大象传媒

Because the war had started when I was just three years old, I had no knowledge of what a 'normal' childhood was. My almost first memory was of my mother crying and clinging on to my dad as he went through the front door dressed in a strange uniform. I cried too but didn't know why just that the whole occasion was very traumatic.

Over the next couple of years as I began to understand that something was not quite 'right'. We had to keep all the curtains tightly closed at night as soon as the light was put on, Mum had to put strips of brown sticky paper over the windows, she had started to put things in the large space under the stairs - tins of food, bottles of water and a tin with bandages in it. Every time we went shopping there were queues at every shop and indeed she would join any queue without knowing what was on offer just so she wouldn't miss anything. Sandbags mysteriously appeared outside and inside shops with buckets of sand.

At about the age of six I really knew what war was all about. Columns of American soldiers would pass the bottom of our road on their way to their base at Warrington and we would sit on the wall shouting to them "got any gum chum" and one or two would laugh at us and yell "here you are kid" and throw us a packet or two. We thought they were wonderful and how good that gum tasted. The only sweet we were able to obtain was liquorice stick which we sucked and sucked until all the taste had gone and it was all stalk.

During the summer months out teachers would take us walks and we would pass an Italian prisoner of war camp. We felt so sorry for them and would smile and wave and in return on many occasions they would throw us small presents made out of carved wood which must have taken such patience and we treasured them. They had made a little church out of white stones and even at that age I was struck by its delicate beauty.

Then the war really hit us. A small way out of our town and not very far from our house was an amunitions factory. The Germans soon got to know about this and night after night their planes roared about out house dropping their bombs. How we learnt to dread the sound of the siren warning us of an air-raid. Then I found out the reason for Mum having put all the bottles and tins under the stairs. Any time of day but mostly at night the siren would sound. At night we would be hauled protesting from our beds (my elder brother and myself) dressed in our siren suits and taken down under the stairs. We would sit on a mattress waiting, waiting for the sound of those dreaded planes and the screeching and crunching of the bombs as they fell. Mum would give us a treat of biscuits from the tim to try to take our minds off what was happening but it was a fairly futile gesture. The disturbed nights meant no respite, for early next morning we would be called for school and sleepy and tired we would make our way, passing the latest effects of the bombing and seeing gaps in the road where the house no longer stood.

Then the local Council brought round a lady who needed a room as she had lost her house and worked in Manchester. We had a room to spare and she moved in. She was pleasant enough but it meant an end to our noisy way of life, she was unused to children and my Mum went to great lengths to keep us quiet and not upset her. Fortunately, she was with us for only about a year and then left. We had felt greatly restrained.

Christmas and birthdays were always disappointing although we had learnt not to expect much. Toys were unobtainable and books far between. My grandparents would make our toys - a wooden dolly with handmade wooden bedroom furniture thrilled me and my brother loved the wooden cars etc my grandfather made. Those along with one orange and a chocolate biscuit were all we would have.
All our clothers were hand-me-downs and summer sandals would have the toes cut out to last longer.

I was unaware of how gradually the years passed and the war passed on to Europe and we had some peace. I remember the day my father returned home having survived the war and brought a souvenir with him for me a little treasure which I have to this day. An Italian prisoner of war with whom my father had become friendsly had given him a home made cross about 8 inches high by 5 inches wide. He had made the base out of wood and covered the whole thing in the most beautifully carved mother of pearl with the central figure of Christ. I often wondered from where he had got the mother of pearl and how long it took him to carve it out.

As I grew older and left school and went to work, I often took out that cross and pondered as to he was, did he survive the war, did he have a family and did he live in peace afterwards like our own family. It seemed to me to be a symbol of hope for all families everywhere.

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