Child from Home (34 page)

So the long winter dragged on and, as Thelma held George's hand and took him to the infant school, she had trouble in keeping his shoes dry as he tried to jump in every puddle with both feet. When we had the money, Jimmy and I called at Bryant's shop before school to buy a ha'penny Oxo cube or a small packet of powdered soup to suck on. We wished we had plenty of money like those at Harry's end of the village and the posh people who lived on The Avenue. We wondered whether the toffs really deserved all the privileges they had, and I remember saying to Jimmy, ‘When I grow up I'm going to have a house full of monkeys and loads of red double-decker buses to play with.'

‘I'm going to be either a tramp walking all over the countryside or else a train driver,' he replied.

Some days flew and others seemed to crawl by and it made a nice change when Renee came and took Jimmy and me into York on the bus. George, being too young to go to the pictures, stayed in the house with Thelma who loved looking after him. It was February and, as Renee took us round by the Minster with its graceful gothic arches, the snow and frost had relented a little. Words fail to do justice to its awesome splendour and Renee pointed out the ugly stone gargoyles that had melting snow dripping from their twisted, slavering mouths which frightened me. She bought us a lovely red-green toffee apple on a stick that had a nice crunchy flat bit on top where it had been stood upside down to dry.

There was an afternoon matinee with Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire starring in the film
Holiday Inn,
in which the hit song was
White Christmas
and we loved every minute of it. Renee bought us a packet of Smith's crisps and warned us, ‘Don't rattle the packets when the film's on and don't eat the blue one because it's a small packet of salt.' We were warm and comfortable in the picture house but I was a bit worried in case a bomb dropped on it when we were inside. Renee said, ‘Don't worry. If the siren goes they'll put a message up on the screen to tell us to go to the nearest air-raid shelter.'

The bus was crowded on the journey back to Haxby but Renee let us have the only seat while she stood hanging on one of the straphangers. We had to walk back to Usher Lane on our own, as she had to stay on the bus in order to be at York station in time to catch her train home.

In March the weather turned treacherously cold again and more snow fell and settled, but it turned to sleet and rain later in the month. Some days it teemed down all day and we came in from school sodden. Because of the wet weather we had to stay in at the weekend and make our own entertainment. We played cards, ludo, tiddly-winks and draughts up in our bedroom but the fire up there was never lit and the house was always cold. On other days we had thick white blankets of dripping, clinging mist or fog and our skin became chapped and sore. After dark, when the fog made landing the planes difficult, the searchlights in the area were switched on for a time and their beams would cross directly above the East Moor runway. We could see them clearly from our bedroom window. As the Wellington bombers with their Canadian crews returned from bombing or mine-laying sorties, the lights guided them in.

Just before Jimmy's ninth birthday Mr Winterburn the postman, who did a bit of boot and shoe repairing part time, brought him birthday cards, but again there was nothing from his dad. Mr Winterburn had a wooden right leg which he swung round as he walked and his bike had been specially adapted for him. It had a fixed wheel and he used his left foot to turn the pedal while the other pedal remained still. Aunt Hilda came to see Jimmy on his birthday wearing her ATS uniform and she looked slim, petite and attractive in it. One of his presents was a brand new leather belt with a metal buckle. Jimmy really treasured it as very few boys had belts in those days; most wore braces to keep their trousers up. Aunt Hilda told him that she was now a nursing auxiliary at Fenham Barracks in Newcastle and was on leave. She took him into York on the bus so that they could spend some time together. After giving the three of us a kiss before she left, she seemed more upset and tearful than usual.

A few days later, Jimmy was with Dot in the kitchen when she asked in her slow dilatory manner, ‘Can I have a look at your new belt?' He passed it over but the next thing he knew she had the belt in one hand and the buckle in the other. Jimmy flew into a rage, grabbed the buckle and threw it at her as he burst into tears shouting, ‘Now look what you've done you dozy article!' On catching sight of the white-enamelled pail next to the wash tub in the corner, he grabbed hold of it and ‘hoyed' (threw) it at her causing a small cut on her hand as she raised it to protect herself.

