The Blitz
Authors: Vince Cross
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Lewisham, London
1940
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I jumped out of my skin when the air-raid siren started wailing last evening. I was in the garden picking sweet peas for Mum and the whole bunch nearly went on the ground. It was very hot, even at seven o'clock, and there wasn't a breath of wind, the kind of weather that always makes you feel something's about to happen.
At tea Mum had been saying how rattled everyone seemed. That morning there'd been chatter at the shops. Someone knew for certain the Germans were going to invade this weekend, and they'd be in London by Monday unless our boys looked sharp. There are always rumours doing the rounds. It's difficult to know who to believe.
Anyway, Mum shouted from the kitchen for me to come in at once, sounding panicky. I wasn't going to argue. I couldn't see or hear any German bombers, but I've never been in an air raid. How much time do you have between hearing a bomber fly over your house, and a bomb dropping and blowing you to bits?
As I went up the steps to go inside, I could see old Mrs Andrews from next door. She was walking in circles around her patch of lawn, looking up at the sky and wagging her finger, just like she was giving someone a good telling-off. God or the Germans? Who knows?
From inside our kitchen we could still hear her, the muttering turning into shouting.
“She'll get herself killed, she will,” said Mum, sounding anxious and exasperated. “Barmy woman! Whatever's she doing?” Mum wafted me towards the hall. “You, go and get yourself under the stairs quick, while I try to sort Bessie out. As if life wasn't difficult enough!”
We're waiting for a proper air-raid shelter to be put in the garden. The Council's going to deliver one this week. In the meantime we're making do by sitting under the stairs or the kitchen table. It seems daft to me, but Mum says it's better than nothing.
I didn't do what Mum asked. I wanted to see what happened. I watched as she ran down the garden, out the back gate, and into Bessie Andrews's wilderness.
Old Bessie was drifting around in a world of her own. Mum might as well not have been there. Mum tried talking to her softly and when that didn't work she caught Bessie by the shoulders and shook her gently. The mad old woman pulled away and stared in complete amazement as if it was Mum who was off her head. I held my breath, wondering what I'd do if Bessie started hitting out. But she broke away in a sudden flood of tears and scuttled inside to her thirteen cats. Like Mum says, completely barmy!
Because it was Friday evening, and Dad was doing an extra shift at the Fire Station, no one else was at home, so Mum and I crouched together under the stairs listening to the wireless until, fifteen minutes later, the all-clear sounded. Just another false alarm!
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When my sister Shirl crept out to go off to work this morning, I lay in bed for an extra half-hour. While the birds chirruped away merrily in the tree outside our window, all I could feel was miserable. It seems so muddled that there can be a beautiful blue sky and thrushes singing their heads off while there's a war with Germany going on, ships being sunk and people shooting at each other.
There's no one left to talk to, now that Maggie's gone. Alison left first, back in the panic last September. Lots of the children from my class at school were evacuated then, to Bexhill in Sussex. Mum says she can't think why they think it's safer there. If the Germans invade, it's the first place they'll arrive. Then, in May, Betty's parents got all nervous and packed her off to her Aunt Sally's in Devon.
Maggie's my best friend. She'd always said her family would never send her away, until last Friday she suddenly mentions casually she's off to Northampton till I don't know when. She might as well be going to the moon, as far as I'm concerned. So here I am all on my own-i-o, and feeling really fed-up and lonely, even if the sky is a wonderful clear blue.
That's why for the first time ever I've decided I'll keep a diary. I'm going to write down my real feelings about the awful, frightening war in this old exercise book. If I haven't got Mags, Alison or Betty to talk to, at least I'll have some way of giving vent to my thoughts and feelings.
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So I'd better tell you about my family and where we live, hadn't I? I'll make a start with the house, and we'll get on to the people in a minute.
Summerfield Road runs beside a steep railway embankment about three-quarters of a mile from the town centre in Lewisham, and we live at number 47. It's all terraced houses round here, and I suppose our street is just the same as lots of others, except I like ours best. There are trees along the road, and you know you've arrived at our house because the front gate's painted bright green, Dad's favourite colour. Out the back there are lots of flowers and vegetables in a garden which goes down about 30 yards past the shed to the foot of the embankment. Every quarter of an hour during the day there's the long, loud rattle of an electric train on its way to Charing Cross. That's a big station right in the middle of London, eight miles away. Shirl and I are lucky to have a front bedroom. In the boys' room at the back it's far too noisy because of the constant clatter from the trains.
I often wonder what it was like when there really was a “summer field” where our house is now. It's funny to think of cows and sheep in our nice back garden. Perhaps that's why things grow so well. All that manure!
