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  And my father had a full Home Guard uniform straight away, cap and all, because he slipped a couple of pounds of butter to the Home Guard quartermaster at Brighton.

  Because, you might say, butter greased us a smooth path through the war. Fish fresh off the fishing boats, bacon off the pig farmers – you could get anything with a little bit of butter. Even the fags the tobacconists kept under the counter for their special customers.

  But Dad’s uniform didn’t help all that much because we had to pass outside our own Home Guard area on the way to Bournemouth or Eastbourne. And those blokes were fanatics.

  They’d even search the Vicar’s car! They’d even bring their wives to strip-search nuns, because everyone said that the Nazi paratroopers who dropped in Holland and France and Belgium had been disguised as vicars and nuns. The Church had a very hard time of it.

  My dad’s next idea was to ensconce my Auntie Maude in the back seat of his car. She weighed thirteen stone, and in her fur coat she just filled the whole back seat. And she said she had such bad rheumatics in her knees that it took four strong men to lever her out once she was in.

  Since no one in their right mind could mistake her for a paratrooper (they never made parachutes that big!) the Home Guard usually gave up while she was still stuck halfway out through the door. (Mind you, she could get out nippily enough once we took her home afterwards, with her little pound of butter.)

  Anyway, with me in the front passenger seat and Auntie Maude in the back, we got clean away with it. Until the fatal night of September 7th, 1940.

  We were halfway to Dover that night, on the lonely road across the downs, when Auntie Maude suddenly yelled, “Stop!” We screeched to a halt. (Auntie Maude in the back was very hard on the breaks.)

  “What?” roared my father, looking around furtively at the totally empty dark road.

  “I thought I heard church bell ringing,” said Auntie Maude.

  We all listened with bated breath then. Because the ringing of the church bells had been forbidden, except in the case of the Invasion. They were meant to be the warning of the Invasion.

  But all we heard was the night breeze.

  My father let out an explosive sigh of relief.

  “They’re only ringin’ inside her head,” he muttered. “She’s suffered from tinnitus since she was a girl.”

  To her he said, “The Nazis won’t get you tonight, Maude.”

  “It’s not that I’m worried about,” she snapped. “It’s me butter.”

  My father let off the handbrake and drove on. But after about a mile, he braked again, with a curse. Beyond the dim glow of our blacked-out headlights, something bigger than any man was moving in the road.

  I peered ahead nervously, trying to make it out. Wondering about Frankenstein’s Monster and Nazi secret weapons …

  “It’s a horse,” said my father, in disbelief. “A horse with a girl on its back.”

  He wound down the window and shouted, “Can I help you?” in a pretty rude voice. He hasn’t much time for the local hunt; he reckons they break his hedges and frighten the cows, and cut down the milk yield.

  “Oh, I say,” called the girl, in a voice that did remind me of our local hunt, “You haven’t seen any Nazi paratroopers, have you?”

  “Now why should you ask a daft question like that?” asked my father heavily.

  The girl had come closer; the horse was very excited and restive with foam round its mouth, and I think Dad was scared it might damage the car. It was a very large horse.

  “Haven’t you heard?” asked the girl, dismounting. Her eyes were like saucers. “The code-word’s gone out. Cromwell. To the army and the Home Guard. It means the Invasion has started.”

  “Oh aye?” said my father, very disbelieving. “Where?”

  “I was in Dover,” said the girl. “And at nine o’clock tonight all the trumpets sounded from the Castle Cliff.”

  “Perhaps they’re having a band practice?” said my father.

  “No, it is the Invasion. The Germans have dug a secret tunnel across the Channel and are coming on the surface near Lympne. My job is to cover the Downs and report any paratroopers by public telephone. I’ve got my money ready, you see!” She held up two big round pennies.

  “Well, the Best of British Luck, miss,” said Dad, and put the car into gear again.

  “Women!” he said savagely, half a mile down the road.

  “I thought I heard those church bells,” said Auntie Maude.

