Child from Home

by John Wright

  On my seventh birthday, which fell on Easter Sunday that year, Mam paid a short surprise visit. I vaguely remember her wearing her best thick Lisle stockings and low-heeled shoes with a strap that buttoned across the insoles. It was a warm spring morning with a haze of fresh green on the hedgerows and, on seeing her, my sadness was lifted by the unconcealed love and happiness that emanated from her. The bond between us didn’t need to be put into words. She said that Dad could not get leave but he sent his love and he had recently told her that women were to begin working on the gun battery and searchlights. With their nimble fingers they were good at adjusting the height finders and the predictor mechanisms.

  Mam was no beauty in the conventional sense of the word but beauty is in the eye of the beholder – so to Dad and me she was. Neither plain nor beautiful but pleasing to look at, her presence could turn the darkness into light. There was an inner beauty and her lovely pale blue eyes and warm gaze radiated love and serenity. She had a soft and sensuous oval face and her fine, light-brown hair was parted on the left and combed across the top of her forehead. Unfortunately she, and her younger sister Hilda, had a muscular defect (medically known as strabismus) that prevented parallel focusing causing a slight squint in their left eye. It was what Gran called ‘a lazy eye’. She also had her mother’s rather heavy facial features with high cheekbones and a certain puffi-ness around the nose and eyebrows.

  She was a stargazer with an almost childlike innocence about her and she was never far from either laughter or tears. There was a tactile impulsiveness in her and she liked to hug, kiss and touch me as often and whenever possible. She had visions and great hopes for the future when we would all be together again after the war. Fatalistic in her outlook, she believed that those who were good and generous of spirit would be rewarded with everlasting peace and rest in the afterlife. She truly believed that some mysterious force shaped our destiny. When the time came for her to leave she said, ‘Keep your chin up, darling. The next time I see you I’ll have George with me. He’ll be coming to stay here quite soon.’

  Her eyes were misty, her lower lip trembled and a tear hovered on the verge of falling as she hugged me close and kissed me, before – ever so reluctantly – dragging herself away. It was George’s birthday the next day and she had to be with him, so, after giving me one last sweet haunting smile that pierced my soul, she quickly turned away. She waved as she hurried round the corner to catch the number ten into York. I was not to know that my memories of her and Dad would have to last me for a long, long time to come.

  That day it was light until nearly 9 p.m. as double summertime was in operation again and the clocks had been put forward an hour early that morning. This meant that it was just getting light as Mr Harris left the house to go to work. We were not even up for our breakfast of lumpy porridge and the sun was well up by the time we set off on our walk to school.

  On a night in mid-April, young Alan Clark, Peter Pallier’s young cousin at Hilbra Avenue, was woken by the wailing of the nearby siren. On peeping around the blackout curtain he noticed a red glow in the night sky above the distant hills to the north, and the Misses Law and Barker saw the same eerie glow from their bedroom window. A couple of days later Alan’s mam said to Harry, ‘I’ve been told there’s been a heavy air raid on Middlesbrough and the East Cleveland coast. They say a lot of people have been killed and made homeless.’ In Middlesbrough itself a gas main had fractured and caught fire lighting up the sky, and it was that and the glow from burning houses that Alan had seen.

  Our bedroom window faced west and though woken by the air-raid siren we couldn’t see the lurid light in the night sky. We were up and swaddled in blankets under the table with Mr Harris and the girls were in the gas cupboard with his wife. Dot said afterwards, ‘I couldn’t get comfortable because the gas meter was sticking in me back.’

  We went back to bed when the all-clear sounded and in the darkness and chill of that time just before dawn, when the human spirit is at its lowest ebb, I dreamt that I saw Mam in the bedroom. She seemed so real and looked as though she hadn’t had time to comb her hair or put on any lipstick. She put her arms round me and quietly sang a soothing lullaby and her soft, radiant smile held the promise of infinite love and compassion. Then she faded away and I seemed to hear her tremulous voice, as if from a great distance, saying, ‘Be strong, my son. Be strong!’ I woke with a start to find that my face and pillow were wet with tears, and Jimmy said, ‘You were crying in your sleep, John.’ I was engulfed by an overwhelming sadness and at that point Mr Harris came into the room. Sitting me on his knee he lay my head on his shoulder and put his arms round me as deep sobs wracked my slender frame. ‘There, there,’ he said soothingly. ‘It were only a bad dream. Go back to sleep now, son.’ He was an exceptionally kind, sensitive and caring man.

