Wartime Blackheath

Wartime Blackheath, wartime London, wartime Britain — it was a different world. Born at the start of the Second World War, my memories from an early age are vivid, much to the surprise of parents and friends. Life in the War years was governed by bombs and barrage balloons, sirens and air raid shelters, queues and ration books. Strange, when you think about it, this was the only world that my generation and I knew.

The Bombing
Many l000s of people were bombed out of house and home in London, as in other big cities up and down the country. Whole families were made homeless. In London many took shelter down in the Underground. Some of the homeless became squatters trying to make a sort of home in bomb-damaged houses left empty by their owners, evacuated or killed.
Pre-fabricated houses, colloquially known as pre-fabs, were erected by the government as an emergency measure on bombsites and other open spaces, which included the Heath. There was a row of pre-fabs opposite St German’s church, parallel to St German’s Place, and elsewhere in Blackheath. Not exactly a pretty sight. They were meant to be a short-term provision to be pulled down fifteen years after the end of the War. But, such was the housing shortage after the War that many were still lived in some 30-40 years later! People came to love their pre-fab: these once despised residences proved to be warm, cosy little homes, and occupants were loath to leave when the fifteen years were up.
Scores of captured German prisoners-of-war were billeted in Nissan huts on the Heath. A contingent of these dishevelled men could be seen unceremoniously marched over the Heath, as we made our way down to the Village. I found the sight of these scruffy-looking men a bit gruesome, especially when I was told in threatening tones, “They’re Germans!” In other words, the enemy. That was frightening. These bedraggled men seemed quite harmless yet I couldn’t understand how they could be the very people who were dropping bombs on us.
Wartime Rationing and Queues, endless queues
Shopping was a very hit-and-miss affair. We never knew if we would be able to buy what we wanted, when we wanted, where we wanted. Almost everything was in short supply, sometimes unobtainable. Our main food shopping was done in the mornings, mostly up the Old Dover Road. Outings to the Village were usually kept for the afternoon. As you may imagine, the Village was my preferred destination!
The ration book was a necessity for the purchase of almost all life’s essentials, so before Mummy, baby Alison and I set out on our shopping expedition priority number one was to make sure we had our ration books: fawn for adults, green for children, blue for babies; kept in a fawn-coloured folder. Each book contained “points” for food and “coupons” for clothes. With each purchase these had to be assiduously cut out by the shopkeeper.
We lived at 61 Langton Way, a stoney unmade road, making for very uncomfortable walking, and a bumpy ride for Alison in the pram. Ours was one of four houses, built in 1936 on land that had originally formed part of the stables of Stainton Lodge (the now listed Victorian “gothic” house on the corner of Stratheden Road and Shooters Hill Road). Langton Way straddled Stratheden Road; the other end of our part adjoined the Heath.
Mummy had to think out our meagre menus for the coming week. There may have been the “personal touch” in those days, but every transaction took a painfully long time, holding up a growing queue of tense people behind, nervously wondering what goods had run out by the time they made it to the counter. Now to the shops via Stratheden Road, past St John’s Church on the right and past Mr Littler’s dental surgery, our dentist, on the left; up to the Royal Standard pub. and into the Old Dover Road.
Shortages were endemic, even of those items not on ration. That meant queues. Endless queues became part and parcel of the wartime shopping experience and were a common sight on the streets. Another common sight that impinged on my mind were the inadequately dressed women with bare stockingless legs, unable to afford the “luxury” of a pair of stockings. As we walked along behind I couldn’t but feel for these women: Their red rough legs, chapped by the cold winter air, drew my attention. Mummy was fortunate. She possessed two pairs of stockings, albeit made of thick, heavy and ugly lisle: one pair on, the other pair off (perhaps a third pair, in reserve).
Likewise with every other commodity, nothing was taken for granted: slivers of soap were gathered and melded together to create a “new” bar; books more often than not had a blank page at the beginning that was cut out to provide paper to write on or draw pictures; and we ate every morsel of food that came our way.
Word got round like wildfire when a particular shop had just had a delivery of bread, bananas, sweets or whatever, and the inevitable queue formed like quick-silver. Everyone who joined the queue hoped to get to the counter before the sought after item ran out. The fear was always there that one was queuing in vain! Sometimes we didn’t know what it was we were queuing for but joined the queue - just in case! Anyhow, there was always the possibility we might see something on a shelf that would make the queuing worthwhile.
Our first queue of the day was usually at Bason’s, the greengrocers, at the top of Westcombe Hill. Miss Bason, and her two brothers were always glad to see us and greeted us with a cheery smile. Then we usually queued at Parker’s, the fishmongers, in the Old Dover Road; then at Orton’s, the grocers, and at Aylett’s, the butchers in Dellacourt Road off to the right.
Up the Old Dover Road to buy fish at Parker’s. Groan! The queue was extra long today. We were faced with a taxing question! Should we join the queue at Parker’s now or go to Orton’s first to get our grocery rations and return for our fish ration later in the hope that the queue would be shorter? Yes, let’s get our groceries first. The snag was, by the time we got back Parker’s the queue had gone, and so had the fish! O dear, weren’t we stupid! We should have joined the fish queue first. But you never knew!
Also up the Old Dover Road was a small cinema, the Roxy. My mother seemed to despise the Roxy and, rightly or wrongly, considered it something of a fleapit, not to be patronised!
Forming a queue was the only way of ensuring fair distribution of goods: First come, first served. It was more than anyone’s life was worth to jump the queue. So started the English discipline of orderly queuing, fast disappearing today especially when it comes to waiting for buses!
Ration book “points” determined what and how much we could buy. They had to be eked out in the most advantageous way to cover our essential basic food purchases, and the calculations involved became a veritable art. Calculations done, the woman behind the counter would painstakingly cut out the appropriate number of little squares of paper representing the “points”. If a special event were coming up the next week, such as my birthday, our “points” could be transferred to pay for the cake. It seemed a petty exercise, but accuracy was called for.
Bananas were a veritable luxury, almost unattainable, but when they did come in were reserved for children and snapped up quickly. Only the children’s ration books had points for bananas. Shopkeepers sometimes kept them “under the counter”, or they would tip us off when the next delivery might be due. (The first post war consignment of bananas arrived in Britain on lst January 1946.)
At the end of our morning shop in Dellacourt Road we made for home down the stoney east end of Langton Way, only to be told on arrival back at the house by our neighbour, Mrs Wood, with great sense of urgency, that Bason’s had just had a delivery of bananas. Great! But we’d only just been there! Retracing our steps in haste, we hoped to make it before they sold out. On this occasion we were fortunate. It wasn’t always so!
The daily diet was monotonous, to say the least. My abiding memory was corned beef: corned beef and yet more corned beef. Tedious! Corned beef was “on the menu” ad nauseam. Mummy served it up in different guises in an endeavour to make it more interesting. Spam was a great luxury, rarely come by; When we did get a tin of Spam (imported from America) there was a sense of triumph: As with bananas and everything else, to get Spam we had to be at the shop when a consignment came in and, of course, we could only buy it as ration book “points” permitted. Kennedy’s pork sausages were also deemed a luxury; they disappeared almost as soon as they came into the shop.
Whatever was put before us at meal times it all had to be eaten up (however little one fancied it) till we’d scraped the enamel off the plate (enamel, i.e. unbreakable, for children in those pre-plastic days): The “Eat up your food - that’s all there is!” dictum was no idle threat, it was the truth! But we children didn’t usually go hungry; the parents were the ones who went without that the kids might have enough. Waste not, want not, was the motto of the day, especially at mealtimes.

