大象传媒

World War Two Pigeon Pie

My parents were of Italian extraction; my father being born in Carlisle at the beginning of the 20th century of Italian immigrant parents, and my mother in the mountains of Tuscany just before the 1st World War. My mother's family had a fish and chip shop in Falkirk, Scotland where she was brought up until the age of eight when her parents retired and she moved back to Italy with them, leaving her older brothers to run the family business. After starting a fish and chip business in Carlisle my father's family opened a coffee and ice cream shop in Barrow-in-Furness, which was a very busy and important shipbuilding town, where he grew up.

When the war broke out we had been in Leicester about 18 months, my father had opened a coffee and ice cream shop similar to his father's and several of his older siblings. As he was of the correct age for call up, he went for his Army Medical and was turned down. Not sure whether to be relieved that he would not be called up or worried about what might be wrong with him, (not being given a reason why he failed the medical), he scrapped together 拢5 for a private examination. He had a pierced eardrum, a remnant of childhood illness which rendered him unsuitable for military service.

Rationing of foodstuffs was brought in almost immediately and catering establishments were allocated provisions according to the quantity they had sold during the previous two years. The caf茅 being only open 18 months and just beginning to build up business, meant that the ration was very small and my father found that together with restricted opening it was very frustrating and he had time on his hands. Also having been turned down for the army he felt he had to find another way to help the war effort.

In Barrow-in-Furness my Uncle Tony heard of a small foundry that was going bankrupt and mentioned it to my father who jumped at the chance to take it on. He took it over and had a contract with the M.O.D. to make gun sights. There was a happy family side to this as his elderly parents lived in Barrow with his brother and it meant he was able to visit them about once a month when he travelled up there on business. This helped to ease the pain of an earlier unfortunate few months.

My grandparents had lived in England for over 50 years but had never taken out citizenship papers, consequently when war was declared they were interned on the Isle of Man as alien citizens. This caused quite a stir in Barrow. They were very well known. The Mayor, the Chief Constable several other notables and the local press petitioned for their release. It was eventually granted on condition they reported to the police regularly and they lived with their youngest son, my Uncle Tony. When asked why he had never become a British Citizen my grandfather explained that he had been made welcome in this country, had been able to earn a comfortable living and the country had educated his family, he felt it would be presumptuous to expect full citizenship as well.

The military used homing pigeons to carry messages from behind enemy lines, and pigeon fanciers had their birds requisitioned. My Uncle had a loft and bred racers. He was especially proud of one of his youngsters and wanted to know its capabilities before he sent it into service, so when my father went to Barrow on one of his visits he asked him to bring it home and release it at a set time. This he did.

Three months later there was a knock at the door and two smartly suited gentlemen asked to come in. A few words were spoken and we children were ushered upstairs while my parents went into the dining room with the visitors for some considerable time. It was some years later we found out what had happened. On his previous visit to Barrow my father had been concerned about his mother who was unwell, also she had a small radio she enjoyed listening to and it had broken, he could not resist sending her a message attached to the pigeon's leg. A farmer hunting his tea had shot this particular bird and on preparing it for cooking found the message. As my grandmother's English was not good my father had written in Italian: "The weather here today is sunny. Hope you are feeling better and the radio is repaired."

The family's mail had been opened, telephones had been tapped and members had been followed for the last three months. After deciding that it was an innocent mistake the authorities were satisfied with severely admonishing everyone involved and taking no further action. When the initial shock faded, it became a family in-joke!

Fire watch groups were formed by local businesses to maintain watch for incendiary bombs on the roofs of buildings in town and my father took his turn on the top of Barclay's Bank in Town Hall Square, Leicester. There was a bombing raid one night and the men on top of Barclay's heard the whistling noise of a bomb dropping. They threw themselves to the floor and waited but nothing happened. My father said they lifted their heads gingerly over the roof parapet, at first they could see nothing then they were able to make out a hole in the roof of the Town Hall across the square. The bomb was believed to have gone right through the roof and down the stairwell into the basement without exploding. For years there was a patch of lighter tiles on the roof where the repair was made.

When bombing started in Leicester we lived in St. James road which ran off London Road opposite Victoria Park. Quite early on a landmine hit the Pavilion in Victoria Park. That night we were all in the kitchen, I was bedded under the kitchen table and I remember there was a table tennis table fastened over the window as protection. When the mine exploded the walls of the room seemed to move in then move out again. After that experience my parents started taking us out to Houghton on The Hill. At first we slept in the car in a field then my farther met a farmer in the pub and he let us use a room at the back of the farmhouse. A year or so later we moved out to the country.

Because we lived outside town and went to a school across town, my sister and I boarded at school during the week. School was a Convent, housed in an old country Hall and during air raids the nuns would wake us all up, we would wrap ourselves in a blanket and go down to the cellars, these seemed to us to go on for miles, with all sorts of mysterious rooms off the corridors. Where we slept must have been some sort of pantry, there was a wide stone shelf running all round, we filled it lying head to toe. The most exciting part was seeing the nuns without their veils and wimples wearing little white bonnets, a sight that produced much covert giggling and gave us no time to be frightened or hysterical. The ways of the 'Powers That Be' seem most mysterious at times. The Convent had to play host to a refugee. From London's East End there came a young teenage boy. I don't know who found the situation most bewildering, the nuns, the giggling schoolgirls or the poor uprooted boy. Needless to say it did not last for more than a few months.

At home we kept chickens, rabbits and a pig and grew our own vegetables to help stretch the rations. We had to have a permit for the pig and had to give half of it to the local butcher.

Farming was still very much horse drawn wagons and tools. The harvesting was done with a horse drawn reaper and we would follow behind stooking the corn sheaves to dry, a tiring and prickly job. As a 'payment' the farmer allowed us to come back after the corn was carted and glean, i.e. pick up the dropped corn ears which we collected in sacks to feed the chickens. The men, my father included would stand round the field with guns while the corn was being harvested, waiting for the rabbits, partridge and pheasants that flew out as the last bit in the centre of the field was cut. It all went to stretch the amount that could be put on the table.

In Autumn we collected berries and nuts off the hedgerows. Hips were sent away to make syrup while blackberries were made into jam or bottled. Hazel nuts were a treat. I can remember once my mother saved a lot of plum stones, when she had sufficient she broke them open and used the kernels in a recipe that required almonds. They made a fair substitute.

Towards the end of the war, parties of us would go from school to help with potato picking. I think one could be paid about 2 shillings and 6 pence if you went every day for a week.

From what I can remember of VE night, my mother took me to the Town Hall Square where we met several friends and there just seemed to be lots of noise and excitement. One of the boys had been sitting on the edge of a large litterbin and he slipped and fell in bottom first, knees and nose touching. It was a while before he was pulled out everyone was laughing too much.

The lessons of make do and mend, and improvisation that were a necessity during the war, though not pleasant, have stood me in good stead in adult life. The children still tease me for being a squirrel and never throwing away anything that might be useful. I still find it hard to get used to replacing rather than repairing things as is the norm nowadays.

Sadiesmum

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