大象传媒

The surface of the road was black tarred chippings and three inches from my nose. After a moment's shock I slowly raised my head: a scatter of Brussels sprout leaves appeared, and some large hairy hooves. The milkman's horse chomped contentedly in his nosebag above my head. Well, it had seemed a good idea at the time. I had been sure the horse would appreciate the sprouts that otherwise were destined for the 'Pig Bin' up the road, but had not taken into account my best shoes while running eagerly with my offering. Also my knees needed some attention.

It was 1940 and Uncle Stanley had come for lunch. Uncle Stanley, a Captain in REME, was on leave and thus due a special lunch. I picked myself up and looked down at my best frock (we didn't have dresses in those days). Oh dear! Mummy would not be pleased. I picked up the basin and limped up the long flight of steps to the house. Mummy didn't scold me, but then, though she sometimes cried 'You'll drive me potty!'; I wasn't much scolded and never remember being smacked.

We lived, my parents and I, in a pleasant, detached house on the outskirts of Guildford. The road was a cul-de-sac and led up onto the Downs; it overlooked the unfinished cathedral on Stag Hill in the distance. Down below one could see the Farnham Road with the Girls' Grammar School and its playing fields, and the hospital. Virtually nobody had a car in those days even in a prosperous road like this, though my friend-up-the-road's father had one - but then, he was 'in antiques'. So the road was quite empty, with no traffic to speak of and no parked cars.

Our garden at the back led onto a narrow lane bordered by hedges and trees which met overhead forming a green tunnel. Our neighbours on one side (whose house was much larger than ours) had a black and white cat called Whiskey and a tennis court on the other side of the lane, with a pavilion! Not that I ever saw anyone playing tennis there, or indeed anyone there at all except myself, who revelled in sliding down the steep grassy slopes along one side, no doubt getting green, grassy stains down the back of my skirt. But it was always kept mown, even in the middle of a war. Strange that.

Little things stick in the mind like being shown fireflies in the garden from my bedroom window, and having Whooping Cough (evidently very mildly) caught from my friend with the antique-dealer-father. Once when the two of us were playing at her house, her father brought home two jars of sweets, one for each of us, but I was miffed because hers were multicoloured and mine had only two colours. The ingratitude of children!

War, of course, was part of life, though, never remembering anything else - I was three when it broke out - I accepted it as how things were. In between Music While you Work on the Home Service at 11 o'clock every weekday morning (which always seemed to coincide with the noise of my mother Hoovering), were the news bulletins. The news seemed to be for ever 'on' - my father in particular being an addict. 'Despatches', 'Second Front' and the daily toll of bomber crews 'failing to return' mingled with the voices of John MacCormack, and Vera Lynn singing 'There'll be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover' and someone else singing 'You are my sunshine, my only sunshine'.

The first time bombs came near was scary. I had recently graduated from a cot to a new divan bed and was soundly asleep one night when I was woken by the most horrible sound - monstrous great hollow explosions seemingly almost overhead, then gradually retreating to silence - a stick of high explosive bombs had been loosed upon the outskirts of the town, certainly not aimed at anything in particular, probably coming from some lost or fleeing bomber anxious to get rid of his load.

My father, gathered me up and we all went downstairs to spend the rest of the night in the dubious shelter of a passage under the stairs which led to the dining room. Having ventured upstairs to look out of the front bay window, he reported that the skyline was ablaze on the far side of the downs in the direction of something he called 'Henley Fort'. Later on I saw the huge chalky craters stretching across the downs like some giant's footsteps; the unfortunate inhabitants of Farnham Road running along the bottom, had their roofs blown off and subsequently spent many months under the cover of tarpaulins.

