It never ceases to amaze me that, every morning, when I get up very early, and check my email, I have messages and fun stuff from Australia, England, Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, China and all over the United States. I still hark back to the times when, growing up in Norris Green, Liverpool, we would sit in the air raid shelter at the back of 3 Carr Lane and hunker down to listen to the bombers coming over and doing their thing, when my Mum would not let up on her quest to keep us in order, Mae, my eldest and grown up sister, Joan, five years my elder, and little wingeing me! Mum still ruled with a rod of iron, and insisted that we a) say our prayers, b) recite our times tables, c) do spelling bees, d) do crossword puzzles, and e) not complain. We used to have what we called “sing songs” and Joan and I would make up parodies to the famous songs of the day, and Christmas carols etc. Looking back, it was a very entertaining time, and we had no comprehension of the danger that was facing us every night. I was the runt of the family. Joan, by this time was pretty darned grown up and had her boyfriend, Peter Archer, who subsequently became her husband. Not even Hitler’s shennanigans could deter Peter from his Thursday night out with the boys, pay day, when they would go to the Wrestling at The Stadium, and armed with a few warming adult beverages, they would foray into the City, catch the last number 14 tram back to Carr Lane, and Peter would ultimately turn up at a late hour, usually with a glass of rum and peppermint in the top pocket of his best suit for his beloved Joan.
I remember one particular night, when, because it was raining, and the dirt floor of the Anderson shelter was too soggy for us to spend the night out there, that we camped out under the dining table in the house. It was a severe night when a munitions train at Clubmoor station, nearby, scored a direct hit, and the explosions carried out for many hours. As daylight broke, Joan opened her eyes, looked up at Peter sitting upright in a chair beside the dining table, stretched, yawned, and said “Thank God for a quiet night.” We had to be restrained from strangling her.
