大象传媒

These were the days before television or even (for any in our neighbourhood), a telephone in the house or a motor car in the drive. There was a chap who parked a black car (there was no other colour) outside a house at the back of ours. He was a company chauffeur but this still set him as a man apart.

Our Dad was always working but entertainment in the evenings was centred around the radio: programmes such as 鈥榃orkers Playtime鈥� and 鈥楥hildren鈥檚 Hour鈥�. These are fond memories. The radio was a large veneered box by Cosser. The aerial was sixty feet long, strung up the length of the garden and the reception was dreadful. A two volt lead/acid battery had to be charged up every two weeks to light up the valves. It was my job to take it down to Neasden high street on my bike, and collect it the next day. It was our link to the rest of the world. It was on that set that, young as I was, I heard the veiled understated horror of Prime Minister Chamberlain鈥檚 speech informing the people that, 鈥渁s a consequence, this Nation is now at war with Germany!鈥� The words conveyed little to me but the mood and faces of those clustered around carried a flavour that suggested things were about to change for all of us in a big way. Within thirty minutes of that broadcast, the authorities exercised the new 鈥榓ir raid sirens鈥� and the whole world fled to safety under the stairs. The menfolk, at intervals, venturing outside to casually scan the skies but always within sprinting distance of safety. This naive timidity soon faded to a casual awareness that when the guns started up, it was time to wonder where the kids were and seek shelter. Because of this, we kids did have a surprising degree of freedom when we were out of school.

Yet another of our haunts was the shores of The Welsh Harp reservoir about half a mile north of home. It was supposedly and nominally fenced off but we could always find a way in to those mystic shores. High reeds, long grass, areas of chemical slime on a glacier march to the waters edge from the rear of The British Oxygen factory. Mysterious rubber bladders in the grass, of unknown facility, that were carried and poked with long sticks and never touched, though none could ever say why. Elsewhere, other stained soft packets with string attached that we avoided with cringing horror that I subsequently recognise as used tea bags. When you include the water itself, the Welsh Harp was built for adventure.

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by Becky Barugh of the 大象传媒 Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Raymond John Lawrence M.B.E and has been added to the site with his kind permission. Mr Lawrence fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

Continue reading Mr Lawrence's story by clicking below:

• 1) At the beginning鈥�
• 2) Life in the shelters
• 3) 鈥極ur Gang鈥�
• 4) We barely made it
• 5) We kids were all pretty well behaved
• 6) We had our fair share of attention from the Luftwaffe
• 7) The 鈥楪olden Couple鈥�
• 9) The 鈥楿nderpant鈥� Episode
• 10) Where did I fit in?
• 11) The School Song
• 12) I wonder鈥�

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