  12

  Blitzed

  The nights of the 23—26 April were cloudless with the waxing moon near to the full. From the wireless broadcasts, which always started with ‘Last night Bomber Command the Harrises knew that there had been bombing raids on the Baltic coast port of Rostock and Hitler vowed that he would lay waste the cities of Britain in return. The story goes that he had picked up a pre-war Baedeker guidebook to historic British towns and cities and ordered that all the places with three-star ratings were to be razed. The cathedral cities of Norwich and Exeter, along with Bath, were bombed soon afterwards.

  On the evening of Tuesday, 28 April, our Harry sat in his room reading the Yorkshire Evening Post, which had been reduced to only four pages with fewer and smaller advertisements. The editorial was headed ‘REPRISALS’, which referred to the recent raid on Norwich, and it commented on York’s run of good luck thus far.

  That evening, as Mr Harris had tuned in to the short-wave channels, there was much whistling and crackling as he turned the dial. He often searched the overseas channels eager for uncensored war news and that night, during Lord Haw-Haw’s English-speaking propaganda broadcast, his nasal voice had kept fading in and out, but he thought he heard him warn of bombers coming to York. Mr Harris took no particular notice as ‘Haw-Haw’ was always ranting on in that way and many people now looked on him as a bit of a joke. They settled down to listen to ‘Sandy’s Half Hour’ of organ music on the Forces Service. We had been sent to bed just before eight o’clock and all was quiet as the adults went up to their bedroom at half past ten. Mrs Harris had her glass soda water syphon with her as usual and Mr Harris had to be up to start his long working day at the farm by 7.30 a.m. In York soldiers and airmen from the local camps and airfields caught their buses in Exhibition Square after a good night out and all was quiet and still.

  It was a beautiful, clear night with a ‘bombers’ moon’ and it was about half past two in the morning when we were woken by the loud, unsynchronised drone peculiar to German aeroplanes. They sounded very close and seemed to be almost on top of the house as Jimmy, Ducky and I shot out of bed and peered round the edges of the blackout curtain. With our bare feet on the cold lino, we saw that the sky in the direction of York was lit by the eerie flickering lights of Chandelier parachute flares that looked like white Christmas trees. In their silver light we could clearly see the dark-grey shapes of twin-engined Heinkels – the largest of the German bombers. As they roared over at around 200 miles per hour, we could see the black crosses on their wings and the swastikas on their tail fins. We heard explosions and felt the floor vibrating under our bare feet as clusters of incendiary bombs whooshed and crumped into the ground. At that point, Mr Harris rushed into the room and hurried us down the stairs into our allotted places, and Mrs Harris already had the girls in the gas cupboard with their blankets round them. The siren, which was supposed to warn of raiders approaching was not heard, and the chilling, pulsing wail was not sounded until after the first bombs had dropped. Something had gone wrong!

  On hearing the roar of more German planes outside, being too young (or too stupid) to realise the danger, we rushed to the front window and were
shocked to see in the baleful white light several green and light-grey planes with long thin fuselages. Jimmy, being an expert, said they were Dorniers and they seemed to be following the railway lines at the far side of the fields. Mr Harris angrily bawled out, ‘You silly little buggers. Get away from that window!’ and grabbing hold of us, he roughly shoved us under the table where we crouched crying and shaking with fear. We were scared, but also shocked by his anger and unusually raised voice. Angry shouting and physical punishment by Mrs Harris was the norm but it was most unusual for the generally quiet and placid Mr Harris to act that way. The terrible crumping sounds and the earth-shaking vibrations went on for nearly an hour and a half, during which Mr Harris apologised for his angry outburst. He said, ‘Ah’m sorry to ’ave been so rough lads, but yer could’ve been killed by flying glass if a bomb ’ad dropped nearby.’ He tried to make amends by hugging and comforting us and by giving us a toffee to chew on. As bombs landed the lights flickered and dimmed.

