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I was nine years old when the war started, and I remember the day vividly. The siren sounded at 11 o’clock, on Sunday, 3rd September. Little did I realise at the time, the significance of this alarm and the worries it would cause over the ensuing years.

Food was rationed shortly after the war started and everybody was issued with a ration book. Our weekly allowance was: an ounce and half of bacon and cheese, half pound of sugar, two ounces of margarine, and two ounces of butter — and the occasional egg! Meat was also limited, so we had one meat based meal per week. Fruit gradually stopped coming from abroad, so we had no citrus fruit or bananas.

Everyone was issued with a gas mask. The children carried theirs in a cardboard box over their shoulder. We also had to wear identity discs. People who could afford it had bracelets, but because my family were poor, we were provided with a free disc on a string, which we hung around our neck.

If the siren sounded whilst we were at school, we were shepherded into the air raid shelters. These were claustrophobic, poorly lit tunnels, which smelt musty and damp. If the pips went, it meant that the enemy aircraft were overhead and there was not enough time to go to the shelter, so we had to take cover under our desks instead.

My most vivid memory of the war was during the night of 5th August 1941. We were all in bed and before the siren or pips went, a bomb fell on the local church — about 50 yards from my house. The church was completely demolished by the bomb. It was a moonlit night and the church was a white building, which probably made it more visible from the air. I remember standing on the landing with my family, feeling absolutely petrified. The house shook from the explosion, but we were all uninjured. A friend of mine, however, lost her father who was fire-watching in the crypt of the church that night. The local men, who were in the Home Guard, took it in turns to be on duty there, and my father was on the rota — but off duty that night.

In the winter the streets were pitch-black because there were no street lights on. All windows had to be blacked out to prevent the streets being visible from the sky. Wardens would walk the streets and warn people if they saw a chunk of light coming from their homes.

I passed my 11-plus in 1941 and had to walk over a bleak race-hill to get to my new school. There was a tunnel under the actual racecourse, but there were no lights in there. School finished at 4.30pm, so in the winter months due to it being dark early, I carried a little torch with a number 8 battery — we were allowed to use this provided we kept the light low! I also went to the church over the race-hill, and I found this a great help to me because I felt protected through my faith.

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