Chapter 7

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=200 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="12ad4c00dduajq.gif"> <div> <TABLE BORDER="0" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="0" WIDTH="95" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#C0C0C0" BORDERCOLORDARK="#808080" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 46 ><NOBR><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="46" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="91" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page </U></A></div> <bR> <div>  <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Times New Roman" >Chapters</FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id132.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Autobiography"><U>One</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id144.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 2"><U>Two</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id145.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 3"><U>Three</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id146.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 4"><U>Four</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id148.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 5"><U>Five</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id149.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 6"><U>Six</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id151.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 7"><U>Seven </U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id156.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 8"><U>Eight</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id158.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 9"><U>Nine</U></A></div> <div> Ten</div> <div> Eleven</div> <div> Twelve</div> <div> Thirteen</div> <div> Fourteen</div> <div> Fifteen   </div> <div>  </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="stan hedges homepage"><U>Home Page</U></A></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#FFFBF0" TEXT="#080000"> <bR> <bR> <div> <B>Chapter 7</B></div> <div> First Taste of War</div> <bR> <bR> <div> BY January 1941, so many families had moved out of London to escape the bombing that hundreds of houses now stood empty.  Almost every street in east Ham and Manor Park offered houses or flats to let, so that private landlords became desperate for tenants.  Consequently, Mum was able to secure an unfurnished upstairs maisonette in Stanley Road, Manor Park in no time at all, and at a reasonable rent.</div> <div>  The Blitz was at its height, and would continue for many months with hardly a day passing without hundreds of bombers attacking greater London.  But as already described, throughout 1939 the Ministry of Defence had made preparations for just such an event so that, long before war was declared, every public park and spare piece of ground large enough to accommodate a gun emplacement and battery hut had been requisitioned by the Ministry.  When Chamberlain spoke to the nation on 3 September 1939, the whole of London was already bristling with barrage balloons, searchlights and Ack-Ack guns.  </div> <div> Once over London, the bombers' main target was usually the docks: the East India and West India, but especially the Royal Group, consisting of the Victoria, Royal Albert and King George V docks.    Squadrons of bombers would fly up from the Thames estuary by moonlight, following the silver thread of the river until reaching the loop around The Isle of Dogs.  Once sighted, the cargo was released, and they turned for home.  No attempt was made to pinpoint these targets, which inevitably led to massive collateral damage in the surrounding areas of North Woolwich, Canning Town, Silvertown, Custom House, Plaistow, East Ham and Manor Park.  By the middle of 1941, acres of devastation could already be seen in all these areas;  whole streets destroyed by land mines and high explosives.  </div> <div> With their jagged remains open to the elements, I found the `half houses' saddened me the most, houses at the periphery of a bomb site; seeing bedroom furniture hanging out at crazy angles, wallpaper flapping in the breeze, the odd picture hanging askew.  </div> <div> For a small boy, it was fascinating to walk upon seas of glass and roof slates the morning after a heavy raid, but even more fascinating to stand watching the rescue and salvage squads crawling over the tangled masses of rubble and timber, searching for survivors.  Being subject to a small boy's heightened sense of morbid curiosity, I found it the finest entertainment imaginable, wishing all the time to dive in and take part.  For if the truth be known, most boys watched in hope of glimpsing something utterly gruesome and, if possible, still dripping with blood.  </div> <div> I did get lucky once.  On my way to school one day, being always on the look-out for anything unusual, I took a short-cut across a fairly recent bomb site.   I knew it had been cleaned up, but you never know, do you?  Suddenly I spied a small object on the ground that looked suspiciously like a finger; and, after stooping to pick it up, I found it to be precisely that!  I didn't like the feel of it much, but as it was most definitely a disembodied finger, I knew I'd cut a dash in showing it off to my mates at school.  So I wrapped it in a piece of old rag and popped it in my pocket.  Naturally, everyone was keen to see it at playtime.  They all crowded round, some brave, some not so brave.  Then some daft ha'porth offered me ten marbles for it.  Well, any fool knows a finger can't last as long as ten marbles, so I didn't hesitate. `Done!' said I.   </div> <div> It was 1943 before the air raids began to diminish somewhat, becoming sporadic, perhaps two or three times a week, but still mostly at night.  In fact, this state of affairs continued until the arrival of the VI flying bombs in early 1944, the ones we called 'Doodlebugs' in keeping with our national propensity to blind ourselves to the dangers of war by mocking anything too awful to contemplate seriously.  For instance, everyone must be aware that, according to the lyric, Hitler had only the one testicle, did he not?</div> <div> By the time we moved to Stanley Road the Luftwaffe had already switched to night raids. To be caught out at night during an air raid was always an ambiguous experience, filling one with a mixture of awe and fear, but such a grand spectacle for a youngster like me.  Even full of fear, it was easy to stand in wonder, mesmerized by the spectacle of it all; transfixed, exhilarated, astonished at the sight of dozens of shells exploding in the sky sending cascades of white-hot metal to fall upon the streets and houses below (for little boys to pick up in the morning and take to school for `swapsies').  Twice the size of a London bus, dozens of silver barrage balloons strained at their cable ends hundreds of feet above, each crew hoping to bring down any bomber brave enough to fly low for greater accuracy; while all around dozens of searchlights criss-crossed the sky, searching of the raiders.  Then to see a bomber isolated, illuminated, fixed between two or three co-ordinating batteries and watch as they followed the raider until the guns could bear upon it, and seeing the streams of white tracer bullets soaring into the night sky until some lucky crew were able to bring it down.  And, of course, when this happened, a great cheer went up from the spectators below.  The noise was indescribable; utterly deafening; painfully so.  Just the noise made by the guns was enough to bring down ceilings and blow out the windows of nearby houses, let alone the sound of exploding bombs.  </div> <div> Of course, in the morning, the first kids on the street got the best pieces of shrapnel, but, sadly Mum was always a late riser, so I didn't have as much luck as most. </div> <bR> <div> Home was sparse in those days.  After the bombing in Second Avenue, Mum recovered only her bedroom suite, sideboard, dining table and four chairs, plus our old-fashioned wireless set, (whose accumulator had to be recharged every month).  Soon after moving into Stanley Road, she acquired a fireside chair from somewhere but, needless to say, I was last in the pecking order for that luxury as Sid always pulled rank if Mum wasn't using it.  We possessed neither carpets nor rugs, just some cheap lino' on the living room floor with a piece of coconut matting in front of the fire; bare boards everywhere else.  </div> <div> It was a hungry time too.  We ate a great deal of bread and dripping throughout the war, but especially in the early part.  Bread and margarine (cart grease we called it) was almost a luxury, as was bread and jam, because jam was only possible during the early part of our monthly food rations.  Everyone looked forward to the first of the month in those days.  Orderly queues formed outside every shop as everyone prepared to fill their larder again, ready for a good old `nosh' before the food ran out and we returned to the normal condition of getting by on starvation rations.  </div> <div> Nor did we eat vegetables during the week, not in our house, even though they were never rationed; it was just that Mum cooked only one dinner a week, the 'Sunday roast'.  Only, in our case, more often than not it was sausages.  Though never rationed, homegrown fruit was scarce too, available only in season.  (Imported exotic fruits were almost non-existent until about 1947, two years after the war, and then only on ration).  