大象传媒

After doing a directed job in a munitions factory, where I was unable to cope with nightwork, I was sent to a sorting office opposite Bournemouth Central station which had been transferred from London because of the air raids. I was in the money order department with some London clerks, but most were local girls. We could not believe our good luck as we were earning four times as much as before working as shop assistants.

It was a happy time except for the war news, where it seemed at times that the enemy was on our doorstep. Rumours were rife that when the Germans invaded, teenagers like us would be sent to Germany for breeding and medical experiments. This was feared more than being blown up in an air raid.

We drank and smoked as much as was available; our health worries forgotten. To survive was the main thing. But we made plenty of fun between ourselves and there were some bright spots, like when the King and Queen came to inspect the Canadian troops here. We watched, hanging out of the windows sharing fags, whilst someone kept an eye out for supervisors. Although on that day no one bothered us. The dirty old station was transformed in hours with a paint job and flowers everywhere. The Queen was in her usual pastel outfit and her smiles and waves were a great lift for us deprived girls. When we were told we could go out and stand outside to see them drive past, we went mad and tore down the stairs like a herd of elephants. How exciting it was in this terrible grey wartime, to have their car drive very, very slowly past, with them waving, saluting and smiling as if it wqas especially for us. We talked about it for months.

Another happening was I had a 21st birthday there. I had a wonderful surprise when they grouped together to make a birthday card (not usually available) and presented me with a huge bouquet of flowers. Roses, carnations, it was magnificent and I had never been given anything so lovely before. They said they could not buy me a present becasuse there was nothing left to buy. I took it home to mum, so proud that my friends thought so much of me to give me this. I would like to say, if anyone is still alive, I would like them to know how I felt and how wonderful it was.

About half way through the war there was a lull in the London bombing raids and our offices were to be transferred to the two to floors of D.H. Evans in Oxford Street. We were given the chance of returning with them, otherwise we could be drafted into the womens services. As my mum lived alone and was crippled, I decided to go to London, being easier to get home when necessary. We were billeted in a hostel for Christian young ladies in Baker Street. That put the fear of God in us for a start.

We were met at Waterloo station by two ladies wearing red carnations and bussed to this rather austere establishment between a parade of small shops. Our worst fears came to light when we were told that no smoking or drinking was allowed. The door was locked at 11pm, except for special occasions which had to be recorded in a book. Oh gawd!. Also prayers were said before breakfast and Sunday morning was given over to worship unless we went to church outside.

We slept in dormitories of ten beds with a curtained recess furnished with a small chest of drawers and a chair. We were all dying for a smoke and wished we had joined the ATS. I tried emptying my top drawer and sitting on my bed lit up, blowing the smoke into it and shutting it quickly so that the smoke dribbled out of the corners. Others did the same and we thought we had cracked it, but the London smog gathering in lumps in the room took up the smoke and transferred it downstairs to the superintendent. She was livid and threatened no supper saying we were a disgarce to God and the war effort.

A few days later we were told by the under superintendant that if we were desperate to smoke we could go to a rough cafe opposite called "Smokey Joe's" and buy a sandwich and a cup of tea. Otherwise if we were broke, which we were frequently, we could stand outside with the copper on the beat and have a drag. He would not mind, he was used to it, they said.

Our first air raid was memorable. We had not had much in Bournemouth except for a few hit and runs, but this was something else. We were downstairs in the laundry when the air raid warning sounded, completely unprepared for the ear splitting explosions that followed. The six or seven girls doing their washing dropped everything and crawled towards two rather ancient mangles. We followed, trying to get most of ourselves underneath. At least someone reminded us that they would probably hold up the ceilings. When the whole building started to rock and some windows blew in, I was really frightened and started to shake. I could not stop my teeth from rattling like castinets. A London girl shouted in my ear that it was not so bad as it sounded; the ack-ack batteries in Regents Park always made it sound worse. She produced some handy chewing gum to stop my teeth from rattling. Just then the door opened and two ARP wardens fell inside. The rattle of incendiary bombs made a weird hollow sound and Baker Street fire brigade tore up and down like all hell let loose.

