Tuesday 20th July 1943.......

It was April 7th. A Wednesday. I was seven, because it's 1943. And I still am, of course. Seven-and-a-quarter, now. I'm sitting at the dining table at our house in Chester Road, Streetly, dip-in pen in my hand and ink bottle and old exercise book in front of me.

To be honest, I didn't think much on that day about my brother, like I do most days. Then he was still in Tunisia. He might still be there.  We don't know. But we have certainly thought about him a lot over the last ten days because of what we've heard on the wireless and seen in the Daily Mail.  Sicily has been invaded!  Is he part of all that?  Where exactly is he today?  Mum and Dad don't seem to be too worried.  But they must be, just like when they didn't hear from him for weeks and weeks after he left England on a troopship. I think they keep some things from me.

But on April 7th I had  a lot of other things to think about, rather than how my big brother was getting on. It was a super day. Birthdays always are. Like Christmas because you get presents. And you can have a party and invite your friends and play and have some tea. Sandwiches and cake and blancmange. Not usually any jelly. I don't think it's easy to get. Sometimes there is junket instead. I never really like that but I still eat it. Like everything else (except cabbage). And your friends will bring presents as well. You expect that, although you aren't supposed to show it. You mustn't grab the parcel out of their hands straight away. That's not polite.

When I woke up that morning, I got presents and cards from Mum and Dad and my sister, Sheila. Really nice things. The best was a carton of second-hand Hornby railway stuff, to add to what I already have. A couple of clockwork locomotives, some more trucks and a bit more track. It's not brand-new, of course. They are not making anything like that these days, and haven't for ages and ages. Another boy probably had it for Christmas, years ago, when it was brand new and really shiny. Perhaps he has grown out of it and his Mum and Dad have decided to sell it. He may even be away fighting somewhere, now. I wonder if he ever thinks about his lovely Hornby Royal Scot loco. I shall look after it ever so carefully. Probably for ever.

There's another present as well. Wrapped up in brown paper. It's an extra one from Mum. I open it and what do I find? I can hardly believe my eyes. It's a doll. And not just an ordinary doll. It's one that has a special name. Many young children have one like it. It often goes with the teddy bear or, if you're a girl, the baby with blonde hair in a frilly dress. I don't think I am going to tell you what the proper name for it is. But whatever you want to call it, it's still a doll. What on earth was Mum thinking about when she bought that? I am SEVEN, for goodness sake, very nearly grown-up! I can only think that it is because she knows I like jam. Especially Robinson's. And I don't see enough of it. But you have to try and stay polite, don't you, and appear to be ever so grateful. All I can think of is an American phrase which I have picked up on the wireless or from a film at the Avion in Aldridge.

"Hey, what's the big idea?"

After that, of course, you still have say thank you. And I do.

In spite of that little hiccup, it stays a wizard day. It's school holidays and so I have my party in the afternoon. About seven or eight friends come, all boys and most of them at Sandwell School like me. Michael Fairey and Colin Coley and George Wilkins and Freddie Grisemoor and two or three others. With them come presents, mainly books which you can still get and some of these are about nature. "Ah yes, of course Christopher likes nature" says Mum to everyone as she takes the item from me and sticks it on top of the upright piano for safekeeping. To be honest, I'm not sure I really do. It's OK and I shall certainly read all about the insects and birds and things. But it's not a patch on Hornby and Dinkies and footie and playing soldiers.

After the handing over of presents it's playing in the garden, all the usual things and, especially, football or cricket on the lawn. (We can't go in the field behind at this time of year because the wheat is already growing and we mustn't trample on it). But it's still good fun. Then tea and we sit down around the dining room table and get stuck into the jam sandwiches and tarts and cake and things. A blancmange shaped like a rabbit and, of course, that junket stuff, all washed down with orange squash or ginger beer out of one of those big stone bottles that we sometimes use afterwards as hot water bottles.

And finally we can all go out through the French doors into the garden again to run it off without feeling too sick and play games. I can't remember what prewar parties were like because I was too young. But they can't ever have been any better than this. This is a picture of the lawn and garden we play in. It doesn't look like this at the moment, though. It's only April and not all the flowers are out yet.  And, anyway, the photo wasn't taken in wartime and so Dad doesn't have time for dahlias and hollyhocks and lupins at the moment. It's all vegetables, further down the garden, everywhere. Our air raid shelter is at the end of the lawn.  You can hardly see it. Let's hope the Germans can't either!