If an occasional shipload of oranges got through from California the news would spread like magic and in no time the queue at the greengrocers might stretch a hundred yards, always being a case of first come, first served. </div> <div> Mum always tried to keep some porridge oats in the house.  Not that she had any intention of cooking them, you understand, for after giving us a shout, she seldom rose before Sid and I had already left for school.  Throughout the war she was either working late as a barmaid, or simply out on the town.  Either way, she was seldom home in the evenings, arriving home late in various states of intoxication.  Quite often she called us too late to think of doing anything but scramble out of the house without a wash or even a cup of tea.  But if there was porridge in the cupboard, Sid and I would make ourselves a pot when we got home from school.  It was a laborious business in those days (none of your instant stuff).  It was best to leave the oats soaking overnight, that way they took less time to cook.  But someone still had to watch the pot for twenty minutes or so, stirring all the time.  It made your arm ache something chronic, as we used to say.  I could easily see why Mum couldn't be bothered to go through all that every morning.  </div> <div> Thinking back, if it hadn't been for those awful school dinners, I daresay Sid and I would have become seriously malnourished.  I suffered constantly from boils, and often wincing with a painful sty.  I must have had boils on every part of my body at one time or another, though mostly on the back of the neck  -  no doubt due to wearing the same shirt for weeks on end, even in bed.  With only one pair of short trousers, shoes, socks, and one shirt, finding a convenient time to have Mum wash and iron them was never easy.  In the winter it was too cold to sit around stripped to the waist waiting for the return of the shirt, and in the summer we were out of the house playing with our mates most of the time.  </div> <div> You may have noted that I didn't mention underwear.  Neither Sid nor I had underwear until we left school, when we bought our own from the little pocket money Mum allowed us from our wages.  I can never forget my days of wearing socks full of holes (socks like cardboard, caked in dried sweat - Yuk!), and shoes with holes the size of half-crowns, packed with a fresh piece of cardboard each morning to keep out the wet for a little while.  </div> <div> I've never been a great fan of winter, but in those days no words could express my loathing; it was simply unbearable.  Even in mid winter we wore the same clothes with the simple addition of a pullover and perhaps a balaclava helmet.  No underclothes, no overcoat.  It still makes me shudder to think how many times I arrived in school with frozen, soaking wet feet, and having to sit in an unheated classroom, holding back tears of pain, trying my hardest not to shiver or move for fear of the cane.</div> <div> During the war I succumbed to measles, mumps, chicken pox, whooping cough (very nasty), jaundice (four weeks in hospital), and, lastly, scarlet fever.  This last was the summer of 1943, and was very serious.  I was eight, and almost died.  It meant spending six weeks in Whipps Cross Isolation Hospital at Leytonstone, the first four weeks of which I was in total isolation, lying alone in a small room, unable to receive visitors.  During those weeks the only people I saw were the nurses  - and they only to poke needles full of some new drug called penicillin into me.  Ironically, I remember that Bing Crosby's latest hit song, `Don't Fence Me In', was constantly on the wireless.  But the very worst part of the whole experience was the day I went home.  Mum, Ken and Sid had visited the previous weekend, and Ken had very kindly brought me a wooden tank that he'd made himself.  (He was always brilliant with wood, and he'd done a fine job as usual).  I played with nothing else all week.  So you can imagine my horror when Matron refused to allow me to take it home!  `It might be contaminated,' she said. The bitch!  What about my clothes?  If they could be washed, why couldn't my tank?  </div> <div> It was soon after moving to Stanley Road that I first remember Mum bringing home the occasional 'uncle' -  as she preferred to call her boyfriends.  Sid and I didn't mind, but for reasons I couldn't fathom (for she normally preferred me to sleep with her `to keep her company'), I had to sleep with Sid on those occasions,  which I didn't like much as he never lost an opportunity to remind me how much he resented my existence; so the less I saw of him the better.  I did give up complaining to Mum about him at some point, once I realized that all she would ever say was: `Well, it's your own fault, you shouldn't be such a misery'. </div> <div> Mum was forever changing her hair colour.  Mostly she preferred blonde, her natural colour, though found it necessary to apply peroxide on a regular basis to prevent becoming mousy brown.  