大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Stephanie Stasiuk from WM CSV Action Desk on behalf of Gwenyth Eileen Baker and has been added to the site with her permission. Gwenyth Eileen Baker fully understands the sites terms and conditions.

My grandfather鈥檚 family, the Halls, had been jewel-case makers in Caroline Street, Jewellery Quarter for many generations. Grandfather鈥檚 eldest brother Frank took over the business, from my widowed great grandmother, Helen Jane. The family moved from Hagley Road to Bristol Road. In the first heavy blitz on Birmingham, the Hall鈥檚 house on Bristol Road received a direct hit, and my great aunt, uncle and their eldest son were killed. The dining room in which they had been eating supper was left intact, but they had taken refuge in the cellar when the siren sounded, and were buried under the rubble of the fallen-in house.
I was eight at the time, and have a vivid memory of travelling on a tram along Bristol Road with my mother and grandmother to view the devastated house. The sight of the bedrooms cut in half, furniture, curtains and pictures, hanging crazily from the ruin has always remained with me.
Later in the war, when my parents and I were in the communal shelter which had been built at the end of our gardens, one particular evening comes to mind. Instead of using our cramped Anderson shelter, which I always thought smelled of candle fat and tortoises, we joined out widowed neighbour, Mrs Mott and her gentleman lodger in the communal shelter for a change. The gentleman lodger, was a well-educated manager of a glass factory. He always bought me books at Christmas, and took an interest in my piano playing and singing. That night, he said 鈥渟ing us a little song to cheer us up Gwenny鈥�. I shyly looked at my mother for an excuse, but she smiled encouragingly, and I quietly sang 鈥楤arbara Allen鈥� and 鈥楾he Ashgrove鈥�, hardly cheerful songs! They asked for an encore, but I was saved by the 鈥楢ll Clear鈥� signal. We trouped back up the back garden and mother invited Mrs Mott into our house for a cup of cocoa. As we were enjoying our drink, the siren went again, and my father said 鈥渋t sounded like Jerry coming back鈥�. There was a sound of 鈥榓ck-ack鈥� and then a terrible whining, screaming sound of a plane coming down. We lived on the summit of a steeping hill, and feared it was coming straight for our roof. My father threw us down on the floor and lay across us, and Mrs Mott, and I heard my mother praying. Then there was a horrible explosion, and we knew we had been lucky that night, but some other poor souls had not. The plane, a Heinkel 111, had crashed a few roads away into a newly built house, which was being rented by a London family, recently come to Worcestershire to escape the blitz. They were all killed, along with the crew of the Heinkel.
The next morning crowds of sightseers appeared and I heard the comments of some neighbours about the young pilot, and how his watch and other belongings had been removed from him. Someone remarked that 鈥渢he only good German was a dead one鈥�. I knew even at a young age that was wrong, and said to my parents, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 someone鈥檚 Daddy, son or brother, they will cry when they know鈥�. My parent agreed. After that the raids became less frequent, and we could rely on a decent night鈥檚 sleep most of the time.
Even though my childhood was spent during wartime, I look back on it as a most idyllic one. My father and his brother had bought two new houses next door to each other. My cousin Margery was five years older than me, but to her credit amiably allowed me, her kid cousin, to tag along with her friends. On Saturday morning we invariably went to the local Odeon cinema. Westerns and music and dance films were our favourites.
My aunt and uncle had a sunken lawn in their garden, and this provided a wonderful theatre for children. My cousin and her friends put on concerts for the local children, mostly emulating the stars of the day, Ginger Rogers, and Deanna Durbin. We attached flattened milk bottle tops to our shoes, which made a very satisfying tap dancing noise. When it was discovered I could sing, I was allowed to do a Deanna Durbin waltz song, but was so nervous I began to cry and was then banned for months by the older girls. However, I overcame my fear and enjoyed trilling away 鈥楧urbin style鈥�. Occasionally my older cousin Raymond would deign to play his mouth organ usually tunes from the Western cowboy films.
We had much more freedom as children, because in those days we could take longer bike rides into the countryside, and come home with baskets laden with wild fruits, and flowers. No one seemed to have any fear of being molested. The shortage of sweets drove us to extreme measures sometimes, and I remember going to the local chemist and eating a packet of sulphur tablets which tasted very pleasant, you can imagine the result.
There were very few fatties in those days, only perhaps those with glandular problems. In my group of friends, most wanted to be Ginger Rogers or a Deanna Durbin, except the one 鈥榝atty鈥� a flamboyant character, who wanted to be a racing driver. I think 鈥楾oad of Toad Hall鈥� had impressed her.
The intellectual lodger next door had two copies of the then hard to obtain 鈥楿lysses鈥� by James Joyce. He generously gave a copy to my parents. My mother immediately put a brown paper cover over it and, as she thought secreted it on a top shelf. I heard her discussing the book with my aunt next door, saying it was a peculiar book with some 鈥榥aughty bits鈥�. This of course, immediately sparked my curiosity and I managed to get it off the top shelf and took it away to read secretly in bed, I was about eleven at the time. Mother found out, and to my dismay threw the book on the fire, something I have regretted since, as it was an early edition.
My pets during the war were a small cross terrier bitch called Peggy, and a blue canary called Jimmy. Due to the shortage if imported bird seed we were advised wrongly to feed him linseed, which caused Jimmy鈥檚 death. Mother took a part-time job as an insurance agent, and one day came home with a darling small puppy, we called Peggy. One of the people on her round had threatened to drown the puppy, and kind hearted mum had rescued her. She was my constant companion, and loved to ride in my doll鈥檚 pram.

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