大象传媒

Deep in the untroubled sleep of a five year old. The gentle pressure of a hand on my shoulder brings me back into a muzzy, muddled consciousness. The eerie, scarey wail of an air raid siren assaults my ears. Father reaches down, wraps a dressing gown around me, hoists me over his shoulder and, my head nodding, proceeds carefully downstairs. First into the cold, clammy garden; then down a short metal ladder and into the strange, earthy, wormy world of the air-raid shelter. I lie on an iron bunk and watch the shadows cast by a guttering candle onto the arched, corrugated iron roof. At last the 'All Clear' sounds and I can be returned to the warmth of my feather bed. This is a regular occurrence; some weeks it is every night, sometimes it happens more than once in the same night. Sometimes, when it is bitterly cold, we take a risk and stay in the house. Father, mother and small boy somehow huddle into the dusty cupboard under the stairs- which is supposed to be the next safest place if the bombs start to fall on Reading.

"What's a bannana, Mum?" "What does an orange taste like?" I had only seen pictures of these mysterious fruit. Food was basic and boring but I had to eat every scrap, since it was purchased with the precious, all too few, coupons from the book with the grey cardboard cover. Mother would count them and "Tut Tut" over the seemingly impossible task of stretching them out until the next book was issued. A tiny bag of boiled sweets was the only luxury I ever knew. No chocolate- "does it taste really nice, Mum?" I knew all about the ice cream man who used to come round before the war on a bright blue tricycle but only because he lived in the pages of my picture book.

I wore black leather boots. Footwear was scarce; money to buy it even scarcer. My boots had shiny metal studs hammered into the soles and heels to preserve the precious leather. When my father bought me my first pair, my mother cried. I didn't! All my pals wore them. When we marched round the coat-racks in the big echoing cloakroom at the start of each school day- what an amazing clatter and crash they made on the shiny stone floor!

The house became more and more full. Grandad was already living with us when the war began. He came when grandma died from cancer. He had retired from his job as a wheel tapper with the Great Western Railway. My other grandparents lived in London until their house was destroyed in the blitz, then they came to live with us as well. Aunty Mary and Aunty Phyllis often spent their leave in our little terraced house, smart in their W.R.E.N.'s uniforms. Uncle Gil also used to stay with us when he was on leave, then he was posted to North Africa and we didn't see him again until the war was over. Although my father was in the army, he was in the Pay Corps and worked in an office in town, so he was home most nights unless he was on guard duty. Goodness knows how we managed to sleep them all! There were beds in the dining room, sleeping bodies on the sofa and kit bags and rifles stacked up in the hall.

My gas mask was made to look like Micky Mouse but inside it was clammy and rubbery and the eye pieces used to steam up- especially when the A.R.P. wardens ran up and down the street blowing whistles. This was the signal for everyone to stop what they were doing and put on their gas masks. Was it another practise or was Herr Hitler really about to drop canisters of poison gas on us? My breaths in Mickey Mouse were short and shallow and scared.

The only toys I had were wooden - hand-made by my Uncle Jack. He was not a real uncle but a friend of my father's from the Pay Corps. The best one he made was a bright red boat. It was about a foot long and it was my pride and joy. You built up the superstructure yourself from individual pieces. It had a mouse trap in the middle and a little brass button on the side of the hull. When you pressed it, the mousetrap went off and the ship 'exploded', scattering bits all over the place - just like when a ship was hit by a torpedo on the Atlantic run. My other prized possession was a glass case containing two stuffed kingfishers. An elderly man who lived in our street and whom I used to visit when I was bored, gave them to me.

So that was my war. Clattering back and forth to school in my boots. Peeing in the big brick air-raid shelter at the end of our street- not from necessity but from bravado. Up and down the street on my old wooden scooter. In and out of the neighbours' houses where only the elderly lived since everyone else was away fighting the war. Dashing out with a bucket and shovel to collect the dung from the milkman's horse. My father needed this for his allotment where he was 'digging for victory'. Huddled round the coal fire in the evenings with all the blackout curtains drawn - outside it is totally, inky black, except for those nights when the flames from poor, blitzed London reflect red and orange on the clouds.

The day the war ended they said the council were going to light all the streetlights. I was very excited. I had never seen a streetlight actually working before. We went down the Oxford Road and sure enough the lights came on and we were all dancing up and down waving Union Jacks and singing "We won the war, we won the war". My grandfather was not with us though. The Germans managed to drop a bomb on The Peoples Pantry in Reading town centre. Grandfather was in there enjoying a cup of tea with his mates. He was blown to bits - just like my wooden ship . . . . . .

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