Open Writing

At the start of the war our family, like many other people, weren’t quite sure what to do. We didn’t qualify for an air raid shelter because we had two large cellars, stone steps into the house and stone steps up to the outside. We had some small windows and the usual coal chute.

After a while Grandad came from work with some men and a wagon. They brought into the cellar some heavy, thick pieces of wood, railway sleepers. These were erected at the bottom of the cellar steps, one up each side and one across the top. They were always referred to as the Marble Arch every time we went down below.

I went down many times. In those days no fridges and fitted kitchens. The bread was kept down below along with the milk, butter, etc., and it was my job to go up and down.

In the field opposite our house two big brick shelters were built. We children had been in once or twice, but they were cold and dark, had slatted wooden seats and had a funny smell; so we certainly didn’t play in there.

We had heard sirens a few times, but they were during the day and were practice ones.

Then in the middle of one night the sirens went. It was a proper one, not a practice. Grandma and I got up and got dressed, not Grandad. He stayed put. But Grandma put pressure on him not half, so he got up, very bad-tempered. But he obeyed, muttering not very politely about Hitler getting him up out of his warm bed.

When you look back, it was funny. Granny had looked through the blackout curtain and said she saw some neighbours going into those smelly shelters across the road and perhaps we had better join them. She then picked up a small case she kept under the bed. In it, would you believe, were a green cash box, insurance policies and grave papers.

I picked up the cat, who was asleep on his blanket on top of the fire boiler. He was as pleased as Grandad was at being disturbed and probably had a few thoughts of his own about Adolf.

Incidentally, he sat on my knee for about three minutes, then high-tailed it back home through a cellar window we kept open for him, a 1940’s cat door. He was closely followed by my grandad, who I don’t think ever got up again when the sirens went. A few more local people were in there, and I don’t think they ever went in again either.

That night in the shelter gave me what I thought was a terrible let-down. I suffered great disillusionment.

There was a lady in who I greatly admired. I fully intended to be like her when I grew up. She had very blonde hair, always had very rosy cheeks, wore very high heels and wore a fur coat. I thought she was like a film star. I had once heard her referred to as ‘fur coat and no knickers’. All that meant to me as a nine-year-old was that she must feel cold when she went out.

I saw this figure in the gloom and got the shock of my young life. The golden hair was covered in metal curlers under a headscarf. The rosy cheeks had gone. She was very pale, and her face looked greasy. The fur coat was replaced by a thick dressing gown. The glamorous shoes had gone, and she was wearing old carpet slippers.