A Child's War

By Maria Marshall

A CHILD'S WAR presents the true story of an Irish family living in London throughout the Blitz of World War 2. Their experiences portray those of innumerable families caught up in raid-disturbed nights, being "bombed out" of one's home, rationing and privation, grief and loss. But also the amazing courage of the human spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483577364

Maria Marshall

Maria Marshall was born in Shepherds Bush, London, in 1935, to Alice and Edward Dalton, from Co. Westmeath; he died in 1940 from TB. Her sister Veronica was born in June that year. Alice’s siblings Angela and Joseph both married and were close and supportive during the difficult war years. Maria married Peter Marshall in 1956 and they had three daughters – Tessa, Noreen and Mairead. She has eight grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. After her retirement from teaching Business Studies in London, Maria and Peter moved to Ireland in 1999 to be close to two daughters and their families. Following an inspiring six-week writing course by writer Grace Wells in 2009, Maria was one of the founder members of the Loughboy Writers Group in Kilkenny. Maria self-published A Child’s War in 2016 – her memories of living in London throughout World War II.

Book preview

AFTERMATH

CHAPTER 1 BOMBED OUT

The once grand terrace of dwellings loomed high above the two small children, heads bowed as they played Five Stones on the whitened doorstep. The yellowy London bricks glowed in the pale sunshine, complimented by the patchy scales of the massive plane trees lining Loftus Road in Shepherds Bush.

Behind the six front steps the Victorian building stretched upwards three floors; another set of steps led down to the basement. It was still imposing in spite of its flaking paintwork and dingy hallway. The children looked up in response to Eileen’s Hello as she and her mother turned into the gateway.

You coming out to play? they chorused.

Not just now. - her mother Alice answered on her behalf. Maybe later.

They climbed the familiar steps, opened the heavy front door, still adorned with its curved metal knocker, and walked along the dank-smelling hallway; then ascended three flights of stairs to their three small rooms at the top.

As they entered the kitchen Eileen caught sight of her Daddy’s photograh on the mantel-shelf. Any time she drew attention to it her mother went very quiet. She knew that her mother, aunt and uncle had come from Ireland about ten years before, married and settled in London. She had a happy memory of her own visit to Ireland when she was four years of age. She retained a vivid image of her Daddy lifting her up to look down into the mysterious well outside the little thatched cottage where his parents lived in County Westmeath. He and her mother Alice had agreed, though reluctantly, that Eileen remain for a few months while they returned to London.

During Eileen’s stay in the quiet countryside the local postman was always welcome, and usually pressed to come in for a cup of tea. One morning he arrived with a yellow letter which he held out with a murmured

Hope it’s not bad news. to Kate, Eileen’s Granny, who took it hesitantly.

That’s a strange letter, Granny, they’re not usually that colour.

Yes, Alanna, it’s a special one called a telegram. she answered huskily. Her hand shook as she opened it and moved over to catch light from the tiny kitchen window. Eileen watched her reading, saw her hand fly to her mouth, then the glistening of tears on her cheeks.

Granny, what’s wrong?

Oh, Alanna, she sobbed your Dada has gone to heaven, may he Rest in Peace.

Eileen sat calmly, sad to see her Granny upset, but puzzled – she knew her parents had gone to London but was unsure where Heaven was.

Eileen’s thoughts returned to the present. She sat down at the kitchen table as her mother prepared a snack; her mouth watered at the smell of freshly cut Vienna loaf, spattered with poppy seeds. The tiny ration of butter had to be mixed with margarine to make it go further and then scraped on sparingly. Rationing was severe for tea and sugar as well; even unrationed items were scarce.

Eileen turned to gaze out the window at the aerial view over the back gardens, nearby two-storey houses, and far away over the grey, slated rooftops dotted with hundreds of red chimney-pots. She drew in her breath at the sight before her. In the distance, hovering in the air over the roof-tops was an ENORMOUS object.

Mum, Mum, come and look at this! What on earth is it?

Alice came closer.

Oh gosh, I haven’t seen one of those before – but I’ve heard about them. It’s called a barrage balloon.

But, said Eileen, it’s a very strange kind of balloon – it looks as if it’s got two big ears!

