大象传媒

My father died, in 1940, in a hospital in Manchester. A result of an 鈥榦p鈥� that was anything but 鈥榮pecial鈥�. He never had the opportunity to be 鈥榤entioned in despatches鈥�. A young policeman was sent to Grandma鈥檚 house (where the family had congregated) to relay the bad news of father鈥檚 death. As soon as Gran discovered it was the policeman鈥檚 first experience of imparting such bad news and creating shocks, to a family without a telephone (just like most families in those days), she made sure that he joined in with the tea drinking, which was the way people coped.
From that momentous day, mother fought a single parent war of her own. With a pencil not a pistol. As some of the time she jotted down survival techniques - on scraps of used envelopes - 鈥渨e have to save everything鈥� - whilst listening to the 鈥榚xperts鈥� on the wireless. The 鈥榚conomy鈥� recipes from Marguerite Patten, and the medical advice from the 鈥淩adio Doctor鈥� - Charles Hill. He extolled the virtues of Cod Liver Oil and Malt, and Brimstone and Treacle - and my brother and I were liberally dosed with tablespoons of these thick and strong aperients.
We were briefly evacuated - staying for a while in a house at the side of Lancaster Castle, and watching the troops marching in and out, and also some time on a farm, in Yorkshire, where I became unwell, after drinking warm goat鈥檚 milk offered by the farmer, straight from the dipper in his bucket - at least so they thought at the time, but no doubt I recovered as a result of all the medicinal dosing and fresh air in the countryside around.
Back in Chorlton-cum-Hardy, Manchester, we experienced things that were fun to children. Suddenly hiding under the table, when mother heard the drone of planes overhead, and once again at Grandma鈥檚 house, when 5 adults and 2 children crowded into the space under the stairs - usually used for household cleaning equipment 鈥� which Gran called 鈥淭he Glory Hole鈥� for some unknown reason - and I thought the whole thing was really funny, and couldn鈥檛 understand why one of my aunts started to cry.
I have no recall of the daylight hours of V.E. Day. Possibly a picnic on Chorlton Meadows, with our sugar sandwiches and bottles of water, or a chat with one of the Americans, who were billeted nearby and always gave us sweets that we鈥檇 never seen before - I only remember that night.
I was fast asleep in my bed, and suddenly woken by my mother as she shook me wildly. She was shaking herself, shouting, crying, and screaming all at the same time - ecstatically calling out: 鈥淭he war is over! The war is over!鈥� I was amazed to see such animation, but her message meant nothing to a small and sleepy child. Sixty years on my thoughts go back to her, and so many other women on that day, who were left alone with their joy, and their memories of loved ones no longer with them.

"This story was submitted to 'The People's War' site by James Chapman-Kelly on behalf of Faith Waldron and has been added to the site with her permission"

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