大象传媒

At the time, I was around thirty and was living at 36 Wastdale Road, Forest Hill, in London, very close to my parents. My father owned a shop at the top of our road and my husband Peter, an engineer, would go on fire duty at night. (Incidentally, our dog would often accompany him and so I made little boots for him to stop him getting too much dust in his paws!)

One night early on in the war, as happened so often, there was a huge air raid over London, this one being right over us. I was forced to seek shelter in my parents鈥� house nearby. Picking up my young son and making him cling on to my back, I took a metal bath with two handles at either end and put that over him. As the bombs exploded and the 鈥榓ck-ack鈥� guns rattled away around me, I ran from our home to my parents鈥� house. I distinctly remember the raining shrapnel pinging on the bath as I ran. When I got to my parents鈥� house, I found my Dad wasn鈥檛 there but had remained in the shop despite the air raid. When the bombs had finished, we all went to the shop and found that a blast had ripped away the front window while my Dad had been in there. Through the wide, open gap we saw him sitting there. 鈥淲e didn鈥檛 know you were going to hang in the Tate, Dad!鈥� we all cried!

I suppose I took running through the street with my son on my back in my stride 鈥� I wasn鈥檛 that frightened. It was really quite funny to see Dad sitting there through the blown out shop front though!

This story was submitted to the Peoples鈥� War website by Toby Farmiloe, of Heathfield Community College, on behalf of Eileen Rickards, and has been added to the site with her permission. Mrs. Rickards fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.