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As a child I can remember lying under our shelter, in NW London, with my mum and my brother. As the sirens went and the heavy bombers droned over our head on the way to the London Docks, Mum would say 'It's alright they're ours, they won't hurt us or daddy, who was fire-fighting on the roof of the Admiralty building'! The sound of bombers still sends a shiver down my spine sixty years later.

Sitting in the classroom - sirens going off - 'Pick up your reading books', says Miss Lockwood our primary school teacher. File quietly, in a line outside and across to the shelter on the edge of the playing field. Down the steps into the dusty, brick smelling interior. 'Open your books and read quietly.' Pages rustling doodle bugs above - Then 'All Clear' - Close your books and file quietly back to the classroom. An average morning! A wonder that any of us learnt to read with such daily disruptions. But what solace then and throughout my life since books have been.

Getting used to this war, whilst attending my friends 6th birthday party the sirens start up... 'oh no, just as we were sitting down to jelly and cakes' - rare treats during the rationing days. 'Doodle-bug coming' says my friend's dad and we are trooped outside to the shelter - stopping in the garden on the way to watch the rocket streak across the housetops - chugging away with flames coming out of the end of it. 'Cor look'! and there we all stood watching this lethal weapon that could have stopped and dropped at any minute. We had to be hustled into the shelter, we were enjoying the sight. Quite a memorable birthday.

Mum grew beautiful standard roses in our small NW London garden. Each summer a small neighbourly gesture took place. Mum would pick the first roses and I would take them a few doors down the avenue to our neighbours house where she would thank me, offer me a cold drink, and fill a large glass vase with the roses. She would then place the vase on her piano next to a beautifully framed photo of a young sailor, her son, who had 'gone down with his ship' - missing believed dead. One of many tragedies that we as children witnessed and shared within our small community.

"This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Carien Kremer of Epping Forest District Museum on behalf of Babs Levett and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions."

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