Open Writing

How It Was

The school bell rang at 4.00 pm signalling home time. It was a cold winter’s day in England, and most of the children, like myself, were not dressed warmly enough. Some dawdled along the way, but most of us hurried home, in the deepening gloom of an icy November evening.

Home was not far. My five year old legs carried me over the railway bridge, past the Methodist church, and across Sunderland’s main road. It was not busy in those days and the children walked together for safety.

I lived with my grandmother in a terraced house, which was home to three families. My mother had died when I was a baby and my father was serving in the army.

The lamplighter was outside our house, as I ran up the narrow garden path. He waved to me as he reached up with his long pole and switched on the gas lamp. It flickered gently, casting a warm glow over the rough brickwork of No 2, Green Terrace.

I walked through the communal hallway, with its covering of faded apple blossom wallpaper. My gran was busy in the kitchen ironing clothes with her heavy flat iron. The acrid smell of carbolic soap lingered in the air, drifting in from the poss tub in an outbuilding. A kettle was hissing gently on the black leaded stove, while around it washing dried slowly on a dismal Monday. I much preferred Tuesdays, when I would arrive home, to the delicious aroma of baking bread and cakes wafting through the kitchen.

My gran smiled. She was not a demonstrative person, but I knew she cared about me. Tall and thin, dressed in black with a gaunt face, she poured me a cup of tea. Then, just as we were about to sit down, the siren went off with its strident clanging noise. It always made me leap about 3 foot in the air. Terror gripped my heart, an air raid attack was imminent, and we fled to the cupboard under the stairs.

Almost immediately a convoy of planes thundered overhead. All the crockery in the cupboard began to shake, along with gran and I who were clinging together for comfort. Bombs were dropping nearby, perhaps a street away. We were afraid to talk, but eventually the all clear siren signaled a welcome release from our sanctuary.

I never knew the outcome of this fearful event. How many people were killed? Which homes were flattened, or the extent of the damage. Such details were not discussed in front of children. Life went on as though nothing had happened.

My granny died a few months later. I had never realized how ill she was, or how hard it must have been for her to care for me.

The war continued for several years, with rationing, poverty and families split apart indefinitely. I went to stay with my Aunt Jenny in London, but that’s another story.

How It Could Have Been

SUNDERLAND ECHO - NOVEMBER 10, 1942

A full page was devoted to the dramatic lead story. There were several pictures of rescuers pulling survivors from the rubble. The main headline in large bold type screamed out to its readers: GREEN TERRACE SUFFERS BOMB ONSLAUGHT.

The article went on to state: Three houses in this quiet street, were badly damaged in yesterday’s air raid. It is thought the air convoy was heading for Tyneside docks, where ship building was in progress.

Only the end house was completely demolished, and it is believed the elderly couple living there, could not have survived the attack. Most of the unfortunate residents, involved in the ordeal, have been pulled to safety. They are homeless, but safe, and are recovering in hospital. Medical staff say the injured are mainly suffering from cuts, bruises, and broken limbs. A factor in their recovery is the amount of shock sustained.

Lavinia Cleghorn who spoke to one of our reporters, said that she and her grandaughter Stella were lucky to be alive. They had taken refuge in a cupboard under the stairs, and when rescued, were covered in broken crockery.

It will be a long time before these families recover from the trauma of such a frightening attack. Most of their menfolk are in the army, and the women cope with insurmountable problems.

Our thoughts and prayers will be with them in the months ahead.

How It Should Have Been

A FAIRY TALE - DIVINE INTERVENTION

The Angelic Host had been contacted, via thought transference, from a higher source. A meeting of the utmost seriousness would take place on cloud 19, at 0.8 hundred English hours. Only 14 angels were able to spare time from their busy schedule. They were however, devoted world workers and approached the problem with dedication.

Angel Michael, convenor of the meeting, was very concerned about a young boy growing up in Germany, who was showing signs of anti social behaviour. His name was Adolf, and while his mother Klara was overly protective, there was very little affection between father and son.

Adolf wanted to follow the arts, and his father Alois was adamant the boy would become a civil servant. The youngster was becoming withdrawn, lacking in confidence, and given to uncontrollable rage. A classic case of low self esteem. Looking at his birth chart, those in higher places had estimated that Adolf could become a serious force for evil, and a danger to civilisation itself.

In these circumstances was it possible, or wise for the Angelic Host to intervene. There was a lot of muttering about free will. Lucifer even thought a bit of suffering was good for the human soul. However, because there was a tie, Archangel Gabriel was called in for the casting vote. The verdict - a second chance for humanity!

Young Adolf’s father passed on when the boy was 14. The Angelic Host moved into action providing him with a mentor, who was also a doctor. This man of character nurtured Adolf’s talents, and made sure that appropriate medicine was available for his moods. Infact, because of his wise and kindly advice he became a great family friend.

And so it was. The troubled young man immersed himself in art, and became a portrait painter of some repute. There was no Nazi party. No invasion of Poland, and very little discord between European countries.

The day on which war would have been declared, passed without incident. Except for the ringing of bells all across the land, which many thought sounded like heavenly music.

Cloud 19, which had been immortalised by the Angelic Host, shed a few tears. The earth below, delighted in this blessing, and brought forth bountiful supplies for mankind.

Perhaps they were becoming civilised, the cloud thought. Only the future would tell