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I was born in June 1945, the result of my mother meeting a French Canadian in the RCAF. I was given the name Victoria, because of the Allied victory in Europe and my middle name was that of my Canadian father — such are the fortunes of war.

The brief affair started at the NAAFI of the Rover Works, Solihull, in the towering shadow of my mother’s grief for her still born son, her brother’s death by samurai sword in Burma and a dear husband, who had been reported missing, believed killed in Italy.

I have no idea what happened to my Canadian father after the war, but my mother carried the sense of guilt and shame for the rest of her life, even though it was probably the only comfort she had received in a dreadful war.

Miraculously, her husband was found alive, but would be a casualty for the rest of his life. He fully accepted my arrival and became the only Dad I have ever known.

They were ordinary decent, honest, hardworking people, who would have to try to come to terms with their traumas. Life was not easy for any of us. God bless them, your freedom came at a high price.

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