On hearing the commotion, Mrs Harris rushed in and wrapped her arms tightly round him to prevent him causing any more damage. ‘Get up them stairs and stay there!' she shouted at Dot, before taking Jimmy up to his bedroom to calm him down. She fixed the detachable buckle back on to his belt and he was happy again, but he was also very surprised, as he had expected a good hiding at the very least. Instead she had taken his side and had given him a glass of milk and a biscuit.

Finally spring, with its promise of warm days, arrived. The snowdrops and crocuses went over and primroses, daffodils, cowslips and forget-me-nots appeared in their due time. Masses of white blackthorn blossom adorned the hedgerows and flowering bluebells carpeted the ground under the fresh green foliage of the trees in the woods. My eighth and George's sixth birthday arrived but only Gran and Renee came to pamper us and take us out for special treats. Gran said, ‘I know you miss your Mam and Dad but they send their love and they asked me to give you your present and a big kiss from them. They couldn't come themselves because of their war commitments.' At that she gave us big wet kisses on the cheek which I immediately rubbed off with my jumper sleeve. I whispered to Jimmy, ‘I hate all that sloppy stuff. It's alright on the pictures but that's not for real.'

Ten days later, as we were coming out of school, we heard a terrific explosion over towards Huntington village which was about a mile away. A cloud of thick black smoke was rising into the air and we learned later that a Wellington bomber from the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) East Moor airfield had lost power in both engines causing it to stall and crash into a pair of semi-detached houses, killing the crew of five and two civilians. One of the dead was an old lady who had lived in the village for years. Several people – including Derek Robinson – tried to get to the prang, but it was too horrific and the soldiers would not let anyone near.

At school Miss Curry informed us that the Battle of the Ruhr had started and that Bomber Command aircraft were pounding Germany's industrial heartland night after night. There was a noticeable increase in aerial activity over the village and we saw lots of Wellington bombers, plus the new Lancaster bombers for the first time.

One afternoon, after a wet morning, we were playing on the grass verges up Usher Lane when Jimmy, who was a deviser of dares, said, ‘I dare yer to jump over t'ditch.' It was deep and the sides were muddy and wet and I refused to do it. ‘Cowardy, cowardy custard!' he retorted, ‘Look, I'll show yer 'ow it's done.' At that he took a running jump but his take-off foot slipped on the muddy bank and he landed with a splash in the dirty water at the bottom. We were creased with laughing until our stomachs hurt. His clothes were clarted in mud and we suddenly thought, ‘What will Mrs Harris say when she finds out?' In all probability he would be in for another belting. Thelma said, ‘We'd better try and get 'im cleaned up and quick.'

The girls' sandals and our boots were in a bit of a mess as well, so we climbed the gate into the field and took them off and it was nice to feel the cool, soft grass under our bare feet. By then the weather had cleared up and the sun was shining as we headed for Widd's pond so that Jimmy could wash his socks in it. We wore woollen socks that had bands of blue and red at the top that always seemed to end up round our ankles. He rubbed the mud off his trousers and his jumper with a wet rag and whirled his jumper round and round to throw off the excess pond water. He then lay his socks and jumper on the top of the hedge to dry. Luckily it was now warm and sunny and they dried enough for him to put on. The rest of us washed the mud from our footwear.

On going back to the house at teatime we thought we had got away with it, as Mrs Harris didn't seem to notice anything wrong, and we sat and had our tea as usual. We had thick ‘doorsteps' of bread spread with beef dripping sprinkled with salt and I loved it. Our Harry saw to it that we were kept well supplied with it. We then filled up with plum jam sandwiches without margarine and all seemed well until Mrs Harris suddenly came storming into the room in one of her rages. Grabbing Jimmy by the scruff of the neck, she hauled him off the bench shouting, ‘Let me see your boots you sly little devil!'

He took them off and she closely examined the lace holes and found traces of mud in them. That creep Ducky had split on us yet again. Out came the belt and Jimmy was marched up the stairs and given another good thrashing on his backside as he lay face down on the bed. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him cry, although he cried later when she had gone. She was red in the face with anger and the exertion when she came downstairs. ‘Thought you could fool me did you? Now get up to your rooms and don't come down. There'll be no cocoa and biscuit for you lot tonight.' Ducky was allowed to stay up, as he had been a ‘good' boy.