Poem: Waste Not, Want Not

Three sorts of “body-building” substances” were produced by the Ministry of Food to be administered to children after each meal. It was said to be “good for you”. One teaspoonful of a dense nasty-tasting sort of orange juice, then a just as nasty white semolina sort of stuff of thick consistency that we used to call “MOF” i.e. (Ministry of Food), and finally, cod liver oil. Can’t say I looked forward to any of them!

POOL Petrol
After the War our family was among the few who had a car. Like everything else, petrol was on ration and we were issued with petrol coupons. Those fortunate enough to have a car had to work out how to put their small petrol ration to best use. I don’t know how we managed. We were by no means rich. ”POOL” petrol was all one could buy. Petrol was no longer supplied by the various petrol companies; their products were pooled. Pumps still had the names of the petrol companies on them from pre-war days. In wartime conditions they were irrelevant. I remember my father filling up with “POOL” petrol. Each filling station only the one pump and the china “bowl” on the top was marked “POOL”. [5th April 1948 motorists were permitted fuel for 90 miles per month.]
When buying clothes it was advisable to look for the Utility Mark label, a Government indication that the garment was made to a basic reliable standard. Most clothes, when available, were cheap and not exactly chic. [Twelve extra clothing coupons were made available, 6th May 1948. Rationing of footwear and furnishing fabrics came to an end on 9th September 1948.] To give us extra warmth in winter we kids wore cotton liberty bodices on top of a vest. Warmth was the idea, but it was minimal. Not only were they made of cotton, they were very short, reaching to just above the waist. They had vertical lines of tape back and front, which made no apparent contribution.
[Twelve extra clothing coupons were made available, 6th May 1948. Rationing of footwear and furnishing fabrics came to an end on 9th September 1948.]
I learned of increases and decreases as and when they were announced on the wireless and knew if the news was good or bad by the delight or exasperation of the my parents’ reaction to the announcement. Of course, I have no recollection of the detail, but I have read the facts later and thought their inclusion in square brackets would be of interest.
As increases in our rations was announced I recall vividly the great boost it gave the grown ups; their joy and relief was communicated to me when we heard on the wireless that the ration of such-and-such was to be increased or, better still, taken off ration altogether. That was a real cause for delight, a sign of hope that better things were on the way.
A date is indelibly imprinted on my mind - the 24th April 1949 — the day promised for chocolate and sweets come off ration! In my eyes, this was a great day. It couldn’t come quickly enough. But the longed for day turned out to be a Sunday! What disappointment! Not fair, after all that waiting! Buying things on a Sunday was forbidden, so constraint was the only option till the morrow. In the circumstances, I disobeyed the rules and paid a hurried visit to the funny little sweet shop round the corner, run by old Mr Sansom, his sons the Sansom brothers, Harold and Cyril, and their sister, and I made my first ever chocolate purchase without coupons, Cadbury’s small 2d chocolate bars. (Coupons, not points, for sweets and chocolate — and petrol!)
But lack-a-day and sad to say, a few months later supplies had proved insufficient to meet demand and sweets and chocolate went back on ration!

The lighter side of life
There was a lighter side to life amidst the doom and gloom of wartime Blackheath, like the day I fell head first into the pond! We had a round pond at the end of our garden, surrounded by a low red brick wall. I was sitting on the wall, leaning over trying to catch a goldfish, and in I plunged. My poor alarmed Mama standing at the kitchen window witnessed my departure from sight and rushed into the garden to the rescue. Needless to say, she was successful! Anyhow, the pond wasn’t that deep, and I might have dealt with the situation myself, but that, of course, is hypothetical!

