大象传媒

Starting work at fourteen is a bit scary at the best of times but during the war, when raids took place at any time, I was in at the deep end. Firstly, getting to work involved a walk, a steam train ride, and then a bus ride to the end of the street where my first job was. This was in a publishers just off Fleet Street and near to the Temple Inn鈥檚, they paying me 25/- per week. Out of this came an insurance stamp, train and bus fare, mid-day meal, money for my keep and, hopefully, some pocket money! I can assure you, I made sure I got the right change each time, right down to a farthing.
One was able to purchase the best ham sandwiches on this earth at one of the local printer's food shops and it was a treat to sit in the Temple Gardens and watch the WAAF barrage balloon teams launch their monster into the sky whilst we tucked into our lunch break. The balloon was supposed to deter low flying aircraft dashing down and shooting up the solicitors Inn鈥檚 of residence that were located in the gardens and surrounding area.
I managed to survive the dangers of raids for over a year at this job. My parents then decided to talk me into a job nearer to home and one that did not involve far to travel.
Three hundred yards from home was a job that proved not too dangerous and serving the bomb damaged community by being in the office of a builders merchants supplying the local builders with materials to repair damaged homes. I was responsible for accepting and processing orders, also preparing delivery notes. Eventually, the lorries went out loaded with blank delivery notes and went to the places where bombs dropped, unloading repair goods to the builders on site.
It was during this time that the V1 (doodlebugs) came over at regular intervals. One such occasion, the noise of its jet engine warned of its proximity to us so shelter was sought. It soon stopped, dived and landed somewhere near. When I looked out towards my nearby home there was a large cloud of smoke shrouding the area. I was soon on my cycle and racing down the road to home, slowed considerably by the broken slates and bricks littering the road. There was no need to open the front door, the nearby explosion having done this for me. Going straight through the house, past the Welsh dresser hanging off the wall with crockery still dangling on it, out into the garden where I found my mother and neighbour safely located in the Anderson Shelter. Their main fright was the sacking covering the entrance, which had blown in towards them, otherwise they were fine.
Needless to say, the house had not come through the ordeal too well, slates off the roof, ceilings down, windows and frames smashed and doors blown off. It was during a period of dry weather so we were able to suffer one night's stay there before packing up and leaving to live with my Mum's sister in the adjacent town, staying there until the house could be repaired to an acceptable condition. In fact, it never was the same again, the house during our absence being used by an Irish repair gang as their headquarters.
It set my father off towards purchasing another home away in the country.

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