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It was a sunny Sunday morning and the family was engaged in a game of cricket on the beach at St.Annes-on-Sea (Lancs). I was six years old, not out, and occasionally allowed a turn with the bat but mostly set to field by my brothers of superior prowess and aged 16 and 14. It was David's 16th birthday that day and my father suddenly called a halt to the game and said he was going up to the Town Hall to listen to Mr. Chamberlain's broadcast. When he returned it was to say that we were at war. The boys seemed excited but my father had fought in Palestine in WW1 and the alarm showed in his face. As the news spread, people left the beach and an air of uncertainty descended.
When we returned home to Salford my mother had to organise blackout blinds but things seemed very quiet to begin with. Some children from school were evacuated. Those of us who remained, attended part-time classes as our big school had been closed and a smaller one was shared by two schools. In 1940 my brother Bill should have gone with his grammar school to the Lake District but he preferred to stay at home and take a job in the office of an engineering firm and before long was on the team of firewatchers. This took him out of the house and back to work to "go on duty". I was aware that this caused my parents a great deal of worry. As soon as he was 16 he managed to get himself into the Auxiliary Fire Service and this saw him at one of the sub-stations most evenings.
In the meantime, my father who was past the age to be called up, had become an ARP warden with fire-watching duties. The local Barber’s shop became the street patrol’s HQ. and there regular “training” meetings were held. Two hours a week in a room filled with cigarette smoke was deemed necessary to be fully prepared for Hitler’s bombers.
Soon, however, things changed. Air raids became frequent and many nights were spent in our brick and concrete shelter - each house had its own in our district. The ARP wardens were kept more than busy trying to deal with the many incendiary bombs that the Luftwaffe rained down upon us. One night in October 1940 my father was out with his patrol trying to put out a fire in a nearby house. My mother and I were in the shelter and we heard voices calling to us that our house was on fire. My father was told and he quickly came to see if we were all right. I asked that my teddy bear might be rescued and miraculously he was! The bedroom that I had previously occupied was burnt out but the prompt action of the fire fighters saved the rest of the house.
I was removed forthwith to a neighbour's house where I stayed for the next few days. How my parents ever coped with the mess I shall never know. Eventually things were put right and I was able to return to my room. For years I used to imagine that I could smell burning wood on the night of October 7.
As the autumn went on, so the air raids got worse. On the evening of Sunday, December 22, the Manchester Blitz began. My brother, David, was at Church when it started and the minister wisely brought the service to a close. David stood for a moment at the top of the church steps to try to take in the enormity of what was happening and then ran home to join us in the shelter where we stayed for most of the night. The sound of the exploding bombs was bad but the blasts that the anti-aircraft gun made at the end of the road was worse.
Dawn broke and we were unscathed. My father had contacts in many of the Lancashire mill towns and he took the decision that we must leave the Manchester environs for the time being. Not many people had cars in those days and so, like lots of others, we set off just after midday and had to walk along the main road north for the first mile as, of course, all transport had been disrupted. Then we were lucky enough to get on a 'bus and after numerous changes we arrived at a village called Chapeltown on the edge of Turton Moor - in fact only about 16 miles from home. Darkness had fallen by the time that we stopped at a place called Four Lane Ends and I remember feeling completely bewildered. I could not imagine how my father was going to find his way! He led us to the village post office which had a bakery and tea shop as well.
There we were drinking a welcome cup of tea when a lady came in dressed in a dark coat and wearing the typical Lancashire headscarf. She went to the counter and started flicking through a box of Christmas Cards glancing every now and then at the spectacle of the five of us. Eventually she spoke and asked how we came to be there. "I'll have the little girl" she said - looking at me. "I don't think she'd come without me" was my mother's quick reply. "You can come as well" said the stranger. Eventually, my father and brothers were accommodated at the Chetham Arms and my mother and I were welcomed into the cottage that proved to be the home of our new friend. We were taken in and introduced to her husband and sister-in-law as if it was an everyday thing to bring home waifs and strays. Sleeping arrangements were re-organised - it was only a small cottage - and they shared their Christmas with all of us - just like that, no notice at all.