“Another lady!”
Great amusement mingled with not a little annoyance was shown to my parents was when on several occasions I had the temerity to stride out in front of them, declaring, “I want to be another lady”. This arrogance on the part of their little daughter must surely have helped a little to take their minds off the seriousness of War.
The first time I made this declaration was the scene of my first memory walking up the Royal Arcade in Norwich. We had been evacuated to a small village of Old Catton near Norwich. My father had been called up and joined the RAF and was stationed at nearby St Faith’s aerodrome. I was 2½ years old dressed in a brown coat and brown bobble hat as we walked up the Royal Arcade. I don’t know if it is significant that this is my first ever memory, but I confidently marched ahead of my mother informing her in no uncertain terms, that “I want to be another lady”. My mother has since told me, I adamantly insisted on this and refused to come to heel. And, evidently, much to her embarrassment, I screamed long and loud and wouldn’t stop screaming because of my insistence on being another lady. I wouldn’t do as I was told! Truly, I don’t remember the screaming bit! I suppose my high aspiration demonstrated a flair for the dramatic and an independence of mind! But where I got the idea from, I cannot think!

Tram ride from Lewisham to New Cross
For obvious reasons, people did not travel far from home during the War unless they had to. But air raids permitting we visited my grandparents’ and great grandparents’ house where I was born in Erlanger Road, New Cross. We caught either the 53 bus at the Royal Standard, that took us all the way to New Cross, or the bus in the opposite direction to Lewisham, via Blackheath Village, we changed onto a tram to New Cross Gate.
I didn’t like trams! Trams swayed as they went, and made an awful noise — clankety clank, clankety clank. The windows were “glazed” with orange perspex instead of glass, which made me feel sick. One had to walk out into the middle of the road to get on, not that the volume of traffic was as great as it is today, and on alighting one had a similar walk back to the kerb. I’d been warned of the danger of railway lines so I tried desperately to avoid treading on tramlines, just in case they too were live!
There were other disadvantages: sometimes the overhead rod got dislodged from the power wires above. The rod would fall onto the top of the tram, making it powerless — literally. The result? When one tram was thus afflicted all the trams behind were forced to queue (yes, they had to queue too!) and were also made immobile. A man with a very long stick came along to lift the rod and re-connect it to its source of power and off the tram went again. Trams were noisy bone-shakers and swayed horribly. So what with the sickening sway and the sickening orange windows, I was glad to get off!
Nevertheless, after the War, in July 1952, to be precise, for old times sake and despite all antagonism, scores took a nostalgic tram in the “Last Tram Week”. Quite an emotional occasion. It had been decided that in view of the disadvantages, trams had had their day and they were taken off the road. I still have the specially issued “Last Tram Week” tram ticket!

