大象传媒

Candle in the Window

The winter if 1940 was long and dark, very dark because of the government鈥檚 restrictions. No light must be shown from streets or houses lest enemy aircraft be guided to their targets.

A huge roll of blackout material was shown to the villagers. It was coupon-free, but not free of charge. Mother decided we would have to do without. After all, we had no gas or electric. We鈥檇 given up our oil lamps since the wartime paraffin made the wicks flicker and our clothes smell.

As we lived down a lane well away from civilisation, surely Hitler wasn鈥檛 going to see our little light. I went to school in the dark and came back alone across the fields, groping my way completely unafraid. Home at last.

My Dad put another log on the fire. A pan of soup simmered on the hob beside the big black kettle. Mother lit a candle in the kitchen so she could see to cut some bread. She brought in the tray and shut the door to keep us warm.

We ate our supper, warming around the roaring fire. Dad sank into his chair with his mug of tea. He lit his pipe of home-grown tobacco and puffed away contentedly. We were at peace. Then we heard the latch clack open and the gate swing out as steps approached. A voice called out: PUT OUT THAT LIGHT!

Mother shifted first. She scooped up the proddy mat she鈥檇 made to keep the draught out the door and flung it on the roaring flames. There was a fizzly spit and steam sizzled from the up-turned kettle. We were plunged into smoke-filled dark.

Then my Dad leapt to the grate, stabbed his poker through the smouldering mat, and with equally foul curses at Mother and at Hitler, charged out into the night, with flaming clumps of proddy mat held aloft and sparking in his wake.

The ARP man, whoever he was, ran for his life, Dad fast after him swearing blood and threats and vengeance at people I never heard of, into the blackness of the winter night, shaking the sparks of our sooty doormat afore him away up the lane.

Meanwhile, our eyes streaming and quivering with fright, Mother and I cleaned the hearth and soon had a bright fire burning. After a while, Dad stomped back home, and as he calmed, it seemed that the cursed warden never even had the cursed hell and damnation manners to shut our gate.

It was time we had a cup of tea. As Dad settled back in his chair, muttering oaths at all and sundry, Mother crept into the kitchen to fill the kettle. The candle at the window was almost out, but still beamed defiantly across the fields. With trembling fingers, she snuffed it out and closed the door.

Connie Coates, Sunderland

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