The group’s summary Begins with an account of her parent's pre-war wedding in London. She continues with her Father's subsequent call-up to the "R.A.F" and later, during one of his leave's — how her parents were buried alive beneath their shelter — the only survivors of an air-raid; resulting in the destruction of their new home in Mitcham, Surrey. She also writes of her own birth in South West London in 1942, living in her maternal Grandparent's home and on her Father's return in 1945, of a family visit to the London Monument, from where they viewed the destruction of the city…
During the years preceding the outbreak of World War 2, my parents were working in London, and it was there that they first met. My Father Steve, was employed as a professional photographer and my Mother May, had trained as a hair stylist in a smart West End salon. Here, she was introduced to the American socialite Mrs.Wallis Simpson — the then divorcee Mistress of the Duke of Windsor — who became one of my Mother's famous clientele.
On July 17th, 1937 my parents were married in their local church, "All Saint's", on Tooting Bec Common, South West London .Coincidentally, in the same Summer as the Windsor's controversial wedding took place.
Judging from a cherished, family cine film taken on my parent's Wedding Day, they presented a very attractive, young couple. Strolling together in her parent's garden, ablaze with flowers, my Mother serene, in a traditional long white gown, carrying her bridal bouquet of sweet peas and my Father resplendent in his"Thirties- Style" tailored suit, complete with buttonhole.
On the lawns, against a background of trees and shrubs, a group of smartly dressed guests — gloved and hatted — are sitting on rustic seats in the sunshine. The tranquil scene reflects the atmosphere of a lost age — the epitome of Englishness.
Shortly after my Mother married, she resigned her position to become a full time housewife, which in those days was customary, when most young women looked upon their marriages as their main aim in life.
Later they set up home in one of the many new 1930's"Semi's" in the growing suburb of Mitcham in Surrey on the outskirts of London. Their new house was their pride and joy and in common with many young couples of the time, they looked forward to a happy future. Alas, their happy expectations were short-lived, when on September 3rd, 1939 Britain finally found itself at war with Germany.
As early as February of the same year, the government announced their preparations for the possible conflict, especially their plans to distribute Anderson Shelters to thousands of homes in the areas most likely to be targeted, such as the London suburbs.
Thus my parents took delivery of one of the first steel-built, tunnel shaped shelters and dutifully erected it in their newly landscaped back garden. Half buried in the ground with earth heaped on top, householders were encouraged to plant a Victory garden — as camouflage — on the roofs of their shelters. And salad vegetables such as lettuce and beetroot thrived, whilst inside, rhubarb and mushrooms flourished in the damp conditions!
With so many roof-top gardens needing cultivation, the arrival of the horse-drawn delivery-vans were eagerly awaited by housewives — who with buckets and spades at the ready — scooped up the piles of manure conveniently deposited by the horses!
Leaflets were also delivered advising householders on blackouts and self —defence, and street names and signposts were dismantled to confuse any invading Germans!
But despite all these preparations, it was sometime before there were any real signs of war. Nevertheless, on September 2nd 1939, all young men from the ages of 18-45 were immediately called up, and my Father was amongst them — joining the "R.A.F."
Unfortunately for my parents, their choice of a Mitcham home turned out not to be the safest place to live, due to its close proximity to Croydon Airport.
Just before the heavy bombing of 1940 started, local people began seeing German aeroplanes flying just above the trees on the Common, with their black Swastikas clearly visible from the ground below. These transpired to be reconnaissance flights, as later when the Blitz began with a vengence the area along the main road — from Croydon Airport, Mitcham, to Central London — became a regular "bombing-run".
Alas, during one of these heavy raids — on one of my Father's leaves — my parent's much loved home received a direct hit and was totally demolished. Amazingly, they both survived — buried beneath their Anderson Shelter — emerging as the only survivors in the area.
Although at such terrible times mobile canteens delivered food and mobile laundries and baths also offered some relief, bombed out people had to have somewhere to live. Sadly, replacement homes were in short supply. So my parents had no other choice but to move in with my maternal Grandparents. They arrived on their doorstep with nothing, except the clothes they stood up in. But they still had each other.
There, my Mother stayed with her parents in their home at Tooting Bec, whilst my Father returned to his wartime duties abroad.
Then in August 1942, I was born, my parents only child. Shortly afterwards my Mother brought me back to live with my Grandparents. Here, I slept in their little front bedroom and one of my earliest memories in waking up on a bitterly cold morning to see intricate frost patterns on the INSIDE of the windows, before coming downstairs to a cheerful fire.
Although the winter of 1947, was I believe, the coldest there had ever been since Elizabethan times, and the acute shortage of fuel continued long after the end of the war, somehow my family always seemed able to provide a fire, where we all gathered around on winter nights.
On the return of my Father, having served abroad for four years, I could not understand why I had to call this strange man Daddy, and much to my Mother's embarrassment, I would often refer to him as "Uncle," the name then given to older males, whether relatives or friends!
Like thousands of other families who had lost their homes, my parents had hoped that we would be re-housed after the conflict ended. Unfortunately, such was the desperate shortage of post-war housing this did not happen. Instead, my Grandparents readily invited "the three of us" to share their home. And it was here, with my extended family where I grew up.
Not long after my Father's homecoming, we had our first family outing to London. There, I had my earliest sighting of the miles of hoardings that fronted the miles of ruins, which children on my generation just accepted as part of the normal London landscape. Whereas my Father was astonished that amidst all these ruins — Wren's magnificent" St. Paul's Cathedral "- and other beautiful and ancient buildings had miraculously survived!
On a later outing we climbed the viewing Tower on top of the Monument, where stretching before us- as far our eyes could see- were acres of the ruins and rubble that was once a great Metropolis. My parents were horrified at the extent of such devastation but being too young to fully realise the horrors of the war, I could not really understand their distress. Because then I knew no difference.
Sixty years on and London has changed beyond all recognition. A thriving and reconstructed city has emerged as the old has given place to the new. So now when I look again at that split-second, peace time image of my parents Wedding Day, captured in London on that July afternoon in 1937 — I still find it particularly poignant.
During the march of the subsequent years, other important family occasions have been added to our now carefully preserved film — significantly, my own Wedding Day in the Summer of 1963, my Silver Wedding celebration and more recently, the marriage of my son Mark.
I shall always be grateful to have such an irreplaceable piece of personal history.