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11) THE SUMMARY OF HEATHER’S STORY — tells of my birth at home in Mitcham, Surrey during an air raid, and how, at three weeks old, I was taken with my Mother, to stay with her relatives in their Surrey cottage, already overflowing with ‘evacuees'. Then later, how we travelled by train during the bombing, to my paternal Grandparent’s home on the Aberdeenshire coast in Scotland. I also tell of my Father’s work, during the Blitz, in his reserved occupation as a boat-builder in the London docks, whilst combining long hours in the ‘A.R.P’, (Air Raid Precaution) my Mother’s involvement with the “Kindertransport” - an operation rescuing Jewish children from the Nazi Reich - And my own affectionate, memories of my Pacifist Grandmother, my “Conchie” Uncle and the motley collection of characters, who shared our war-time home…
HEATHER’S STORY — I was born in circumstances, which are hardly encouraged nowadays, in my parent’s front bedroom, at their suburban home in Mitcham, Surrey. My Mother, Irene was attended by her local Doctor and an elderly, unqualified midwife — as most of the young women with qualifications - were already assigned to war work. It seemed that my unconventional arrival, which took place on a May morning, coincided with an air raid. And so within minutes of my birth, the pair of us were hastily chaperoned to the comparative safety “under the stairs”, before yet another offensive rained down upon us! I was soon to recognise this confined space as my second home, as we seemed to spend much of our time sheltering “under those stairs”!

Just a couple of months earlier, my Mother had consulted her Doctor with what she suspected were menopausal symptoms. Evidently they were not. When at the age of 40, she unexpectedly produced me, her longed for baby daughter! However there were no more children. Perhaps she decided that to risk another wartime pregnancy in her 40’s — quite an age back then - might be a risk too far. So it was I remained my parent’s only child.

As a young woman, my Mother had carved out a career as a Nanny, working between the wars in Britain and Cologne, Germany, before sailing over to America in 1925, with her older sister Muriel to continue her career in the city of Boston. It was there, that she met my Father William, a Scottish boat-builder, whom she later married at “St. Stephens Parish Church”, Clapham Park in South West London on 22nd April 1933.

My Mother had a genuine affection for all children and so when in the lead up to the 2nd World War, her old school friend Frieda — of German descent - asked her if she would help with the work of the “Kindertransport” — the rescue operation of Jewish children, from the 3rd Reich — she readily agreed. And I have no doubt that the presence of such a kind and motherly lady, helped to reassure the many bewildered children, when they arrived at “Liverpool Street Station “, before embarking on the next stage of their journey.

For most of the war, my Father- who was then too old for active service - worked in the London docks in his reserved occupation, repairing ships whilst combining long hours in the “A.R.P” (Air Raid Precaution) which meant that sadly he missed most of my early years, then a common feature of family life.

My first visitor was my 72 years old Grandmother Emily. She was my Mother’s Mother, who lived with her bachelor son George — a “Conscientious Objector”- in a rambling old house on Clapham Common. Daily she walked briskly across it, to hold the fort, during her daughter’s confinement.
Unfortunately, I was not destined to know my Grandfather, Charles - who had worked as a private coachman in London - as he had died several years before I was born, from the result of an equestrian accident sustained whilst on duty with the Sheriff’s Coach at “The Lord Mayor’s Show.
But the presence of “my Gran”, who was a great character, has stayed with me over the years.
In her youth, whilst working as a professional cook in London, she had been a strong supporter of the “Women’s Suffragist Movement”. And having lived through other wars, she had become a committed Pacifist.
So when the drives for scrap metal and iron railings were underway - so determined was she that her own railings would not be reprocessed for tanks and bullets to “kill somebody’s sons”- she immediately removed them before they could be carted away for the government’s use!
Equally determined that “Hitler’s bombs” would not prevent her from attending her weekly Whist Drives — even on the night of the Balham Underground Bomb - she continued to bicycle through the blitz, in all weathers, to participate. On the occasions when the prize was a newly laid egg — then rarely procurable — my Gran could always be counted on to use all her knowledge to win every “trick”!
Often these sought-after eggs were intended for wedding cakes, which my Gran baked for the wartime brides of family and friends. But as the government had banned the icing of all celebration cakes, she had concocted a removable, cardboard cover -“decorated” with a thin layer of white plaster! This was provided by my “Conchie” Uncle George, who from his Whitehall office, was conscripted to the “Repair Brigade,” shoring up bomb-blitzed buildings in London.
Meantime, my Mother, who was clever with her needle, made several of the brides dresses - fashioned I believe - from remnants of Parachute silk!
At some stage in the war, my Mother also volunteered to become a “wartime shopper” — a scheme whereby “squads” of housewives freely shopped for other women, who whilst working in the factories, had no time to do their own.
First ration books and lists were collected, before they stood in queues for supplies, and then finally they delivered it back to their customer’s homes!

At the onset of the war, my parents and the couple next door, decided to share an Anderson shelter between them. However, when it began to flood, it was soon abandoned in favour of their indoor “shelters” under the stairs. Generally considered to be the safest part of the house, my Father had furnished this recess with a narrow bunk, with shelves above. Upon these we stored our torches, gas masks and provisions.
My baby hammock was slung along one side of this recess, and on the other stood a folding chair and a hay box, which during power cuts provided us with hot meals. On the back of the door hung my Father’s blue “A.R.P” overalls, tin helmet, and his working jacket, into which my Mother had sewn a couple of “Poacher Pockets. Now and again these were used to carry home “unofficial”, re-salvaged foodstuffs - retrieved from the docks — to help supplement our own “official”, meagre rations!

