Open Writing

Arriving back in London, whether for the school holidays or any other occasion, I always felt a satisfying feeling of pleasure, of belonging. Coming out of the Oval Underground Station I saw the old, familiar landmarks with relief and with affection.

There, opposite, was St Mark's Church, solid and dignified; off to my right was the Greyhound pub; further up, on the other side of the Clapham Road, was the smelly Hayward's Pickle Factory and, ah! There beyond it, on the corner of Handforth Road, our house — home. After it, the large white building of Oppenheimer's Factory. 'There us be, you, home again,' I would say to myself.

The last time here, Dad had walked with me to the Oval Station when on my way back to Tonbridge. A policeman had advised us to take cover. Far above us in a cloudless, blue sky, had been the formations of German bombers shining and glinting in the sun, their white contrails stretching out far behind them, with other contrails from our fighter planes criss-crossing their flight paths.

At a far lower level were the many silver barrage balloons, for protection against low-level attacks. Now, as I arrived home, the Battle of Britain had turned in our favour but as yet was far from over.

Such were my thoughts as I walked up the Clapham Road, glancing sideways at the thick black paper, covering the empty spaces of the many smashed windows, and then at the sign blocking the entrance to Fentiman Road, nearly opposite our house: 'No Entry — Danger. Unexploded Bomb.'

But then I was home. Mother put her arms around my neck and gave a motherly kiss on my cheek with her traditional greeting, "Hullo, old darling, welcome home again." Then followed by the question asked with concern by all loving mothers, bless them, "Have you eaten anything, darling, are you hungry?"

Dad came down from his Consulting Room, with a big grin and his traditional greeting to his sons, " Hullo, you, 'ow bist?" and my reply, likewise in the Oxfordshire brogue, "Oi be foine, you, 'ow bist thee?" and with a hearty handshake as we both laughed with delight.

But meanwhile our dog, old Sandy, who ruled the household (except where Mother was concerned), had gone crazy with excitement, dashing off then dashing back again and dropping his ball at my feet each time. No peace until I threw it for him in the garden, so I did so, after inspecting the ground for any shrapnel. Home again, as though I had never been away.

There had been some changes: Dad had used his World War I experience, and in our dining room basement had arranged for thick wooden planks to be placed under the ceiling, supported in position by strong wooden joists. It looked like a mineshaft and we nicknamed it the 'Dugout'.

They had moved a bed into the corner and there in the Dugout they ate, slept and lived during the Blitz. I slept between the Dugout and the kitchen, on a box ottoman underneath the stairs, often the only intact place in a bombed-out house.

London during the Blitz would hardly seem to be the ideal location in which to spend one's school holidays, but I was born in London, I belonged to London and London belonged to me.

Samuel Johnson wrote: 'No, Sir, he who is tired of London is tired of life For there is in London all that life can afford.'

With the danger of constant, nightly air raids, his further quotation could well have been appropriate: ‘Prepare for death if here at night you roam and sign your will before you sup from home.'

The war had made a difference to the way people lived, but the accepted practice was that life should be carried on as usual. On the River Thames, the tugs still chugged importantly, towing dignified barges, and the murky waters flowed under London Bridge towards the sea while Big Ben, a benign sentinel, watched over us all and reassured us with its sturdy chimes.