  It was a long and terrifying night as York was badly bombed. At about four o’clock in the morning we were still cowering under the table wrapped in blankets, listening to the not-so-distant bombing that seemed to go on and on. After a time we heard and felt two very loud explosions that seemed very near and the house jumped on its foundations. They were too close for comfort, making us realise that even our little village was vulnerable. The windows rattled violently, soot was dislodged from the chimney and, as it billowed out in choking black clouds from the empty fireplace onto the hearthrug right next to us, we were petrified with fear. We found out later that a high explosive bomb had landed in a field between Towthorpe and Old Earswick village at the other side of the Foss, killing several cows and badly damaging some farm buildings. Mr Harris said, ‘Mebbe t’plane ’ad bin aiming for t’Army camp at Strensall, or mebbe it’d jettisoned its bombs before fleeing t’ t’coast and ’ome.’

  And after a while we were pleased to hear the sound of British fighter planes attacking the fleeing German bombers. The short bursts of tinny sounding cannon fire seemed to be right above our heads. After that it went quiet except for the muffled voice of Mrs Harris telling poor Dot off for shuffling in the gas cupboard. We stayed where we were for a further half-hour until we heard the all-clear siren wail at 4.36 a.m., then we went back to bed, but it was hard to sleep after the fear and excitement. Harry, whose billet was a good half-mile closer to Clifton airfield than ours, said later, ‘I saw a couple of small, single-engine Lysanders in the air just as the raids started. They were practising night landing and taking off.’ After the war it was learned that the bombers had followed radio beams transmitted from France. The first wave of about twenty-odd aircraft had attacked completely unopposed, dropping eighty-five high explosive bombs that went ‘whump, whump’ as they hit the ground.

  The new day dawned windy but dry at Haxby and we could see the pall of grey smoke that still hung over York. That day we did not have to go to school until the afternoon when Miss Curry addressed the assembled children. She looked tired and her eyes were sore as she said, ‘I’m sure you are all aware of the dreadful air raid on York. I was on standby in my capacity as a part-time ARP warden and I was in bed at my parents’ home on Gillygate when the first bombs exploded. I got my mother and our dog to the shelter as another five bombs exploded nearby. The noise was deafening and the poor dog was terrified.’ Putting on her steel helmet, warm slacks and a thick jersey, Miss Curry went out to care for the homeless and the injured. It was a tough few hours for the resolute volunteers, the policemen and the emergency services, which were hard at it all night regardless of the risk of personal injury. The steep pitch of the roofs and the narrowness of the ancient streets made the job even more hazardous for the firemen who had to deal with flying glass, escaping gas and flames. Several were injured or affected in some way and the local people willingly opened their homes to offer kindness and comfort to those in distress. The Civil Defence workers performed heroically and the firewatchers put out many of the incendiary devices that rattled down on the rooftops before they could cause too much damage. As the all-clear was not sounded until half past four, it meant that Miss Curry could only snatch a little sleep before coming to school that afternoon. Mr Fox said, ‘I’m sure we all very much admire Miss Curry’s courage, compassion and dedication to duty. She has been through a gruelling and hazardous experience and I hope that you will all respond by being on your best behaviour today. Finally, let’s put our hands together to show our appreciation of her sterling efforts on behalf of others. She is a shining example to us all and has done the school proud!’

  The Harrises learned the details of the raid from a rushed-out edition of the Evening Press, who had managed to get the paper out even though their offices had been badly bombed. The headlines declared: ‘YORK DIVE-BOMBED AND GUNNED IN REPRISAL RAID’, before adding, ‘Coolness and courage under fire characterised the citizens of York last night, when the city underwent the ordeal of what was described by the Germans as a reprisal for the attacks on Cologne, Lubeck and Rostock’. It stated that more than seventy enemy bombers dropped around 200 bombs causing widespread devastation. Out of a total of 28,000 houses 9,500 were destroyed or damaged. The WVS posted grim lists of the ninety-two people killed, the injured, and those left homeless.