Walks across the Heath
The Heath was surrounded by many a beautiful Georgian residence, that spoke of the gracious living of a former age, though one mustn’t get too romantic about life of yesteryear. Life for many must have just as ugly then as it is for many today, albeit somewhat different. The Paragon, said to be unique of its kind, stood proud overlooking the Heath, as did All Saints’ Church closeby Royal Parade.
I enjoyed our visits to the Village, two or three times a week despite the War and the possibility of the siren going off threatening an imminent bomb. The Village was homely and welcoming; it had history and atmosphere; it appealed. Sometimes I would ride my little blue bike across the Heath, which gave me a great fillip. On occasion, I strode out ahead of my mother, and often my grandmother, Alison in pram, and I informed them in no uncertain terms that “I wanted to be “another lady”! I was serious! I wanted nothing to do them! I felt like a little grown up!
With hindsight, I realise I elicited a certain amount of wry amusement on the part of the grown ups and, it has to be said, not a little the annoyance too when I refused to give up my “heartfelt” desire!
The Heath was and still is a much-frequented place of leisure: boys and dads kicking footballs and flying kites; girls playing “he”; parents and children picnicking on the grass and sailing boats on the pond near the Princess of Wales public house in Pond Road. There was tremendous buzz on the Heath.
Sometimes a certain Clare Cotton could be seen in the distance cantering her horse over the Heath, her blonde hair streaming out behind. A character everybody knew, albeit from afar.
Now to our main Village haunts. Halfway down the hill, Montpelier Row, was The New Argosy shop. Mummy could never resist a little bit of window-shopping as we passed, but consumer goods were few and far between and there was not much to see. She was devoted to the shop. I know she had to use her best endeavours not to listen to the small voice within tempting her to enter its portals when she saw a piece that appealed. Money was scarce, and after the War when things were getting a little more normal, just now and again she would throw conscience to the wind and make a purchase. She had a tea set called “Pink Thistle” and she was always looking out for pieces to add to it, but I don’t think she did, so soon after the War. A little further down on the left, we passed Henkels where we bought bread and cakes, points and money permitting; not to mention stocks. Jobbins, opposite Blackheath Station, was our next port of call where we sometimes permitted ourselves some meagre refreshment. Then there was the short traipse up the hill to Hinds the family-owned store and a precurser to Allders, often on our “shopping spree” list.
The Conservatoire of Music was next door to Hinds. I learned to play the piano by Miss Annie M. Morton who lived next door-but-one to us in Langton Way. Once a week I would go her house for lessons. In 1946 she entered me for my first RSCM Preliminary piano exam. If one wanted to be “another lady” one couldn’t be nervous. So it was that at 5½ and walked into the examination room with great aplomb, and sat at the piano before an “elderly” gentleman, the examiner. He seemed elderly to me but I expect he was only in his 30s! I passed! But because of the paper shortage I was deprived of a certificate to prove the fact. Not fair! Inwardly, I felt peeved, nay, deprived. Outwardly, I suppose I accepted the fact because this was sort of sacrifice everyone was making at the time to help the cause of Great Britain winning the War. Life was geared to this attitude of mind. Anyhow, what else could a little girl do but accept? But I’m still peeved!
Soon after the War a photographer, Mr Luck, came to take photos. (The finances must have improved!) I recall one occasion when on receiving the developed photos arrived back, Mummy observed that in one of Alison and me sitting on the sofa, Mr Luck had left his camera case on the chair behind us! Understandably, Mummy was furious! I still have the picture with the offending camera case. I cannot but chuckle whenever I look at it and this little incident is brought to mind.
Mummy used our clothes coupons to buy material in Hinds to make dresses for Alison and me. There was little or no possibility of buying them. Fortunately, Mummy had a flair in that direction though she denied it. My grandmother knitted Alison and me many a beautiful cardigan and jumper, including two most intricate of fairisle jumpers that must have taken an age to do. A little old man (again, he seemed old to me) served us in Hinds, just inside the last door at the top of the hill. He was always kindly disposed towards me. Whenever we went in, he let me have lots of little pieces of material. They were pretty useless really, but I thought they were great; the gift meant a lot to me in those bleak times; I derived great enjoyment playing with them. It was the thought that counted. The coupons were duly cut out and Mummy paid for her little purchases. The gentleman in Hinds put the money into a cylinder and sent it along a wire, to where I knew not, and it seemed to disappear into the ether. I was enthralled to see the cylinder return with, marvel of marvels, exactly the right change!
It was the era of thick lisle stockings; for the most part that‘s all there was. (Nylon hadn’t been invented!) Such was their cost and scarcity, if they laddered that was a tragedy calling for a painstaking mending operation to prolong their life. Nought was jettisoned. Sometimes, but rarely, my father was able to get a pair of silk stockings. Now, that was treasure trove, kept for “best”. But if the silk stockings laddered it was, of course, a tragedy of even greater proportions, and the need to redeem the situation with a stitch in time even more urgent.
I mustn’t forget Raggitty Ann’s on Royal Parade. Mummy always discouraged a visit to Raggitty Ann’s, with the excuse that we must get home to put up the blackout curtains. What she really meant was, she didn’t want to go in case I had a whim for something I saw and tried to cajole her into buying it. Best keep away.
Next door, between Miss Morton at No. 57 and us lived Mrs Muller and her nephew Captain Dawson. He went to fight in the War and returned home badly injured. At No. 63 lived Captain Bowen and his wife Mrs Rose Bowen with their two sons, Michael and David, who went to the Rowan School; also, Mrs Bowen’s mother, Mrs Ashton. Opposite our house, on the corner of Langton Way and Stratheden Road was a garage owned by Mr. Budd. He was a large man and had an obnoxiously large mole on his cheek, which looked horrid! I tried not to look at it.
Once a week I attended Marjorie Barton’s School of Dancing in Independents Road, but I can’t say dancing was my forte! I wasn’t really interested. More to my taste was music and my piano lessons.
Then there was the fair, which returned after the War. The fair took place on the Heath, as it still does today, opposite the imposing main gates to Greenwich Park, every Bank Holiday weekend. My favourite was the dodgems. I loved the dodgems. To be honest, I still do, not that I’m a great frequenter nowadays! Not so long ago I took the wheel with my mother-in-law on board. I think she was petrified but she didn’t dare admit it!
Every weekend, also opposite the main Park gates, bedraggled donkeys plied for hire for kids to ride on a leading rein up a sort of donkeys’ “rotten row”. This short, churned up, muddy strip of land on did indeed look somewhat rotten! I was never allowed to have a donkey ride, as the powers that be, my parents, deemed them dirty. Maybe they were, I don’t know. Nevertheless, the donkeys were part of the scene and hired out to many an enthusiastic future Derby winner. (N.B. On 14th July 2003 the BBCl’s London in the South-East, announced that the donkeys had been stolen which was very sad.)
Mrs Lines was my mother’s charwoman, as the cleaning lady was called then. Again, we must have come into a little more money, that my mother could afford have her. Mrs Lines had a greeny-yellow turban wrapped round her head.

Christmas at Denmark Hill
Christmas Day was spent at home, a quiet family affair. Church in the morning and a walk in Greenwich Park after lunch. And, of course, Father Christmas had come during the night to fill the stocking!
Boxing Day was great fun, spent at the Sutherland grandparents’ home with aunts and uncles and one little cousin (there was only one then) at 26 Deepdene Road, Denmark Hill, south-east London. This is where I learnt to dance the Hokey Cokey!
Grandmother Sutherland, otherwise known as Nan, seemed to have a penchant for things Japanese. Strange, in view of the war situation. Downstairs the rooms were decorated with a beautiful array of brightly coloured Japanese lanterns. (Pre-war purchases, of course.) After lunch I loved the opportunity to sing carols and some of the old music hall songs. Nan had that great gift of playing extempore, especially “She’s my Japanesey Girl”. That seemed her favourite. She played it and sang it over and over again.
After Nan had finished playing, she would set up the pianola for me: one of my delights was to “play” great music on the pianola. I took a pianola roll of the chosen piece, the paper spattered with hundreds of holes stamped in the appropriate places. This was put into the piano in a specially designated place, ready for me the “pianist” to get going. I loved my pseudo piano playing, peddling away for all I was worth, having to hold fast to the front of the piano, such was the pressure I had to exert; and finding myself responsible for glorious music booming out all over the house. It sounded fantastic! And I felt great peddling away for all I was worth bringing forth Souza’s Stars and Stripes march or Johann Strauss’s The Blue Danube!
In the hall there was a very old fashioned black telephone on a vertical stick: the mouthpiece was on top of the stick; the hand-piece was separate and hung on a clip at the side of the stick. I would hold this hand-piece to my ear and enjoyed a pretend conversation with some imagined person the other end, that is, until I was castigated and told to stop. I was blocking the line. But who would have been phoning my grandparents on Boxing Day? But it was the principle of the thing. I dutifully obeyed!
Boxing Day celebrations ended with dance — the Gay Gordons, the Veleta, the St. Bernard Waltz, and, as already mentioned, the Hokey Cokey. Tremendous fun. We had a go at doing the Lambeth Walk, and would dance the Hokey Cokey over and over again till we dropped, or more precisely till the adults dropped. Time to put up the blackout curtains!
Needless to say, rationing affected our Christmas fare. At their house in Denmark Hill my grandparents had an inviting-looking 4lbs Black Magic chocolate box flaunting a big red tassel. A leftover from “before the War” days. Of course, the contents had long since disappeared, likewise “before the War”! O dear, almost everything that was any good derived from that “paradisiacal” era, of which I had heard tell. This large substantial box exemplified the sort of thing I assumed would return “when the War was over” (contents included, of course!) Little did I know, that things such that chocolate box would not return as anticipated.
[The Government announced just before the Christmas of 1943, on the 22nd December, to be precise, that there were only enough turkeys for one family in ten! A month later, 22nd January 1944, it was announced that lemons would be available for Shrove Tuesday at 6 ½d (c. 2 1/2p) per lb. 25th November 1946, the Government said that food controls were to be relaxed, but bread would still be rationed. 24th June 1947, the milk allowance was cut to 2 ½ pints per week. 27th March 1948, the cheese ration was cut from 2 to 1½ ozs per week. Such was life! It seems ironic that even though the War had ended, some food rations were reduced.
Hope was in sight when on the 25th April 1948, the milk ration went up to 3½ pints per week. On 5th December 1948 jam rationing ended. Big deal!]
My sister, Alison, was born when I was three years and three days old, in the small front room of No. 61. I was aware of a lot of coming-and-going by Dr Mizen, our doctor, and Nurse Alison, the midwife after whom my sister was named. Obviously, I didn’t understand what all the bustle was about.