Anyway, now you know I've got a sister called Shirl, short for Shirley. She's much older than me. Seventeen and a bit full of herself, but she can be a good laugh. Considering we have to share, she doesn't get on my nerves
too
much. She works on the linen counter at Chiesman's department store in the centre of Lewisham, which is useful for us Bensons.
Tom's my little brother. He's ten, so he's very nearly two years younger than me. Tom can't keep still. There's always a streak of dirt showing on him somewhere. Unlike me, he doesn't read books unless he's forced to. What more can I say? He's a boy!
When Frank and Maureen were here, I had to share with Tom, which was horrible with a capital H. Even so, I'd rather have Frank back. We all miss him terribly. I worry about him all the time and so do Mum and Dad. Frank is one of the ground crew at a Royal Air Force station called Biggin Hill. Everyone says he'll be safe and it's quite a cushy number, but how do they know? I'm sure the Germans are going to try to bomb the runways and planes Frank looks after. RAF pilots are killed every day now.
Frank's the oldest of us Benson children. Maureen's next and she's 21, but we don't hear from her much. She's with the army up north at some training camp. When she comes home, which is only once in a blue moon, she looks really smart in her khaki uniform, but I don't really know what she does. We've never got on, you see. Frank always brings me a present when he visits, even if it's just an old comic, but Mo just ignores me. Always has done!
My dad is Mr Albert Benson and he's wonderful. Nearly everyone calls him Bert. I think I told you he's a fireman, and he's as big and strong as you'd expect a fireman to be. He doesn't get cross very often (and never with me) though Mum makes up for it. She's nice underneath, but she hides it well by shouting a lot. I think she does the worrying for too many people, though maybe it's just her red hair. Mum's name is Beatrice, which sounds a bit old-fashioned to me. Don't tell her I said so!
So there you are! Now you know all about us. Oh, I nearly forgot. I'm Edie, short for Edith (ugh!). Pleased to meet you, I'm sure.
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PS I mustn't leave out Chamberlain, our fox terrier! I know it's a funny name, but Dad says it's because he's always hopeful, just like the old Prime Minister. That was Mr Neville Chamberlain who thought he could make peace with the Germans. He was the one who came before Mr Churchill. Our Chamberlain's usually disappointed too! I suppose if we ever had a bulldog, he'd be called Churchill. You can tell from looking at his face Mr Churchill won't take any nonsense from Jerry.
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You know that lovely back garden I was telling you about? Well, it doesn't look half as neat and tidy as it did a day or two ago.
Frank came home on leave yesterday afternoon. He's got a motorbike down at Biggin Hill, and he managed to wangle some petrol, even though it's not really allowed because of the rationing. He looks just
so
wonderful and romantic in his uniform, though Dad didn't let him keep it on two minutes. No sooner was Frank through the front door than the two of them were in the garden digging the hole for our new air-raid shelter. Now we'll be safe no matter what Hitler tells his bombers to do!
Mind you, Dad was a bit fed-up when he found out he'd have to buy our safety. He had to shell out seven quid for the shelter, and apparently all because he earns
too much
. First I've heard! Most people in the street have got theirs free. It's called an
Anderson
shelter after the man who thought it up, and the first thing you have to do is dig this hole.
You should have seen the size of it. I said it looked as if they were tunnelling to Australia, and Frank said it felt as if they were. The hole's three feet deep, and of course it's got to be long and wide enough for us all to sit inside. Dad and Frank bolted together the corrugated iron sheets to make the roof and sides, and finally they piled all the earth back on to the top, deep enough that you could grow rhubarb. Dad says that's what we're going to do. Fancy spending the night under a clump of rhubarb! Anyone would think we were a family of rabbits â still, at least we'll be safe rabbits! When they'd finished, Tom and I lit a candle, and crept inside. It felt really cold and spooky, but I suppose when we're all in there together it won't be so bad.
I'm a woodenhead. I told you my name the other day, but afterwards I realized you don't know anything else about me. Well, I'm tall for my age (about five-foot-three), and I'm skinny, and in summer I get awful freckles all round my face. Mum says I'd be clever if I put my mind to it, but I don't know about that. I look a lot like Shirl, but I don't think I'll ever be as pretty. (Mind you, she spends long enough doing her face!) I like going to the pictures, I like books, and I'm good at netball. I'm as good as Tom at football too, but you'd better not tell him. Oh, and I
hate
rice pudding, which is a pity because Mum makes one every Sunday dinnertime. All that sloppy milk with bits in. Ugh!