  The following day was Harry’s fourteenth birthday but Gran was not able to come due to the damage at York station. That night we were woken again by the wailing of the local siren and we quickly took up our air-raid positions. But it was not long before we were back in bed as no enemy planes arrived and the all-clear was sounded. It was reported the following day that another small raid had been attempted but the coastal defences had kept the raiders at bay. A day or so later Mr Harris sat at home reading the Evening Press editorial that was headed: ‘THE HUN CAME TO YORK THE OTHER NIGHT.’ In it there was a picture of a German bomb casing now being used as a charity collecting box. In the Picture Post magazine we saw dramatic coloured photographs of the Guildhall in flames; the ruins of the Bar Convent and the badly damaged offices of the Yorkshire Press in Coney Street. It was sad to see striking pictures of the wrecked railway station that made us realise how lucky the village had been to escape unscathed. The raid brought the terror of war that much closer. Until now York, with its narrow, winding medieval streets, had been a sleepy backwater for close on 300 years. It had been relatively undisturbed by war or violence since Cromwell’s Roundheads had laid siege to the city in 1644.

  Soon afterwards the Princess Royal toured the area, and four days later 3,000 people packed York Minster for a service of commemoration. In a broadcast by Lord Haw-Haw just after the air raid he claimed that the Minster had been left deliberately untouched as Hitler wanted to save it for the day when he would enter York in triumph after the invasion that was soon to come. It took many months to get back to normal and at least one of the deep bomb craters was not filled in until 1945.

  Sunday was still looked on as a day of rest and was known as ‘The Lord’s Day’. Early every Sunday morning it was one of my jobs to walk down to Torville’s shop. It was lovely to see the masses of purple aubretia hanging over the garden walls but some of the early daffodils were becoming wrinkled and brown. It felt strange to ‘hear’ the utter silence as I passed the empty school playground. On Saturdays the Home Guard unit used it for rifle drill. Once at the newsagents I got the Sunday Express newspaper for Mr Harris and cigarettes for his wife, as nobody bothered about selling cigarettes to kids in those days. Unfortunately for her, her favourite brand, Craven ‘A’, had become unobtainable by this time and she would have to make do with Player’s Weights or full-strength Capstan’s. She could not abide the Turkish cigarettes that were now on sale in the shops. I quite enjoyed this job, as Mr Harris often slipped me a penny that I spent in Bryant’s shop where the sweets were scooped up from a square jar and poured into a paper bag. The quiet calm that lay over the slumbering village suited my mood. With very few people about and no noise or hurry I
had time to think and I enjoyed what Wordsworth called ‘the bliss of solitude’. I could reflect on my confused feelings and the sense of unease and deep disquiet that I felt.

  Gran came to see Harry, Jimmy and me that afternoon and I thought she looked unusually pale, old and drawn. Trying to maintain a semblance of normality, she said, ‘My word! How you have grown since I saw you last.’ Standing Jimmy and then me against her, she measured our height against the buttons on her coat. This became a ritual that was repeated every time she visited and to this day I remember those large, round buttons that were domed and covered in leather.

  She then explained why Hilda could not come to see Jimmy. ‘Your Mam has joined the ATS and has been posted away.’ She went on to say, ‘A couple of weeks back we had a really bad air raid and the house was badly damaged along with a lot more round our way. We didn’t have time to get to the shelters before a lone aircraft dropped its bombs. There was a roar and a whoosh and we heard a sound like hailstones as rubble and debris landed on the roof. Archie was slightly concussed and cut on the chest by flying glass, but don’t worry, he’s okay! He had just gone to bed when the window was blown in by the blast and Renee ran upstairs just in time to stop him from stepping out of the big hole where the window had been thinking it was the doorway. The air was full of dust particles and soot and there was blood on the jacket of his pyjamas where the flying glass had cut his chest. The skylight window – which I’d painted black because of the blackout – crashed in on the stairs right in front of me and there was wood and broken glass everywhere and Archie cut his foot on a jagged piece. He has been off work for a few days and has not been able to go to his Air Training Corps sessions, which he loves.