Doodlebugs and Devastation
War meant living with wailing sirens and the daily threat of bombs and doodlebugs. For the first two years of my life, which included the Blitz on London and other cities, we lived with my grandparents in the house where I was born in New Cross. Fortunately, we in Great Britain have never been occupied by a foreign power since the Norman Conquest of 1066.
In the recent past my parents were incredulous at my memories of so much of the war. Indeed, I remember much. I don’t pretend to remember the Blitz! That was 194l. I was only two years old. We were living at Erlanger Road. But I do recall much: the subsequent devastation caused by the bombing, the V1 rockets, otherwise known as doodlebugs, and the more insidious silent V2s.
My parents had a new house built specially for them at Blackheath and in 1941 we moved in. Alison was born in the front bedroom, 28th September 1942, three years and three days after my birthday. I have memories of the doctor and the mid-wife seemingly popping in and out all day.
Air raid sirens and bombsites abounded in south-east London; our nearest siren was quite close, at the crossing of Stratheden Road and Shooters Hill Road. Evidence of war was everywhere to be seen. All wrought iron had been removed from public places for use in the war effort. Streets were denuded of gates, railings and anything else not serving an essential purpose. Our trudge up the steep hill of Erlanger Road to my grandparents’ house evokes the memory, not only of aching legs but of the stubs of metal at the edge of the front gardens that had formerly been graced by wrought iron railings. These ugly stubs were all that was left. I had no idea how it must have looked before their removal.
The forbidding wail of the siren was always a dreaded sound: the signal to repair to the Morrison air raid shelter in the downstairs front room. A sigh of relief passed over everyone’s face when the All Clear went. Some people resorted to under the stairs, or down in the basement if they had one, for protection when the air raid siren went.
One could apply for either a Morrison or an Anderson shelter. My grandparents’ name was Anderson, and, appropriately, their air raid shelter was called an Anderson shelter. We had a Morrison shelter and our surname was Sutherland. So why was ours not called a Sutherland shelter? Logical! At least to my little mind. But, like it or not, I had to accept that ours was a Morrison, so-called because Herbert Morrison, the Labour Cabinet Minister in the Wartime Coalition Government, was responsible for their distribution.
The Morrison shelter was a little “room” placed inside the house, a heavy metal “cage-like” structure; its fairly flimsy flat metal roof not to be played on, nor even walked on! As a little girl, the temptation was always there. From the roof to the base, the shelter was surrounded by open-wired squares of about 2” in diameter, intended to shield its occupants from…….? I know not what! Protection was minimal; more psychological than anything. But it would stave off shrapnel or large pieces of glass and other debris. Our house and surrounding houses were never bombed, so that was never our experience. Had the house received a direct hit the shelter would have been impotent to save our lives. The Anderson shelter was made of corrugated iron with a rounded roof and was for erection in the garden only. I think it might have offered greater protection than its sister, the Morrison. Debateable! But with the Morrison we were spared having to go outside when an air raid on. There were pros and cons for both.
We had many air raids night and day. Apart from seeing a barrage balloon being raised skyward we never knew when — until the air raid siren sounded. One night we were woken up by the siren’s ever-ominous wail in that awful “minor key” to which we became accustomed. Ascending and descending, ascending and descending, on and on it went warning of imminent bombardment. Everyone was immediately filled with urgency and foreboding. Out of bed and down the stairs, gripped with fear, we huddled together in the Morrison shelter helplessly clutching our gas masks. (It was rumoured, Hitler might try to use gas so the gas mask went with us everywhere, just in case.) Evidently, I had a Mickey Mouse gas mask, but I don’t recall it, it was the adult gas masks I have a picture of. I don’t know, but I think I considered the Mickey Mouse one a bit puerile!
A doodlebug droned above, a recognisable deep chugging noise. Mummy assured me there was no need to worry so long as we could hear the drone: the time to fear was when or if the droning stopped! That meant the bomb’s engine had cut out whereupon the bomb would fall on whatever happened to be below. We could only wait and go on waiting, hoping for the best. Silence can be beautiful or it can be ominous. The silence of waiting for the doodlebug either to cut out and fall, or continue droning and pass over was an uneasy moment. Was this, perhaps, the one to fall on us! Who could tell until the waning of the drone meant the bomb had passed. Not us this time! It was with mixed emotions that we heard its horrendous impact with earth elsewhere. From the sound of the bang the doodlebug must have fallen quite closeby.
In the event, we were safe. Well, there was always the possibility of another bomb in the offing, so it was sensible to wait in the shelter for the siren to give the official “All Clear” before clambering back into bed: What relief to hear the high-pitched note of the “All Clear” sounding out through the still, dark night. Normal life resumed, if anything during the War could be described as normal! Normal to me.
Another night the siren went off and again we scrambled down to the air raid shelter to await whatever Hitler had for us this time. The All Clear went. Back to bed. It appeared to be a false alarm. Suddenly the siren went off again. Down to the shelter for the second time. Once settled in again we waited…..and waited…..and waited….., the drone of the German bombers in the distance getting nearer and nearer. One could always tell if they were German planes from the deep distinctive, growling noise. We held our breath and clasped our gas masks and heard the bombs go off somewhere in the vicinity, bringing the inevitable destruction in its wake and, quite likely, death. What had been hit this time? How many people had been bombed out or lost their lives? Yet again, the “All Clear” ushered in a sense of relief to our little huddle inside the shelter, and to many others too. Imminent danger over. Back to bed, this time till morning.
Next day Mummy took me on the 53 bus to New Cross to find out what had been bombed the night before. The devastation was dreadful, yet I seemed to take it in my stride. I knew no different. We met an uncle on the bus who had strong words for my mother for taking me on such a traipse! An horrendous thing to take a child to see bomb damage. But I had already witnessed the ruins of bombed out houses and the poor homeless people forced to become squatters. Horrendous, yes, but just part of life as I had come to know it, along with the many other children. Strange, when you think about it.
Our church was St German’s, an elegant Georgian building overlooking the Heath, with white walls without and blue and gold fittings within, built in the same period as the elegant houses on the other side of the Heath. Canon Galer was the Rector. My parents were not great churchgoers, but they sent me to the Sunday school attached to St German’s. A land mine completely destroyed our church, St German’s in St German’s Place, very close to our house. That was in June 1944. Ironic, nicht wahr, that it should have been the Germans who bombed the church dedicated to St Germanus? (To be fair, it referred to the Duke of St German’s, Cornwall, on whose estate the church was built. There are other names in the area associated with Cornwall, such as Liskeard Gardens.) I may have been only 4¾ but the bombing of St German’s church made an impression on my mind.
But what a shock when next morning we came downstairs to breakfast after the bombing to behold our solid wooden front door blasted off its hinges. The door was blown inwards and lay in the hall, revealing an empty doorway open to the elements, broken glass everywhere. We had to step gingerly over it, to get to breakfast. The door was nailed back into place in a temporarily permanent fashion, but for quite a time it was unopenable, that is, until the War Damage Commission people came round. The instruction given was that the back door only was to be used, but when I got back from school it was all too easy to forget the new drill. I would blithely knock on the front door to be let in, only to be told off for not remembering!
The destruction of St German’s church was sad. Like our front door, the church was unuseable, but we did get our front door back. Alas, we didn’t get our church back! For a long time the church lay in ruins, to be replaced some time later by an insensitively designed block of flats, which sticks out like a sore thumb in a row of Georgian houses. What a travesty! But it has to be admitted that with so many churches in Blackheath, the bombing of St German’s has done the Diocese of Southwark a good turn in the long run.

