大象传媒

I was born in Stanmore, Middlesex in 1938. My mother, father (John Albert Austin Jay) and I lived in a small flat just off Honeypot Lane. Dad was called up to join the Grenadier Guards when I was a year old and the night before he was due to leave England he and Mum went to the Brasserie in the Strand, London. This was a dance hall where live music from an excellent band entertained those who wished to dine and dance. Mum made a special request for 'We'll meet again' to be played but the band leader apologised saying they did not have the sheet music for it. Dad departed next day for somewhere unknown and did not return. He was killed in action in Belgium and his well-kept grave in a war cemetary in Esquelmes, Belgium has often been visited by family members. It's strange seeing my surname on a gravestone in Belgium. Because of my age I cannot remember my father but everyone speaks highly of him to this day. All Mum knew of him following his departure was that he was in France - he sent her a postcard with a coded postscript saying 'Fancy Renee And Norman Claiming Everything', the initial letters giving away his location. He was reported 'missing presumed dead' for some time before the dreadful news reached my mother. By then I was just over two years old and my earliest memories are from the time when I recall regularly saying "Two and a half, three in March" when asked my age. I recall the early days of living with my grandparents in Murray Road, Ipswich, as my mother had joined the Womens Royal Air Force. My grandparents had already brought up seven children of their own and five of these were in the armed forces helping the war effort.
Living in Ipswich at a time of war held no fears for me as I had known nothing else, In fact I have some very happy memories of that time. Flying bombs from Hitler, enemy aircraft overhead, big bombs and incendiary bombs all played a part of the daily routine. It was also routine to be woken up in the night because of warning sirens and being taken to the end of our small garden where a 'dug-out' shelter had been created by my grandfather and uncle Jack just after the war started and before Jack went off in the Navy. The dug-out was damp and had frogs inside. It was literally a huge hole in the ground with muddy steps leading down where we sat under a corrugated roof covered in the soil that had been hollowed from the ground. We had to sit there on mud ledges covered in wooden slats until the all-clear sirens were sounded. This would often mean a wait of an hour and sometimes we would hear bombs landing nearby. One night two incendiary bombs went through the roof of the house next door. From my point of view, as a young child, it was an inconvenience and I would be glad to get back to my bed.
Mum used to visit me occasionally and I recall being excited about seeing her. Just before one visit I remember being given two small squares of chocolate, one of which I ate and the other I tried to save for her. I nibbled at the edges of hers rather frequently, keeping it in a matchbox in cotton wool. She laughed loudly when she saw its remains and insisted I ate it -well at least the thought was there!
Life with my grandparents was fine. I had a three year old girlfriend along the road who came to play and there were trips to the cinema with my grandmother. She was a film 'nut' and for the sake of peace and quiet would provide what she called a 'nosebag' for me. It was a paper bag with biscuits and anything else that would hopefully keep me quiet for as long as possible.
Special treats were a boiled egg (we knew someone with chickens!), a sugar sandwich (literally bread butter and sugar), and one day I recall my grandmother mashing a cooked parsnip and adding banana flavouring to give me a banana sandwich. Now that was special!
I remember the time that news came of Uncle Jack. His ship HMS Electra had been sunk in the Far East. It was believed there were no survivors. Jack was the youngest son of my grandparents and they were terribly worried. Nothing was heard for a year and then, out of the blue, a telegram arrived from Australia. Jack was one of only seven survivors and he had managed to swim ashore to Java. He walked across the island and eventually made contact, somehow, with an Australian submarine. He was rescued and eventually came home to a huge welcome. Apart from my father there were no other casualties in the family which must have been a huge relief at the time. When the war ended in 1945 we received a communication from Berlin. From 1930 my family had been pen-friends of a German family who had remained in Berlin throughout. Somehow they too had survived and, to this day, through the generations we are still close to that family. In my early childhood I recall that I could trust everyone. No one spent time moaning about problems - everyone helped everyone else. There was a feeling of relaxed happiness and, when the war ended, the street party was fantastic. Everyone hugged and I felt as if I were part of a huge family.

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