Boxing Day came, and by that time the worst of the blitz seemed to be over and it had been agreed that our family should return home - minus me! The Raby family had made it clear that I would be welcome to stay for as long as necessary and I reluctantly waved farewell.
On their return, my parents were thankful to find the house still standing.
I started to attend the village church school and made friends with the farmer's daughters who lived across the road. I had visits from my parents about once a month and settled in to village life - tobogganing; making friends with another evacuee; playing in the woods and on the moor; planning what we would do if we happened to see German parachutists descending; making daisy chains; dancing round the maypole and helping my friend from the farm at seed sowing time. I also assisted my newly acquired “uncle” on his allotment where he kept chickens and grew all manner of veg. The only part of my life that I did not enjoy was the village school. I could not seem to settle and my work was abysmal. I longed to return to my own school..
This, and the fact that the air raids seemed to have become fewer and less intense led to me going home late in May - just in time to spend the night in the shelter again for the worst raid since the blitz!
I was a source of amusement to the rest of the family as I had un-knowingly acquired a broad Lancashire accent. Before long I was back in the familiar surroundings of my classroom. Occasionally, if there was an air raid, we had to go to the basement and if this meant us leaving school later than usual, sandwiches were provided. In times of rationing, this was a treat! Gas masks were carried in their cardboard boxes at all times.
The Raby's became family and I often visited for the weekend. I was put on the train in the care of the Guard, and I knew the stations off by heart. Uncle Tom would be waiting for me at Turton. They could usually manage to spare a few eggs and we were grateful for these in times of rationing. I remember how my mother used to "extend" the butter ration with some magic recipe. She always managed to provide a good meal and fish was a great part of our diet — fresh Fleetwood fish was quickly sold out. Sometimes things got desperate and I can remember that she always used to look into Lewis's food department when in Manchester. One day the queue was for whale meat and that provided the meal that day and on others in the future.
My brother, David, was in a reserved occupation so did not have to go into the forces. Bill, however, was longing to be in the army and volunteered at the first opportunity. He was keen to get into the Black Watch having a Scots father. He was sent to Perth for some of his training and arrived home on leave on one occasion wearing the kilt. I was proud enough to burst but was soon deflated by our neighbour enquiring about the young lady staying at our house! He became attached to the Royal Corps of Signals as a despatch rider - to ride a motor cycle was another ambition achieved. All this was of course leading up to being ready to land in Normandy with the British forces in June 1944. His time as a despatch rider ended with him being badly wounded in Holland when a shell exploded in front of his motorbike and shrapnel went into his head and leg.
At first, all we knew was that he had been wounded. A day or two later a telegram came to say that he was in the head injuries unit at Oxford and was "dangerously ill". My mother and father took the first available train and I stayed with my friend next door. They kept vigil until he showed definite signs of recovery. He asked to see me and I was taken to Oxford. We stayed about three days and I will never forget the terrible cases I saw as we walked through the ward. By the time Christmas came he was convalescing near Oxford. He and another patient disguised their hospital "blues" and hitched lifts all the way to Manchester and walked in and surprised us. My father nearly had a fit at the thoughts of what might have happened had the Military Police spotted him. They managed to travel back by similar means and it was a worrying time until we knew he had arrived safely. He was de-mobbed just as the war ended but his health was impaired ever after.
The end of the war did not see the end of people's problems. School uniform was nearly always “hand-me-downs”. Rationing of food and clothing continued for years and housewives still struggled to feed their families. Everybody was tired and worn down. My father was especially drained - he had had to struggle to do his job with depleted public transport and was also in ill health and died in 1947.
Hitler had to be stopped in his evil ways but I hope we, or our offspring, never have to live through this sort of thing again.

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