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When I was six years old, we lived in Sunbury-on-Thames, just west of London, and I attended Kenyngton Manor Primary School, in Vicarage Road. My father woke me one night to see the spectacle of the school burning — great fun for a boy of that age! Structural damage was not great, as they were only incendiary bombs. Most affected was the assembly hall, which lost its roof. We had several days off school, before returning to morning assembly in the open and loose, scorched parquet flooring tiles underfoot, where the pitch had melted in the heat. There were several holes in the playground, about 5cm diameter, down which we peered in the hope of seeing a bomb!

Whenever there was an air raid warning we trooped out to continue lessons in the safety of the shelters built around the playing field. One afternoon the 'all clear' had still not sounded, long after school finishing time. As there appeared to be no air activity, the headmaster decided that it was safe to send everybody home. My father was furious and descended on the school the next day with the intention of beating up the headmaster for so recklessly endangering our lives. Father had not met the headmaster before, but on discovering that he had only one leg, contented himself with warning him that the missing limb would not save him next time!

My younger brother and I slept in a Morrison Shelter, which replaced the dining room table for the duration. We had very few bombs in Sunbury, but one night one fell about half a mile away. The explosion shattered almost all the windows and we woke screaming with fear. Our mother had to sleep with us for some time after that! We had only broken windows, but many of our neighbours suffered fallen ceilings as well. A gang of workmen came round within a few days to put up temporary soft-board ceilings, some of which stayed in place for many years afterwards.

One day my father took me with him in his car when he had to go into London. We passed a street of houses that had evidently been bombed the previous night. The sight of women standing among the ruins, weeping into their floral aprons has stayed with me ever since!

There was no cinema for several miles, so one neighbouring couple turned their upstairs back bedroom into one, for the benefit of the local children. Once a week, at a cost of very few coppers, we would sit through a constantly varying programme of ancient black and white silent comedies and westerns. The highlight of the week for us! With only one projector, we had to wait while each reel was rewound. I don't know how many we crammed in, but I'm sure it was too many for safety, in the event of fire. If there was an air raid warning, there was much debate among the adults as to whether it was worth abandoning the show for the safety of the public shelters in the road outside. Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't, but I have no idea what was the deciding factor.

We were lucky in that Father was not in the services, so we saw much more of him than my friends saw of their fathers. He was a civilian attached to the RAF, repairing aircraft to keep them flying, so he was often away for quite long periods. He never came to terms with the fact that, at 23 years old, a panel-beater and welder with no aero-engineering experience, he signed off aircraft as fit to fly.

At one point, my mother, my baby brother and I were evacuated to Aberdare in South Wales. It did not last long. It appears that our well-to-do host family expected Mother to act as maid-servant. That did not suit her at all!

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