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5) THE SUMMARY OF GILLIE’S STORY — From her South African home she reminiscences about her Father’s work in the War Office. How he met her Mother — working as a volunteer waitress in the Serviceman’s Club, “St Stephen’s” Club in London - and their whirlwind romance and wedding. She also writes about her own birth, her unusual layette made from surplus fabric imprinted with secret War Office plans and her later evacuation with her Mother to Bath, Avon, returning to London in time for the last onslaught of Hitler’s bombs…
GILLIE’S STORY - My Father had been born Thomas Atkins, in the Roman city of Bath, Avon on the borders of Somerset. He came to London at the beginning of the war to enrol in the Army and almost immediately he was sent off to France on active service. There, he was amicably nicknamed “Tommy Atkins” — the archetypal British Soldier! However, not long after this posting he caught a cold, which unfortunately turned to pneumonia and he was promptly returned to London. On his recovery he was conscripted to work in the “War Office”, where he remained for the duration of the war. Which as he told me in later years, proved to be a blessing in disguise!
Meanwhile, my Mother Sylvia — then living in London, and keen to “do her bit” for the war effort — volunteered to work as a waitress at the Serviceman’s Club, “St Stephen’s”, on the London Embankment.

It was a morning in early May in 1941, when my Father found his way into the club, in search of a meal. As he settled himself at a table, a pretty young waitress approached him to take his order. Her name was Sylvia! There was mutual attraction between them. And from that first meeting, my parents embarked on a happy path of courtship.

Like many young couples of those days, they lost no time to call their Banns, before my Father’s expected posting to India brought about separation. As it happened, that posting never came through. Nevertheless, their wedding took place as planned in my Mother’s local church — “Holy Trinity”, Tooting Bec, South West London - on a misty day in November, 1941, just six months after they had met. And despite their whirlwind romance and wedding, they went on to enjoy fifty-four years of a very happy marriage.

On a bright April day in 1943, I duly appeared — my parent’s only child. They christened me Gillian (Gillie). Later I would tease my Father that had he not have caught that cold in France, doubtless, I would never have seen the light of day!
My Mother brought me back to live with her parents in their Edwardian house near Tooting Bec Common.

It seemed that back then, baby clothes were extremely hard to come by. So when my Father heard about a surplus supply of fabric at the “War Office”, he immediately applied for permission to bring some of this home. Coated with a shiny blue substance, the fabric had secret “War Office” plans imprinted with black ink upon the surface. But when washed, the substance and the plans magically disappeared and a length of beautiful, soft white cotton lawn, emerged!! Luckily for me, both my Mother and Grandmother were excellent needlewomen and from this unusual fabric, they created an exquisite set of baby clothes — hand embroidered and trimmed with scraps of pre-war lace!

Later, when the flying bombs began to rain down upon London, my Mother decided to take me to Bath to stay with my Father’s sister and her two small children. Sadly my Aunt was in ill health and so my Mother was left to hold the fort, coping single-handedly with her 6 year old nephew Timothy, her little niece Jane and me — only separated by five months in age. Together we became involved in some terrible scrapes — grounding my Uncle’s razor blades into his “Brycleem”, floating our Mother’s shoes in a bath full of water and probably the worse scrape of all, emptying a packet of some culinary, wartime concoction onto the living room floor! Still at the crawling stage, and no doubt assisted by Timothy, Jane and I — shuffling along on our bottoms — managed to manoeuvre our way through the mess, reducing both the carpet and my Mother to a sorry state!

Some eighteen months later, with the Uncle’s returning from active service, and needing beds, my Mother and I returned to London, just in time for the final onslaught from Hitler’s bombs!

Nearby our home in the busy High Street, was a large complex of flats, called “Du Cane Court” — and well known locally for its Art Deco façade. Despite obvious signs of heavy bombing in the area, it had surprisingly escaped any such visits from the “Luffwaffe”! Interestingly, there was much talk from the local residents that their homes had been spared, due to the fact that the complex had been earmarked for a residence for German Military Officers — had the invasion succeeded. Thankfully for us, it had not!

However, as our house was directly under a flight path to Battersea Power Station, we had bombs dropping all around us, but miraculously we avoided a direct hit. And during these raids we took shelter in the cupboard under the stairs! Nevertheless, the front of our house was eventually declared unsafe, which meant that after the war, the entire frontage was boarded up.

