大象传媒

My father, gathered me up and we all went downstairs to spend the rest of the night in the dubious shelter of a passage under the stairs which led to the dining room. Having ventured upstairs to look out of the front bay window, he reported that the skyline was ablaze on the far side of the downs in the direction of something he called 'Henley Fort'. Later on I saw the huge chalky craters stretching across the downs like some giant's footsteps; the unfortunate inhabitants of Farnham Road running along the bottom, had their roofs blown off and subsequently spent many months under the cover of tarpaulins.

An even more scary occasion happened one day just after lunch. My mother was washing up in the kitchen while I played next door in the rear sitting room in front of the fire. I was aware first of a distant boom, then my mother called me into the kitchen; something in her tone made by obey at once. We both crawled under the kitchen table and waited, I could not tell for what. We were facing the open kitchen door and gazing up the hallway to the front door. Suddenly there was a cacophony of noise, bangs, explosions, smashing glass; my heart leaped into my throat, what on earth was it? When all had been still for a short while, we ventured from under the table and gingerly began to explore. The first discovery was a squashed looking bullet on the front door mat. Up the stairs we crept, hardly daring to proceed. There were scrapes down the stair walls; cautiously we pushed open the front (guest) bedroom door. What a sight met our eyes - glass, holes and gouges everywhere. Most of the glass was out of the bay windows; a bullet had hit the back of the triple mirror on the dressing table, smashing the glass and sending it showering up to the now shredded ceiling, then to descend onto the eiderdown. That bullet had then, very cleverly, passed between the bars of the radiator and embedded itself in the wall. The other had ricoched off the wall, through the door, ricoched again and landed by the front door. Hardly a house in the road had escaped damage, yet not a soul was injured. Having flown the length of the road on the hillside, the pilot then espied the playing fields of the girls' school below with the tempting target of a hockey match which he proceeded to fire upon. Again, miraculously, no one was injured. It seems that the lone plane had first dropped its last remaining bomb on a train standing at Shalford station, a couple of miles away, and here, I believe, a number of people were killed.

One day I learnt that there was to be a rehearsal for something called 'an invasion'. My parents had serious faces - regulations regarding the rehearsal were draconian. For one thing there was a curfew (I do not recollect for how long), so my father could not catch the train to work and no shopping could be done. Barrage balloons loomed over the town like inflated elephants, sirens blared, there were practice 'gas attacks' in the streets and goodness knows what else I never heard about. Neighbours stood about talking quietly and peering over the town, but there was not a lot to see. Obviously, an invasion was not a good idea.

Our neighbours on the other side, the Birds, (the one's without a cat called 'Whiskey') were referred to as 'Dicky' Bird by my father. There was a Mrs Bird, but she was never referred to as anything. 'Dicky' Bird had an Anderson shelter in the garden (where else?) and early on in the war, when the sirens were frequently sounded for no apparent reason, we were invited one night to share the safety of this shelter. It consisted of an inverted U-shaped structure, partially underground (thus enabling it to be permanently damp, if not actually flooded) and covered by a layer of soil or sand bags. With a faintly party air, we ensconced ourselves on the wooden benches down the sides and awaited developments. I was given a banana (it must have been early in the war!) and we waited. And waited. After about an hour, it was mutually decided that comfort was preferable to the somewhat dubious safety, and we all went back to bed. We never used the shelter again - I don't know if the Birds did.

My father, during those years, was head master at Surbiton Central School on the outskirts of London; this necessitated a considerable train journey (at the best of times, around 45 minutes) often subject to delays and cancellations. Despite this, he would frequently come home for a meal in the evening, only to depart again (complete with 'tin' hat) to do a night's fire watching. How he was then able to do a day's work has since puzzled me. My mother, too, was a teacher, though at this time - thanks to me - only part time. Nevertheless, the strain of delivering me to my kindergarten (on foot, of course), getting to school, teaching, shopping, cooking, cleaning and all the other chores, proved too much on one occasion after she had stood at one cold bus stop too many. She got pneumonia. Fortunately for her and my father and me, a new drug had recently been invented - M & B - and this saved her. Apparently my father stayed at home to look after her, since I recollect one occasion when he was providing some food - I don't know how, since he couldn't cook - and dropped a tea towel into the gravy, resulting in loud expostulations which I was not familiar with.

One day my mother brought home a Canadian soldier whose name was Michael O'Halloran whom she had found wandering disconsolately in the town, on leave and knowing no one. I recollect that he subsequently visited us on several occasions, when my parents entertained him to a meal and an evening's companionship. Later, he was to reappear at a most opportune moment.

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