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My Father worked as a chauffeur and groom, and he’d been in the war and he’d lost his sight. I can only more or less remember what my Father had told us, but I do remember that during the war he used to come and get us out of our beds, and take us down the air raid shelter. I was petrified, and I hated having to get up out of my bed to go down into the cold dark shelter.

I can remember this Jay’s fluid smell, and I thought ‘ooh, horrible, let me get out of here’.

There were steps in to our shelter — it used to be a pub, so it was probably the cellar. My Father kept going up the steps, and lifting the trap door, to see if it was all-clear - I was sort of worried for him — I mean, they could drop a bomb at any time couldn’t they, ‘cause we could hear them going over.

If we didn’t have to go down the shelter, we’d all sit on my eldest brother’s bed and gather. I’d feel safe in there. My brother couldn’t have helped us if they’d have dropped a bomb, but that didn’t cross my mind; I felt safe and secure regardless.

There were eight of us children altogether. I had four brothers and three sisters, and of course my Mum and Dad; and we all looked after each other.

This memory of feeling safe with my brothers has always stayed with me.

It was a hard life, but I think it set us in good stead for the rest of our lives.

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Becky Barugh of the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Vera Taylor and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

See another of Vera's stories:

• If you were lucky enough to have money to go on the bus

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