´óÏó´«Ã½

This story has been submitted by Alison Tebbutt, Derby CSV Action Desk on behalf of Veronica Mary Antell. The author has given her permission and fully understands the site's terms and conditions

They say there’s a war on, but I’m only three and everything seems the same to me. I live with my grandparents. Granny does the housework all the time. She loves it. Granddad is usually at his desk in the front room. He has a big moustache.

My father arrives to take me back to Manchester. I can’t visualise the destination so I kick and scream until he relents and goes without me. I cling to my grandparents. It’s a relief.

The little train opposite us goes by, bursting with soldiers on their way to the war. Some men arrive to disconnect our gate and railings. Angrily I dash inside to report them, but granny says they have to take them for the war effort. I’m given a tin hat and gas mask. I like them.

It’s my fourth birthday. Old Mrs Eves has kindly made me two cakes. Children arrive and Dougie Watch, who is grown up, brings his grey and white carthorse and we all have a ride.

Suddenly grandfather dies, we are alone now. Sometimes at night the air raid warden comes outside and shouts ‘Mrs Jonkers! You’ve got a chunk of light showing!’

I’m getting older. One day some men arrive and start to assemble what looks like a lion’s cage. It has a four inch iron table top with a mesh front. It’s supposed to save you if your house takes a direct hit. I’m expected to sleep in it. Not on your life I think. So I’m taken next door to their shelter up their garden. Granny goes back to her own bed. She says if I’m going, I’m going in my own bed.

We decide to go down to Gosport ferry to see the barrage balloons. To me they look like flying elephants floating in the sky. In broad daylight there is an air raid. As I am running for the shelter I trip and hit my head on the corner of the shelter. I’m taken to the chemist and have to have stitches. There is no NHS yet.

We take in two RAF lodgers. One night after an air raid, although not a direct hit, we have nine windows blown out from the bomb blast. The repair man arrives and starts putting some sort of sticky paper on the new windows. It’s in a roll. The light comes in but you can’t see out.

One day while standing in the garden, I look up and see masses of planes go over. The average age of pilots is twenty years. Many don’t return. They give their lives for us to live a free life. A few return to go on night after night, tired and exhausted. There is nothing to stop us being invaded.

A national day of prayer is announced. Mr Churchill comes on the wireless and says that we are going to flight on the beaches, on the hills and in the dales. With my stick and tin helmet I am ready. Hitler retreats.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.