大象传媒

The time, an evening in February 1941. My mother and I looked out of our back door. The view point commanded a panoramic scene from the top of Townhill, the black sky full of stars, interrupted by searchlights sweeping the sky. An air raid warning had recently sounded its familiar mournful wail. We heard the enemy planes with their rhythmical throbbing, ack ack guns answering. We watched for sometime, grimly fascinated, as gradually a red glow suffused the sky. To our left, grey smoke drifted up, obliterating the star studded sky, just as the town of Swansea below was obliterated by bombs on that sad night.
The following morning, just as if everything was normal, my mother and I went into town. Saturday was shopping day so we waited to catch the little red bus to take us down the hill. It seemed to take an age coming but that was not unusual. The babble of voices grew more animated.
"Oh, there's terrible it is in town." Our voluble neighbour, Mrs Thomas grabbed the group's attention, "The woman down the road told me. She's been down already. Swansea is flattened." Gladys Thomas loved an audience and the attention. The women croded around.
Ignoring her Mrs Evans said in her usual complaining monotone, "Where's the bus then?"
Mrs Thomas took over again, "Bombed. That's what it is, that's where they all are." She was enjoying herself.
My mother whispered to me, "Proper Job's comforter, she is." I giggled. We had a rapport with each other, a shared sense of humour.
Someone said, "I heard High Street had it bad. Did you see the sky last night?" Most of us from our vantage spot high on Townhill had seen the angry glow.
Mrs Evans sighed, "There's beautiful it was."
"Don't be stupid," Mrs Thomas took centre stage again, "It was terrible."
They were both right. The sky had had a terrible beauty.
"Here's the bus at last," Mother said.
"That's one the Germans missed then." I whispered, hoping our neighbour hadn't heard. I'd been secretly frightened of the little woman with her vehement manner.
The gabble continued as we wound our way down to town, Welsh voices climbing in a chorus of confusion.
My mother and I walked through what had once been a thriving little town, staring with dull expressions at rubble, the remains of buildings, many still smouldering.
Little of the High Street still stood. The red and gold, smoke covered fascia of Woolworths strangely reassuring. We turned to see Ben Evan's familiar store razed to the ground.
Mother held tight to my hand, excitement and laughter were far from our thoughts as we walked slowly to the bus stop to take us back up the hill.

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