Later my Father related to me some of the harrowing incidents he experienced whilst working in London during those dark days of the London blitz. Perhaps one of the most memorable was in September 1940, as he was preparing to leave his work in the Surrey docks, waves of German bombers targeted the Thames, setting alight the warehouses from which exploded drums of paint and sheets of sugar and melting margarine flowed over the docksides onto the surface of the water, already aglow with blazing barges. On that first night my Father took refuge with hundreds of terrified “Eastenders” in the Tilbury shelter in Stepney. And for the following 56 days, London was to be bombed from dark to dawn.

At three weeks old, to escape the raids, my Mother took me to the village of Witley in the Surrey countryside, to stay with cousins in their ancient cottage. Already overflowing with “evacuees”, these bombed-out Londoners had earlier taken refuge in the “apple attic”, and like us were grateful for temporary respite. There, during my Mother’s convalescence we all lived together, until suddenly my other Grandmother Christina, fell seriously ill. Knowing how anxious she was to see her newly born granddaughter, my Mother decided to take me by rail, across the border to Aberdeenshire, Scotland, where my paternal Grandparents lived.
It seemed that the train was packed with Service Personnel, coming home on leave. So unable to find a vacant seat, she — a Nursing Mother - spent the entire night perched on her suitcase in the corridor, with me in her arms. Now and again, as the train steamed on into the night, air raid warnings forced the driver to take shelter inside the tunnels. And it was here, trapped in the tunnel, under the cover of darkness, I was discreetly fed, whilst overhead, the battle raged on!
After a long and gruelling journey, we finally arrived in the close-knit fishing community of Fraserburgh. There, on the North East coast, we stayed with my Grandparents in their windswept, granite house. My Grandfather Peter, a trawler skipper, had fished in the fierce coastal waters since his youth. Yet despite the on-going hostilities in the North Sea, he continued to sail out with the fleet, well into his old age.
Although I have no memories of my “Scottish Granny”, I should like to think that our visit gave her some pleasure towards the end of her life. And I am glad that my parents gave me my second name Christina, as a tribute to her.

Sometime later, after an equally uncomfortable journey, my Mother and I came home to the reality of a battered London. Here at the station, my Father was waiting to take us back to our Mitcham home, which thankfully, had remained virtually intact.

During the final months of the war, my Father’s younger brother, my Uncle Pat, came down from Scotland to lodge with us, which enabled him to take up an engineering post in North London. His wife, my Aunt Dolly, decided to stay behind with their two children, my older cousin Peter and my younger cousin Mary, whilst my Uncle searched for a house where his family could live. But this proved to be a very difficult task. So with her customary kindness, my Mother offered them all “a- port- in- a —storm”. Somehow she made room for the four of them in our own small home which meant that for several months, we were a very full house indeed.
Unfortunately, at this stage in the war food was in such short supply, that my Mother found that — even with four extra ration books at her disposal — it was well nigh impossible to stretch the rations for her extended family. And so reluctantly she resorted to buying “under-the- counter —stuff”, passed over with great secrecy, I understand!
One such option was “The Milk Run”, where — for a price — housewives could double their daily supply. But for this particular pursuit, my Mother was obliged to leave the house at first light. With Mary and I tucked up at either end of our pram, she wheeled us down the deserted streets to meet the milkman. There, on the corner, extra bottles were secreted beneath our blankets at the bottom of the pram, before turning on her tracks; she hurried homewards whilst her neighbours were still abed!

Then there were the “Fish Runs”! But as these were all “above-board”, we made a much later start when we set off for the railway station to collect our family’s gift of Scottish fish. Here, a porter helped haul the wooden boxes into the well of our pram, in which we transported them home. There, my enterprising Mother put to good use our free but unloved cod-liver oil. She secretly used it to fry our fish suppers, which we eagerly demolished!

Meanwhile, the dispiriting task of house hunting continued. But it was not until well into 1946 that our relatives were successful. Eventually they found a home quite near to us, so we were able to enjoy their company for many years to come.

On family occasions such as Christmas, we children eagerly awaited the arrival of the postman, who during the 1940’s regularly brought us our longed-for American Care Parcels, generously sent to us by my Aunt Muriel from her Boston home. There, in our hallway, excitedly we explored their contents. Amongst the tins of ham, fruit, and butter there were packets of tea, cookies, candies and always, my Aunt’s home-made plum cake.
One memorable Christmas, Mary and I had been particularly indulged with presents of NEW, red tartan dresses, into which a chocolate bar apiece had been tucked inside of the pockets. And with the discovery that these rig-outs came complete with two pairs of matching knickers, our happiness was complete!

It was not only close family who found refuge and friendship under our roof. Throughout the war years and especially at Christmas time, our home began filling up with a motley collection of characters. They came from near and far and from all walks of life — the lost and the lonely, the “WAAFS” and the “WRENS”, the “TOMMIES” and the “G.I’S.” Sometimes it felt as if everyone and anyone who had nowhere else to spend their leave arrived on our doorstep!

Many of these young people-missing their own families- compensated, by lavishing upon me their time and affection. And of course I enjoyed every minute of it!
But despite the sadness of all the wartime separations, perhaps one of the best aspects of those years, were the “special friendships” which developed between people that had the war not have happened their pathways would never have crossed.

Far off as those days are, when I close my eyes I can see their faces now — my indomitable Grandmother, who lived on to the ripe old age of 93, my kindly Aunts and Uncles, my lively cousins and of course my loving parents, who welcomed so many of those young service men and women into their wartime home
Mingled together, they have forever lived on in my memory.

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