One day my Mother and Grandmother were chatting to our next door neighbour and forgetting to put the catch up on the door, I slammed it shut, accidentally locking the three of us outside! Fortunately, my Mother somehow managed to break her way through the boards to let us back inside!

In common with many of the neighbours, our iron railing’s, which had been taken away in an urgent salvage drive for ammunition, were never replaced. Until many years later my parents had a wooden fence and gate erected. But whether or not the tons of collected metal were ever used for this purpose remained a contentious issue for sometime to come.

In the 1960’S I left England to make a new life in South Africa, where I have since lived. Some twenty years later, my parents joined me here in their retirement.

For all the years that have past, it is to the London of my childhood that I have now returned in spirit to relive my early memories. Among those which I have retained most clearly, were the long years of rationing and restrictions — then known as “Atlee’s Austerity”. Significantly, accompanying my Mother to the local “Food Office” to collect bottles of orange juice and cod liver oil. Seven years ago, I had a bone density scan. The results were superb and my Mother patted herself on the back that she had so successfully persuaded me to consume such large quantities of cod liver oil over half-a-century ago!

Other memories that coloured my childhood were the ration books, “make-do-and-mend”, and the endless queues! Then came the great day on July 3rd, 1954 when all rationing finally ceased! And how my Mother patiently tried to explain to me, that although we no longer needed to exchange coupons for our groceries and sweets, we STILL had to pay for them! She relished and remembered this episode to the end of her days.
We were reminded of this many years later when on May 10th, 1994 South African Apartheid finally fell away. When it was thought, that many of the population shared my misguided belief that from then on, all good things would be freely bestowed upon them!

On that momentous day, when Nelson Mandela became South Africa’s first black President, my Mother and I - watched from our television screen - the jubilant crowds thronging the streets of Pretoria in celebration. And we were carried back across the years to that July day in 1954, when an equally jubilant crowd thronged into London’s Trafalgar Square to ceremoniously tear up their ration books, to mark the end of fourteen long years of rationing and restrictions.

Following his inauguration ceremony, Mandela put the final seal on this remarkable day saying — “ Wat is vereby is vereby” — “What is past is past” — Which in essence, had been echoed by the British Nation forty years previously.

6) THE SUMMARY OF DIANE’S STORY — begins with an account of her parent’s pre-war wedding in London. She continues with her Father’s subsequent call-up to the “R.A.F” and later, during one of his leave’s — how her parents were buried alive beneath their shelter — the only survivors of an air-raid; resulting in the destruction of their new home in Mitcham, Surrey. She also writes of her own birth in South West London in 1942, living in her maternal Grandparent’s home and on her Father’s return in 1945, of a family visit to the London Monument, from where they viewed the destruction of the city…

DIANE’S STORY — During the years preceding the outbreak of World War 2, my parents were working in London, and it was there that they first met. My Father Steve, was employed as a professional photographer and my Mother May, had trained as a hair stylist in a smart West End salon. Here, she was introduced to the American socialite Mrs.Wallis Simpson - the then divorcee Mistress of the Duke of Windsor — who became one of my Mother’s famous clientele.

On July 17th, 1937 my parents were married in their local church, “All Saint’s”, on Tooting Bec Common, South West London .Coincidentally, in the same Summer as the Windsor’s controversial wedding took place.

Judging from a cherished, family cine film taken on my parent’s Wedding Day, they presented a very attractive, young couple. Strolling together in her parent’s garden, ablaze with flowers, my Mother serene, in a traditional long white gown, carrying her bridal bouquet of sweet peas and my Father resplendent in his”Thirties- Style” tailored suit, complete with buttonhole.

On the lawns, against a background of trees and shrubs, a group of smartly dressed guests — gloved and hatted — are sitting on rustic seats in the sunshine. The tranquil scene reflects the atmosphere of a lost age - the epitome of Englishness.

Shortly after my Mother married, she resigned her position to become a full time housewife, which in those days was customary, when most young women looked upon their marriages as their main aim in life.

Later they set up home in one of the many new 1930’s”Semi’s” in the growing suburb of Mitcham in Surrey on the outskirts of London. Their new house was their pride and joy and in common with many young couples of the time, they looked forward to a happy future. Alas, their happy expectations were short-lived, when on September 3rd, 1939 Britain finally found itself at war with Germany.

