蜜芽传媒

I was not yet four years old. My father was somewhere in France or Germany and we were living in my grandmother鈥檚 house in Liverpool in one of the rows of terraces that lead at right angles from the Mersey. It had been an exciting day with the soldiers from the local barracks marching through the streets behind their band 鈥� I have a vague memory of plain reddish-brown kilts, a regiment from Northern Ireland perhaps 鈥� and now I was fast asleep in bed.

It was dark when my mother woke me and carried me over to the window to look down into the street. Someone had dragged a piano onto the pavement and our neighbours 鈥� mostly women - were singing and dancing to the music. From the river came the whooping of the ship鈥檚 hooters and, with no more regard for the blackout, light poured onto the street from the windows and doors picking out the pig swill bin, where we tipped our potato peelings and occasional heel-ends of stale bread, and the air raid shelter built in the middle of the street.

My mother said:鈥� I want you to remember this all your life.鈥� And I have.

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