A Fickle Wind. Elizabeth Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ again, and she saw me. I had to own up to my “crime,” and she called my father from the garden.

      Of course, no one was angry with me, and they called a doctor. It didn’t turn out to be anything serious, and I was fine later that day. But I have so often wondered about my reaction, which was almost fear. I wasn’t supposed to have frailties, be a nuisance, or make a fuss. I wasn’t ever supposed to cry if I were hurt. I was supposed to be self-reliant and strong. I was supposed to be brave, not weak. And I was five.

      I loved to go out with my father, and I joyfully skipped along at his side. I thought he was so handsome, and I recall telling him on one occasion that he was too nice looking to be a man and should be a lady. He laughed easily. I always encouraged him to stop for a drink in the local pub and was very willing to wait outside. I knew, of course, that he would bring out a lemonade for me, which was the big treat for which I was angling.

      One time he brought home some bananas, the likes of which I had never seen. I desperately wanted to take one to school in my lunch, which my mother didn’t think appropriate. My father’s opinion was entirely different and prevailed. He said that if he put his life on the line on a daily basis fighting for his country and our freedom, it was okay if his kid were made to feel a little special one day in her otherwise deprived existence.

      But then his leave would be over, and I was back to the routine of school, bombs, shortages, sometimes a Thursday after-school movie if the local theatre were playing something my mother wanted to see (I, of course, loved everything), and visiting a few relatives.

      We went to see Uncle Ern and Auntie Lucy at their house in Beacontree one day. Their daughter, my cousin Doris, was home on leave from the ATS (the Auxiliary Territorial Service, known as the women’s army) and was in uniform, which added to the mystique.

      When it came time for us to leave, Doris walked with us to the station, as her visit was over and she was returning to base. She was on the platform across from ours, and we waved to her as she boarded her train to return to … what? In my mind, it was sure to be something exciting, exhilarating, and infinitely more interesting than what I would be doing. How I envied her and wished we could have changed places. About ten years later, with three little mouths to feed and an indolent husband, she would come knocking on our door to beg for money from my mother. Do be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it!

      But something was about to happen to brighten my days. Auntie Amy and Win and Les, my cousins, moved into our house for as long as it took them to find another place to live, which was quite awhile. Their house had been destroyed by a bomb, and we were all grateful they had not been at home. I don’t recall Uncle George being there, as he was away somewhere helping with the war effort. I haven’t mentioned Win before because she was much older than I and we really didn’t interact very much.

      But I loved their company. It brought life to our household and interest to my days. Les would play with me, as he had no one else but was old enough to set the rules that controlled our games. Mostly he wanted to play boxing; he was always Joe Louis, who was the World Champion, and I was Bruce Woodcock (I think he was only the British Champion), so I was always doomed to lose. But, what the heck, I was desperate! These relatives eventually moved, and I was back to my own devices.

      The war continued. I particularly recall one night when the adults around me were sure we were shooting down every plane Germany had sent to destroy us. One after another seemed to be exploding from our anti-aircraft guns. We were cheering on our military from our shelter. But, to our horror, the next day’s newspapers announced Germany’s new secret weapon. An unmanned missile accounted for the explosions we had heard. The doodlebug had been launched to wreak further havoc on our country. We nicknamed it the buzz bomb, as it emitted a humming sound as it cruised over. The dreaded seconds came when that buzzing stopped and the missile continued stealthily along its path of destruction before it fell to obliterate anything and everything after its deadly descent.

      We eventually had our own air-raid shelter in our garden, so our nightly rendezvous with our neighbors ceased. As things dragged on and I got a little older, my mother often eschewed the cold and damp shelter altogether, taking the fatalistic approach that if our time were up, so be it. We had had enough. We were tired, drained, and at the end of our tolerance.

      There was the constant worry over my father’s and uncles’ safety. My father had been torpedoed in the Baltic; had survived the German U-boats in the Atlantic, where Royal Navy destroyers were protecting American ships bringing food to Britain; and had served his country in harrowing situations in Egypt and Africa. How much longer could his luck hold?

      Nearly everyone had lost family and friends. Many had lost limbs, sight, and sanity. We were sometimes elated by news and other times in despair. I often lay awake at night worrying that Hitler would invade our shores and subjugate us as he had done in all the European countries he occupied. But, as a country, we held on, albeit with our fingernails, exhibiting that stiff upper lip for which we Brits are noted.

      Finally, the war was over, first in Europe and then in Japan. My father and uncles all survived. My aunt had it on good authority, after all! Everyone was elated. People danced in the streets, and every neighborhood held parties with long tables running down the center of the road, where we sat down to the best meal they could muster. We children, who knew very little about what made the world go around, were so excited. Now all the promises of a different existence would be our reality. We expected great changes: sweets, toys, holidays—a wonder-world. But not quite yet. In fact, not for a very long time. Now came the challenges of postwar Britain.

       Chapter Three

      The biggest change for me was that my father was now home on a permanent basis, and that was wonderful. The only other noticeable changes were that there were no air raids and people didn’t end their sentences with, “God willing” after they said, “See you tomorrow.” That is big, I grant you, but we had expected so much more.

      Ration books and shortages of food, clothes, coal, fuel, sweets, toys, and fun—which had been our old friends for years now—continued for many more years. The rubble in the streets became part of the landscape. Buildings, roads, and houses were in great disrepair. Scaffolding, once erected, became entrenched. Nothing was completed.

      Britain was on her knees. There was no money. The average Brit began to wonder who had won the war. In short order, it seemed, America had started to help financially restore the previously occupied countries of Europe and rebuild Germany and Japan. I had heard the term lend-lease bandied around for years, and I believe it continued after the war, but it was apparently a drop in the bucket when an ocean was needed. Of course, I did not really understand any of this then. But it was obvious to me that we weren’t going to return in any great hurry to the idyllic “before the war” status.

      However, I had a personal challenge coming up that absolutely dominated my worry wall. The exact words had not been spoken, but I was under no illusion about the expectation that I was to pass the Eleven Plus exam, often called the Scholarship. On a national level, all eleven-year-old children had the opportunity to sit for this examination. It was extremely important to one’s future prospects.

      Remote locations were selected, strange children flanked us in unfamiliar rooms, and no known teachers monitored us. A small percentage of children would score high enough to qualify for a grammar school or technical school education—their choice—the balance moving on to what was then called a secondary school, where their education would be complete at age fifteen.

      With the advantage of the grammar or technical school, one could aspire to attend university or be educated to a level that would provide better career opportunities. I recall being at a spiritualist meeting with my mother and aunt where an СКАЧАТЬ