As early as February of the same year, the government announced their preparations for the possible conflict, especially their plans to distribute Anderson Shelters to thousands of homes in the areas most likely to be targeted, such as the London suburbs.

Thus my parents took delivery of one of the first steel-built, tunnel shaped shelters and dutifully erected it in their newly landscaped back garden. Half buried in the ground with earth heaped on top, householders were encouraged to plant a Victory garden — as camouflage — on the roofs of their shelters. And salad vegetables such as lettuce and beetroot thrived, whilst inside, rhubarb and mushrooms flourished in the damp conditions!

With so many roof-top gardens needing cultivation, the arrival of the horse-drawn delivery-vans were eagerly awaited by housewives — who with buckets and spades at the ready — scooped up the piles of manure conveniently deposited by the horses!
Leaflets were also delivered advising householders on blackouts and self —defence, and street names and signposts were dismantled to confuse any invading Germans!
But despite all these preparations, it was sometime before there were any real signs of war. Nevertheless, on September 2nd 1939, all young men from the ages of 18-45 were immediately called up, and my Father was amongst them — joining the “R.A.F.”

Unfortunately for my parents, their choice of a Mitcham home turned out not to be the safest place to live, due to its close proximity to Croydon Airport.

Just before the heavy bombing of 1940 started, local people began seeing German aeroplanes flying just above the trees on the Common, with their black Swastikas clearly visible from the ground below. These transpired to be reconnaissance flights, as later when the Blitz began with a vengence the area along the main road — from Croydon Airport, Mitcham, to Central London - became a regular “bombing-run”.

Alas, during one of these heavy raids — on one of my Father’s leaves — my parent’s much loved home received a direct hit and was totally demolished. Amazingly, they both survived — buried beneath their Anderson Shelter — emerging as the only survivors in the area.

Although at such terrible times mobile canteens delivered food and mobile laundries and baths also offered some relief, bombed out people had to have somewhere to live. Sadly, replacement homes were in short supply. So my parents had no other choice but to move in with my maternal Grandparents. They arrived on their doorstep with nothing, except the clothes they stood up in. But they still had each other.

There, my Mother stayed with her parents in their home at Tooting Bec, whilst my Father returned to his wartime duties abroad.

Then in August 1942, I was born, my parents only child. Shortly afterwards my Mother brought me back to live with my Grandparents. Here, I slept in their little front bedroom and one of my earliest memories in waking up on a bitterly cold morning to see intricate frost patterns on the INSIDE of the windows, before coming downstairs to a cheerful fire. Although the winter of 1947, was I believe, the coldest there had ever been since Elizabethan times, and the acute shortage of fuel continued long after the end of the war, somehow my family always seemed able to provide a fire, where we all gathered around on winter nights.

On the return of my Father, having served abroad for four years, I could not understand why I had to call this strange man Daddy, and much to my Mother’s embarrassment, I would often refer to him as “Uncle,” the name then given to older males, whether relatives or friends!

Like thousands of other families who had lost their homes, my parents had hoped that we would be re-housed after the conflict ended. Unfortunately, such was the desperate shortage of post-war housing this did not happen. Instead, my Grandparents readily invited “the three of us” to share their home. And it was here, with my extended family where I grew up.

Not long after my Father’s homecoming, we had our first family outing to London. There, I had my earliest sighting of the miles of hoardings that fronted the miles of ruins, which children on my generation just accepted as part of the normal London landscape. Whereas my Father was astonished that amidst all these ruins - Wren’s magnificent” St. Paul’s Cathedral “- and other beautiful and ancient buildings had miraculously survived!

On a later outing we climbed the viewing Tower on top of the Monument, where stretching before us- as far our eyes could see- were acres of the ruins and rubble that was once a great Metropolis. My parents were horrified at the extent of such devastation but being too young to fully realise the horrors of the war, I could not really understand their distress. Because then I knew no difference.

Sixty years on and London has changed beyond all recognition. A thriving and reconstructed city has emerged as the old has given place to the new. So now when I look again at that split-second, peace time image of my parents Wedding Day, captured in London on that July afternoon in 1937 — I still find it particularly poignant.

During the march of the subsequent years, other important family occasions have been added to our now carefully preserved film — significantly, my own Wedding Day in the Summer of 1963, my Silver Wedding celebration and more recently, the marriage of my son Mark.

I shall always be grateful to have such an irreplaceable piece of personal history.

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