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This memory has been submitted by The British Schools Museum on behalf of Mr M Keenes.

At the start of the war the whole family, my father, mother, brother and I decamped from our home at Gant’s Hill to a village called Latton where my parents had a small cottage used for weekends and school holidays, although only about 15 miles from our London house, it was considered a safe area.

When at 15 I obtained a place at the Regent Street Polytechnic we had to face the problem of how I was going to get there, remembering by this time the war had been on for 4 years and public transport for civilians had been continually cut. All fuel apart from coal had to be imported and was needed for the armed forces.

The following is an account of my twice daily journey for three years, summer and winter. Remember the winters were a lot harder in those days; we always had snow and there was the infamous London smog.

I left the cottage at 7 am, a 15 minute walk to the bus stop, the bus usually on time, there being no private cars on the roads. Occasionally there was a hiccup, due to the lack of petrol, although most busses ran on producer gas. This was made on a trailer towed by the bus, which consisted of a coke-burning boiler on which dripped water, forming the gas. Every now and then the boiler clogged up and the conductor had to get out and poke the fire to make more gas.

Throughout the war all busses had conductors to collect the fare; sometimes they were female - for the first time. On a winter morning you heard the bus coming before you could see it as the head lights were covered and inside lights very dim so the bus could not be seen from the air. The journey to Epping took about half an hour — if everything went well.

Epping was the local market town and had a railway station run by the old LNER — London and North Eastern Railway. The station was approximately 10 or 15 minutes walk (or a fast run if the bus was late) — fortunately it was down hill. In those days it was a road of smart houses with manicured gardens.

The train was always on time, having started its journey only three stops up the line. One knew all the drivers, which was as well as one day when the bus was late I arrived to see the last carriage leave the platform. Fortunately the driver had missed me and was looking back; he saw me, stopped the train and reversed so I could get on. Remember this was a steam train so it took a bit of puffing and blowing to pick me up.

The trains were what are called ‘slam door’ type, each compartment holding six seats a side, and two doors; no corridors. The train was divided into first, second and third class; each class had a couple of compartments for ladies only. Needless to say as a student I always travelled third class.

Starting as I did at the beginning of the train’s run, I always had a seat, unless a female of any age entered, when manners dictated that the youngest male gave up his seat.

The train journeyed to London at a sedate pace; speed was not of the essence as drivers would not know what was round the next bend, this being the time of doodle bugs and rockets. As we travelled through the London suburbs the track was elevated, and it was heart-breaking to look out of the windows to see the devastation at times. So poignant; a half-bombed house with beds still with sheets on, hanging at precarious angles; a child’s room with an upturned cot, survivors trying to salvage what they could; children looking for toys.

The nearer one got to the East End the more the damage; in some ways it was miraculous little damage was done to the line; only occasionally were we rerouted.

The doodle bugs gave you a sporting chance. You could see them coming and you would hear the engine stop and know it was coming down. The train would stop and you would pray it would not hit you. But when they did come down you could see where they had fallen and know what the people were going through. There was no such thing a counselling in those days; you were lucky to be alive and got on with life. You had no such warnings with the rockets; one minute you were there, the next minute gone.

As the train steamed nearer to London the commuters started invading the train; first the six seats accommodated eight; the six standing became eighteen, and if you had one foot on the floor you were lucky. The method of entry to a full carriage, if no-one fell out when you opened the door was you stood on the step, turned round backwards and put one hand either side of the door. You then shoved with all your might, helped by those on the platform who would hope to do the same, or who would slam the door on you.

The train eventually arrived at Liverpool Street station. Had it been a foggy morning it was anyone’s guess when the train would arrive as the driver was unable to see the signals. About every mile along the line there was a little hut with a railway man and a coke fire outside. His job was to put one, two or three explosive caps on the track that would tell the driver if it were safe to proceed or not.

On leaving the train most people waved to thank the driver — that is if you could see him in the fog. Plus, there were often 12 steam trains belching smoke and steam. It was not until the demise of steam many years later that I realised Liverpool Street station had a glass roof.

The last leg of my journey was completed on the Central Line to Oxford Circus. Little or no maintenance was carried out during the war, to either trains or stations. Both were grubby, but looking back it was the smell of stale tobacco that prevailed on both train and station. Even a non-smoker’s clothes smelled as if he or she was a 20-a-day person.

During the night the underground stations became air raid shelters’ Over the years the regulars staked their claims along the platforms. There were camp beds, suit cases and other accoutrements to sustain the mole-like existence that prevailed for many who lived in the city that was being bombed daily.

Then it was out of the station at Oxford Circus and round the corner into College — only to start the same thing in reverse later in the day.

Although my grandchildren have many pressures I am glad that I did not have, I would not wish this my experiences on them or their parents. Although sadly today there are terrorist attacks, it was a daily event in my life.

My parents, when saying good-bye to me in the morning for three years, never knew whether I would be home for supper.

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