A summer evening in 1944

One summer evening, my older brother, John, and I, were put to bed in the Anderson shelter in the garden of our suburban semi-detached house. It was the time of the V2 rockets, the "doodlebugs," and although earlier in the war, my Mother used to take us down to the shelter only when the air-raid siren sounded, the rockets gave little warning, so I suppose she thought it safer to have us sleep in there for the whole night.
This was a rare evening when my Father was home - usually he was away from home on duty with the London Fire Brigade. He served, reluctantly, as an auxiliary fireman throughout the war. They wouldn't release him to join the Navy as he wanted.
John and I were put to bed, but outside, the summer evening beckoned to us, with its hot smells of cut grass, and the lazy clucking of the hens, which Mother kept to help out with the egg supplies.
Out we crept, on to the lawn, in a memorable act of disobedience. We peered through the French windows at my parents, sitting on either side of the fireplace. We danced and cavorted on the grass in our bare feet.
Across the golf course, we heard the anti-aircraft guns, and watched entranced as some object streaked above us. Was it a V2? I only remember my brother pulling me away, back to the damp, underground bunks and the grey, scratchy blankets.

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