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During the raids in London, in World War Two, we used to have the bombers over every night especially in the winter. We would hear them usually about 4 pm. Some of the shelters were constructed in the gardens, but ours was inside. I hated going into my shelter, so I used to take my two little children to my bed every night.

One night, when the bombing was exceptionally bad, the lady who lived next door to me said, “You had better come down to my shelter” I refused, and insisted that we would be all right. But after some encouragement, I agreed, and as I walked on to the step at the entrance, the step shifted, and my little girl fell in to the shelter and I fractured my ribs. I never went into a shelter again.

We had to queue for our food, and many times we didn’t have enough food to last us until the end of the week. We had moved to west London in 1935, as there was a lot of poverty in Wales at that time. My cousin and I went first, followed by all the family. There were so many new factories, so work was plentiful. Many of the workers were Welsh, Scottish and Irish.

Everyone was friendly. Even the tedious task of queuing for bread was more bearable due to the friendly nature of the people there. My husband was a gunner in the navy for four and a half years. At times he was in a Russian convoy, and participating in raids and invasions. It was so strange when he came back; having him in the home again, although we didn’t worry about that.

In the winter, at about 4 pm, we got used to the bombers.

“Here they come”, we would say, as we recognised their familiar sound, no doubt they were aiming for the airport and ammunition factories. I had to register for call up, when I was twenty one. I knew they wouldn’t call me up because of the children, though I would have been glad to go, even if it were only to get out of the house. There were no child minders in those days, but I got through those days alright. My mother came back to Swansea in 1942. She hated it in London. She lived in Manselton first, and then she moved to Miers Street. I used to bring the children to see her. It was different then. I can vaguely remember a sweet shop and chemist. Not like it is now. She lived in the first house, number three. The pub, Miers Arms, was bombed.

I didn’t like the shelters, or being shut in somewhere. The one indoors had a steel top, the whole length of the room. My brother in law was not called up, because he was such a skilled tool-maker. He would travel the country to different factories, where his expertise was valued and used in the works. When he was away, my sister lived in his house.

When the war was over, I moved nine miles from Marble Arch. Every week, my friend and I would go to the West End. There, the shops were always open until late. I was very happy there. But all good things come to an end.

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