大象传媒

I was one year old when the second world war began, living in a terrace house in a northern suburb of Manchester. The bedrooms did not have carpets, only rag rugs, made by our mother from old coats, placed at the side of our bed on top of the patterned oilcloth. In the coldest winter months ice formed in pretty, fern-like patterns on the inside of the windows which could be scratched off by tiny finger nails; mine and my sister's. The only source of heat in the house was the fire in the living room.

My dad, thank god, was never called up for military service but on our house was painted ARP. I seem to remember he was called a Warden, and we had a hand-operated water pump in case of fire caused by explosions. One night, during the blitz, he was on the roof of a factory and, the story goes, when a bomb exploded close by he was knocked off his feet and the buttons of his jacket flew off.

On another occasion he went for a pint of beer with my grandfather to a local pub and as they walked home a german aeroplane flew the length of St Mary's road, a gunner firing bullets at them, until they dived for cover under a railway bridge which crossed the road.

My father's closest friend, serving abroad, killed himself by shooting a bullet into his mouth and the pain my father and mother felt was palpable.

My mother, always ready to help, bought some eggs for an elderly neighbour, and despatched my sister, then about five years of age, across the field at the back of our house to deliver them. When she was half way there a damaged german plane flew so near to the ground my sister fell flat on her face in the grass. She was not injured but I think the eggs were broken and the plane finally crashed some miles away, killing the crew I imagine.

One event clearly etched on my memory, although I was probably only about three years of age at the time, was during an air-raid, when mum ushered my sister and I down the stairs, put on our "siren suits" and took us out to the Anderson shelter. (Dad must have been on fire-watching duty.) Our next door neighbours were an elderly married couple and they joined us in the shelter. My sister and I were getting giddy, a common occurrence, jumping about, giggling and my mother, aware we were irritating our neighbours, told me to shut up, to sit down and gave me a push which propelled me onto the wooden bench. Unfortunately my head was thrown back and came into contact with the edge of the corrugated iron sheet. I sustained a gaping wound and, to this day, can remember being carried out, in my mother's arms, looking up at the flashes in the sky, hearing our guns, in a nearby park, firing bullets up into the night sky. I still have the dinge in my skull.

Life was hard back then but we lost nobody from our family. We were fortunate. However, I remember the fear engendered by the sound of aircraft, calling for my father during the night, when he would slide into our bed, between me and my sister and his presence was all we needed to make us feel safe.

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