大象传媒

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Living with Grandma Deighton was not a particularly happy experience. Grandma was still living in the early Victorian era where children were seen but not heard. Fortunately, as my Mum did not get on particularly well with her Mum we moved out to live with friends at Stoke Newington.

School was a little unpredictable due to the bombing and by now the tactics had changed and we were being subjected to both day and night attacks. Hence we found ourselves with plenty of free time to play and to indulge in the hobby of collecting bits of shrapnel, shot down airplanes and ammunition etc. I was still able to maintain contact with my best friends, Billy Wand and Rosie. Billy was deaf and dumb but between us we had developed a sort of sign language that enabled us to communicate without too much difficulty. On one occasion, after a daylight raid, we went out looking for anything interesting. I was with Rosie on one side of the road looking through debris and Billy was scratting about on the other side when suddenly he started waving and gesturing for us to come over. He was holding something in his hand which he kept pointing to. Anxious to discover what he had found we ran over and saw he was holding a leather glove. On closer inspection there was a hand inside! Billy wanted to keep it but we eventually persuaded him to throw it away. In retrospect it was strange that none of us felt any revulsion. We just thought that it was not a practical object to hold on to!

It was just after this that we experienced a particularly bad night of bombing.
I never saw Billy Wand or Rosie again.
It was the same night that we were again "bombed out" and had to look for somewhere else to live. For a few nights we were housed with several other families at a hostel or school.

A camaraderie developed amongst the families, individuals would go out during the day looking for accommodation. If it was not suitable for them they would pass on the information to others. Due to the increase of the night bombings, we used to take cover in the underground stations. The whole station area was filled with families, many who had lost their homes and most of their possessions. We used to go down early to get a prime site before the sirens sounded the warning. The Tube officials used to try and stop us but there were so many they didn't stand a chance.

Mum used to most of the searching around. I didn't see much of Dad; he was employed at Mount Pleasant Post Office and when not busy with his normal job, would be on "Fire watching duties."

I remember one occasion when my Dad took me to the Sunday market at Pentonville Road. We took the bus from the Angel, Islington. Long before our destination the bus conductor told us that there had been severe bomb damage which was blocking the route and we would all have to get off.

At the bus stop things did not appear to be too bad, but after walking a little way and turning a corner to what had once been a shopping and residential area we were confronted with a mass of rubble. A massive area had been completely devastated by bombing. Crowds of firemen, policemen and others were frantically searching through the rubble looking for survivors. Uncovered bodies of adults, children and domestic animals were randomly laid out on the ground. Nearby was a shattered milkcart and two dead horses. We turned around and Dad took me back to Mum. He then went off presumably to help the rescue workers.

By this time school seemed a thing of the past. Hostel by day while Mum was out looking for accommodation or trying to rescue our possessions. The shelters or underground at night.

Mum came to the hostel all excited. She had found a small top floor flat which consisted of a split room and a small box room. 288, Liverpool Road, Islington, I think. Mum told me some years later that there were between twenty five to thirty five people living in the house before we arrived. The Anderson Shelter in the small back garden was designed to house eight persons!

There was an agreement in place that families would take turns to take cover in the shelter. When not in the shelter most found refuge in Finsbury underground station, this being considered the safest because it was the deepest. Nevertheless, sometimes as many as sixteen women and children would be housed in the shelter. The adults would sit around the edge and the kids would sleep in the centre. It was not often that men would stay, either because they were in the armed forces or they were on firewatching or warden duties. In practice it worked out roughly one night in the tube and one night in the Anderson.

It was a Tuesday I think. One of the few days dad was off duty. It was our turn at Finsbury Tube Station. Mum and Dad had some old Polish friends they used to play cards with and with all the disturbance had lost contact. Wanting to spend as much time reminiscing as they could, Dad arranged with another family that we stay another night in the Anderson and they would go to Finsbury Tube station. They were more than happy to take this option as it was considered that the underground stations were safer than the shelters.

That night the Anderson was full. Double it's design capacity. The house took a direct hit. The shelter lifted until we could see the night sky filled with searchlights and anti-aircraft flashes. The shelter fell back killing most who were on the lifted side. Some were decapitated, their heads lost on the other side of the shelter when it fell back. Rubble blocked the way out of the shelter and we were enclosed until the next morning in total darkness listening to the bombs exploding, the cries of the injured and the smell of fresh blood and rubble.

The morning came, Mum and I were taken to Euston Station, to be put onto a train to an unknown destination. It was going to be several months before I saw my Dad again.

We learnt later that it had been a terrible night. Finsbury Station had taken a direct hit resulting in thousands being killed or injured. Our neighbours who had kindly offered to spend the second night at the station had not survived.

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