大象传媒

My father was ahead of his time :- in the 1930鈥檚 he 鈥渄ropped-out鈥� of a career as an aeronautical engineer to become a poultry farmer and veterinary practitioner (PDSA trained) near Boscastle in North Cornwall, where I was born. At the outbreak of war, however, he returned to his 鈥減roper鈥� profession, and although poor eyesight prevented him from joining the RAF, he was employed by the Air Inspection Department and seconded to the airforce, inspecting damaged 鈥楤ristol鈥� aircraft before they returned to service after repair. This meant that he was posted to different parts of Britain at very short notice.

Initially I was left, with an aged great-aunt, on a neighbouring farm at Trevalga, where I more-or-less ran wild, with virtually no supervision (- at 3 years old ?!!!), until one of my uncles, a doctor stationed at St. Mawgan, reported back to my parents. With scant ceremony I was bundled up and taken up to their current flat in Bristol: in Filton, near the airfield, in November 1940 鈥� not a good date:- I remember being put to bed, and noticing the huge crack across the ceiling; before my mother had time to tuck me up, the siren went and my father put his head round the door to say that I should go to bed in the Anderson shelter instead. I never did get to sleep in a proper bed while we remained in Bristol.

In 1940 Bristol was subjected to 鈥渟aturation鈥� bombing:- the incendiary bombs would be dropped first, and then wave after wave of enemy bombers would drop their loads on the illuminated targets 鈥� principally the docks and the airfield. My parents had already been bombed out of two flats before I joined them, and in the January (1941) yet another raid left us with an unexploded bomb in the front garden 鈥� fortunately the shelter was in the back garden ! Fortuitously, my father had been due to transfer from Filton to the 鈥楤ristol鈥� shadow factory at Oldmixon, near Weston-super-mare, and a nearby cottage was shortly to be available, so off we went鈥︹��.

That night, Bristol docks had received their worst night鈥檚 bombing of the war: the centre of the city was an inferno, and all the road bridges leading out were either already burning or blocked 鈥� with one exception: Clifton Suspension Bridge escaped, so we went that way. I vividly remember that journey. My father had a government issue van for his job, and into it we crammed, with any possessions we had been able to rescue, plus two dogs (all that my mother had kept from her pre-war breeding kennels ). Also in the back of the van with me and the dogs was a jerry can of petrol. I can still smell that petrol, and recall the horror of driving across the bridge with all those flames as far you could see, and being terrified that somehow the can of petrol would explode.

For the next few years we moved from parts of Somerset, to different postings in the Midlands, sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months; sometimes we lived in flats, sometimes we shared houses, sometimes we had bed and breakfast in farmhouses. By the summer of 1942 my father had taken responsibility for a large area of eastern Scotland, and for a time we settled in Edinburgh 鈥� where I was able to start school ( still speaking with a broad North Cornish accent !! ). I enjoyed Scotland : school was a modern kindergarten in the Pentland Hills outside Edinburgh, and we were able to accompany my father to outlying air-stations in different parts of Scotland 鈥� although there were often long cold waits outside the main gates. Sometimes we were permitted to enter, and I remember being hoisted up into the bomb bay of at least one Lancaster, and being allowed to sit in the cockpit of a Lysander 鈥� I loved the 鈥渟pats鈥� over its wheels ! We even met the then Queen Mother, chauffeur-driven in her stately Rolls through the narrow lanes 鈥� and received a gracious wave !

Scotland didn鈥檛 last 鈥� my father鈥檚 next posting was to Yorkshire, and at that point it was decided that the family (my mother, me 鈥� and the dogs ) should have a more stable base, and we went to live with my paternal grandmother in Suffolk : a wonderful L-shaped Elizabethan house belonging to, and ruled by, by great-grandmother. We had one half of the L to ourselves, and that remained my chief home for the rest of the war, for although I was sent to boarding school when I was 6, and my parents moved on again, my mother working as a billeting officer now that I was no longer underfoot, I spent weekends and holidays with my beloved 鈥淕ran鈥�.

East Anglia in wartime had its compensations for children : surrounded by American Air Force bases, we were 鈥渁dopted鈥� by young officers missing their own young families, and whisked off for Xmas parties with all the trimmings, taken out for treats, and given birthday parties with entertainment and 鈥渃andy鈥� for all the youngsters, with presents sent over for us by wives and mothers in the States. On the other hand, we lay awake in our dormitories every night, listening to the roar of planes as they took off for their sorties over Germany, and some of our friends never came to see us again.

During holidays either my grandmother or my headmistress would put me on a train, label tied to my lapel, in the care of the guard, and off I鈥檇 go, meeting my mother in London and going on to spend a few weeks wherever they happened to be living : the 鈥渉olidays-at-home鈥� scheme coincided with quite a long spell in Bedford; and the final Easter holiday of the war was spent back in Somerset in Yeovil, in a minor heat-wave, only to find snow falling when I got back to school in Norfolk.

May 1945 : VE Day : because the 大象传媒 news was compulsory listening, on which we were tested, we were aware of the progress of the war. We all dressed as far as possible in red, white and blue, and were allowed to spend the afternoon in the local park :- where, to our amazement, there was a boxing match between two Americans, one black and one white 鈥� never had the two groups ever been allowed to meet previously. Obviously we were unaware of all the implications but it left a strong impression, and stressed the day鈥檚 importance.

Summer 1945 : left boarding school for good. For once my father collected me from school and we drove home together to Somerset: as it grew dark, he stopped the car on the brow of a hill and pointed out all the lights coming on in all the houses and villages : a trivial moment ? for the first time in my life I was looking at street lighting after a childhood of blackout .
Incidentally, I had now had 32 different 鈥渉omes鈥� !

VJ Day 1945 : by now my father had returned to full civilian life and was back at Filton working for the Bristol Aeroplane Company, as it was then, on the development of the famous 'Bristol Brabazon鈥�. We were living on the Somerset levels. On VJ day we had a former university friend of my father鈥檚 and his wife staying, and in a recurrence of student spirits, a celebration was planned : at midnight we drove up to the foot of Brent Knoll, the only hill in the district, climbed up carrying candles and lanterns, and walked round and round the summit, like ancient spirit worshippers ! As far as I know, the adults never confessed to anyone, and the appearance of those ghostly lights has gone down in local mythology.

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