Open Writing

Hearing the air-raid siren soon became a regular experience. My mother used to call it 'Wailing Winnie'. Fear disappeared after the first few air raids.

Unlike most of our neighbours, we didn't have an air-raid shelter of our own. If I was at home when Winnie wailed, then I went down underneath the table in the living room. If the sound of the bombs falling was heavier than usual, then my mother sent me beneath the old-fashioned sofa. I feared that more than the bombs because that was where Garry, the dog spent a lot of his time. If he happened to be there when I went in, then he would most probably bite me!

I don't know for certain why my parents wouldn't have an air-raid shelter. My guess is that Mum thought we would have to pay for it. I had for a long time realised that my mother was incredibly mean where money was concerned. Even getting my fourpence for milk-money to take to school on a Monday morning was difficult.

One air-raid remains very clear in my mind. I was a member of the Brownies and leader of the Pixies patrol. We held our meetings in the Parochial Hall in Church Street on a Friday evening. A little after six Winnie wailed. Arkela marshalled us into line, and marched us quickly to Saint Elphins the Parish Church and down into the crypt.

Mr Housegoe, the curate, was there that night. We children regarded him as a strange man. He was an albino. He was immensely tall and thin, with snow-white hair. Because he always wore a black, clerical surplice and dark glasses, we children, behind his back, called him 'Sandiman's Port' after the sinister figure with the black cape on the label of the Sandiman's port bottle.

This became the longest air-raid we had so far experienced. As Warrington was quite a large, industrial town I suppose it was only to be expected that we would be bombed. Plus of course, the fact that there was an Army barracks and a large Air Force training camp in the area. Manchester and Liverpool were bombed regularly and what bombs didn't fall on them, usually ended up being dropped on Warrington before the bombers wended their way home.

This particular night was very noisy - plenty of enormous bangs. Someone suggested a sing-song. We all sang our favourite songs and the others joined in. Mine was 'A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square'. Then we sang 'It's a Lovely Day Tomorrow', which Irene liked, and jolly ones, such as 'Roll out the Barrel'.

The one which topped them all was Mr Housegoe's effort. He had a wonderful baritone voice, something we girls didn't know about. He sang 'The Spaniard who Blighted my Life - tra-la-la!' He performed wonderfully well, accompanied by all the necessary actions. He had us all in fits of laughter - and brought the house down! We all shouted: "Encore! Encore!" And he sang it all over again!

We recited poems and told funny stories, and I recited 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes. All in the dark, ancient crypt of the Parish Church. Normally I would have thought the crypt to be quite frightening, but in the lamplight it became an enchanting place of entertainment. Nobody was frightened; it was all very exciting, and we viewed Mr Housegoe in a completely different light after that night. He became our hero.

When the all-clear went Arkela told us to go straight home as it was getting late. I turned right intending to run for home. At that moment two fire engines drove by and, filled with curiosity, I followed them. I walked up Church Street and saw a scene of devastation. The bombers must have been aiming at Rylands Brothers, the wire manufacturers. Instead of the factory, they had hit two houses on the left hand side of Church Street, the first one of which was where Irene lived. There was a policeman standing there and a lady with her arms around Irene.

Realising something terrible had happened; I turned round and ran all the way home. Our house was still standing; in fact I didn't see anywhere else that had been bombed. I expect most of the bumps and bangs had been gunfire caused by our anti-aircraft guns and I don't remember my parents being worried or anxious about me being out in an air-raid.

At school next morning everyone was saying that Irene's mother had been killed in the bombing. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't say anything about the crypt. Irene returned to school on the following Monday. Everybody made a great fuss of her. I found it hard to handle. When I spoke to Irene I said how sorry I was about her mother dying, but somehow I felt ashamed because I'd followed the fire-engines and witnessed her being comforted by the lady and couldn't talk about it.

That was just one incident out of many but really the only one that felt close to me.