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This story was submitted to the People's War site by Sarah Powell of Bradford Libraries on behalf of Muriel Smith and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

During the Second World War, I was a youngster working in London.

On Sunday 29th December 1940, at the end of the Christmas holiday spent at home in Bradford, I had to return to London, and caught the only convenient train, which left Forster Square Station at about 12.30 p.m.

It followed the long L.M.S. route, stopping at every sizeable station and filling up with more and more passengers until it was packed. Eight people sitting in every compartment, with others sitting on their laps or standing; the corridor jammed with troops sitting on their kit-bags.

It must have been about 5.30 p.m. and quite dark when we stopped at Luton. For a very long time, there was no movement at all. Suddenly, the already dim lights went out and we were lit only by the blue emergency lights. No explanation was given for anything, but after about an hour the train set off again at a snail鈥檚 pace, often coming to a halt, then going slowly on again. The soldiers said there must be an air raid over London, and the train had to travel slowly to avoid attracting the attention of the bombers. Nobody talked much then.

After an agonising journey, we pulled into a dimly lit St. Pancras station, and with most other people, I made for the tunnel to the Underground at Kings Cross. I remember feeling relieved when my train came in, and I was able to get on. But alas, I had to go south, across the river, and no trains were allowed to travel under the river during air raids; the barriers were up and we were all turned out at Charing Cross into the street.

It was as light as day, but the light was a different colour. The sky was red. This was the night when the German bombers attacked the city of London and St. Paul鈥檚, hardly a mile away from where we were, and the fires there were colouring the sky.

The people from the train were turning down Villiers Street, which runs down the side of Charing Cross Station to the river, and I followed them. At the bottom there was a coffee stall which, I suppose, normally served the cabbies who had a stand there, but on this night it provided all comers with a hot drink.

People began to drift away. I stood there with my luggage, having no idea what to do next, too tired to be frightened. One of the cabbies must have noticed, and he came and asked me where I had to go. I told him 鈥淐lapham鈥�, and he said, 鈥淚鈥檒l take you.鈥� My income then didn鈥檛 run to taxis, but at that moment I didn鈥檛 care if it cost every penny I had. I picked up my bags and ran after him.

The streets were deserted. We drove into Trafalgar Square and through into the Mall. Along the whole length of this processional way as we drove towards Buckingham Palace, there was not another person or another vehicle to be seen. It was one of the most memorable experiences of my life, one that even the Queen will not have had.

As we crossed, I think, Chelsea Bridge, the normal darkness of the blackout surrounded us, and we were soon at my digs. I was bursting with gratitude for my driver. My mother had sent me back with a bag of Christmas food, and I asked him if he would like a piece of Christmas cake. He said he would, and I gave him the biggest slice there was. Then I thanked him from the bottom of my heart, said goodnight and got out. As I walked up the garden path, he quietly called me back and mentioned, almost diffidently, that I hadn鈥檛 paid him, naming an unbelievably modest fare. Blushing with shame for forgetting, I was able to pay him more than he asked, and he said a cheerful goodnight and set off back to town.

I shall be grateful to that man, or rather, gentleman, as long as I live.

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