大象传媒

From the book A Nice Cup of Tea, not available in UK book stores.

BLOODY GUNS.

I lay in my pram in the warm kitchen. The wireless was playing music and my mother sits near the fire, knitting. I am really too big for the pram. If I straighten out, on my back, I can push my head against one end using my feet at the other. I don't go out in the pram; it is just left in the kitchen for me to sleep in. I shall not be put to bed until after Mr. Hitler has gone home, or until it's too late for him to arrive. Then it happens again. The awful sirens wail into the night. I am being punished for being cozy and warm.
My mother jumps up and runs towards the kitchen door leading to the passage to wake up my sisters who are sleeping upstairs in their bedrooms. She needn't have bothered they are already clumping downstairs and grabbing their overcoats and scarves. My mother has lifted me out of the pram and is helping me on with my coat and scarf. "Eunice, you take the flask and cups. Sheila, you take the blankets." Bloody hell, Mr. Hitler is coming and all my mother can do is organize is a picnic. The siren has stopped so they will soon be here. My mother picks me up. "Come along. Switch the light out first Sheila,鈥� orders miene mutteroberfuhrer. The light is turned off and the back door leading to the garden opened. A blast of freezing air hits us. From a long way away we can here the crump, crump of guns. "Quickly," says my mother, "they'll soon be here."
Although the stars are out, everything is very dark, as our eyes have not yet adjusted. I can just see the dark hump of our destination, the freezing, damp old Anderson shelter, set half-way into the ground and covered with excavated earth. A blast wall is set away from the door. We pass around the end of this and my mother opens the wooden door. "Be careful of the steps," she says to my sisters. Down we go into total blackness. "You two lay on the bunks. Try to sleep. You have school tomorrow." The noise of the guns is getting louder. I don't know how my mother expects anyone to sleep with this noise. She can't even sleep if our next-door neighbors have their wireless on too loud.
Just as the now not so distant guns announce the coming of the Germans, the Air Raid Warden announces the return of my father from the pub, which has to close when the sirens go off. "You there, get under cover, there's an air raid." Our Air Raid Warden shouts quite a bit. He used to be a quiet man when he was the gardener at the vicarage. Then they gave him a black jacket with shiny buttons and sent him on a course. Perhaps they taught him to shout a lot. He could have been shouting at anyone until we hear, "Piss off Burt Reynolds, stick to your bloody rose bushes and stop making people jump." in my father's familiar voice
The noise of guns has increased. Even though they are firing almost continuously, it doesn't drown out the sound of many aircraft engines. My father falls down the steps onto the floor. My mother didn't warn him "to be careful of the steps," obviously. He says a bad word. "Christ, why haven't you lit the lamp?" asks my father. "I thought I would wait until you were inside and had fixed the curtain." They are shouting now as our local anti-aircraft battery starting to fire has almost drowned the roar of engines. "Bloody guns," says my father as he strikes a match and lights the small oil-lamp hanging from the roof. The shelter is shaking now as large explosions join the gunfire and roar of engines. I put my hands over my ears, but the noise gets through. My mother holds me tight. She is shaking too, but she may just be cold. The noise of the aircraft lessens and there are no more big explosions. The guns are still firing though, but not so furiously. "Pour me a cocoa, Rose," shouts my father, "I will just check that our house hasn't been hit. One of them sounded real close." Good God. What would Mr. Hitler want with bombing my pram? Does he think that it is a secret weapon? Father鈥檚 face appears at the door, peering down. "House is alright," he says excitedly, " but come and have a look at this. Hand the nipper up." "The all clear hasn't gone yet," protests my mother. "It's safe," says my father," but have a quick look at this." She hands me, my father grabs me under the arms and swings me against his shoulder, then points out over the roof of our house. My father is right. It is an amazing sight. There, caught in the beams of three searchlights is a German bomber. The guns are firing at it and I can see flowers flash on its black skin. They seem to be using the cross on the side as a target. There are small men jumping from a hole in the side and just before they disappear below our roofline, I can see a brown parachute billow out above them. My father is very excited and my mother has joined us, as have my sisters. We have all forgotten the cold now. "Got the bastards," my father shouts, smiling. "That bugger won't be back tomorrow."
The plane disappears from view and the guns are suddenly silent. Everywhere there is a moment of absolute silence. The stars are no longer shining as the wind pushes heavy smoke across the sky. Parts of this smoke cloud glow red, then the silence is broken by the sound of bells from fire trucks and ambulances. The siren starts sounding again. "All clear," says my father. "Gather up the things, girls," he orders, "and don't forget to put the lamp out."
He carries me down the path and through the kitchen door. The warmth is lovely. My mother has followed. "Do you want your cocoa?" she asks. "Not yet," says my father, setting me on the floor, "I'll take a walk around the neighborhood to check if anyone got hit."
My sisters come staggering in with the blankets. "Bed, girls," orders my mother, "it's all over now. We鈥檙e safe once more." She is mixing some cocoa for herself and me. I sit at the kitchen table and feel my toes thawing out. I am wondering if Mr. Hitler knows just how much trouble he causes.

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