大象传媒

My story begins with an early memory. It is of Burden's Field encamped by a group of airmen, whose job it was to look after an enormous silver barrage balloon which sailed high above and was tethered to the ground by numerous thick ropes. I was about three at the time and my Granny, Mrs. Harper, used to take me to see the balloon and chat to the airmen most days. One of them made me a tiny ring out of a three penny bit and another ring out of the perspex that aircraft windows were made of, both of which I still have.
Burden's Field was situated on the corner opposite the engine sheds at the bottom of Cherry Orchard and across the muddy lane which led to the Pumping Station. The field was where, in normal times, Mr. Burden, the greengrocer, kept his horse. I expect many people will remember his horse and cart delivering round the village once - or was it twice? - a week and how people would dash out with a spade to scoop up the manure from the road for their gardens.

Continuing the balloon theme, a very sad thing happened when, having amazingly encountered a balloon-seller in town, my Mother bought one for me. As anyone of my generation will recall, there were very few toys or novelties of any kind to be had in the shops, so who knows where this bunch of balloons came from! It was the first I had ever seen and I carried it carefully back, all along Churchfields in the dark and placed it in the arm-chair at home for safe-keeping. Unfortunately I was so excited by the whole thing, I forgot it was there, sat down and burst it. Copious tears were shed!

The sweet ration loomed large in my life. Granny and I would buy our two to four ounces, one week from Mr. and Mrs. Smith at the Post Office and the next from Miss Huggins or Hoskins (I think), who had a small sweet-shop in St. Andrews Road on the side opposite Lodges, the butchers shop. I also remember well the pleasure of receiving food parcels from our relatives in Australia and New Zealand and unpacking unheard of luxuries in the biscuit, sweet and tinned fruit line.

One less pleasant memory concerns some evacuees we had from the East End of London. One particular family sticks in my mind, of a mother and two small boys, neither of whom was house-trained and used to "go" behind the armchair in the living room. Fortunately we had lino everywhere, which could be washed.

The other side of the coin was a lovely girl called Pat, aged about twelve, who was evacuated from Portsmouth and stayed with us some time. We all became fond of her and were sad when she finally went home.

After the evacuees, we had war-workers billeted on us. They were Irish girls, who worked at Wellworthys, which manufactured piston-rings for aircraft. The girls reached the factory by walking across the meadows to the Netherhampton Road. One day they brought home a piston-ring which had been turned into an ashtray! One of the girls was sweet-natured; the other was irritable, snappy and plainly did not like small children. She was nasty to me, so one day I sought revenge and went to the cupboard where she kept her clothes. I bit a large jagged piece out of a dress which hung there. The awful thing was that it was not hers, but a newly arrived present sent from France by Dad to my Mother - and it was silk ... The fuss that followed can be imagined!
The sweet-natured girl was actually married from our house and the nasty one and I were bridesmaids. A romance blossomed between our girl and a Canadian airman. They were married in St.John's and my Mother organised a reception at the Old Mill at Harnham. Friends helped gather together a trousseau of sorts, in which parachute silk featured, and we all saved up ration points for the party.

Our house had an excellent view over the meadows, even better in those days, before some of the trees, closer to, had grown so tall. Occasionally, motorcycle despatch riders would roar across at what seemed terrific speed, hardly slowing even for the narrow foot-bridges. We knew that they must be on important war business. There were a few bomb-craters in the meadows, mostly near the cornfield, as I recall, but of course the bomb we all remember is the one which fell on the railway line quite close-by. We were lucky; our damage was confined to a crack in the front room ceiling (which would never stay filled) and to the front door, which burst open with the impact, cracking some of its stained-glass. Many houses in the village had their ceilings down, the laths showing through big uneven holes in the plaster. At that time, our front door was never locked, day or night because my Granny wanted the house open in case friends or family in the Services found themselves in the area and needed to come in. In the event this probably saved the door from worse damage.
One effect of wartime on us was that Granny, who had been District Nurse for some years, delayed her retirement until after the war, by which time she was approaching seventy-five. I remember her going out at all hours in response to knocks on the door and anxious voices asking for Nurse Harper.

Many fleeting impressions return: how cold it was in the house! Only one fire was lit and my Mother got up early to light it; the darkness in winter, both inside, as we had to save electricity, and outside where the old gas lamps remained unlit. I can remember them being replaced by the orange sodium street-lights after the war and Granny saying that their glow made everyone look ill! The blackout during the war was total and the quality of the dark difficult to explain to anyone now.

My Mother became a post-woman and drove a van with minimal side-lights pointing straight down to the ground. How she found her way across parts of the Plain, I'll never know. She took me once, contrary to regulations and sitting on a pile of sacks where the passenger seat should have been, out on a delivery to Druid's Lodge, where the grooms were having breakfast, well before it was light.

Buses painted in camouflage colours, like the Army lorries, come to mind. Also the rare sight of my Father's kit-bag in the hall which meant he had arrived for a short leave. I was less than a year old when he joined the Army and nearly eight by the time he returned to live at home, but we were much luckier than some.

Shortages of everything dominated life. Make-do and mend became a necessary virtue: nothing was thrown away. Who remembers the luxury of using the tissue-paper from the orange rations at Christmas to replace the usual cut up newspaper in the loo? My Mother had a coat made out of a blanket by Mrs Enticott, next-door, who was a tailoress. Granny knitted our vests and also bathing-costumes. I remember the dreaded moment of climbing out of the river with the weight of wet wool descending towards my knees!

Having started on these reminiscences, it is difficult to stop, but I will conclude now with a dramatic memory from the night of the Battle of Britain. I was asleep in bed, when my Mother woke me to a thundering roar and carried me to a north-facing window, where the sky was full of wave after wave of what must have been hundreds of aeroplanes flying towards the coast. We watched for a long time, and then she told me that I should always remember this night, and I have.

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