1939
Early in 1939, things were looking black. Germany was mobilising, war seemed inevitable and my grandad was far from well. In April, while air raid shelters were being built and gas masks issued, my mother, realising she was pregnant again, tried to forget about the talk of conflict.
One afternoon her dad was busy sowing seeds in the garden at Hamilton Road.
‘How are you, girl?’ he said, looking up at Mum. ‘These are bad times.’ He watched me as I toddled around the garden. ‘You’re not planning on having any more little ones yet, are you, duck? I should wait and see until all this stuff has blown over.’
Mum had not the heart to tell him about the child she was carrying.
One summer afternoon, Mum was startled by a loud knocking on the door at Goldsmith Road where she found her sister Maisie standing white-faced.
‘Oh, Elsie. Dad has gone, he’s died. He collapsed and died while Pete and I were there.’
Mum was shocked. She remembered her dad saying he wondered if he ever would see the seeds that he had planted come up. It seemed ironic now.
In September war was declared. The Germans had marched into Poland, despite the warnings from England. Although nothing happened at first, the black-out had been placed in the windows and children from St Mary’s, London, had been evacuated.
My dad went with a building company to construct street shelters in Liverpool, but the threat of enemy aircraft never came about. This was the so-called Phoney War.
‘All be over by Christmas,’ many people said. Mum hoped it would be because the baby was due about that time.
By that time I was two years old. Mum loved me very much, but I was a big child and heavy to carry. An abscess developed on my bottom, which meant I should have to go to the hospital to have it lanced.
It was a great struggle getting me into the out-patient clinic, and although we arrived early, by lunchtime we were still waiting. Mum enquired as to why her daughter had not yet been seen by the doctor.
‘Oh, they’ve all gone for their dinner,’ she was told. ‘Come back after two o’clock.’
At last, after a whole day spent hanging around the hospital, I was seen and the abscess dealt with. Mum was especially tired after the journey home.
Dad soon came back from Liverpool, which was just as well because events were about to take a surprising turn. On December 22nd, a freezing night, Mum began having back pains. They both knew what was happening as Dad rushed out to phone for the midwife.
‘Hurry!’ Mum shouted.
A fire had been lit in the bedroom, but the baby was coming too quickly, much sooner than was expected. Mum hung on and soon the Midwife knocked on the front door.
‘Tell her to be quick, Frank,’ Mum called as he hurried to let her in.
‘Have you got an old blanket or an old coat or something to put over the car?’ was all the midwife said.
There was no time. Mum called out and almost by the time the nurse had washed her hands the baby arrived. It was a little girl, arriving in a rush, the way she always seemed to be all her life. Barbara Evelyn Lawrence, always close, always in a hurry, my best friend and only sister.
As my father had to work, a helper for new mothers from the Town Hall Welfare Office arrived, but she seemed to spend most of the time drinking tea. ‘Busy doing nothing,’ as Mum said.
‘I’ll change young Elsie’s cot,’ said the helper. ‘It’s bound to be wet.’
‘Oh, she’s dry at night now,’ Mum said.
‘Oh, that’s a blessing, now you have the new baby.’
We had an Ideal boiler that ran on coal or coke, with a tank that rattled noisily when it became too hot. The helper, being a silly woman, loaded it with coal and left without a word. Mum, who was supposed to stay in bed (new mothers had to lie in for at least five days at that time), heard the hot water tank banging so had to get out of bed to turn the taps and release the steam. Needless to say, Mum said she could manage on her own after that.
By this time, I was two years and three months old, but quite clever since I could put the key through the letter box for the Midwife and visiting neighbours, including Miss Limma, who together with her sister bought Mum flowers as congratulations.
My sister was a good baby and slept most of the time. She was breastfed and well looked after, which was to stand her in good stead later on. Mum was up and about again, chatting to the tenants living upstairs at No. 3, who were worried about what might happen if bombing started. Mrs Cooper, was anxious.
‘We’re going,’ she said. ‘Hope you get someone nice to live upstairs.’
The two old ladies who moved in had loads of old mahogany Victorian furniture. The elder of the two, Mrs Barker, was blind and relied on her sister, Mrs Pearson, who happened to be very deaf.
Miss Limma, the lady next door, was a bit, well… masculine. She rode around on a bike wearing green corduroy shorts and shared the house with someone who was apparently her sister. Although these were two unmarried ladies living together for company, the love of their lives was an old tabby cat called Neegle.
Unfortunately, there was a bad epidemic of whooping cough in Friern Barnet at the time. Mum became worried and had little sleep once she realised baby Barbara was showing signs of the symptoms. Every time the baby went into a spasm of coughing, she had to be lifted in order that she could get her breath. After the coughing and sickness passed, she had to be fed straight away and could only keep a little food down.
Several young mothers had lost their babies to the deadly disease, which worried Mum sick as Barbara was thin and weak. However, with loving care and encouragement, she coaxed the baby to feed and at last the crisis was over. I was the next victim, but fortunately being strong and healthy I was soon better again.
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