大象传媒

The year was 1940 and the blitz on London had begun in earnest. The autumn was a fine one with long, bright moonlit nights. A "bombers' moon" we used to call it.

It was the same routine night after night. The sirens wailed and, shortly afterwards, the dull drone of the bombers was heard. Searchlights swept the skies, pinpointing the planes and the anti-aircraft guns boomed out. The first wave of bombers dropped incendiary bombs, causing hundreds of small fires to spring up and the volunteer fire fighters, armed with buckets of water and stirrup-pumps attempted to extinguish the flames. The Auxiliary Fire Service was left to deal with the incendiaries that had gone undetected and had taken hold.

Then came the next wave of planes with their lethal cargo of bombs to add to the confusion. The A.R.P. men were fully employed rescuing the trapped from the wrecked buildings, whilst ambulances picked their way round bomb craters and abandoned vehicles ferrying the wounded to Hospital.

I was tired of hurrying home from work, racing to beat the sirens. Most of the time I lost the race and had to grab a sandwich and a cup of tea and take my meal under the stairs. During a lull, I'd venture out and make my way to spend the night in the shelter.

I was therefore delighted when I received an invitation from an old school friend to spend the weekend at her home just outside London. I accepted gratefully, the thought of sleeping in a proper bed being an added bonus. During that weekend we had heard the bombers passing overhead and later, from the garden, had seen London burning in the distance.

On Monday morning I arrived back in the City. My ten-minute walk from the station was a difficult one. Bricks and broken glass made walking on the pavements impossible so I picked my way in the roads through a maze of hosepipes and fire-fighting machines, detouring streets cordoned off because of unexploded bombs.

Eventually I turned the corner of my street and I stopped in my tracks. Where my home had stood was now a mound of rubble. My first thought was for my Mother. Where was she? My brain refused to function and a feeling of despair welled up inside me. She would have been in the shelter I reasoned to myself, but where was she now? The shelter had been emptied of occupants long ago. With a heavy heart I made my way to the nearest police station.

"I'm looking for my Mother." I told the Sergeant on duty at the desk. He was obviously used to this sort of statement.
"Where was she when you last saw her? " he asked. I explained that I had been away for the weekend and that she would have been in the shelter in the Minories.

"'Take a seat, love," he said, and the kindness brought a lump to my throat. I could feel the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. I sat down and waited while he shuffled through a pile of papers.

"There are several places she could be," he said, "Here's a list of Centres for the Homeless. I've marked the ones you should try. Come back if you have no luck."

I thanked him and started out, my thoughts were in turmoil. Homeless! All I possessed in the way of worldly goods were in my overnight bag and what I stood up in. Gone were all the mementos of the past - my leather-bound Bible presented when I left School only two years before; still in it's presentation box - all my books, photographs and reminders of past friends and events - all gone.

It was at the third address, St. Mary's Church, where I found my Mother and my relief was indescribable. However, she showed no emotion, managing to hide her feelings as she had always done during her hard and difficult life. She was a very practical woman.

"I've arranged with Mrs. Padmore," she said, "She will let us stay with her until the Council find us somewhere to live."

"What about Edward?" I heard myself ask. The thought had just flashed into my head. Edward was our cat, found 'on the tiles' and rescued by my brother when a kitten. I knew what her answer would be.

"I'm afraid he must be dead," she answered. "The house was blown up by the demolition people on Saturday night to stop the fires from spreading."

Not even a direct hit, I thought, blown up by our own people. It was on that day that I bought my first packet of ten Craven 'A'.

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