An even more scary occasion happened one day just after lunch. My mother was washing up in the kitchen while I played next door in the rear sitting room in front of the fire. I was aware first of a distant boom, then my mother called me into the kitchen; something in her tone made by obey at once. We both crawled under the kitchen table and waited, I could not tell for what. We were facing the open kitchen door and gazing up the hallway to the front door. Suddenly there was a cacophony of noise, bangs, explosions, smashing glass; my heart leaped into my throat, what on earth was it? When all had been still for a short while, we ventured from under the table and gingerly began to explore. The first discovery was a squashed looking bullet on the front door mat. Up the stairs we crept, hardly daring to proceed. There were scrapes down the stair walls; cautiously we pushed open the front (guest) bedroom door. What a sight met our eyes - glass, holes and gouges everywhere. Most of the glass was out of the bay windows; a bullet had hit the back of the triple mirror on the dressing table, smashing the glass and sending it showering up to the now shredded ceiling, then to descend onto the eiderdown. That bullet had then, very cleverly, passed between the bars of the radiator and embedded itself in the wall. The other had ricoched off the wall, through the door, ricoched again and landed by the front door. Hardly a house in the road had escaped damage, yet not a soul was injured. Having flown the length of the road on the hillside, the pilot then espied the playing fields of the girls' school below with the tempting target of a hockey match which he proceeded to fire upon. Again, miraculously, no one was injured. It seems that the lone plane had first dropped its last remaining bomb on a train standing at Shalford station, a couple of miles away, and here, I believe, a number of people were killed.

One day I learnt that there was to be a rehearsal for something called 'an invasion'. My parents had serious faces - regulations regarding the rehearsal were draconian. For one thing there was a curfew (I do not recollect for how long), so my father could not catch the train to work and no shopping could be done. Barrage balloons loomed over the town like inflated elephants, sirens blared, there were practice 'gas attacks' in the streets and goodness knows what else I never heard about. Neighbours stood about talking quietly and peering over the town, but there was not a lot to see. Obviously, an invasion was not a good idea.

Our neighbours on the other side, the Birds, (the one's without a cat called 'Whiskey') were referred to as 'Dicky' Bird by my father. There was a Mrs Bird, but she was never referred to as anything. 'Dicky' Bird had an Anderson shelter in the garden (where else?) and early on in the war, when the sirens were frequently sounded for no apparent reason, we were invited one night to share the safety of this shelter. It consisted of an inverted U-shaped structure, partially underground (thus enabling it to be permanently damp, if not actually flooded) and covered by a layer of soil or sand bags. With a faintly party air, we ensconced ourselves on the wooden benches down the sides and awaited developments. I was given a banana (it must have been early in the war!) and we waited. And waited. After about an hour, it was mutually decided that comfort was preferable to the somewhat dubious safety, and we all went back to bed. We never used the shelter again - I don't know if the Birds did.

My father, during those years, was head master at Surbiton Central School on the outskirts of London; this necessitated a considerable train journey (at the best of times, around 45 minutes) often subject to delays and cancellations. Despite this, he would frequently come home for a meal in the evening, only to depart again (complete with 'tin' hat) to do a night's fire watching. How he was then able to do a day's work has since puzzled me. My mother, too, was a teacher, though at this time - thanks to me - only part time. Nevertheless, the strain of delivering me to my kindergarten (on foot, of course), getting to school, teaching, shopping, cooking, cleaning and all the other chores, proved too much on one occasion after she had stood at one cold bus stop too many. She got pneumonia. Fortunately for her and my father and me, a new drug had recently been invented - M & B - and this saved her. Apparently my father stayed at home to look after her, since I recollect one occasion when he was providing some food - I don't know how, since he couldn't cook - and dropped a tea towel into the gravy, resulting in loud expostulations which I was not familiar with.

One day my mother brought home a Canadian soldier whose name was Michael O'Halloran whom she had found wandering disconsolately in the town, on leave and knowing no one. I recollect that he subsequently visited us on several occasions, when my parents entertained him to a meal and an evening's companionship. Later, he was to reappear at a most opportune moment.

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