Dangers old and new

“Her mother did not come and collect her.”

I was at a stall selling the books I have written at a makers’ market. A person was going to buy a book for her mother. She chose a book about a mother and daughter relationship.

She explained that her mother had been an evacuee in the war time and as a little girl she had been sent to live with a family in the countryside for safety. Her hometown was being bombed and she was in danger there. But when the war ended no one came to collect the daughter. I did not hear the rest of the story or why the little girl was abandoned but even after nearly eighty years she hasn’t forgotten the hurt. No one could forget, could they?

We had an evacuee staying with my family in the second World War before I was born. She was from Hull where there was a lot of bombing because of the docks. But her mother came to take her home because, as it turned out, our house was just as dangerous. You see, although we lived in the countryside, we had a BBC transmitter station nearby and that became a target too.

Nowadays, there are other targets which spell danger of a different kind. I made an order on-line last week and was not sure that I would be at home so decided to have the parcel delivered to a nearby store. Sure enough, I soon received an email to say that it had arrived, so off I went with my mobile and code. But the shopkeeper asked for another form of identity, something with my name on. I do not carry anything like that. But he said that he has been scammed by the wrong people picking up packets. He even said that once a van drew up and a uniformed man got out and picked up parcels. But he was a fraudster and got away with articles which people had paid for. Luckily, I had a letter addressed to me in the car, so all was well.

The weather is getting colder and our log burner adds cheer especially at night. These days we have dumpy bags of kiln dried logs delivered. They are just the right size for our burner, but one neighbour, who has lived here longer than us, remembers the previous owner, who used to cut a log twice as long as the fire grate. One end stuck out side-ways over the hearth while the other end was burning. He kicked the hearth end inch by inch during the day so eventually all was burnt. Too dangerous for these times.

(taken from my column in the Shropshire Star) 

Selling our books at a makers market