大象传媒

Chapter 6 of my story

Sleeping on the underground

On the way home from Norfolk, mum said it would be too dangerous to cross London that night, and we decided to descend the steps into the underground. The sight that met us was unusual, that is to say that usually, people would be standing on the platform. But all these people were laying down or sitting cross-legged, sailors and soldiers leaning against the walls with their heads on their wives and girlfriends chests, home on leave for a few days, some smooching, whole families of mothers, grandmothers and children. East end people very often preferred yo stay in London, and no-one could match their cheerful cockney humour. It was like the sun coming out after Norfolk. The air was stale and acrid with cigarette smoke, and the floor was so crowded that we had to step delicately through people to try to find a space to lie down ourselves, a bit like being on a beach. Finally, we found a spot. A lady with a trolley was coming in with tea and buns, which mum gratefully bought for us, and thats what we had before we lay down on the concrete floor, with just our coats under us. I had a heavy stinking cold, which bunged my nose up, and I could hardly breath. but we slept soundly, anyway. It was such a pleasure to hear London voices once again, the kindly cockney chatter seemed to embrace me, and to say "your home, Rene". There was a warm, welcoming atmosphere that only cockney people seem to understand, and I went to sleep, physically uncomfortable, but mentally reassured and happy. Loads of people slept into the subway every night as a matter of course, as it was very deep below ground and considered"safe". Some families had erected bunks down there, the authorities recommended it as deep enough to be secure. You felt safer underground, and mum and I slept soundly.
Next morning, early, we managed to get back home by bus, just before the Siren at 9 a.m., so the rest of the day was in and out of the shelter. But what joy to be home, explore my old bedrom, and enjoy my parents. Happiness. My brother of course was still at home, but my mother by now had given up going down the garden to the shelter at night, and when there was a raid after dark, Brian and I just leapt into our mother's double bed, one on each side of her (dad was out doing incendiary-bomb duty on rooftops), and then we pulled a heavy palliasse (flock matttress) over us, which we all hoped would at least prevent the ceiling from killing us if it fell in. For a real treat on Saturday nights, we were allowed to lie in bed with mum and listen to "Saturday Night Theatre" on the Wireless, with Alvard Liddel reading a story in the series "The Man in Black". His deep, dark, hollow sepchurial voice booming something like "...a wind blew bleakly across the moors on that misty evening"....telling a spooky murder story, while a Funerial Bell tolled dolefully in the background. He would start the story off by booming "THIS IS THE MAN IN BLACK SPEAKING......" and we would lie there feeling safe with mum, and shiver with delight. For eats, all mum could allow us, out of the skimpy rations, was milk and water and some bread (bread and milk) with a little of that precious commodity, sugar. That was the height of our enjoyment for the week. Our mum dished out our sugar rations individually, so that each person in the family (4 of us) was given a jar with one third of the entire ration, then would put one third aside for cooking. this was fair, and saved any argument.
continued in next story...
Then came the doodle bugs.

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