Depending who the current female star of Hollywood happened to be, she might be henna, black or redhead.  I still see her getting ready for work in the evenings.  </div> <div> Now it must be said that Mum took great pride in her appearance until the very end, but during the war she had little choice but to compromise.  Even if available, silk stockings were out of the question (far too expensive), and she wouldn't be seen dead in lyle, so was reduced to painting her legs with some sort of tan lotion.   After painting them, she'd take up her eyebrow pencil and get Sid or me to paint a black line down the back, for seamless stockings were totally out of fashion. `And mind you get it straight!' After this, using a pair of steel tongs, she'd stand in front of the fire to commence the never-ending business of curling her hair.  Standing before the fire, she'd poke the tongs into the embers for a few minutes, then take them out and spit on them.  If the spittle skidded off, or even sizzled nicely, they were wiped off with newspaper and she'd commence curling the first streak of hair.  The process was then repeated over and over until she'd produced several dozen tightly rolled curls. The whole business might take an hour.  Once finished she would, quite unaccountably, comb them out and wrap her head in a scarf or turban.  For my part, I could never see the point.  </div> <div> The eyebrows were next, and when they were plucked and pencilled she was ready to begin the eye job.  For this she sat at the table with a tray of mascara in one hand and a tiny brush in the other.  After one or two spits to moisten the mixture, she'd take up a little of the concoction and, with eyes open wide, commence to alternate brushing and blinking to the accompaniment of the occasional `Sod it!' if a little mascara should bleed into her eyes.  Then it was face powder.  The room would fill with perfume as she dabbed away with the powder puff, then add a little rouge, smudged in to a nicety.  Lastly, she applied a vivid red lipstick, when it seemed to me that her mouth was capable of every conceivable shape and contortion known to man. `There!' she'd say, bright eyed, and rolling her lips. `How do I look?'</div> <div> As to boyfriends, I still feel a pang of guilt remembering the night Mum's younger brother Tom came home on leave from the navy.  He was about 26 at the time, and still a stranger to me.  However, the whole family had been out celebrating in Gran's favourite pub, The Ruskin Arms.  Afterwards, he gallantly escorted Mum home.  Sid and I were still up, as usual, though it must have been after eleven.  (Mum always said she didn't like coming home to an empty house, only sending us to bed if we happened to be `in the way'). </div> <div> `This is your <I>uncle</I> Tom,' said Mum.  But I'm afraid the loaded emphasis was quite lost on me, being far too young for abstract thought. `He's home on leave,' she added.  'Say hello, then get to bed so's him and me can have a good old chat.' </div> <div> `Oh, do I have to sleep with Sid again?' I asked.</div> <div> Her face reddened, and I thought she was about to get angry; though I couldn't think why, for I'd asked the same question a dozen times before without angering her.  But she wasn't angry.</div> <div> `What on earth's made you say that?' she replied, sounding not angry but very sad. `What sort of question's that?  Of course you're sleeping with Sid. Go on! Get to bed, and not another word,' sending me off with a clip on the ear.  I sulked for weeks after that one.  It seemed I could do nothing right where she was concerned.  Well, how was I to know she preferred keeping her private life private from the family?  And how could I know he was family?  Most uncles were of no account.  Here today, gone tomorrow.</div> <div> I especially remember a good-natured, very handsome seaman called Harry Budgen.  He was very good-looking, and had a nice smile.  He reminded me of Humphrey Bogart.  I liked him best of all.  Not only because he was generous to me and Sid, often giving us half-a-crown each when he left, but he was kind to Mum as well, often helping with the cooking.  We only saw him between trips, of course, but always enjoyed his stories about life at sea among the convoys crossing the Atlantic under constant threat of being suck by U-Boats.  Mum must have liked him a lot.  She used to say she'd marry him if only he wasn't married already.  </div> <div> Harry and Mum stayed in touch for several years, almost till the end of the war.  They remained in touch even after she took up with Johnny Nicholls, though clandestinely, for fear of Johnny's razor boys.</div> <bR> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id156.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Chapter 8"><U><B>Next Chapter</B></U></A></div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>