大象传媒

I was born in 1936 in Hay where my mother and father kept a tobacco and confectionery shop.

Some of my early memories at the shop are of the Second World War. In the early days of the war, the shop always seemed to be filled with British soldiers as they were billeted, before going to their units at the closed Crown Hotel and in High Town where the post office is now. Some of them became great friends of the family and we kept in touch with many of them throughout the years.

One in particular stands out in my memory. His name was Percy Trembeth from somewhere in South Wales. He and Dad became great friends until of course he received his posting overseas. I still have a children's book he gave me on my birthday in 1940. During the war Mum and Dad became concerned when his letters stopped and only having his service address, were unable to find out anything about him.

Eventually, after the war, in about 1946, Percy appeared in the shop. Many tears and hugs ensued, especially from Mum. Percy was hardly recognisable; the whole of the right hand side of his face had disappeared. He had been left for dead on a battlefield in Italy when American medics were checking through the dead. One of them came across Percy lying face down, turned him over and realised he was still alive.

He was rushed to an American first aid post and after many months in hospital was allowed home. He had lost all his left cheek bones and his eye and ear from that side of his face which had received the force of the blast. He was still a sick man. Mum and Dad kept in touch for a few years but of course the letters eventually stopped. I still wonder what happened to Percy.

Early in the war, Dad volunteered for the National Fire Service. He had stopped being a fireman when he and Mum married in 1934. By this time Hay Fire Station was located in Castle Street, opposite The Blue Boar. This became a little too convenient for the men on duty at the station overnight, which had become a required wartime regulation. When the Chief wasn't on duty the men used to draw straws to see who would sit by the telephone at the station in case there was a 'callout' whilst all the others went to The Blue Boar. Soon Chief Evans forbade any visits 'across the road'.

Several times Hay brigade were despatched to the outskirts of Swansea during the 'blitz' to be on standby and I remember Dad saying they could see the conflagrations in the centre of Swansea from their positions. He related how on one visit to Swansea they were assembled in a street 'standing by' and there were laid out the bodies of firemen who had been killed in the city. Hay, luckily, was not called upon to go into the city centre.

One of these nights during the 'blitz', Dad was on duty at Hay Fire Station and was the night a lone German bomber decided to either shed the remainder of his load or, as more popularly believed locally, there was a light showing at "Moonlight's" cottage up on the Black Mountain. Mother and I slept in the same room when Dad was on duty and this night, when the 'crumps' started, she flung herself and me under the bed.

Dad arrived home very early the next morning and told mother about the 'raid' on the mountain. He said he and his brother Tom were going to walk up there to see what had happened. It is all a bit hazy but I do remember what seemed most of the town of Hay trudging up Forest Road to see the spectacle.

Uncle Tom found four fins which were the remainder of the incendiary bombs which had been dropped. It had been only incendiaries, nothing bigger was ever found. I still have these fins somewhere. If only I could find them.

Father then had his call-up papers and he was to report to Cardiff for a medical. This caused great consternation at home as I was only small and my sister Ann had been born the year before. Mother had the prospect of looking after the shop, me and baby Ann.

Father was by this time 42 years of age. On the train to Cardiff, he met and had a long chat and pleasurable journey both to and from the medical with Tudor Watkins, who was later to become our local Member of Parliament. Fortunately, Dad failed his medical because he had suffered with severe psoriasis all his life. Whether Tudor Watkins passed or failed I cannot remember.

So relief at home at this news and the shop was running smoothly again in spite of the 'blackout'. In 1940 Dad had made an inner light proof cubicle just inside the door to the shop so that customers would not show any light when they entered. This of course also meant that the shop could stay open very late. I remember sitting at the bottom of the stairs which were just at the rear of the shop and listening to all the conversations that went on. It was, I'm sure as much a gossip shop, as a tobacconists and Mum and Dad often stayed open until 10 or eleven o'clock at night.

Frequent visitors were people like 'Sid New Buildings' who seemed to be permanently chomping on chewing tobacco, mostly Franklyn's Best. Another visitor was 'Price the Lane' who had fought in the Boer war and told some amazing stories of the conditions the men had to endure, especially on board the ships which conveyed them to and home from South Africa.

Matches were very scarce so Dad had Bert Breeze, the local gas manager and frequent customer, to install a small gas burner on one of the wall uprights, just inside the shop door. This obviously encouraged the customers to buy their Woodbines and tobacco to 'light up' in the shop, thus saving their precious match supplies.

Then, the 'Yanks' arrived. They were stationed at The Moor, a large house and estate just outside town, but spent much of their free time in Hay. I do remember "got any gum chum" and how generous they were to us kids. Most of them were black and the majority were very polite especially to Mum and Dad in the shop.

I went for fish and chips one night with father down to Martin Jones's chip shop in Broad Street and one American asked for two 'bobs' worth of chips. I couldn't believe the size of the bag and that one man was going to eat all those chips.

During the war, Dad also managed to buy the empty shop next door, the downstairs of which was being used as the local labour exchange. This meant that he would be getting a steady income from the building and would have the upstairs for storage and a workshop. He had always been clever with his hands and during the war became quite adept at using every spare piece of wood available and making something useful out of it.

I had an uncle, one of Mum's brothers, who had a public house in Bute Town in Cardiff and had come home for Grandfather Williams's funeral, so it must have been 1942. He was very involved in a charity for the aid of the widows of merchant seamen who had been lost during convoy duties. He asked Dad if he would make him some toys and models to raffle in aid of this charity.

Father scrounged wood from everywhere. Uncle Tom was one marvellous source as he still had pre-war orange boxes in his warehouse. Dad turned out some beautiful models. One of a British submarine attained, what seemed to be in those days, an enormous sum of money for the charity in Cardiff. He had a letter of thanks from the committee. I wish he had kept it.

The only time I remember Dad being the 'worse for wear' was on VE night. The local young lads had pulled a flaming brazier on a truck through town and had parked it in front of the clock where there was an enormous gathering of celebrating inebriated townsfolk. I was eventually made to go to bed and I remember the shop was still open but Dad wasn't there. Mother was not very happy having to look after the shop on her own with so many people about. I believe he told her he would 'only be a few minutes'.

I remember creeping down to the bottom of the stairs, anxious not to miss anything when Mum caught me there. She said "Come and look at your father, it's really not good enough". I was allowed to go out in front of the shop where she pointed out to me,

Dad, one of my uncles and Doctor Wilson, who was our local GP and then lived and had his surgery in Broad Street, swaying with their arms across each other's shoulders and singing at the top of their voices along with the rest of the populace of Hay. It turned out that Dr. Wilson had a 'saved for the occasion' bottle of whisky and he, Dad and uncle had marked the occasion rather too well. I was soon despatched back to bed and never heard any more about the 'celebration'.

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