大象传媒

"You're a collaborator" she said, crossing to the other side of the road. She'd always had a good vocabulary even at eight years of age. I didn't know what the word meant but knew it wasn't very nice. Nearly sixty years on she recently repeated her accusation.

I was recounting to a small group of people how, as a child, I had walked to school passing the local hospital on the way; a series of corrugated roofed huts built behind the old workhouse as an emergeny measure during the First World War and now used for Italian prisoners of the 2nd World War. The path closely skirted one of the huts, and early mornings voices would call to us from the open windows, "ello, ello", and I would respond chirpily. My friend Sheila would stiffen, sniff loudly and cross to the other side of the road until the hospital was out of sight. The young men were injured prisoners of war who had reached a stage of convalescence and were being taught sewing as therapy, a fact I discovered one morning as we exchanged our cheerful greetings. A small object was thrown to me; a many coloured, patchwork dog with a red lolling tongue. I was delighted. Sheila was disgusted and ordered me to throw it back. I thrust it into my pocket and all day in school I kept touching and squeezing it to make sure it was real. I was worried that, when I arrived home, my parents would take the same attitude as my friend, however they were quite happy for me to place it on the mantelpiece.

I thought about it long and hard but I knew I had to do it. I had to sacrifice my dog. Toys were difficult to come by in wartime and my young sister was dying of tuberculosis. She was delighted with the gift and I watched as she gazed at its little lolling tongue, its ears and tail.

I had made up my mind. The following morning after we had exchanged 'hellos' I stopped, and looking up at the window started my pantomime act. I rocked an imaginary baby, made sad noises and looked crestfallen. Almost immediately another leather dog was thrown into my hands.

I have often thought of those young men, far from home, who looked out of the window of their prison hospital and watched the chattering youngsters pass by, reminders of their own children, brothers and sisters. To respond with a smile, an 'ello' and gratefully accept the gift of two toy dogs still brands me as a collaborator in my friend's eyes.

Sheila and I had much in common. Our fathers were exempt from the services. Hers because of a youthful injury and mine because he was the Magistrates' Clerk and told us he was needed in case of outbreaks of crime or invasion. He enlisted as an ARP warden and strode off into the dark every night wearing his tin hat. My mother had no time for such protection. On nights when the sound of air raid sirens rent the silence she would bundle me and my brother into the cupboard under the stairs while she stood at the ironing board or the stove. Hitler wasn't going to stop her making sure my father's white shirts were crisp enough for court or stop her producing apple pies.

There wasn't much room in the cupboard, a veritable dumping ground. It already housed carpet sweepers, brooms, Kilner jars of bottled plums and tomatoes, the metal Last my father bought intending to repair all our shoes; I only saw him wrestle with it once. There was comfort in cuddling close together, the darkness accentuating the smells of leather, Cherry Blossom boot polish, Lux soap flakes.

Then came the night of shame. My father, always one for new fangled ideas, had discarded the idea of using blackout curtains and had commissioned an old joiner to make some framed black boards which fitted into each window of our house. The idea worked well on the flat windows but not so well on our rather fancy 30's bays. My father was on look-out on the flat roof of a nearby church, my brother and me closeted under the stairs, my mother ironing, when a loud bang alerted us. A blackout panel hit the floor and we were displaing a wide area of light. ALmost at once an ARP warden knocked on our kitchen door. 'Kill that light' he urged my mother. After many a frustrating night of blackboard failure, we resorted to old fashioned blackout curtains.

I'm sifting through my wartime memories. My sister died at two years just before the end of the war.My mother, father and brother are all dead. The leather dogs have long since lost their stuffing. I didn't have a dramatic war. Only one incendiary bomb landed in our small street. My fathers part-time accountancy practice, mainly for farmers and shop keepers, ensured a steady supply of black market goods.

This year I travelled to the Orkneys and visited the Italian chapel and next year I'll be off to Italy for an extended holiday.

We'll always be friends Sheila and me, even though I'll never convince her that I wasn't a collaborator.

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