"It's your turn to fire watch tomorrow", one grey haired elderly gent said with a wink. My startled look made him pat me on the back and reassure me. "Nar, only joking love. Your turn next week." I hoped he was joking and another old guy said "It's ever so romantic in the moonlight." Someone else said, "Lovely mate, with bloody shrapnel flying round yer ear holes."

This was my first raid but not the last. Trying hard not to show fear in front of others helped me to overcome it to a certain extent. But I was amazed at the bravery of Londoners. Coming home from a night out I was shocked to see how they survived sleeping on cots in the underground surrounded by their little kids and yet coping somehow. Once there was a report that a large bomb fell on an escalator and exploded in a packed tunnel. Nothing anyone could do; it was sealed up and treated as a communal tomb.

I loved going around the markets in the East End of London. I was madly in love with a gorilla called Guy and visited him every Sunday afternoon at Regents Park Zoo. I was always on the lookout for fruit, which led me to meet a stallholder called Sam. We got on well from the start, especially as he kept back the precious fruit ration for me. I asked Guy's keeper if I could feed him some bananas which made him laugh saying, "This 'ere is a wild animal gel and don't know his own strength. Tell you what, seeing as it's you, you can stand close to the glass and watch me feed him. How's that?". So that is what we did most Sundays and sometimes I took Sam along to introduce him.

By this time Sam and I were going out a lot together. He was very generous and we went everywhere by taxi. He thought I was posh coming from Bournemouth and we ate in the most expensive restaurants. Also taking me back to the hostel in a taxi made him quite popular with the supervisors and I had a permanent late night pass.

On one occasion I was to meet sam at the Odeon Leicester Square straight from work to catch a film. Anyway, he turned up dressed a bit spivy as usual and carrying a long floppy parcel. Sitting in the best seats in the cinema, I thought he appeared a bit furtive and hid the parcel underneath the seat, wrapped in his raincoat. Trying to relax and concentrate on the film, my mind kept drifting towards the parcel. Why was he being so furtive about it? Then I remembered things mum had warned me about London blokes. Never go out on your own with them and awful things happen to girls alone in London, like murder and stuff. I read about a body being found cut up in a sack and washed up in the Thames. I thought I saw a bloodstain on the brown parer bag as he moved the parcel..... I fought off such dreadful thoughts. Not Sam. He does the tango so beautifully and his kisses are so gentle and moreish. Mum can't be right about everything, though could be an arm or something messy in that parcel.....

Sam was urging me forward towards a struggle for taxis, at last we were leaving the city behind and speeding through the blackout to North London. I glimpsed through the window at miles and miles of desolation. Skeletons of streets stark in the bright moonlight. "We shall get a packet tonight", Sam boserved, squeezing my arm for comfort. "Well, you die if you worry and you die if you don't, so why worry?" I replied trying to sound brave.

When the taxi stopped I could see the searchlights sweeping the moonlit sky and in the distance a familir thump and flash from falling bombs. Sam struggled out of the taxi with the parcel and guided me towards a blacked out building where a man appeared in the dim doorway. We followed him in and down two flights of stairs where he relieved Sam of the parcel. I gave a sigh of relief as it disappeared and the next moment I found myself in a brightly lit room furnished with two bars and more alcohol than I had ever seen in my life.

Over a drink Sam told me that he often came with a salmon or anything he had picked up on the stall which would sell on the black market. Then came the bombshell; he had enlisted in the Merchant Navy. I was shocked and very upset. He went on to say that living it up on the fat of the land was getting to him. He felt ashamed going into public places where he was often the only guy not in uniform. He expected to be home on leave in about six weeks and promised to write. But he never did. Perhaps he met his fate with thousands of others in the service. I shall never know.

(PK)

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