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DORIS DAY

"What did you do in the war, Mummy?"

"Mummy, were you a soldier lady in the war?" "No, dear." "Well. John's mummy was and his auntie worked on aeroplanes! Didn't you do anything. then?" "Well, I looked after you and your little brother." "That wasn't war work!"

I dare say that that sort of interchange went on in many homes a few years ago when the subject had been discussed at school. It certainly did in mine.

Well. when war actually started I was mother to 2½ year old David and 6 month old Ian, My neighbour had come in to listen to what Mr Chamberlain had to say on the ‘wireless.' Having heard it, we finished off a bottle of sherry: goodness knows why, but we did.

For what seemed ages, nothing happened and later, when children were being evacuated, my husband Lloyd thought it would be wise for me to take the children and stay with a relative of his in a ‘safe' area. This I did, but David became so distressed and concerned for his much loved Daddy (and pet rabbit) that I had to decide whether I was risking his mind in keeping him away, or would be risking his body in bringing him home. I decided the mind was more important. Baby Ian was no problem as he was completely dependent on me.

When the first air aid occurred, we were on our way to visit my parents who lived in Tankerville Road, Woolston. We had got as far as the Veracity Sports Ground when the first siren sounded and went into the shelter there and stayed until the all-clear. We knew there bad been bombing and went to check on my parents and a little 4 year old sister, Myra. All were safe but the house was badly damaged. One peculiar thing was that one window had been cracked diagonally across and part of a curtain was hanging outside, having been drawn through the crack by the blast, while the rest remained inside, We brought my little sister home with us where she stayed for some time. We learned later that the Supermarine factory had been hit that day.

My husband and his lorry had been commandeered by the government and was going to various army camps on their ‘business', until he eventually volunteered and was accepted for flying duty with the RAF.

Earlier of course we had been issued with gas masks like everyone else; a Mickey Mouse for the little boy and a ‘helmet contraption' for the baby. We used to put them on for ‘play' so that if we ever had to use them there would be no fear or panic. One could make lovely piggy noises through the Mickey Mouse and baby didn't in the least mind being put in the helmet with Mum pumping the kind of bellows on the side. We watched him through the window, while he laughed back in his baby way.

We lived in Sholing on the outskirts of Southampton and did not get the worst of the bombing. We had Anderson shelters of course and with elderly neighbours, my husband put the two together which we shared. He had put a low platform at the far end and on this we put a single mattress and made a bed. Every evening I used to put in hot water bottles and their clothes on. The moment a siren sounded the children were transferred, still sleeping, from one bed to another and seldom even awoke. When my husband was away, my nightly drill was: hot water bottles, clothes, important documents, sweets and story books in a case by the back door. Siren sounded - case on doorstep, roll up David - he s the heavier - and carry to the shelter. I can run with little boy if necessary. When both are tucked up and settled, I pick up the case and settle anxiously on the cushions and wait until its ‘all clear.'

There were a few times when water and gas were off. Water was no problem as we had a well in the garden which we had previously cleaned. Lovely sweet spring water bubbled up through silver sand, after all, for earlier residents it was the only supply. Apart from the gas stove, we had open fires and so when there was no gas we improvised. I had two trivets. one had been given by my mother-in-law and the other was bought to save gas by putting a kettle there. I did not realise how great an asset they were to be. I could cook quite well and contrived an open oven with a large biscuit tin. I managed some tasty things, even with our limited resources. Thankfully we had a very productive garden and ‘dug for victory', to say nothing of our stomachs.

One night while in the shelter, we heard the most awful swishing. shrieking noise and wondered what on earth (or heaven) was going on and found in the morning that rockets had been sent up to intercept raiders. Next morning at school the children were talking of what had happened during the night and of course mine knew nothing, and said I should have wakened them. (Sometimes Mums know best.) Another time we came out of the shelter in the morning to find the ground littered with strips of blackened foil which puzzled us greatly, until we learned they had been dropped to block radar that could trace their movements by enemy aircraft.

Two sticks of three bombs each were dropped in our immediate vicinity. Two small houses the other side of the road and two semi s three doors away were demolished by direct hit. The other four bombs dropped unexploded in the soft ground which was quite swampy in places. People were moved away while the army dealt with them, but one was obviously left and this provided one funny moment.

We grew beautiful celery in the damp ground, sticks quite three feet high. My grandmother had by this time moved to a nearby house (having been bombed out from Woolston.) I was going to dig celery and offered her some. Now we had a stream running through the lowest part of the garden, with a plank bridge across. Having dug the celery I was kneeling on the bridge washing the mud off the roots, when suddenly whoosh! The bomb exploded (several gardens away) and grandmother grabbed the smaller boy under one arm, and two great sticks of celery under the other, for all the world a perfect picture of ‘Giles' grandmother in retreat. (She wore her sort of hat.) I see her now in my mind's eye, she looked so comical running for dear life.‘Granny s bomb' got bigger and bigger as the war went on and for quite a few years after, until she died.

My children were lucky in that their education did not suffer, both were taught to read and write and simple arithmetic before they went to school. They were intelligent and eager to learn and even neighbouring children sometimes joined in. One day a local mum came to call for her child and found us in a darkened room with a lighted candle in the middle of the table and me walking round it spinning a small globe explaining night and day. It must have been quite a shock when she first came in, she probably thought it was a seance or something, till all was explained. They learned to add up shopping bills and subtract the result from a given amount, encouraged to count the change and so on.

In the daylight raids and time spent in the shelter ‘we made up stories. We had a character called ‘Lizza Beetle' and she got up to all sorts of things. They were leaning about nature and the creatures around them at the same time. They had a frieze I had painted running round their bedroom with Lizza and her friends shown amongst flowers and ‘little things that creep and run etc.

The children learned to do simple weights and measures and simple cooking. Occasionally my mother or mother-in-law would give a little bit of sugar or flour or carefully hoarded fat, or a few currants so that they could make simple things like small buns, in addition to dull things like cooking potatoes or boiling eggs. They also learned to make their beds and care for each other. I was never sure from day to day if they might have to fend for themselves, at least they would have some idea.

When Daddy was coming home on leave I never told them until two days before as I realised that two weeks or whatever time would seem an absolute age to a small child. Saying "the day after tomorrow" made it much easier to bear.

Another afternoon in the shelter I was reading a story (with expression, as my teacher used to say) and the ‘all clear sounded. Well, with only a page to read I decided to carry on. Presently a grizzled head poked in at the opening and said. "Ain't you coming up then, Ma?" and I realised that the old lady next door was listening too, with open mouth. She wasn t going until the story was finished. "Let the old so and so make 'is own tea if he wants it that bad!"

The war seemed to be going on and on and the children grew from crib to cot, and cot to beds. I unpicked worn out knitted garments to knit others for the boys, cut out the best parts of big garments to remake into smaller. The good tails of a man's shirt make a small one for a little boy, as would the good bottom legs of a pair of men s trousers. (They were wider then.) So we managed. and came through eventually with healthy, well-balanced boys sound in wind and limb.

There were many other incidents, sad and funny that I recall, as when the birthday trike was stolen, and a favourite uncle was lost at sea. One time an American soldier in a jeep in convoy tossed a soft-ball to big boy and said "Here, catch, son." He was afraid to pick it up, but little boy got it. Big boy said he thought it might be a bomb. They argued over it for weeks, "It was given to me! "But I got it!" and so on.

"What did you do in the war, Mummy?"

"Nothing, I was just your mum!"

Note:
Doris Day is now 90, and following a fall is in a nursing home. She started to write her reminiscences a year before her accident.

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