In school the days seemed to drag. The gardens were aglow with spring blooms, the lush green fields beckoned and we couldn't wait to get out to play soldiers in Widd's field. We would put mud on our faces and crawl along in the long grass on our elbows holding a thick stick in our hands to represent a rifle as we had seen the soldiers doing. We spent hours playing at being Desert Rats like our Uncle John and it never entered our heads that there was no long grass in the desert. Our imaginations ran riot and our ‘battlefield' was stained red with the blood of fallen Germans. In our imaginations we heard the crackle of small arms fire as shells whistled past and machine guns rattled. As we charged at the enemy, we would fall down with a sharp cry and writhe around in agony. I suppose this was our way of coping with the horrors of the war. When Mrs Harris saw the grass stains on our clothes we got yet another belting. She didn't seem to understand that we were wounded war heroes.

Later that month as we came out of school we couldn't believe our eyes. ‘Tek a look at that! It's a real spitty. What a beaut!' shouted Jimmy in great excitement. On the green there was a Vickers Supermarine Spitfire with the RAF roundels on its fuselage standing out clear and bright in the spring sunshine. Flaxton District Council had acquired it as the centrepiece of their ‘Wings for Victory' fund-raising week. The war effort was costing Britain millions of pounds every day, and funds were desperately needed, so they charged a few pence for people to go and sit in it. Six RAF officers and ten erks were lined up in front of it to have their photograph taken by the local pressman. ‘What's the difference between a Spitfire and an 'urricane?' we asked Mr Harris.

‘Well, a Spitfire's got a metallic coating, it only 'as three propeller blades and it's a bit smaller than an 'urricane. That's canvas covered but t' spitty's faster and more manoeuvrable in t'air.' We were thrilled to bits when he gave us a few coppers saying, ‘Go and 'ave a sit in it for thissen.'

As we walked up Front Street I took in the aircraft's beautiful proportions and its flowing lines. The thin legs supporting it looked so delicate that we thought the wind might blow it over and when we got close up it looked huge to us. We had only seen them up in the sky before now but to me it was a thing of grace and beauty. It seemed to be all curves with not a straight line anywhere. A wooden platform with steps and handrails had been placed alongside it so that people could get up to the cockpit, and as I climbed the steps I was trembling with excitement and anticipation. An airman helped me onto the walkway of the wing where it joined the fuselage and handed me a helmet saying, ‘Here, put this on, son.' The little door below the Perspex canopy had been dropped down and I stepped through it into the cramped cockpit. The airman on duty pulled the canopy forward and once I was closed in my imagination took flight.

In my head I am now a Battle of Britain fighter ace going into action. I am wearing my Mae West inflatable life jacket in case I end up in ‘the drink'. I sit down on my parachute, test the joystick and strap myself in. I adjust my silk polka dot scarf; pull on my leather gloves with the pure silk inners and adjust my close-fitting leather helmet. Then, after adjusting the facemask, I plug in the radio transmitter lead and check the flow from the oxygen tube. I have it all off pat. Then it is just a matter of checking the fuel gauge and the brake pressure and putting the magneto switch to ‘on'. I press the starter button and the engine engages with a metallic ‘clung'; the three-bladed Merlin airscrew turns slowly then the engine fires and runs evenly. I check that the door is closed and signal ‘Chocks away' to my ground crew.

In my imagination, my ‘Spitty' waddles across the grass, picking up speed and away we go sailing smoothly up into the wide blue yonder and I bank to port. I'm up to 400 miles per hour in no time and, as I float over the countryside, I glance to my right to see the others in Vic formation alongside me. My headphones crackle and a voice says: ‘Come in blue leader. Dorniers at two o'clock high! Out.'

‘Understood: am engaging: Roger, wilco [will comply] and out,'

I reply.

I look through my gunsight, press the button and there is a terrific clattering noise. Tracer bullets stream out and the nose of the Dornier shatters as bullets rip into it. Thick black smoke, glycol and high octane fuel stream out of her port engine and she goes into a spiralling dive. I stop firing and pull the stick hard over. My machine judders and stalls then fires again and I swing clear. I see the Dornier's wing break off as she plunges earthwards. ‘Got her!' I shout. ‘That's one less Jerry bomber to worry about.' My Spitfire soars and wheels until I come back down to earth with a bump (literally and figuratively). Sliding back the canopy I lever myself up and out of the cockpit. ‘That was great!' I shout to Jimmy. ‘Come on, it's your turn now.'