WWII: Evacuated for six war years with no word from home

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When war broke out in 1939, eight-year-old Florence Balson was evacuated from Derby to Barlow, near Chesterfield. For six years, she was passed from one family to another. Her first and only letter from home arrived in 1945, telling her she was going home. But, by then, she had become attached to one of the families she had lived with and did not want to go – as Florence of Chaddesden relates here.

Florence Balson today

Florence Balson as a child

IT is September 1939 and I am eight years old. My sister Joan, brother Bill and myself were to be taken to a place called Barlow Whitch, near Chesterfield.

I can’t really remember where we caught the bus but it was possibly outside Christchurch School, at the top of Normanton Road, although I have always thought it was from Cockpit Hill as I distinctly remember the wide, cobbled pavements.

The bus eventually arrived and my sister, brother and I managed to sit together on the long seat by the door. It seemed we were on the bus for ages but, eventually, we arrived at the little village of Barlow and were taken into a classroom at the village school.

After a while, the villagers started arriving and began picking and choosing the child or children they were to take home to care for. A lady took my sister and brother, but she couldn’t take three, so I was left alone feeling very miserable and bewildered.

Eventually, the room emptied, leaving just myself and a few of the helpers. By this time, it was getting dark and a thunder storm was threatening, so I had to have somewhere to stay. They found one lady who could take me in for the night, so I was fed and put to bed to be sorted out in the morning.

The following day, I was placed with another lady for a day. Then, the day after that, I was placed with a lady who had two grown-up sons and two grown-up daughters, plus another son nearer to my age.

I spent two very unhappy years with that family. Then, one day, I was fetched away by a lady and gentleman and taken to Holmewood, where I was to live with a lovely lady I was to call Aunt Bertha.

She had three grown-up sons, whom I called uncle, and a married daughter. They were all lovely towards me.

I lived with that family for two very happy years and really felt that I belonged with them until one day, arriving home from school, the daughter told me the terrible news that Aunt Bertha was very ill and she had had to come to take care of her.

So, sadly, I was on the move again.

I loved Aunt Bertha and went regularly after school to see her. One day, when I got there, I was told, to my utter dismay, that Aunt Bertha had died.

I didn’t stay long at the next place. I just couldn’t settle and kept having tantrums and running away – usually back to Aunt Bertha’s place.

So, once more, I was moved, but couldn’t settle in that place either. Then, quite unexpectedly, I received my very first letter from home, saying: “You’ll be pleased to hear that you are coming home.”

I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to leave my uncles. At least I could visit them and receive a warm welcome while I was there.

I told my uncles I didn’t want to go home. After six years away, I didn’t know what to expect. They reassured me that everything would be all right and that I could always visit them whenever I wanted to.

The next day, my elder sister, Elsie, came to take me back home. Only when we were almost there did I see any signs of war damage caused by the bombing in Litchurch Street area.

All the time I had been away, I had never even heard the sirens or any gunfire.

When we arrived home, the first person I saw was my sister, Joan, who had returned home some time before.

Also there were my other brothers and sisters, some of whom I had never met before as my parents had four more children while I was away.

My parents were out on my homecoming and I didn’t see them until about midnight when my father wanted to see me and had me brought down from my bed to say “hello” to them.

I was 14 years old by then. I left home when I was 18 to work and live at the DRI, which I really enjoyed. I was on Ward One, the accident ward.

That was where I met Ernie, my husband-to-be. He was one of the patients after a motorcycle accident.

We married in 1951 and have been together now for 55 very happy years.

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