The war as seen through the eyes of a child

I don't remember 25 August 1940 but my mother certainly did. Two 'happenings' of importance occurred that night. One, It is reported that the first bomb fell on the City of London (at Roman House Fore Street EC2 - a plaque marks the spot) and the second was that I was born in St James Hospital, Balham.

My mother told me that the sirens were going and the babies born that night were put in a box and 'stored' in the basement of the hospital until the 'all clear' sounded. One can only imagine the fear of the nurses and midwives on the ward that night.

Fast forward to the autumn of 1942. In order to get away from London, my grandfather had managed to secure rented accommodation for my mum, her mum, me, and my baby brother, on the Isle of Wight. We went to live in a lodge which stood in the grounds of a big house in Black-Gang. I don't actually remember going, I was not yet three, so my earliest memories of life started on the island.

I can remember many times there playing with my scooter on the drive and going shopping with my mum in the village of Chale. My dad was employed by Saunders-Rowe who was building landing craft. He was in the Home Guard and owned a Rudge motorcycle with a sidecar attached and which sported a Lewis machine gun. Was this the defence of the Island?! One day he told me to play in the drive and look out for the tanks. Of course, I did not know what a tank was but my dad told me that when I heard the noise, I would certainly know what they were. A little later I heard a very loud noise and ran and climbed onto the five bar gate and stood amazed as tank after tank went by. My dad made me one out of a block of wood with beer caps nailed around the edge as track wheels. I pulled it everywhere on a piece of string. To me as a child they were happy days. But then we come to early Spring of 1944 and everything was about to change.

It was a chilly morning and my mum had lit the stove. This stove, a black cast iron Victorian affair, stood in the living room (no lounges in those days) and the flue pipe went up into the ceiling void. My mum and my grandmother - 'Nanna' to me - were cooking in the kitchen and I was eating breakfast - Quaker oats. I remember my mum saying something is burning. I looked up and the corner of the ceiling was on fire. I shouted and pointed to flames on the ceiling. The next thing I remember was standing in the drive holding my Nanna's hand while my mum was running, under a pall of smoke, along the short corridor to get my brother out of the cot. After a moment she emerged through the smoke carrying him out. And sadly, that was the last thing I remember about living on the Isle of Wight and we returned to London.

We returned into what was known as Germany's Operation Steinbock or Baby Blitz as the Brits called it. We went to the home of my 'Nanna' in Mantilla Road, Tooting. There were my two aunts, one of whom my mum told me nursed me for twenty fours during the 1940 Blitz, and then there was my mum, my Nanna, my brother and me. Only on occasions did I see my grandfather as he was doing 'war work' in Plymouth. The house was very near Tooting Bec Hospital and there was a siren mounted on one end of the building.

Unlike the island, I don't actually remember what I did during the daytime but I do remember some of the nights. Often I was awoken with a start as a very loud sound filled the room. Next, my mother would be pulling me out of bed and wrapping a blanket around me and we quickly went downstairs. Of course, I did not know the reason for all of this drama but I did sense a degree of urgency about the whole exercise. We assembled in the kitchen. One aunt would pick up the thermos flask and freshly prepared sandwiches then it was it 'light out', and door open and we went out into the chill air. At this point we were less than 300ft from the siren and the noise was deafening. We made our way down the garden, brushed past the blackout material (which hung over the 'door') and entered the Anderson shelter. Someone lit a candle and the paraffin heater and the siren would play its last mournful note. Even now I still catch my breath when I hear a siren. I would normally fall asleep but on occasions I would hear the siren sounding the 'all clear'. Then the heater was turned off and the candle blown out. The sense of smell can be very evocative and if I am somewhere where a candle is snuffed out, by the host at a dinner party for example, then I am immediately transported back down the Anderson.

One day I went with my dad up to London. I don't know the reason for the visit but while we were there Big Ben struck the hour and apparently I said "Listen! Mummy has got the wireless on." Having never heard it for real of course, the only time I heard Big Ben was when the news came on the radio. The next bit I do remember very clearly. For some reason we had to go to some place along the Thames and take a water taxi. My dad suddenly told me to get under the seat. I did and sat holding onto his legs and looking at the man opposite. Very much later in life I asked him the reason why I had to sit under the seat and he told me that the siren had sounded (which I didn't remember) and if there were to be any danger he did not want me to see it.

My final memory of the war was Christmas 1944. My mum had made me a Father Christmas outfit and my job was to ring the door bell and, when the door opened, I was to announce that I had come to give out Christmas presents. I only remember what my aunt Annie had - it was a bar of Lux soap. And she was delighted. As a child I could not understand why anyone should get so excited over a bar of soap!