Wartime Dolls and Books
Hatred of the Germans at that time spilled over into many areas of life, including children’s books. Generally, books were unavailable. Only poor quality rag-books. I possessed a rag-book. Then there was “The Story of the Paper Dolls”, a tale of two sisters who implored their mother to buy the china dolls they had seen in a shop. She seemed sympathetic to their request at first but when she saw the dreaded words “Made in Germany”, she adamantly refused. Anything German was beyond the pale, china dolls included. So the two little girls went home and had to make do with paper dolls instead, by cutting them out of paper. I too had a book from which to make paper dolls. No china dolls were made in England because of the war effort but I did have a pre-war doll with a china head and soft body, called Elizabeth. I wasn’t really a doll-orientated but I was thrilled when a “big girl” over the road, Angela Cole, generously gave me her pre-war china doll, which I duly named Angela.
Another volume, “Bulgy the Barrage Balloon” (I still have it) relates the antics of a barrage balloon as it faced the enemy in the sky. Barrage balloons were a familiar sight in the skies over London. Their purpose was a mystery to me at first. How could such be strong enough to keep bombs away? the explanation I was given when I asked what they were? How could these flimsy-looking and peculiarly shaped “balloons” do anything to assist winning the War? I came to understand later.
The balloons would slowly ascend until high in the sky, where they looked minute. Each had a silvery egg-shaped body with two little ears, to which was attached what looked like threads of silk reaching up from the ground holding the balloons up there in place; in fact these “threads of silk” were heavy wires. I came to learn that the appearance of barrage balloons in the sky was an ominous sign. Again, I couldn’t quite see why or how they were so crucial. It was explained to me that the barrage balloons were not only a warning that the arrival of German bombers was imminent, even before the siren sounded; but were a means of bringing down enemy planes as they flew into the wires, and thus acted as a deterrent to bombing London. As the barrage balloons rose up high above us anti-aircraft gunfire boomed over Blackheath. But I was assured that the bangs of the anti-aircraft guns did not mean danger, as such, and that we didn’t need to make for the shelter until the siren sounded. When the threat passed and the balloon was no longer needed, it was brought down and deflated, to become a vast shapeless amorphous mass of silvery material lying in a heap on the ground.
Often our visits to the Village had to be curtailed, especially in the winter when darkness came early. We had to keep our eye on the time. Dusk was falling. Quick, we must get home to put up the blackout curtains before it gets dark! The War effort meant that everyone was bound to put up blackout curtains to cut out all light from houses, offices and factories, and so prevent enemy planes seeing London/Great Britain below. An essential exercise. One chink of light and the air raid warden would be round to tell the household to rectify the situation. The imperative to get home in time lessened when in the Spring the clocks were put forward two hours instead of one i.e. Double Summertime, to give us lighter evenings. Not only the need not to put the lights on so early and thus make a saving on electricity use, but the convenience of doing much in the light that would otherwise have to be done in the dark, which likewise made a saving.
The noise of aeroplanes, enemy and friendly, was almost continuous. One could tell the difference between the German and British planes. The German bombers had a deep-sounding growl. Four-engine or two-engine bombers often crossed the skies, but we had nothing to fear, the air raid sirens were not necessary, for these were British planes carrying bombs to be dropped on Germany. “Four-engine bombers!” I would exclaim excitedly, pointing skywards as they flew over. I wanted my mother to know of my power of recognition. We could hear the sound of our anti-aircraft guns firing across the Heath: again, I was assured again, nothing to fear.
My father was in the RAF, stationed in turn at various aerodromes around the country, wherever needed. He would go ahead of us and find a farm willing to take us in as evacuees. Mummy, baby Alison and I followed him later. Some weekends he would come back home and we would go down to Blackheath Station to meet him. We were alerted to his arrival when we heard him whistle his signature tune as he walked up the slope, the Laurel and Hardy theme. One occasion as we waited, the air raid siren went off and a bomb dropped close at hand. Showered with glass and other debris, my mother bent over little Alison, and my grandmother bent over me, to save us from the debris and shrapnel fall out. Frightening. The ground was covered with debris, glass etc. Soon we were to hear the now familiar signature tune as Daddy came up the slope, not a little concerned when he found us in our predicament. I wonder, was that the bomb that dropped on the Post Office.

