Southend U3A - Writing for Fun

Writing for Fun

January 2019

Reflections on WWII - Jeanette Rothwell

Just recently, due to various anniversaries being marked by news on the television and in the newspapers, etc., I have been reflecting on my experiences of the Second World War and afterwards. My reflections are on my experiences of the war as a very young girl.

I believe, as a toddler, I was initially evacuated, as many others were, at the very beginning of hostilities. However, it seems that my grandfather came to visit me very soon after my evacuation and discovered that on a very cold day, I was outside, dressed in a flimsy short sleeved dress and sandals with no socks. He was so disgusted that he promptly scooped me up and took me home and I stayed at home in the centre of London throughout the rest of the War. My mum and I lived with my grandparents.

During air raids I can recall being quite used to either going to a rather smelly, spider infested area in the basement of our flats where we slept in bunks during the night, or we would cross the road and sleep, again in bunks, in the basement of the printing works, amid large greasy machinery. If, on some occasions, we had risked staying in our flat overnight, it was not at all unusual to be scooped out of bed by my mother, to the sound of the air raid siren, and taken to the nearest basement area of the flats until the ‘all clear’ sound was heard.

As the war progressed, ‘blackout’ was the big priority for one and all. Cries of ‘Put that light out’ from Air Raid Wardens could be heard every night. My Granddad indulged in a bit of DIY and concocted screens made of large sheets of cardboard, nailed to wooden frames. These screens would fit over every window very tightly so that not a single chink of light could be seen from the outside. Every evening the ritual of fitting these screens was observed. However, the screens themselves were rather unsightly so Granddad and I spent some happy times together cutting colourful pictures from old magazines and greetings cards and pasting them onto the screens to cheer them up. We were quite proud of the result.

One night I was woken by my grandfather shouting, ‘They’re dropping flares,’ because the sky was lit up but it turned out to be the beginning of the ‘doodle bugs’ being sent over London.

On one occasion, we were walking in the street outside our flats when a doodle bug roared overhead and then there was that eerie silence when the engine cut out and you didn’t know where it was going to land. We all threw ourselves flat on the ground and waited for the explosion which was just a few roads away, the bomb falling at the back of my friend’s house. A block of houses behind her house was wiped out and where she lived suffered only minor damage. Nevertheless the row of houses she lived in were then condemned, but people continued to live in them for another ten years before they were eventually pulled down.

I can well remember looking out of my bedroom window to see St. Pauls cathedral in the distance outlined by a fiery red sky, rather like that famous photograph which is always shown when people talk about the Blitz. A block of flats close to us was bombed and we had our windows blown in. The windows were broken regularly by bomb blasts. The last thing we would do before leaving to take shelter from the bombing, was to cover our couch with newspaper to catch the glass, as it was under the front window. Thinking back, I wonder why the couch was left under the window, the furniture could have been moved around but it seemed that everyone took it for granted that the couch belonged there.

My first indication that the war was over (VE Day) was when my mum and grandmother linked arms and danced around each other in the middle of our living room, laughing and shouting with joy. There was the sound of church bells and a lot of noise in the street.

We then all walked up the road to Roseberry Avenue in Finsbury to the Metropolitan Water Board building and gardens which was next to the Sadlers Wells Theatre. There we watched the fountains spouting for the first time since the war. I can remember thinking that the water was red white and blue, not realising then that it was the lighting that was having that effect. Everybody around us was doing a knees up and there seemed to be a lot of beer flowing.

Just a few days after that, we heard an odd stomping sound coming up the stairs to our flat which was on the fourth floor, and, much to everyone’s joy my Uncle Arthur appeared back from the war. He had been sent home early because he had broken his leg in a motor cycle accident as he was a despatch rider for the REME in Egypt. My grandmother was beside herself with joy. He was her beloved son and we had a great celebration that evening.

Uncle Arthur played the piano rather well and he also played the piano accordion. He added singing to his talents and his party piece was ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ sung just like Bing Crosby. Everybody got very dewy eyed when he sang that. On the other hand, after some liquid refreshment, my mother’s party piece was ‘On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep’ which was greatly encouraged by the rest of the family, very loudly. I was indulged and asked to recite The Fiddler of Dooney which I had learned at school with lots of actions. I am sure it must have been dreadful but the family applauded heartily and the celebrations continued. There were a few tears shed as neighbours joined us and remembered that their ‘boys’ were still away fighting. We had to make our own entertainment. No television, iPads or iPhones in those days.

My Uncle Arthur had brought home a rather battered box of what turned out to be lemons which sent everybody into ecstasies but I didn’t like them, they were far too bitter. On the other hand my mother came back from the market with a very strange fruit which turned out to be bananas and I thought they were quite nice.

I think my family had done very well during the war in keeping our food tasty and plentiful in spite of the rationing and although things started to appear in the shops which had not been there before, I was not aware of any great change in our life style.

When VJ Day came, it was hardly marked in our neighbourhood. We went again to Roseberry Avenue to witness Winston Churchill riding by and the roads were lined with cheering crowds. He stood up in the back of his car and the V salute and his cigar were very evident. As I was still quite a small girl, I was pushed to the front of the crowd and got a very good view of the great man.

To this day I don’t like to hear the sound of a siren as it brings back memories of the family panicking, and being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night. It can still make my stomach turn over when I hear that wailing noise.