Joining the Dots: A Woman In Her Time. Juliet Gardiner

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      Chapter One

       A War Baby

      Although this new era started in 1960, my life began on 24 June 1943, just before the end of the Second World War.

      I was a war baby born on Midsummer’s Day. The previous week the RAF had mounted a major bombing raid on Düsseldorf, part of the sustained Allied attack on the Ruhr, Germany’s industrial heartland. Nevertheless, the end of the war in Europe was still almost two years distant, though the tide had begun to turn. At El Alamein, Montgomery’s Eighth Army had secured Britain’s first military victory, defeating Rommel’s Afrika Korps in November 1942. The surrender of all German troops in North Africa followed in May 1943. Alamein had led Churchill, desperate for a morale-raising British success, to venture, ‘This is not the end, it is not the beginning of the end, it is, perhaps the end of the beginning.’ His optimism seemed justified. By the summer of 1943 the Battle of the Atlantic was at last going the Allied way as well, with the ‘killer packs’ of German U-boats succeeding in sinking fewer Allied ships.

      For those on the home front in Britain, however, the war remained unrelenting. Although the intense nine-month-long Blitz had ended in May 1941, frequent raids continued. One lunchtime in January 1943 a single 500kg Luftwaffe bomb was dropped on Sandhurst Road School in Catford, southeast London. Thirty-eight children and six teachers were killed in the so-called Terrorangriff (terror raid). There were rumours of deadly new secret weapons being developed by the Nazis. These would materialise the following summer as the lethal V1 ‘pilotless planes’ and V2 rocket bombs. Meanwhile rationing continued, and in many cases bit deeper.

      It was a courageous and optimistic decision to have a baby at this moment. Apart from the practical difficulties of shortages of baby clothes, nappies, cots, prams, feeding bottles, teats and food, there was the uncertainty of bringing a child into a world when the map to the future had been torn up into jagged pieces. No one could know how long the fighting would go on, or what form it would take.

      Shock and uncertainty about the future meant that the birth rate had fallen dramatically in the early months of the war. In 1941 it had reached the lowest point since records began: 13.9 per thousand of the population. When Peggie Phillips found out that she was pregnant in June 1941, she was pleased. But her husband, John, wrote from his army camp cautioning that ‘much as we would like another baby [they already had two daughters] these are hard times, and it would be wisdom to be brutal and cut off this little promise of a life until the world is a little more settled and we could find some sort of assurance that this new little person could be cared for in a decent way’.

      This was the strongest argument, he suggested, ‘for you going to the osteopath [an abortionist] … Perhaps the most simple way of looking at it is that we ought to get rid of this “little accident” while it is early days yet and things haven’t gone too far: and we can always have the baby at another time (if it ever gets to be). I hate deciding the way I have.’

      Mrs Phillips took her husband’s advice, raided the children’s saving accounts, and on the recommendation of a doctor ‘whose eyes she didn’t really trust’, travelled to a discreet nursing home in Kent where she paid fifty guineas for an illegal abortion. Sadly ‘another time’ never came, as John was killed in the battle of Monte Cassino later in the war.

      Many other women had no choice but to be single mothers: they had been widowed by war. On the front page of The Times on the day of my birth, the list of those killed or missing in action is four times longer than the announcement of births. Some women had husbands, fiancés or boyfriends fighting abroad with no hope of home leave until the war was over.

      After 1941 the birth rate rose steadily, however. Even in such an unpredictable world there were clearly many who wanted to lay down a marker for the future; to normalise the conventional progress of family life in the midst of chaos, anxiety and despair. Biological clocks ticked louder and youngest children grew older, as did their parents. War was not going to be outwitted, it had to be endured. Life, as usual, had to ‘go on’ and be celebrated in as many ways as possible.

      Of course, as an infant I was unaware of the turbulent times into which I had been born. As I slept soundly in a second-hand Silver Cross carriage pram, under an apple tree at the end of the garden, the nation was gripped with the excitement and optimism that accompanied the news of the successful D-Day landings on 6 June 1944; I had no idea of the terror induced by the buzz bombs and V2 rockets that devastated London and parts of the home counties in the following months. Walking by the time VE Day was celebrated on 8 May 1945, I was still unlikely to have been perched in a high chair to tuck into jam sandwiches or trifle at a Victory in Europe street party. This was partly because of my young age, but also because on the whole the home counties did not go in for that kind of communal merriment.

      For us there was rarely bunting and flag-waving, and we never dragged a piano into the street so that neighbours could gather round the old joanna and have a rousing sing-song. So often the most potent images of civilian war are of the urban working classes: sheltering in the Underground, emerging from their bomb-battered houses clutching all they could carry of their meagre possessions, waving Union Jacks outside Buckingham Palace or splashing in municipal fountains on VE Day. It was the working classes (some seventy per cent of the population, if assessed by the indices of unskilled or semi-skilled employment) who became the public face of the civilian war.

      The middle and lower-middle classes fought a more private war. They were less likely to be found in public air-raid shelters, under archways or down the Tube. They sought protection in Anderson shelters in their own gardens or evacuated themselves as well as their children to safer places in the country or abroad. Celebrations were less exuberant and more self-contained: a glass of Bristol Cream sherry with a few close friends in the front room rather than beer or ginger pop in the street.

      ‘The day we have waited for for nearly six years, and at last it is here, it is miraculous, exciting, wonderful,’ wrote Madge Martin, the wife of an Oxford vicar, on VE Day. ‘Lovely weather, streets beflagged, happy crowds dancing in the streets, singing everywhere, infectious happiness … packed churches, thankful people.’ She invited a few friends and neighbours into the vicarage, where

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