大象传媒

Auntie Maggie鈥檚 Air Raid

December 1940, nine years old. Off to Uncle Bills in Altrincham, on the bus, Auntie Maggie and me, it was a cold bright day, so it should be, it was nearly Christmas. One of the reasons for the trip was to get me out of the way while Mam and our Vera put the Christmas tree up and the decorations. Things were looking up what with the war anall, Our Dad and Mam our Vera and Auntie Maggie were all working, war makes work me Dad said, at least he didn鈥檛 have to fight in this one. Anyhow there was some brass to spare for frivolities; the idea was that when we got back I鈥檇 be astounded by all the glitter.
We had a lovely time with Uncle Bill, Auntie Elsie and their three daughters, time for going home. We got on the bus just as it was going dusk, a cloudless evening with the promise of frost to come, through Timperley and Sale down Chester Road. Then the sirens sounded the bus stopped, about half the passengers got off; it was dark by now, with no lights on the road or the bus we proceeded at snails pace until we eventually arrived at Trafford Bar, the driver said he wasn鈥檛 going any further.
Maggie took my hand, the night sky was alive and loud with shell burst and the distinctive drone of German aeroplanes. We got to a street shelter an air raid warden, like Bill Pertwee in Dads Army, popped out from behind the blast wall 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 come in here its full鈥� then he popped back in.
Maggie found our way to Trafford Bridge, a policeman, stationed in the middle of the road, 鈥淪orry love I can鈥檛 let you cross here, there鈥檚 an unexploded bomb on the other side.
My brave courageous Auntie Maggie, all four foot four of her, was not beaten yet. Off we set, in the direction of Pomona dock; we passed down a street where on the other side firemen were fighting a great blaze. At last we got to Mark Addy鈥檚 bridge and crossed the Irwell into Salford.
A lull in the raid, the narrow streets of Ordsall were quiet as we hurried as fast as we could go to Oxford Street, where lived Lucy, Maggies Mam. Passing the coal yard we crossed Robert Hall Street, then just a few doors down and knocking on the front door we were admitted by Gladys, Maggies younger sister. The cellar was converted into a shelter; corrugated iron sheets jacked up the ceiling supported by steel tubes. Moments after our arrival a great explosion rent the air, the corrugated iron sheets rattled above our heads, dust filled the cellar. A parachute bomb,known as land mines, had obliterated the coal yard that we had walked by not more than five minutes ago.
With the cold grey dawn came the wail of the all clear. Maggie and I began our long walk home, Oxford Street, Regent Road, Cross Lane. The pavements were littered with debris, shards of glass and the scattered contents from the blasted shops. Into Broad Street and there, at my feet, lay a violin in its case with the lid open. 鈥淒on鈥檛 take it Eric it鈥檚 not ours鈥�. We trudged on down Frederick Road past the tram sheds, over the bridge, across Spike Island through Myrtle Street, where I was born, onward, Lee Street, Shah Street, and Flora Street. Then at the start of Mulgrave Street opposite the boathouse, devastation, piles of rubble, the heavy rescue squad digging for survivors, blanket covered stretchers.
Told that we could not pass, Maggie explained 鈥淲e live at the end of this street on the corner of Montague and Edith Street鈥�.
The shop opposite just a pile of bricks. A great gaping hole in the roof of our house, windows and frames blown out, a blackened remnant of curtain hanging forlornly from a downstairs window.
My Dad and an air raid warden had fought the fire, after the first fierce burn of the oil bomb had subsided, there was not much saved.
Our front door hung open, the acrid rotten smell of burning was everywhere. Mam, Dad and Vera were in, what was left, of the living room, 鈥淎re you all right鈥�, from everybody.
Bone tired, blackened, our home a shambles. We were alive. Thank God.
I think lots of ordinary civilian folk deserved medals, in that war.
Including my Auntie Maggie

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