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After Neville Chamberlain’s announcement on 3rd September 1939 that we were at war with Germany, we sat down and quietly discussed what it meant for us as a family. Brother Fred was in the Merchant Navy. Would he remain with that service or be called up for the Royal Navy. Peggy’s boyfriend was a member of a large Jewish family whose parents had emigrated from Russia. He certainly would be called up and would want to enlist quickly. Although they had not reached the stage of wanting to marry, the war had a profound influence on Charles who wished to marry immediately. It didn’t happen as Peggy had other boyfriends in tow. Charles very quickly received his calling up papers with a posting abroad. Shortly after, he was taken POW in Greece. I expected to be called up within a year. Mother would continue to work at St. Giles Hospital. Connie was manager of a baker’s shop in Choumert Road, Peckham and was probably safe because of age. Peggy would scheme to avoid working in a factory or in the land army. She worked at Fortnum and Mason and worked part-time in the evenings in theatre land.

Later we climbed the upper slopes of Telegraph Hill Park and watched the lights go out all over London and then made our way down the hill to the Marquis of Granby which was awash with bonhomie and much back slapping. As we made our way home I was overwhelmed with a feeling that things would look rather different on the morrow.

Gas masks were issued to hundreds of thousand of citizens. Anderson air raid shelters were offered to people willing to dig up their gardens and sink the shelter below the surface. Public shelters were installed in hundreds of streets. Mass evacuation of school children became a priority. The moving of children from their natural environment and separation from their loving parents brought pain, gloom and tears. This was a devastating new experience for everyone. My own niece Joan who was about seven years old was evacuated to Brighton. All this, together with the rapid development of the ARP force brought home to everyone how serious the situation was.

My firm, Telephone Rentals Ltd, who occupied two floors in Horseferry House, Millbank was turfed out of their offices when the Government requisitioned the building. We moved into a private school, the Abbey School in Beckenham. The pupils and staff had been evacuated to a safer area. The chairman WS Philcox moved into the headmaster’s study overlooking the spacious playing fields. Philcox cut an impressive figure, he had been the youngest pilot in the Royal Flying Corps. Son of a Bute manufacturer in Dundee, he had a privileged education and was and acted like a real Scottish grandee. 6’’ 7’ tall with a military bearing, with greying wavy hair and impressively handsome with a beautiful speaking voice and still only 40, he became my very first hero, possibly because I acted as office boy to him and his General Manager Richard Raikes who came from a Tory political family. They shared the same office which smelt of all kinds of pleasant perfumes. Alas, Raikes was killed in action and awarded the MC posthumously.

Most of the staff were at least several years older than me. Very rapidly, those eligible were called up and we had many farewell parties at the Three Tuns and late on when some returned on leave we had more joyful reunions. Leave time was precious and sometimes we would meet in the West End to save time. Marc with one arm had a liking for all things alcoholic was a natural social leader and took us into many interesting dives. Occasionally, he would announce we were being followed by some old ‘queens’ and he would lead them on as they would follow us into the pub or restaurant.

Beckenham was and still is a pleasant small town with many nice pubs. There was also a British Restaurant. These restaurants were sponsored by the Government to provide enough people had access to a meal at a reasonable price. Although the food was often boring and bland they were much valued as people used to queue up for these cafeterias. Socially, we seemed to settle for the Three Tuns in the High Street as our watering hole.

One had to learn how to move around in the blackout. Thank goodness that mugging was almost unheard of. The biggest change was walking into lampposts or shop windows especially if you were drunk. Another real hazard was the pea-soup fogs which regularly engulfed central London. On a unforgettable couple of nights we talked ourselves into the crypt of St Martins In The Field, a sanctuary and shelter for the homeless. There we were sleeping alongside of these gentlemen of the streets. Fortunately we were sensitive and we behaved ourselves — it would have been unforgivable if we had embarrassed these unfortunates. I little thought that 60 years later, I was to celebrate my 80th birthday in that very same crypt.

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