  “Damn women!” said my father, even more savagely.

  We were stopped at the next village by a bunch of men in sports jackets carrying halberds; that strange mixture of spear and axe.

  My father gave a growl and would have driven straight through them, I swear, except they’d blocked the road with two farm carts.

  Instead he screeched, “Are you the Home Guard?”

  I mean, we knew the Home Guard was feeble, but …

  “Not exactly,” said a beautiful, well-modulated voice. “We’re actually a touring company of The Yeomen of the Guard, giving performances to the troops to raise morale. Working out of Drury Lane … but we thought we’d better do our bit.”

  “Your bit of what?”

  “Haven’t you heard the church bells? The Invasion’s on. The Germans have got a secret tunnel under the Channel and they’re firing torpedoes at Dover Harbour from it … and they’ve captured the RAF airfield at Lympne and are flying their planes off it already.”

  My father looked very pointedly at the tranquil night sky, lit only by the pink glow that hung over burning London.

  “Where are the planes then?”

  “Well, of course, I say, they couldn’t fly at night. But …”

  “Please let me past,” said my father coolly. “I am in the real Home Guard. Engaged on a mission of Vital National Importance.”

  “Ooh I say, Gerald, better let the blighter past, what?”

  There was a deep consultation and they finally pulled back the farm carts, then stood back waving and shouting, “The Best of British Luck!”

  We should have turned back then, but my father’s a stubborn cuss.

  Two miles further on we were flagged down by two real policemen.

  “Can I be of assistance, officer?” asked my dad with a kind of nervous authority, as my heart sank.

  “I am requisitioning this car, sir, under the Emergency Powers Act. The Invasion has started. They’re coming ashore up the beach at Brighton. Please drive us to Dover Police Station, immediately.”

  Well, there was no arguing with that. One huge policeman squeezed in alongside Auntie Maude, and the other sat in the front with me on his knee. What with all that load of butter, the poor little car sounded like it was on its last legs. It was lucky it was downhill nearly all the way.

  But at a road junction, about five miles out of Dover, we heard a sound that even dwarfed the labouring wheezing of our engine. A hideous squealing of metal; a screeching, a squeaking like all the devils in hell were loose in rusty armour.

  “Wossat?” gasped Dad, cutting the engine and cowering down in his seat.

  “Tanks,” said the policeman in front. “I’ve heard it before. There’s no other sound like it.”

  “Reckon it’s Jerry?” asked the other policeman in a whisper. “Them Panzers move fast – blitzkrieg they call it, lightning war. Reckon they could ha’ made it this far from Brighton?”

  “I’m not taking no chances,” said the other. “Into the hedge, quick! Them Panzers’ll shoot on sight.”

  We all dived into the hedge. I’ve never seen Auntie Maude move so fast in her life.

  The screeching had grown unbearable by the time the first tank came round the bend.

  It was huge. It filled the whole width of the road. There were sparks flying from its tracks … It passed without stopping, though the commander on top looked hard at our poor little car.

  “S’aright,” muttered one policeman. “They’re British. Matildas. Them’s
the ones that shot Jerry to bits outside Dunkirk. Made Dunkirk possible. If only we’d had more of them.”

  I wanted to jump up and cheer, they looked so big and grand and powerful. But the policeman pressed me flat.

  “Stay still, son. The British’ll be firing at anything that moves an’ all. They’ll be trigger-happy tonight.”

  There were only four tanks, in the end.

  “Not enough,” said one policeman sadly.

  “Hope they’re not retreating already,” said the other.

  They were trying to sound brave for our benefit. But I could feel the one next to me shivering and he smelt funny. It was then I really began to believe the Invasion was happening.

  We reached the police station eventually. The forecourt was absolute chaos – police, army, even Navy trucks. Everyone running around yelling their heads off. I suppose we should have been scared of being caught as Black Marketeers by the police, but it was just lost in fear of the Germans.

  An officer in a tin hat ran up.

