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The surface of the road was black tarred chippings and three inches from my nose. After a moment's shock I slowly raised my head: a scatter of Brussels sprout leaves appeared, and some large hairy hooves. The milkman's horse chomped contentedly in his nosebag above my head. Well, it had seemed a good idea at the time. I had been sure the horse would appreciate the sprouts that otherwise were destined for the 'Pig Bin' up the road, but had not taken into account my best shoes while running eagerly with my offering. Also my knees needed some attention.

It was 1940 and Uncle Stanley had come for lunch. Uncle Stanley, a Captain in REME, was on leave and thus due a special lunch. I picked myself up and looked down at my best frock (we didn't have dresses in those days). Oh dear! Mummy would not be pleased. I picked up the basin and limped up the long flight of steps to the house. Mummy didn't scold me, but then, though she sometimes cried 'You'll drive me potty!’ I wasn't much scolded and never remember being smacked.

We lived, my parents and I, in a pleasant, detached house on the outskirts of Guildford. The road was a cul-de-sac and led up onto the Downs; it overlooked the unfinished cathedral on Stag Hill in the distance. Down below one could see the Farnham Road with the Girls' Grammar School and its playing fields, and the hospital. Virtually nobody had a car in those days even in a prosperous road like this, though my friend-up-the-road's father had one - but then, he was 'in antiques'. So the road was quite empty, with no traffic to speak of and no parked cars.

Our garden at the back led onto a narrow lane bordered by hedges and trees which met overhead forming a green tunnel. Our neighbours on one side (whose house was much larger than ours) had a black and white cat called Whiskey and a tennis court on the other side of the lane, with a pavilion! Not that I ever saw anyone playing tennis there, or indeed anyone there at all except myself, who revelled in sliding down the steep grassy slopes along one side, no doubt getting green, grassy stains down the back of my skirt. But it was always kept mown, even in the middle of a war. Strange that.

Little things stick in the mind like being shown fireflies in the garden from my bedroom window, and having Whooping Cough (evidently very mildly) caught from my friend with the antique-dealer-father. Once when the two of us were playing at her house, her father brought home two jars of sweets, one for each of us, but I was miffed because hers were multicoloured and mine had only two colours. The ingratitude of children!

War, of course, was part of life, though, never remembering anything else — I was three when it broke out - I accepted it as how things were. In between Music While you Work on the Home Service at 11 o'clock every weekday morning (which always seemed to coincide with the noise of my mother Hoovering), were the news bulletins. The news seemed to be for ever 'on' - my father in particular being an addict. 'Despatches', 'Second Front' and the daily toll of bomber crews 'failing to return' mingled with the voices of John MacCormack, and Vera Lynn singing 'There'll be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover' and someone else singing 'You are my sunshine, my only sunshine'.

The first time bombs came near was scary. I had recently graduated from a cot to a new divan bed and was soundly asleep one night when I was woken by the most horrible sound - monstrous great hollow explosions seemingly almost overhead, then gradually retreating to silence - a stick of high explosive bombs had been loosed upon the outskirts of the town, certainly not aimed at anything in particular, probably coming from some lost or fleeing bomber anxious to get rid of his load.
(To be continued in Part 2)

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