Going Home

When I was five years old I was evacuated to the countryside about twenty miles from my home in the outskirts of London where the bombs were going to fall. Though very young I understood why we were being sent away from home – to keep us safe. But how I missed being with mum and dad and my big brother, five and a half years older than me!

One autumn evening by the light of a warm and golden setting sun, I had decided I was going back home; so there I was, about two miles out of the village, when a voice suddenly rang out above my head, “And where do you think you’re going?” it said.

Looking up, I saw the face of my brother through the leaves and branches of an apple tree. “I’m going home; don’t like it here!” I pouted.

“Oh no, you’re not!” he said, climbing down the tree and over the fence onto the grassy path beside the road.

He walked me back to the village listening to my tale of woe and offering the sensible, loving advice of an elder brother so that I accepted the situation – sort of.