "Look at that. Look at the date. YOU ARE ILLEGITIMATE. YOU ARE ILLEGITIMATE."

"Absolute rubbish," retorted Viv. "I'm what's called a love child. That's very romantic. It happens when the couple are so in love they can't wait to get married. Mummy's divorce from Lawerence was not final. But I'm just as legitimate as you are because they are now married."

We were somewhat crestfallen at Viv's information, and in general she knew more than we did, but we had a parting shot, "But you were illegitimate for seven whole months."

Patsy and I started singing, "Viv was illegitimate for seven whole months. Viv was illegi...." Then we saw Mother returning to the car. Patsy and I stopped singing, but we continued to make faces at Viv and mouth the words behind Mother's head.

In that frantic week, we were so excited and so much to do that I do not remember feeling sad. I do not even remember saying goodbye to Nurse and Peter, but I shall never forget saying goodbye to Johnny.

On June 26th, we caught the boat train from Euston station to Liverpool to catch the Duchess of Atholl, 22,000 tons, which would take us to Montreal. Johnny had come separately to the station with our trunks, and we were to meet him at the platform. I had never in my whole life seen so many people. The station was jam packed with children, adults, and luggage. Aud looked tense and Mother looked distraught as she said to us, "Now, children for God's sake hold on to each other. Viv, don't let go of Pat's hand on any account. If she gets lost, we'd never find her in this crowd. Now we're looking for Johnny on platform three."

A few moments later I saw Johnny sitting on one of our trunks and he did not stand up when we reached him. He was staring into the middle distance as though he were all alone and he was murmuring to himself. I couldn't quite hear what he was saying. When I got up close to him, I could see he was crying, tears were rolling down his rough face. He was saying, "I'm never going to see my young ladies again. I'm never goin' to see them."

I was thunderstruck. I did not know that a man could cry, and he never, ever sat down in my father's presence. I put my arms round him; I could not bear to see Johnny crying. I begged, "Oh Johnny, don't cry. You can't cry. Men don't cry, only children do that."

Johnny looked straight at me, his old blue eyes full of tears, and said with certainty and despair, "I'm never goin' to see you again, Missie. I'm never goin' to see any of you again."

His work-worn hands were trembling and he was trying to hug all three of us at once. I was dumbfounded and looked to Father for reassurance. Was Johnny going to die or were we? Father looked haggard and was chewing his lips. He could be severe with the servants but Johnny was a very special person to him. Father said, half roughly, half gently, "Now pull yourself together Johnson. I've told you more than once, Mrs. Healey and the children are going on the Duchess of Atholl. It's a fast ship. Faster than any German submarine."

But Johnny would not be comforted; he remained seated (which was extraordinary) and contradicted my father, which was also extraordinary. Johnny had never contradicted my father in his life but he repeated his dread words, "I know, Sir. You've told me. You've told me, but I'm never goin' to see my young ladies again*never goin' to see 'em again."

Oh how I wished he would stop saying that* as though saying it would make it happen. Then a porter came up with a luggage trolley and pointed to the trunk that Johnny was sitting on. He said to Johnny, with sympathy, "I've left it till last, but I'll 'ave to 'ave that trunk now. It 'as to go into the guard's van."

Johnny stood up rather unsteadily. I heard Mother say to Father, "Do you love me Jack? Do you still love me?" Then the piercing whistle announcing that the train was leaving echoed through the station and a collective shudder ran through the crowd. I do not remember my parents saying goodbye to each other; I do not remember saying goodbye myself to Father and Aud, but I do remember Father saying to Mother, with his voice breaking, "It's time to go now darling." He opened the carriage door and we all got in after her.

The doors were slamming through the whole train- slam, slam. Each person opened the window and quickly leaned out; Pat and I squeezed under Mother and Viv who were taller. I kept looking at Johnny's face to see if he had stopped crying. No, he had not stopped crying, and when I looked at Father, even behind his glasses, I could see that he was crying also. Since it was a steam train, it had that very unforgettable sound and rhythm: ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch. The train moved. I could not see Johnny and Daddy and Aud. I squeezed the tears out of my eyes and as they were getting further and further away and smaller and smaller, I could see Father had his arm round Johnny and Aud and I knew all three were crying-both men were crying. That train left Euston station in a sea of tears.

I leant against the cold window in the corner of the carriage and tried to think. What was happening to us? Johnny and Father were both crying. They had been together in the first war. Now this was another war and Johnny had said, with certainty, that he would never see us again. So was he going to die or were we? Mother let us cry ourselves out. After about twenty minutes, she got up, and said, "Now I'll go along the train and see if I can find some sandwiches, then I'll come back to you and explain to your about poor Johnny and why he was so sad.

