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In the war my mother followed my father to any destination within the British Isles. There were five children, so it was quite an upheaval each time.
We went on the long journey to Rothesay in Scotland. My father, a submariner, met us at the station and took charge of the two heaviest cases. Now Rothesay is a very hilly town. As we followed the adults, and clutching our favourite toy or book, we could see our strong father getting slower and slower as he tired.
Eventually we reached the digs my father had found for us. On opening the cases, my father furiously shouted,
“What on earth is this, Kath?! A case full of shrapnel?!�

Mother said, “But Bob dear, I thought you’d like to seee them. I’ve labelled them all. See this one just missed the pram, that one made a hole in the outside privy, and that was inches from Bobby’s foot.�

As mother was explaining, my father’s face softened. She could always get round him. I think this memory is so vivid because my father rarely raised his voice to my mother. We had been so looking forward to being a family again and for a few moments in my child’s mind I thought a divorce was imminent.

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