Evacuation
Many school children and families from the cities, especially London, were evacuated to many parts of the country. People opened their homes to the evacuees — their contribution to the War effort. We too were evacuated all over the country. He would find a farm for us to stay, in the vicinity the aerodrome for us to stay. We were ever on the move, here, there and everywhere. I told a priest about this unsettling time and he discerned that it had produced a nomadic personality. He was right!
Our first place of evacuation was to the Cathedral City of Gloucester, then to Grantham. I wouldn’t be honest if I said I remembered either - I don’t.
Norwich, was our next port of call. We stayed in Old Catton, a village not far from Norwich and close to St. Faith’s aerodrome where my father was stationed. I have vague recollections; however, it was the scene of my very first real memory, at 2½ walking up the Royal Arcade in Norwich stating, “I wanted to be another lady”. That was the first time that I’d made this declaration!
After Norwich, we lived for a short while near Oxford, in a caravan on a farm owned by Mr and Mrs Staites. In my mind’s eye, I can see that caravan in my mind’s eye, parked under a tree in the orchard. We slept there and went to the farmhouse for meals.
Next was to the Litt family’s farm in the village of Horsepath, also near Oxford. At Horsparth there was Mr and Mrs Litt and their three sons, Edgar 18, Tommy 16 and William 8. They seemed to be very big boys to me and I held them in some awe. They gave this strange family from London a very warm welcome. Wonderful, how so many people at that time opened their houses to us and to thousands of other evacuees. The Litts kept a poultry farm with what seemed to me hoards of chicken, ducks and geese. Not as exciting as a dairy farm
On the move again, this time to Red House, the farm house of Geoff and Vivien Malsbury in Chesterton, near Leamington Spa. Their farm in particular gave me, a little girl, an appreciation for country life and farm animals, not to mention horses and horse riding. There is a Sutherland family trait for a love of horses.
The Malsburys ran the farm with their two daughters, June and Jill. I am grateful to Jill for teaching me to ride a horse. I so enjoyed my daily ride on a pony called Silver. It gave me a taste for my horse riding later on. June and Jill rode other horses on the farm, but primarily the Malsbury’s farmed cows, sheep, chicken and cereal crops. They tried to get me to milk a cow but I shuddered (a sort of pun!) and couldn’t get myself to touch the cow’s udders! We became very friendly with the family, and after the War, returned at harvest time. Geoff Malsbury was one of the first farmers to have a combine harvester, which cut, baled and threshed all in one action, saving a lot of hard work labouring in the fields.
One effect of the War was the employment of women to take the place of men to keep the farms going. These women were known as Land Girls. I first saw land girls when we were evacuated to the Malsbury’s farm. Almost all the men had been called-up and the Land Girls replaced them to ensure continuation of food production. “Dig for Victory” was the call of the hour, a call to be heeded by everyone, not just farmers, encouraging those who could to grow their own food so as to feed the nation and lessen the food shortages.
After each of these sorties, we would return to Blackheath until the next one was upon us. Where were we to land up next time? A most unsettling way of life for a little girl who knew no different. Later, I was to relate all these comings and goings to a priest who discerned that this had produced a nomadic personality! In view of all the subsequent changes that life was to impose on me I can confirm he was quite right.

Mr Winston Churchill, Prime Minister
Mr (as he then was) Winston Churchill, Prime Minister and leader of the nation through the War, spoke words of encouragement to the nation on the wireless (as it was then called) and greatly boosted the nation’s morale. Mummy and Daddy huddled round the wireless to listen to Mr Churchill, and hung onto his every word. I was too was part of the huddle and I listened as intently as they did despite the fact that it was all above my head. Obviously I didn’t understand, but I realised how his broadcasts raised my parents’ spirits and gave them hope in those dark days; they came away from the wireless cheered and more able to face the future. That made me feel better, too. “We’re winning the War!” Mummy told me to encourage herself and me. From the tone of her voice and the tone of the conversation afterwards I gathered the War would soon be over and all would be well. How often I heard that wonderful-sounding expression and as yet unknown experience of “when the War’s over”.

