大象传媒

My grandfather did not know whether any of his family were still alive. By day, he was the Head Doorman at the Regent Palace Hotel in the west end of London. By night, he was an Air Raid Warden for Church Road in Manor Park where he and his wife lived with their eight children. Many of his family lived in the surrounding roads.
It was what would later be recognised as the worst night of the Blitz in central London, and there was such devastion that no form of transport was working. The Police were not letting anybody into the east of London because of the debris and fires burning out of control. With his customary panache he dodged the coppers and walked for hours through the detonating bombs and falling masonary, fires and bodies, to reach home.

In the meantime, his oldest daughter Helen, who at about 22 was a supervisor in a laundry factory nearby, decided to fulfill his duty as Air Raid Warden for the evening. She had done it before and knew the route she had to follow to ensure the blackout was complete in her street.

Her 'beat' was Church Road, a long road with many dead straight side roads running off at right angles. On the corner of Church Road was a very large public house, much frequented by her numerous relatives, called The Avenue.

Grandad Cook arrived home in the early hours of the next morning, after an exhausting scramble through broken London, to find all the family safe in their Anderson shelter, to the relief of all concerned.

However, he was told the following story.

On this terrible night, just as Helen reached 'The Avenue', another bomb detonated mere yards away.

Blown off her feet, she was flung through the heavy double doors of the pub, landing fortunately upon a bar stool.

The barman coolly turned and handed her a double scotch, with the immortal words "Have a drink on us, love".

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