´óÏó´«Ã½

(Typed by a UCN Community Volunteer)

September 3rd 1939 I was 5-½ years old living with my brother 7 ½ years old, my mother and father. I was waiting to go to the local shop to spend my weekly (old) halfpenny but I was told I couldn’t go. My father was at my Grandparents house to door away because we didn’t have a radio and he was obviously listening to the Prime Ministers broadcast. After he came back we heard the undulating wail of the air-raid siren and I remember the sombre subdued atmosphere. Soon afterwards the all clear sounded and life resumed. At that age my memories are sketchy, but I recall quite a lot of activity in the town. The railings were taken from places like Abington Park and the posh houses along Semilong road, even the railing the railings form the cemetery went. Trenches were dug in the little meadow near to us, part of the Racecourse was fences off and an Army camp was set up. We were given gas masks, (which had to be carried everywhere) and allocated an identity card. The curbs were painted white, we had to make blackout curtains and the glass in the windows was taped criss-cross in case of bombing. Of course no street lights, so everyone carried a torch. Even as a child I was really aware of the sense of movement, people were digging up gardens, planting vegetable, keeping hens and so on. It struck me that Northampton became a different world, and it most certainly did.

My father and uncle went into the army and my aunt was given a job in the munitions factory near us, so everyone was called upon to do something for the war effort. My Aunt worked many nights so obviously slept in the daytime. She had a topsy-turvy world. Her factory ‘Paintons & Co.’ in Bembridge Drive had been changed from an electronics factory to munitions. I learnt afterwards in 1954 that part of radars had been made there, but only part. I think my aunt made switches for aircraft and other armaments. Most factories tried to provide shelters for the work force by some means or other. The most interesting one I went in was the one for the Tanning factory, at the bottom of Grafton Street. My aunt’s father in law was caretaker at the factory and said he’s got to go to the shelters for something. I thought they’d be on premises, but no, they were across the road in what was known Ash Meadow (now the ‘Super Sausage’!). A mound of earth about three foot high contained to metal doors, the doors opened onto a short flight of steps that brought you to a long tunnel below ground. Every few yards there was a square running off the tunnel equipped with bunk beds, which were obviously used in the time of raids. I realised afterwards that the tunnels were the medieval ones that I read about in Northampton’s history, they run under the market square and even under ’Boots’.

Shelters lined every street, but they were brick built and our family always used the cellar. Most people we knew also used their cellars. The posh people bought Anderson shelters, but we couldn’t afford one. They were put in the garden. The brick shelters were hardly ever used, because people didn’t think they were substantial enough to withstand bombing. My mother was quite deaf so our front door was always unlocked so that our neighbour on hearing the siren used to come in, wake us all and down the cellar we went. After the war we had difficulty finding the front door key. In our cellar we dare not show any light, as we had a little window, which would have shown the least chink, so many nights were passed completely in the dark until we heard the all clear. That was bad for my mum as she was almost completely deaf. It was very cold down there; we were in our nightclothes covered by coats. It just felt like we were sitting in a black hole, but no child showed any fear. We were reminded that our fathers were being brave and that we needed do the same.

As time went on we felt the full impact of being rationed for everything. Eggs, butter, meat, sugar, fruit, and clothes they were all allocated in very small quantities. The thing for us children of course was very few sweets were available and I don’t remember eating a banana or an Easter egg for the duration of the war. Only children under five were allowed oranges and orange juice. They were given a green ration book along with pregnant women. What I do remember, was the incessant queues my mother joined to try to get food, like the four hour wait on the local market for a pound of tomatoes. This was something all the women faced everyday. Having said that though, due to my mothers efforts we never went hungry. One day she came in very pleased with herself and said someone had given her a recipe for toffee. We were to have toffee apples. She duly set to work in the kitchen, only to find at the end of it, it was a recipe for lemon curd. But it still wasn’t wasted! Bought bread, from the local baker was very dark and best butter was kept for high days and holidays. The margarine we had to use was like axle grease. You had to be registered with one butcher only, so that your allocation of meat was always collected from the same point. You saw plenty of Spam and corned beef, which was all that mums could use to feed their children. Your real only lasted one or two days.

Then one day two lines of children were brought into the street. I felt terrible when this was happening, because one by one they were allocated as evacuees to certain families. I remember one girl in a pink berry that seemed to be left after everybody else. I was quite worried about that. She was duly collected and was obviously housed safely somewhere else. We had two boys, John and Arthur, but they didn’t stay too long (their parents wanted them back in London.) So life went on, every day we seemed to be trying to supplement what we were allowed. Fuel was very short and that meant joining the queue at the railway station goods yard for a bag of coke which my brother carried on the cross bar of his bike, or packing old shoes with slack and burning those. Some shops in the areas with a yard at the back sometimes obtained coke, the cry went up ‘Coal in the Arundel Street’, and it sounded like a jungle cry. Everyone kept an old pram, so off we went my brother and I to join the queue to see what we could get. We were lucky to get half a hundredweight; quite pleased with ourselves we set off home. On the way, we had to negotiate a dogleg bend with a tilt in the road, when the wheel came off. With the weight of the coal, no brakes, trying to hold the pram up four tired little legs got home. We still laugh about this today. We found things to laugh about quite a lot, even though things were serious. You had to. Sometimes after seeing my father off on the train back to his unit, and feeling very down my mother would take us to the Dover Hall next to the station, which had been turned into a cinema. The only trouble was it had a tin roof, so when it rained you couldn’t hear the sound. So we always prayed for a dry night. We children were also encouraged to help with the war effort, by collecting newspapers. We took these to a point in town. According to the weight you brought you were given a badge with various army ranks on. The weight of the paper and my slight frame prevented me from ever reaching more than lance corporal.

There’s so much to recall, both sad and happy times. The sad ones like the time one of the neighbours received a telegram to say that her son had been killed. She just ran screaming into the street, or seeing the sky completely orange from the fired when Coventry was badly bombed. Watching as a thousand bombers went over-head for the pre-D-Day raid. Feeling the ground vibrate and shake as they did. Seeing the troops returning from Dunkirk on the Pathe news at the cinema, that was terrible. I can’t begin to describe it. Even as a child, you know these men were in an awful state and how bad it had been for them.

The happy ones, when my father, uncle, his brother in law managed to get leave at the same time. We all gathered at my Grandparents house and had a real party. My uncle’s brother in law was missing for some time, and we didn’t know that he had carried out raids as part of the elite cockleshell hero. And was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal. He was such a lovely quiet man, none of us know until afterwards. The elation when we knew it was all over can’t be described. We lit small bomb fires in the street and roasted potatoes in them. Everyone sang and danced in the street. They lady opposite had a piano accordion, and played that. We then waited for the lucky ones to get home from the forces, and hoped it would never happen again.

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