大象传媒

This story is by Ellen Elder, and has been added to the site with their permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The story was collected by Joyce Gibson, transcribed by Elizabeth Lamont and added to the site by Bruce Logan.
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I wasn鈥檛 born until very late on in the war and so have no first hand memories of the actual years. However, I didn鈥檛 entirely escape the effects that war had on my parents. I was brought up to a chorus of Make Do and Mend and Dig for Victory as well as Clear your Plate. And I believe that certain wartime habits are in my genes, like saving bits of string and brown paper bags, and thinking that half an ounce of butter is much too extravagant to put on two slices of toast. Our garden shed is full of potentially useful things that my Dad trained me never to throw away. I explain to my minimalist husband who spent a peaceful childhood abroad in the colonies that this is not an aberration, but practical economy. Waste not, want not, and all that. He is yet to be convinced, but then he never needed coupons to buy his sweeties on a Friday night. And he didn鈥檛 suffer the ignominy of wearing clothes made out of flour bags. My designer dresses had the legend McDougall鈥檚 Finest Self Raising stamped in blue ink around the hem, disguised ingeniously by my mother鈥檚 beautiful hand embroidery. OK, I didn鈥檛 mind the sheets with the lumpy seams down and across the middle of the bed, but there鈥檚 only so much recycling a girl can take. And when it comes to empty coffee jars and plastic bottles, well, they鈥檙e absolutely essential for keeping other stuff in 鈥� aren鈥檛 they?

I remember being very impressed with the wartime People鈥檚 Friend annuals, with ads for Oxydol on the back cover and everyone dressed in uniform. I was particularly drawn to the story of a girl called Helen who became a Wren and worked a teleprinter and was always receiving and sending secret messages to submarines, and going up to town on three-day passes. It was all very jolly-hockey-stick sort of stuff, and for a while my chum and I wrote notes to each other in code. Helen and her glamorous friend Gloria were always short of bath cubes which they referred to as 鈥渟tinks鈥�, and had yearnings for nylons and chocolate, which were fulfilled by dating handsome American officers, even if they only returned to barracks with tins of Spam. I was also greatly impressed to read about the WAAFs who were in charge of erecting barrage balloons every time an air raid was expected. I thought they stayed up all the time. However, as my family had a tradition of joining the Navy and, in view of my auspicious birth date 21st October, Trafalgar Day, the WRNS had to be the career for me. Of course, this never happened 鈥� but I did once work in a ship chandlers.

Adults told 鈥渏amember鈥� stories. Like during the Easter Blitz of 1941 when half of Belfast decamped to the Cave Hill and the other half stayed huddled in terrified groups under stairs or their dining room tables in the firm belief that they could resist tons of high explosive with a few planks of wood. Those with stiff upper lips who remained where they were, sitting on the sofa listening to ITMA on the radio, sorry, wireless, were liable, like my parents鈥� neighbour, Peggy, to get their heads blown off for such insouciance. Her brother, sitting beside her, survived uninjured, and never had to buy himself another pint. Peggy鈥檚 number, as they said in those days, must have been up. Indeed, my parents were bombed out of two hoses in Mervue Street, Nos. 6 and 66 鈥� you would think the words 鈥渢empting鈥� and 鈥渇ate鈥� might have occurred to them. When number 66 was declared uninhabitable by way of no windows, doors or roof, water or electricity, they decided to go back to their home village of Eden near Carrickfergus where friends put them up and their remaining bits and pieces were stored in the hayloft of a farmer cousin. When my Dad died last year, we found the permit from York Street Police Station which gave him clearance to clamber over the rubble to collect any personal belongings which might have survived the blitz.

When I asked my mother about the war she remembered instantly her Identify No. UADR 6062 鈥� and making blackout blinds by covering their normal ones with black shoe polish. As far as Christmas went she was vague about any extra rations being issued. Being boarded out with someone else, you just handed over your coupon book to whoever was in charge of the cooking and everything went in together. And by this stage there were three families all living in the same country cottage. She recalls the advent of powdered eggs which she absolutely detested. Fresh eggs were scrambled and padded out with cornflour, and parsnips masqueraded as bananas with the addition of appropriate flavouring. Everyone saved their scraps to feed the local pigs, many of them kept in semi-rural back gardens, and fattened especially for Christmas. She definitely remembers one year going to the butcher and because the scales weighed half an ounce over the ration weight, he had to cut a sausage in two and she went home with three and a half instead of four. Of course, having farmer cousins meant that there was always a bit extra for special occasions. Although every animal had to be registered with the district official in charge of farming regulations there were always one or two extra hidden away somewhere. And to the city-bred civil servant one sheep or hen looked very much like another.

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