It’s That Man Again
Another broadcast source of encouragement, albeit of a completely different sort, was ITMA — “It’s That Man Again”, starring Tommy Handley. It was a must. The whole nation tuned in to the BBC Home Service (now Radio 4) to keep an appointment with ITMA, Tommy Handley, and his friends. This programme also raised the nation’s spirits, taking people’s minds away from the gloom just for half-an-hour every Saturday.
ITMA was avidly listened to, not only by us in the United Kingdom but by people in the rest of Europe. Tommy Handley and co. were amusing, even to this little English person. As the characters came on air, one by one, each addressed Tommy Handley, with his/her own predictable catchphrase. A mental picture was created of Colonel Chinstrap and his, “I don’t mind if I do!”; Mrs. Mop, and her, “Can I do yer now, sir?”; Moanalot, with her, “It’s being so ‘appy that keeps me going!”; and the rest. Their very inevitability and the familiar tone of the voice was often enough to produce a laugh. It wasn’t till later we realised the people of Allied Europe were also tuned in sharing our laughter in the midst of life’s fear and uncertainty. They too obviously found ITMA a source of relief in the War. Evidently, they laughed as much as the British did.
Many a household in Britain also tuned into “Music While You Work”, broadcast twice daily, with its signature tune, “Calling All Workers” - another half-hour of alleviation from dismal news of war-torn Europe.
I heard the grown ups talk of life “before the War” - peacetime sounded wonderful; and then there was the constant aspiration, “when the War is over”, that filled me with hope. I naively looked forward to the return of that idyllic state of affairs! When the war did at last come to an end and peace was formally declared, it was, of course, not at all as I’d imagined!

Greenwich Park
After Sunday lunch our weekly sortie was usually to Greenwich Park. Who could fail to enjoy a walk through this Royal Park, always well kept despite wartime astringency: the flowers, the ancient trees and the beautifully mowed expanses of lawn? “Please keep off the grass” was an instruction on certain expanses of grass, one didn’t dare disobey. I never knew if the park keeper might be on the lookout for one such as me. Today, these notices seem to have gone. Perhaps the instruction is blatantly ignored and unenforceable. We usually entered the Park by the side entrance in Maze Hill. First port of call was to espy the deer. Often this was a vain hope for the deer were seemingly wary of venturing out to meet the public gaze. Next port of call was the duck pond where we always enjoyed feeding the ducks with scraps of bread. The Park was and is a place of peace and relaxation.
Further down Maze Hill on the right is the bizarre castle built by the 18th century architect and playwright, Sir John Vanbrugh. I think, there was to have been more of the same but providentially, it never got built! Vanbrugh’s best known known play is his Restoration comedy “The Relapse”.
The main Park Gates make a majestic entrée to the Park, as was the boulevard up to the Royal Observatory where the statue of General James Wolfe stands surveying River Thames and what was in his day the Royal Naval College, Greenwich. Down the hill in front of Wolfe is the Queen’s House built by Charles I for Queen Caroline. The Naval College flanks the Thames, where many a sea cadet has been trained. Now it is the Maritime Museum.
Watching the boats pass between the two parts of the Naval College was a great source of enjoyment, but now the boats have largely gone, and to hear the boats sounding their horns. One could hear the horns from our house. I was forever exclaiming: “Boats on the river!” Again to demonstrate that I knew what it was we were hearing.
In the past, the grassy hill down to Greenwich was used for a game of rolling down.
The bandstand was grey-looking and deserted during and for long after the War. I was told the band had played every Sunday afternoon before the War. But, no longer. Unused and derelict, the bandstand stood, a shadow of its former glory. Sad. I was to be disappointed: the bandstand never came back to life “when the War was over”. It was thirty? years before it was restored and the band played again.

The Day the War ended
We were in Sandown, Isle of Wight, the day the War ended, 8th May 1945. My grandfather had taken us there on holiday. We stayed at a guesthouse called Pine Lodge. Needless to say, great was the rejoicing at the news that the War against Nazi Germany was over. Triumph at last.
Metal barricades had been erected around the coasts of Great Britain, which included the Isle of Wight. These ugly structures, parallel to and a little way out from land, stuck out above sea level, more visible and ugly-looking when the tide was out, preventing stray bombs being washed up on the beach and exploding. I looked at these sinister barricades from Sandown beach, and imagined that their removal would be immediate. I was told that more unexploded bombs were possibly still in the sea so the barricades must remain, just in case.
At last, the promised glorious era of “when the War is over” commenced. The full significance eluded me, of course. Apart from the cessation of sirens wailing and bombs falling, from my little uncomprehending perspective it all seemed a bit of an anti-climax! Life continued drear. So, what did this oft mentioned phrase, “When the War is over” really mean? So far as I could see, not much! People relaxed, but things were far removed from the idyllic picture I’d conjured up.
Peace had been officially declared, the promise of “normal” life was around the corner: No more evacuations and no more threats of invasion and occupation, as had happened to Holland, Belgium and France by that evil despot, Hitler. But we still clung onto our ration books! Contrary to public hopes rationing remained till 1951. Ironically, between 1945 and 1951 our rations got smaller! Nevertheless, relief rippled across the nation. When we met people, the sense of relief was obviously felt by everyone.

Blackheath High School
Blackheath High School had been the school my parents had wanted me to go to. That was impossible, as it had been evacuated to Tunbridge Wells. When the school returned to Wemyss Road that was where I went when a place came up. I settled in to the High School well, the third school of my life, and I was so happy. We had lived through many a dark night, literally and metaphorically, now I could make a new start at the school intended for me. But my entrance into a life of hope, peace and joy was soon to be cruelly dashed. Disaster struck again!

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