My 40's childhood

  Although the second world war started when I was twenty months old, my memories are not of food shortages and rationing, as it is for many people of my age.  I know we didn’t have a lot of food; nowadays we might even consider it a Spartan diet, but we didn’t starve.  My mother had the fortunate ability to make a meal out of anything, or almost nothing!  Normally it was meat and two veg; only I didn’t like meat!  All I remember of meat in those days was fat and gristle, which made me gag.  My mother in desperation to get me to eat, tried to tempt, cajole and threaten, making me sit at table for hours in a vain bid to overcome my stubborn behaviour.  Once she got so mad she took my new bus conductor’s outfit that I wanted to play with and threw the smart peaked hat into the fire.  I was shocked as I watched it burn!  But I still wouldn’t eat. Eventually in despair she would just give me potatoes and vegetables with plenty of meat gravy, which seemed to do me no harm.  I think I was just a natural vegetarian!

Of course my mother was only doing her best to nurture her first child, while she may have secretly yearned to have a career and life of her own.  She did confide in me when I was older, that she had married Norman because it was expected of her.  Apparently she’d wanted to take a job in London as receptionist in a big Hotel, as she was a trained telephone operator, but family and cultural expectations over-ruled her, if she even dared express her revolutionary desires!  My Mum was elegantly beautiful and I can still recall her fashionably styled dark hair and the touch and texture of her blue-grey crepe dress as she tucked me into bed before Daddy came home from work, with a necklace of red, black and silver that my daughter Julie now wears, or one of green glass and gold that my other daughter Anne has, dangling over me as she kissed me goodnight.  My Dad would be at work all day, but when he came home he’d come up to say goodnight before I obediently went to sleep.
When I was maybe eighteen months old Mum briefly went back to work, leaving me with our next-door neighbour, Mrs Ruscoe, an older lady who had two sons, both in the forces. (I became concerned about one of these young men who was in the Navy, because when I asked if he could swim and was told he couldn’t, I was shocked and considered this a serious oversight.)  The arrangement with Mrs Ruscoe must have been short-lived.  I remember that while she left me in her immaculate lounge to eat a bowl of porridge, the thought of which made me feel sick, I carefully put a spoon of the offending mixture on each arm and seat of every armchair in the room.  Did I do this to ensure that Mum didn’t desert me again?  She probably got her mother to look after me instead while she continued to work, and this would have been fine with me.  What she did about porridge I’m not sure, but I’ve never liked it.  I seem to remember my main objection was to lumpy porridge but would reluctantly eat it when cooked to a good texture and embellished with a generous dollop of Lyle’s golden syrup.  Later on I remember Force Cornflakes for breakfast, when I would read all the information on the packet with its stylised 18th Century soldier marching stiffly across the front.  Mum taught me to read and write before I went to school. Education was paramount in this family who’d been “pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps” in the attempt to advance in work and society for generations.
So its  no surprise that I've always loved to write about my experiences and if you enjoy these reminiscences I hope you'll leave a comment.

REFLECTIONS

Mum in Llandudno

You may, or may not, have noticed that I've not been posting regularly for some time, but I have been thinking about my life as a Travelogue... not just travelling in a literal sense, but my journey through life. Being born before the second World War I've lived through possibly the most momentous time in history, as the world has been changing for not just one part of the world, but globally. 

My travels began at an early age as my parents were quite adventurous for that time and would take me, secured in a baby carrier, on their hikes in the Peak District and possibly North Wales, which were quite accessible by train from Salford where we lived. However, that was short-lived, as by the time I was two, the war had started.

When I was three years old, my Dad joined up, volunteering for the RAF instead of waiting to be called up as a soldier.  On his return from training in South Africa, my Mother rented out our home and we moved in with her Mother, my Grandma, so as to be free to travel around the country to wherever my Dad was stationed.  When she knew at which airfield he was stationed, she would go by train, bus and hitching lifts to the nearest village to find a local householder that would take her and young child as lodgers. On her return, she would pack up a suitcase and off we’d go to one of Manchester’s Railway Stations to take a long, slow train or two, to some remote part of the country.  The airfields were mostly situated in the Midlands and eastern side of the country and our destinations ranged from the tiny shire of Rutland to Lincolnshire, Shropshire and up to the wilds of Northumberland.

I believe these experiences either formed or reinforced my love of travel. Of course, I could have hated it; leaving the security and comforts of home, to sit in a grimy, crowded carriage for several hours, breathing in soot-laden air from the coal fired steam engine whenever the heavy sash window or door was opened, to arrive in the middle of nowhere, often late at night and put to sleep in a cold unfamiliar bed in someone else’s house.  The fact is though, I really enjoyed the adventure.  I do remember waking in the morning to the joy of exploring a small, quiet village with a church, school and village shop, surrounded by fields, woods and gently rolling hills; such a contrast to the dirty, crowded streets of the city.  That’s the way I would always draw it; the sun rising over green hills.

I witnessed a way of life virtually unchanged for centuries but this rural England that I saw as a child would soon be gone as modernisation swept through the country after the war.

I write these memories for my own benefit and the interest of my family, but if you enjoy these reminiscences, please feel free to leave a comment and watch out for the next instalment.