A child at war in Britain, 1942

The wail of the sirens moaning into the night becomes louder and louder, like the screams of the Banshees calling.

‘Run! Hide! The bombers are coming!’

I’m five years old, scrambling from my warm bed into my thick overcoat, socks, Wellington boots, hat and gloves. Mum puts Micky on my face. I feel I’m suffocating. She looks scary with her gas mask on; my grandmother looks like the Duchess from Alice in Wonderland in hers. We charge off down the long path towards the shelter, my grandparents following. 

The search lights are like long spidery fingers in the night, criss-crossing the sky, searching for the squadron of enemy planes. They are the only lights allowed. The path is frightening. Strange black shapes reach out to grab me. My grandparents stop at the kennels to be with the dogs. Mum and I run on to the shelter. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, which is my favourite book. Soon I will be going down the rabbit hole.

The Anderson Shelter, covered in grass, looks like part of the garden. Its black door was rather like a rabbit’s bolt hole.

The pungent smell of the soil stings my nose. Once we are in, we can light our torches. My grandmother puts fresh blankets on the bunks every day so we will be dry and warm. The smell of earth is always there.

I’m scared; I hate small spaces. I’m the youngest here, so I cannot let anyone see I want to cry. I want my Daddy. He is away fighting. I hold on to Mum’s hand tightly for a minute longer before I sit with the others. The planes are almost over us now. The noise is loud. We sing louder and louder in defiance.

The bombs are falling.  Whine, thud, shake. The world is falling in on us. “That was a near one,” a voice says. As things fall from their places onto us I want to scream. Scream with fear at this Black Death bombing my home night after night. I don’t. We huddle together, we support each other. My Mum is with me. We all sing louder.

At last the Banshees wail out into the night again, this time with a softer voice. We emerge into the dawn. Across the fields the sky is red with the flames of the city. As a child I was not aware of the many hundreds of people who died in the City of Kingston upon Hull, all I saw were the flames reaching into the sky and buildings shattered. I also witnessed the people who made their way out of the city and my mother and grandmother giving shelter, offering tea and sandwiches before they made their way back to their shattered neighbourhoods and lost homes.

The images of the night give way to the market garden once more. For us children it’s back to bed for a couple of hours. After breakfast it’s back to school across the fields and through the woods, where another rabbit hole awaits.