  “I’m commandeering this car,” he shouted. “I must get ammunition up to D Company and our truck’s broken down. It’s urgent. The men have only got five rounds apiece for their rifles and they’re guarding Shakespeare Cliff. Out, out, out.”

  We got out shivering, and six men ran up carrying flat heavy wooden boxes, one between two. Boxes about as big as our box of butter.

  “There’s not room for it all inside, sir,” panted a man.

  “Yes there is,” snapped the officer. “My father’s got a car like this. There’s a boot hidden under the back seat. Get the seat up.”

  Up came the back seat. Out came our box of butter on to the forecourt of the police station.

  “What you got in here?” shouted one soldier. “Lead?”

  “Personal possessions,” said my father hastily, looking round. But our two policemen had been lost in the chaos.

  “What shall we do?” wailed Auntie Maude, looking very hard at the butter box.

  “Sit on it,” snapped my father. He was always a quick-thinking man.

  The box vanished utterly under the skirts of Auntie Maude’s fur coat.

  “Right, sir,” said the officer to my father. “Will you drive us up to Shakespeare Cliff? I’ll show you the way.”

  We spent the rest of the night driving, defending Britain. We saw a lot of soldiers, guns, tanks, policemen and refugees starting to panic and take to the roads.

  What we never saw was Germans. Not a trace. And as the night went on, the place they were landing seemed to get further and further away. Eastbourne, Bournemouth, Portland Bill, Lyme Regis in Dorset, Exmouth, Plymouth …

  We were actually pulling in to area HQ with a request for hand-grenades when we saw an officer with red on his cap standing stretching his arms on the tarmac in the pink dawn and, from the very way he stretched, I just knew the Germans had never come.

  “Load of stuff and nonsense, old boy. All the code-name ‘Cromwell’ was meant to mean was ‘Invasion Imminent’. But it never happened.”

  “Right, thanks chaps,” said our officer to us. “Stand down. Duty well done. Sorry I can’t invite you to breakfast in the mess.”

  The world was beautiful; England was still free; the cool morning air seemed like champagne, the best we’d ever breathed.

  All we had to worry about was getting our Black Market butter from the police station.

  Funny how one terror can replace another. People went to prison for Black Marketeering. Our local mayor was serving three months for a fuss about a side of bacon. It was like walking into the lion’s den …

  But, glory be, in the clear morning light, after a night of cold and terror, Auntie Maude was still dutifully sitting there on the forecourt. And a nice young constable was just giving her an enamel mug of tea.

  Why did she have to stand up when she saw us? Stand up and wave?

  “Hellooh,” said the nice young constable. “What’s all this?”

  He reached down and opened the lid of the box. Stared at all the serried rows of packets of butter.

  “Butter,” he said to himself. And gave Auntie Maude a very hard look.

  It was then that Auntie Maude excelled herself.

  “I dunno,” she wrinkled up her face. “It was just somewhere to sit. My legs were hurting. Some fellers left it there. They had Welsh accents. Asked me to keep an eye on it for them.”

  “What did they look like?” He was still suspicious.

  “I don’t know, ducky. It was dark, wasn’t it?”

  “Hey, Sarge!” called the constable …

  “Inspector, sir?” called the sergeant …

  Even the Superintendent came out.

  “Must be Black Market stuff,” said my dad, helpfully.

  All the coppers looked at him.

  “What are you doing here?” the Superintendent asked.

  “Me and my car got commandeered by the Army. I had to leave our Maude with you for safety.”

  “Right,” said the Superintendent. “Well, we’ll take this butter in charge, thank you very much. Good day to you!”

  His expression had turned from suspicion to gratification. You could tell he was thinking about breakfast …

  He walked away, with two constables carrying it behind. But I saw them lifting the lid and helping themselves to half-pound packs and shoving them into their pockets before they even got through the police station door.

  Ten quid’s worth of our best butter. That would have paid a farm labourer’s wages for a month.

  As I said, 1940 was a bad time for us.