When Mother returned, she wiped our tears away and said, "Now, listen, children. Poor Johnny, he was very sad, because he loves you and we love him, and he won't be seeing you for a few years. But Johnny doesn't know the future, nobody knows the future. He can't be sure. As you know, Johnny coughs because he was gassed in the first war, but he's not an old man, he's under sixty, and he'll live another five or ten years. Nobody knows how long the war will last, but Daddy thinks it will last three possibly four years. So we'll be back in three or four years, and we'll see Johnny again; I promise you, we'll see him again."

I said, "But Mummy, he was so certain. He kept on saying the same thing over and over again."

Viv added, "And he contradicted Daddy. I've never seen Johnny do that before."

Mother admitted, "Well, that was rather surprising, I agree. But I think it was the sadness of the moment." She paused and then continued, "Now let me tell you about the ship and Montreal and New York. This will be a much bigger ship then the channel ferries which you know."

Mother changed the subject and tried to cheer us up, and get us interested in the journey ahead. However, Johnny was right. He had not told my parents in 1940 that he was bleeding intermittently. He did not die from being gassed in the First War, he did not die from any event in the Second War; he died from cancer of the colon in 1942. I would return to England in 1944 and Mother and my sisters in 1945, so he was right, and we never did see him again. Johnny was the first person we knew to die; he was buried in Bideford; we had loved him.

Many, many children on the Duchess of Atholl were far worse off than we were- we had each other and Mother- others were entirely alone and younger than we were with labels on their coats, like luggage in the guard's van, with their names and destinations written on them. Some children were evacuated under a government scheme which paid their fares, but we went privately and paid our own way. On the train, gradually we stopped crying and Mother also recovered. It was about a four-hour trip to Liverpool and there we put on our gas masks in a big pile and went on board an ocean liner for the first time.

A large ship was great fun for children. We had a comfortable cabin with four berths and a washbasin. Then we started exploring the ship, finding out which deck our cabin was on, where the dining room was, the lounge, and where one had tea in the afternoon. Then we ran around the upper decks, playing hide and seek, or table tennis or deck quoits, a game played with a hard rubber ring, slightly smaller than a frisbee, which was thrown over a net out of reach of your opponent. The meals were good and the weather was not too rough. As I recall, we did not worry about submarines at all.

As we approached Newfoundland, we saw an impressive sight- huge, shining, silent, glistening, aquamarine icebergs. We rushed off to find Mother. "Mummy, come and look. Icebergs," Viv said.

"Why is everyone talking about the Titanic?" Pat asked. "What was that?"

"That was a famous ocean liner that hit an iceberg and sank with hundreds of people being drowned. That was before the first war."

"Could it happen again?" I asked.

"No," she said. "The Captain knows where the icebergs are and, as you can see, the ship stays well clear of them. Nine tenths of the iceberg is under water, so what we see, as the saying goes, is just the tip of it- one tenth."

As we approached land we got excited. We passed through the straits of Belle Isle but still had a long way to go to Quebec and Montreal. The ship passed Quebec about 11:00pm and Mother woke Viv up so she could look out the porthole and see the lights- a beautiful sight symbolizing peace, safety, and no fear of air raids. But my feelings were hurt- Mother always favoured Viv over us- why did she not wake us up as well to see the lights? She would say, "Viv is the eldest child- you twins are too young." I did not agree with her.

The greatest river of Canada, the St. Lawerence, is spanned at Montreal by the Jaques Cartier Bridge. The Duchess of Atholl sailed under it. When we landed at the dock, there was great excitement with a very large number of scarlet uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Policemen everywhere. We thought surely they have not come just to greet us- we are only children. We were right. In the cargo was a large shipment of gold bullion from the Bank of England being sent to a safe place for the "duration." Small wooden crates were being wheeled away under the very close supervision of the Mounties. So, on July 4, 1940, 600 children and boxes of bullion worth a million and a half pounds sterling landed safely in Montreal after and eight day uneventful voyage.*

_{*In 1940 I was entirely carefree about submarines. However, I was beset continuously by fear in 1944. This was due to my ignorance of the facts, which were that in 1940, in the North Atlantic, an average of three ships a day were sunk, and in 1944 one ship every two days, so I had six times the chance of being torpedoed in 1940 than in 1944. Later in my life, I learned of the sinking of the City of Benares on September 17th 1940, where 217 adults and 77 children were drowned. Six lucky children spent eight days and eight nights in an open boat before being rescued- that was a long as out entire journey.}

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