大象传媒

When Christmas comes around each year, I remember the Christmas of 1940, when our house was hit by a German incendiary bomb.

The previous night my father, as was his custom at Christmas, took me to see my grandparents (his mother and father) in Pendleton, Salford, two bus rides away. At about 7pm the siren sounded and we were obliged to stay - my grandparents and myself sitting underneath the table, and my father (who was an Air Raid Warden) going outside to see what he could do. We heard what we thought was the sound of a bomb hurtling down towards us, and waited fearfully for the impact, but it was a house across the road that was flattened. That night my grandmother gave to me a beautiful little jewellery box, and I have it still.

When the all clear sounded the next morning, my father and I had to try to make our way back home to Sale, and I will never forget the sight of the bright-red skyline, with buildings on fire in Salford and Manchester, and the sound of the fire engines rushing to help. Buses were not running, but we finally managed to get home, in fits and starts, by getting lifts from anything on wheels that went by.

My mother, who had not been able to go with us, was so very relieved to see us alive and well - though very weary.

The following night the sirens sounded later than usual, and we were in bed. Whenever this was the case, my father used to dress in his Air Raid Warden uniform, and go on duty, and I used to get into bed with my mother, as she had a horror of going into the communal air-raid shelter further down the road. But for some strange reason - no doubt a woman's intuition - on this particular occasion she decided that she and I, and my brother (who was home on leave from the army) would go downstairs and sit underneath the dining room table.

I managed to fall asleep, but suddenly woke to find that I was alone under the table, and I could hear a most peculiar sound, which I could not recognise. I got up, and opened the door to the stairs, which were enclosed, and on looking up the stairs I saw flames leaping out from the door of my parents' bedroom. Just then my mother and brother came back into the house. They had heard a crash, and had gone outside to see what it was, and had seen flames coming from the bedroom.

From this point on it began to get a bit like Dad's Army!

Our home was also the local chip-shop. When word flashed to our neighbours in the street shelter, they all rallied round and came rushing to help put out the fire.

Being a chip-shop, my father had outbuildings where he stored tubs of potatoes, in water, ready for chipping, and several buckets with holes in the bottom with which to drain the water from these potatoes. All that these wonderfully kind (and brave) neighbours saw were buckets - useful buckets. They made a line, from the outbuilding to the house, where had been placed a ladder, and the buckets were filled with water from the tap in the outbuilding, and passed along the line. But the water was running through the holes and wetting the feet of everyone in the line - until, by the time they reached the person on the ladder, there was no water left! When this was realised, they managed to find some buckets without holes, and start again.

My brother's friend was at the top of the ladder, and my brother was, by now, in the bedroom, trying to put out the flames on and around the bed. The incendiary bomb had come through the roof and right into the middle of the bed where, normally, my mother and I would have been lying. My brother had found a 'good' bucket, and threw a load of water at the curtains, which were on fire - unfortunately soaking his friend, who was at the top of the ladder. Then, seeing a pillow in flames, my brother threw this out of the window. It burst as it hit the window frame, and covered his very wet friend with feathers - so that he now looked like the Christmas turkey!

Eventually, thanks to these marvellous neighbours, the fire was put out before it had a chance to spread beyond the bedroom.

As soon as the all clear sounded, my mother lit the chip pans in the shop and cooked fish, chips and peas for everyone who had so kindly helped us. My father, who had been doing his duty as an Air Raid Warden, helping to put out fires (including those in Sale Town Hall) could not believe his eyes when he arrived home, tired and weary and smoke-covered, to find that his own home had been hit - but how grateful he was to all those wonderful neighbours who had rallied round in his absence.

For lighting, we had to make do with candles alone for Christmas that year and, miraculously, my mother - with the help again of our big-hearted neighbours - managed to provide a wonderful Christmas dinner.

I still have a small wooden stool, the underside of which was scorched by the flames and which, with its burn marks, has provided a 'conversation piece' over the years.

By a strange coincidence, when a small part of the incendiary bomb was found the next day, there were seen to be numbers on it, and these were the same as the numbers of our house/shop!

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