My War

By Margaret Elizabeth Davies

Despite the rationing, the raids and air raid shelter shananigans, the family still finds time for trips, fun with friends and eventually dogs!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326873738

Book preview

My War

MY WAR

Copyright

Copyright © <2016> by Margaret Elizabeth Davies

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN < 978-1-326-87373-8>

Marge’s Studio

In Memory of

David Harris1901-1956

Kathleen Harris1912-1990

Jeffrey Meyrick Harris1941-2016

Introduction

Chapter 1

I had a phone call this morning. My Uncle Id had died. As long as I can remember he had a head as smooth and as shiny as a billiard ball. He was a big man with a personality to match and he could wiggle his ears! It used to fascinate us kids and it fascinated our children and grandchildren.

He had been married to Auntie Flo for over fifty years. He was part of my childhood,  Auntie Flo had suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, so now Uncle Id was dead there was no-one left to ask, Do you remember the day.........? or What was the name of the undertaker who lived next door to Ma's in Capel Street and used to tell us such terrible jokes?

All that remains is in my memory. It is time to write down what I remember about growing up during the Second World War.

The Day War Broke Out

Chapter 2

The war started in 1939 or so I was told. I feel I ought to write 'the war' in big red capital letters. Two little words seem inadequate for such a mind-blowing chunk of life.

I was only four in 1939 and can honestly say I didn't notice the war starting! From what I have read and seen on television a lot of grown-ups didn't notice either. So it sort of crept up on the nation in the same way as it crept up on me. I can't say this is the day I woke up and knew there was a war on. It just became a way of life. I do remember two things about 1939. We moved in the summer from 33, Wood Street to 79, Margam Road to the house my mother and father bought and the other thing, before the winter was over I had diphtheria. I vaguely remember the day we moved. My mother and I pushed what seemed to be a pram' from Wood Street to the new house, about eight hundred yards down the road where my father was waiting. I don't think we had a pram' because my horrible little brother was yet to come and I certainly didn't need a pram’. Nevertheless, I remember our walking down Margam Road pushing something on a beautiful June day, me clutching Polly Flinders.

Polly Flinders was my doll, made of beautiful green velvet with a flat painted face. Her filling had redistributed itself so she had very wobbly legs. Uncle Em, my father's brother, had dubbed her Rhubarb Legs and although I thought the world of him, it was a very long time before I forgave him this insult to Polly Flinders.

The diphtheria came as a shock. There was an epidemic at the time and everyone was talking about it so the word diphtheria was quite familiar to me. It was a winter's afternoon and I was painting this beautiful picture of a dog, hint, hint, when I was rudely interrupted by this strange man who looked down my throat. He glanced at my mother and said,

Yes, it’s diphtheria!

I was quite proud of myself! Whatever diphtheria was, I had it! I was a little concerned because my mother looked very serious and strange. I was quite interested when she started putting some of my night-clothes in a small suitcase. The warning bells started ringing when I saw an ambulance pull up at the front gate. The penny dropped when I was wrapped in a big red blanket and was carried by a man in black into the ambulance. That was when I started screaming and I continued to scream and cry on and off for the three weeks I spent in the isolation hospital. It was only fifty yards down the road but it seemed like a different world. Every day, Mammy and Daddy came to visit me and brought me something nice but they could only talk to me through the ward’s window. When I was released I couldn’t take any of my lovely presents with me.

I suppose I could divide my childhood into two halves: B.J. (Before Jeff) and A.J. (After Jeff) because life was never the same after he arrived.

The main centers of interests B.J. were Digging for Victory and getting the air-raid shelter sorted out.  I found Digging for Victory boring but the air-raid shelter was a different kettle of fish.  It was a matter of pride to have the best shelter in the road and ours was definitely the poshest in Margam.  It wasn’t one of those horrible Anderson shelters which were made of corrugated iron which stuck up like a sore thumb, went rusty overnight and blighted the landscape. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat in an Anderson but our shelter was roomy!

Our shelter was shared between three households. Ours was the middle house and the shelter was built across our garden and Mr. Jones’ next door. My father, Mr. Webster and Mr. Jones dug it out – no mean feat! It was lined with old pallets and had six very narrow bed bunks –three each side of the doorway and steep steps to get in and out. Then the flat roof made of old railway sleepers were put on and earth was piled up on top and levelled. Now this is where digging for victory came in because vegetables were planted on top.

Safe as the Bank of England, boasted a proud Mr. Jones.

There was only one snag. It took forever for everyone to get down the steps safely. It was not long before we had air-raids and we used to have practice runs to see how quickly we could all get down into the shelter. It was great fun but no matter how often we practiced, in ideal conditions, there was always a queue as old Mr. and Mrs. Jones went first, followed by even older Mrs. Quayle, clutching her bottle of whiskey, then the Websters and finally us Harrises bringing up the rear.

My father and Mr. Webster used to hold meetings to discuss speeding up the process. I remember Mr. Jones rushing into our house, shouting,

I've got it! You know the helter-skelter in the fair where you come down on coconut matting? We'll take out the steps and put in a slide. We'll have our personal mats with our names on them and we'll slide down into the shelter!

I thought it was a brilliant idea and said so but my father deflated him with a quiet,

And how are we going to get back up?

Ah well, back to the drawing board!

Then the air-raids started and interfered with life. They determined how much sleep we had, when we ate, even when we started school. I didn't start school until I was nearly six. The sound of the wailing sirens sent shivers up and down our spines. I don't know which was the worse, the day-time raids or the ones in the middle of the night. Yes, I do! The middle of the night sirens meant getting out of a warm bed and dressing, stumbling down the dark stairs and then standing in that queue!

Every time the siren sounded we thought THE GERMANS ARE COMING! There were rumours that the Germans were going to invade and every time