大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War site by a volunteer from CSV Solent on behalf of Marilyn Reynolds and has been added to the site with her permission. Marilyn Reynolds fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

I was born (1937) and bred in the concrete jungle known as London. During the war, my mother and I lived with my grandparents in a ground floor flat of a tall 30's block in north London.

My mother enjoyed the freedom this gave her, judging by her and her younger sister's high junks with the American soldiers they befriended (in the nicest possible way), who visited us for tea and brought me the most amazing candy sticks, the like of which I had never seen.

During air-raids, mattresses were placed along the central passageway of the flat and there we would spend the night, listening to the radio (usually ITMA). Why taking refuge on the ground floor of a block of flats was considered safer than being in a shelter, I've never fathomed. I do know that we only visited the shelter during raids on very few occasions. My family were great snobs! I can still smell the rancid, cloying rubber of the gas mask that I had to wear. I believe my mother had great trouble getting me to put it on when needed. As a result, I have never been able to have anything covering my face, so no scuba diving for me.

Towards the end of the war in 1944, when I was six, my mother and I were evacuated to Devon; Budleigh Salterton to be precise, where we were accommodated by a doctor and his family. We stayed in a large attic room under the eaves and I have many happy memories of playing with the children in a small tent in the garden along with their absolutely gorgeous Irish Red Setter. I had never had a pet, my grandmother detested most animals, mainly out of fear as I was later to discover, and woe betide any small creature (especially those with 8 legs) that dared to cross her threshold. The very first dog I had in later years just had to be an Irish Red Setter - bred in South America - we called him Flame of the Andes!

There was a wonderful book shop in Budleigh and, although we didn't have much money, every time we visited the shop my mother allowed me to have a small book. This was a great joy to me but a sad day when she decided that these regular purchases were no longer possible. I was heartbroken.

The beautiful coastline and beaches nearby were, sadly, strictly out-of-bounds. The shores were fortified with huge coils of barbed wire and were totally inaccessible both to us and, hopefully, the enemy. The cliff-top over Ladram Bay, on the other hand, was reasonably unspoiled and I remember spending many hours with my father, when he was visiting, watching the wonderful small blue butterflies, orange fritillaries and other beautiful wildlife of which he was so fond. A far cry indeed from north London!

We had made friends with the coast guard at Ladram who inhabited a precarious small enclosure in a strategic position on the cliffs. Looking across at the monolithic rock that stood in the Bay, I can recall a long, thin object which strongly resembled a furled umbrella planted on the top! There were many versions of the story behind this oddity but all I can remember is that it was suposedly an umbrella which had been blown up there.

Once a week, the Honiton lace-making ladies would climb aboard a bus and, sitting with their huge pillows propped on their knees, set off for the charming village of Otterton to pursue their craft. I was totally enthralled by this activity and by the fascinating and exquisite materials they used. First of all, each pillow was mounted with the lace pattern, picked out in tiny pins to define the borders and intricacies of the design. Then there were the bobbins, dozens of long, smooth wooden pins with silken threads of varying thicknesses wound around them, the thickest being for the outlines. The beauty of Honiton lace is very distinctive and watching the ladies at work was like watching a masterpiece in the making. The speed at which the bobbins were thrown and the realatively slow, but perfect growth of the lace are images I shall always cherish. I was told that threads were never twisted only crossed and I have never ceased to marvel at the skill of these craftswomen.

Those were happy times for me in Devon. I can still recall the sweet-smelling honeysuckle clad cottages, the narrow lanes we walked, gathering cob nuts from the high hedgerows but, most of all, the red earth and the all-pervading farmyard "smells".

We returned to a bombed-out Britain, rented a house in south London so as to live as a family again and my mother became pregnant. The idyll was over - but never forgotten.

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