You’re right, they do look like ears. They’re using hundreds of them to stop German planes flying low to drop bombs. If you look carefully, you can see it has a thick rope to tie it to the ground. It can be pulled down or let float higher.

Eileen sat mute, mesmerized by the sight of this silver-grey giant, moving gently in the mild breeze.

Such peaceful moments were often abruptly interrupted once air raids on London began. That very night they woke to the loud and continuous shrill of the siren. Alice jumped out of bed calling -

Come on Eileen, quick! while she checked that the black-out blind was securely in place before switching on the light. She helped Eileen to dress quickly, grabbed old newspapers and cushions and they made their way down the three flights of stairs to the hall floor, past empy rooms vacated by neighbours who had fled from London. As they groped their way down the dark and forbidding basement stairs Alice led Eileen by the hand, trying to avoid touching the sticky bannister on one side and the patches of mould on the opposite wall. They hardly noticed the smell of stale cooking and neglect any more.

The elderly Edwards couple and their adult daughter, Catrina, were already settled at the foot of the stairs.

Eileen burst out her news -

I saw a barrage balloon today – it was so big it nearly filled the sky!

Mr. Edwards, usually a somewhat taciturn person, lowered his newspaper and responded

Oh yeah, they’re using a lot of ‘em now; only a few were used during the last war – the ‘Great War’. More amazing back then were those ‘uge sausage-shaped Zeppelin airships the Gerries used. They were infla’ed with gas - sim’lar to barrage balloons - and used to terrorize Londoners by dropping bombs.

I haven’t heard about that before Alice said. When was that?

By this time he was well into his verbal stride -

It star’ed abou’ May 1915 bu’ our gunner lads sent’ ‘em packing by using incendiary bullets. They exploded the airships AND set ‘em on fire. Course, if they fell on ‘ouses they caused massive damage. A’er a while the Gerries ‘ad so many losses they gave up using ‘em. Bloody good job an’all!

He paused for breath and sat statue-like, grey-blue eyes staring into space, lost in memories of the past. Eileen’s gaze was fixed on his sharply-chiselled features. His slight frame was upright, soldierly, his bony skull sparsely covered with neatly-cut grey hair. Like many ex-soldiers he was reluctant to speak of his own terrible experiences during the First World War.

Even Mrs Edwards, who had greeted them with a muted Good evening, was drawn from absorption in her book, to add a comment in her clear, clipped accent:

Strangely, after the war, salvaged pieces of the Zeppelins became sought-after souvenirs; one of the Charities – I forget which - was allowed to exhibit them and sell to the public to raise money.

I never knew that, said Alice, who had been listening with keen interest. She regarded the small erect figure, dignified in demeanor, noting again the long, thick rope of silver hair, always elegantly coiled. From first acquaintance she had noticed the cool manner and unsmiling face. She had the distinct impression of someone who regarded herself as a cut above her neighbours. Ironic, thought Alice, considering the unkempt conditions of the basement flat.

Meanwhile, Catrina Edwards, in her shy way, was showing Eileen some embroidery. She sat on a low, cushioned seat and patted the space beside her for Eileen.

Look, she said quiietly this is how you make a petal or leaf. It’s called a ‘lazy daisy’ stitch.

Eileen moved nearer; she examined the vibrant multi-coloured flowers and saw a green leaf appearing. She felt at ease with this soft-voiced person – unlike the discomfort, almost intimidation, she experienced with the older woman.

It’s beautiful! she said, smiling up into her face. With a child’s acceptance, she no longer stared at the twisted half of Catrina’s face. Alice had explained it was a type of paralysis.

They all relapsed into silence, each lost in thought. Suddenly - a distant sound - the obvious drone of approaching aircraft. The noise of their engines intensified until it reached a crescendo filling their little world. Eileen had been totally absorbed by the embroidery.

That’s a terrible noise! she exclaimed as she bent over and covered her ears against the overwhelming din.

Mum, I’ve got a tummy ache!

Alice, as usual, diverted her attention by offering to read a favourite story - which gradually lulled her into a relaxed state, lost in a light-hearted world of adventure.

Mr. Edwards remarked thoughtfully

That’s a hell of a lot of planes – can’t help wond’ring what’s afoo’.

The noise continued for what seemed an age. As it died away they sat in silence apart from Alice’s calm voice recounting the adventures of