Red Skies Over London

Three hundred German bombers fly up the silver ribbon of the Thames to destroy London. Our Spitfire and Hurricane fighters meet them in the skies above. It's September 1940 and the Blitz is about to start. The Battle of Britain against Nazi Germany is at its height. We have been at war since September 1939 and this is an effort to force Britain to surrender. A threat of invasion as the skies burn red above the city; a massive conflagration as night after night the bombers return leaving behind piles of debris, skeleton buildings and many injured or dead.

Roger, my elder brother, is six months old and he and my parents stay put in the East End of London. I am not yet born. My father is in the Metropolitan Police Force - a "reserved occupation" in wartime, and he labours long hours in the bombed buildings of Mile End, Limehouse and Bow trying to help the injured, bring out the dead, direct the rescue teams and stop the looting.

Our house is about two miles from North Woolwich where the Royal Albert Docks were constantly under bombardment. Our road does not take a direct hit until June 1944 when we lose all the houses at the top of the road and the White Horse public house. The front of the pub is left standing, while the back is completely destroyed. Seven people were killed, fifteen seriously injured and one thousand homes damaged. The pub is not rebuilt until 1965, the bomb site a playground for adventurous children.

Our windows are blown out and Mum takes Roger and me off to Cornwall to stay with Aunt Margaret, my father's sister, for three weeks while they are replaced. Aunt Margaret keeps chickens (which are allowed) and a pig (which is not).

I have only one other war-time memory. The night sky is bisected by bright search lights as the air-raid sirens urge us underground. Down into the Anderson shelter we go. I have a hot-water bottle and Teddy Brown Eyes clutched in my arms as Mum tucks me into a small bunk. Our black and white cat Purr-kins is somewhere underfoot. It is damp, cobwebby and smells stale. I am only two years old, so it is an adventure and I am not afraid.

When peace is announced we have a wonderful street party with red, white and blue bunting and silly crepe paper hats.

There are dreary days of austerity, making-do and mending, and rationing is still in force. Food parcels continue to come in from our commonwealth friends, tins of pineapple, bags of sugar and packets of sultanas from Cousin Dora in Australia. When sweets finally come "off ration" five years after war has ended, I gorge on liquorice all-sorts and make myself sick.