  ROSIE

  Rosie cut down Lime Street, walking fast. Not easy in the blackout. But there was a moon tonight, flirting with the clouds. A bomber’s moon.

  Rosie was an ARP warden; air-raid patrol, a full-timer and proud of it. She liked being one of the few women wardens, even if she’d had to lie about her age to get in. She was only eighteen, but big with it.

  She liked the comradeship of the Warden’s Post. She liked all the new people she met.

  Before the War she’d been a mother’s help. A comfy life, but not a lot of thrills. Changing nappies; wheeling prams round Seffie Park. She’d loved the babies and they had loved her, but it hadn’t been getting her anywhere.

  Now she was meeting new people from morning ’til night. And she usually called in at some dance, after she came off duty. Strange, dancing in her warden’s uniform; but there were plenty of girls in uniform now, Wrens and Waafs.

  She met such interesting fellers. Tonight’s bloke had lived in Australia and caught crocodiles with his bare hands to sell to zoos. Last week she’d met a cheerful undertaker, serving with the Irish Guards. The way he’d eyed her, she hadn’t been sure he wasn’t measuring her up for a coffin!

  She liked a good time; but she wasn’t a good-time girl. She always went home before eleven. Alone. That way, fellers didn’t get the wrong idea.

  Liverpool was safe enough. Nothing worse than some amorous drunk you had to hold up while he was talking to you. Easy enough to get away from them; they usually fell over when you let go of them.

  The worst thing that could happen was you might fall into one of those great gaping pigswill bins in the dark, stinking of potato peelings and boiled-out fish-heads.

  It was lonely, out on the streets. Her sharp footsteps echoed off the tall buildings, but her gas mask case and tin hat banged against her bottom reassuringly.

  And the pubs might be dark, but they were full to bursting behind their blackout curtains; roared-out choruses of We’ll Meet Again and Roll Out The Barrel cheered her on her way.

  Mind you, the war was terrible for some people; like those poor people down that shelter in Mellor Street. The bomb had burst outside the door and killed them all with the blast. With hardly a mark on them, even the little kids.

  But Mellor Street wasn’t in Rosie’s district and you only worried about your own district now. Rosie’s district had had a few bombs, a few people buried un
der the rubble. But she’d helped to dig them out with her bare hands, working shoulder to shoulder with the fellers; and held their hands till the ambulance came. She’d cheered them up and that made her feel good.

  Rosie hurried on. The pubs were further apart now and even the alleys were silent. Just the odd moggie, poor things, scavenging at the pigswill bins.

  She was just bending down to stroke one when the siren went. For the third time that day. Rosie got the usual sinking feeling in her gut, but she wasn’t all that worried. Air-raid sirens couldn’t kill you. She listened intently, through the dying drone of the siren, for the sound of bombers’ engines …

  And heard nothing.

  She’d carry on for a bit, try and get home before anything happened. Her ma would worry if she was caught out in a raid. Ma might even leave the shelter and come looking for her, as far as the chippie in Scobie Street. Then batter Rosie over the ear when she found her, for causing so much worry.

  “G’night, moggie. Best of British Luck!”

  Her footsteps quickened; the gas mask banged harder against her bottom, as if urging her on.

  She’d gone nearly half a mile before she heard the bombers coming. She was in a district she hardly knew. Really poor people, to judge from the state of their doors and windows. But you couldn’t be choosy when the bombers came. You just ran for the nearest brick street-shelter with its concrete-slab roof.

  Not many shelters round here. Poor people were always the worst looked after. Bet the toffs had shelters, and to spare, up Croxteth way …

  She ran and ran. Turned a corner by a chapel with bombed-out windows. Saw the three brass balls of a pawnbroker’s … Then a great square shelter loomed up.

  She made the doorway, just as the first guns opened up overhead, turning the night white-black, white-black. Making a noise like some daft kid banging a tin tray right in your ear that echoed across the whole sky after.

  Then she heard the shrapnel shrieking down like dead rockets on Bonfire Night. And ducked through the blackout curtain into the shelter.