Declaration of War

In September 1939 my mother and I, a sixteen year old girl, lived in a flat consisting of three rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor of a double fronted early twentieth house in Winchmore-Hill, a fairly prosperous North London suburb. During the year following Munich, the Council had provided us with an Anderson shelter, which had been erected close to an unpruned large apple tree, that survived triumphant in the middle of a neglected garden. I had made good use of this shelter using it as a reading room, and as a storage place for various treasures; amongst which was a Victorian gold coloured silk dress handed down to me, in a fit of foolishly misplaced trust, by my great aunt. There were also various costumes worn by my mother during her earlier career as a dancer and commandeered by me for use in various dressing-up games. Heavy rains raised the water level ensuring that the shelter flooded, and the heirlooms together with my Duke Senior costume, a memento of a not very inspiring role in my school performance of 'As You Like It', gradually rotted away into strips of rag.

The 3rd September 1939 was a glorious day. Chamberlain's mid-morning announcement on the wireless that we were now in a state of war was not unexpected. The wailing of air raid sirens before he had finished speaking was dramatic.

What should we do? The Anderson shelter was water-logged; in panic I yelled at my mother to get under the dining room table! Quickly we both calmed down and decided to make a run for it to the public shelter about a third of a mile up the road. In spite of having reached the age of thirty eight my mother, a paid-up member of the Women's League of Health and Beauty, was still fairly agile and had no difficulty in keeping up with me. We were relieved to reach sanctuary before the start of the expected bombing. The shelter was built on the edge of a traditional village green. The top was reinforced, and turf carpeted and so, apart from AIR RAID SHELTER notices, it was unobtrusive. A short flight of concrete steps led down into a long passageway. Narrow seats ran along either side on which sat other apprehensive looking people all trying to make small talk and look unconcerned. The expected deluge of bombs did not happen. Apart from the sound of a solitary aircraft, the rumble of conversation, punctuated with nervous giggles nothing else seemed to be going on, until the high pitched wail of the All Clear siren brought relief to all, and we all sauntered off home to the routine of Sunday dinner.

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