I can't remember what prewar parties were like because I was too young. But they can't ever have been any better than this.

My friends go home, probably looking forward to their own birthday parties. They might be unlucky of course, and have to have them in the winter. But they will still be great fun, even indoors. But for all of us, oh dear, it's such a long time now until Christmas.

So that was my big day. I think I've told you before, Mum had promised me an extra treat for my birthday. That was a visit to the circus. It didn't happen exactly on my birthday but about a week later, after the circus had arrived in the Big Top in Birmingham. Shall I tell you about it?


          THE BIRTHDAY TREAT - mid-April 1943

The Circus
Mum and I get onto the 113 bus to go into the middle of Birmingham. There's a bus stop right outside our house so we can just hop on it there. The circus we are going to is in the Big Top, a huge marquee on a bombsite on the corner of New Street and High Street. The whole thing is creaking in a strong wind as we show our tickets and go in. Mum is ever so nervous but we find our seats and sit down. I think what I shall remember about it all is the horses galloping around and around the ring while their riders do all sorts of incredible things. And the acrobats, high up in roof of the tent, who never fall off which is a miracle. And the bossy clown in his sparkly outfit strutting around, telling everybody off and shouting out instructions. At the same time a lot of other, scruffy clowns with trousers which are far too big who take no notice and are making fun of him and throwing water over each other and fooling around. They are so funny. Everyone is howling with laughter. What I shan't remember are lions and tigers. Because they aren't here. The circus has them, I think. But in the paper, it said it isn't allowed. That's because, if there is any enemy action, they might escape into the middle of Birmingham. Think of the excitement that would cause! Just imagine a big lion walking up New Street, past our bus stop!

But as much as anything else I shall not forget the slapping and creaking of the canvas when we are inside the tent. It has been really windy for days and another gale is starting to build up. I think Mum is relieved to get out in one piece at the end. You know what Mums are like. They worry about everything. It hasn't frightened me much.

New Street and The Journey Home to Streetly
We walk out into the breezy, fresh air, wait for a moment for a gap in the traffic and walk across New Street and down to the right towards our bus stop past the Odeon. There we join the queue and wait. Because it's April it's too early for the starlings which collect here in huge clouds as dusk approaches. At this time in winter we see them swirling around in the sky. And listen to their twittering which is so loud it almost drowns out the sound of the traffic. It's strange, isn't it. These birds all collect every evening in the city centre. They have been busy all day, feeding in suburban gardens and parks. Then they all decide to get together, right in the middle of the city. They do that at a time of day when we human beings are more than happy to get away from New Street and back to our own homes. So that's what will happen again today. A bit later on in the afternoon. We shall be safely back home by then.

But now, they are still somewhere else and so I'm not looking up. I'm just watching what is going on around us.
There are several horse-drawn vehicles about. Brewers' drays with the name of their owners painted down the side. Ansells or Mitchell & Butlers, or carts belonging to the LMS or GWR. They pass us, with all the other traffic, going from right to left. One of these vehicles draws up alongside the pavement to my right, as they sometimes do. The driver is in a muffler and cloth cap. He gets down off his cart, comes to the head of the horse and ties on its nosebag. As he does this the horse starts to eat and at the same decides to have a wee, to my delight. What amazes me is the amount that the animal produces. It spreads out for several feet around over the surface of the street. The pool stays on the cobbles, steaming in the cool air for a moment during a lull in the wind. The driver, a busy little man, doesn't pay any attention and moves down the flank to adjust the harness in some way. In fascination I watch his small, hob-nailed boots splash through the pool with a muffled clatter. He doesn't even glance down. And here's me, I think to myself, who gets ticked off for even thinking of walking through a puddle of rainwater. The passers-by don't give any of this spectacle a glance. They are mainly women in felt hats or scarves tied like turbans. Their clothes are dull and drab. Heads are down in the increasing wind. They hurry on by, hunched up, intent on their business. The horse happily munches away.

Opposite me as I look out over New Street is a men's outfitters, Horne's, looking fairly battered. Further down, on the same side and to my left is a building which always fascinates me. It is a tall, light-coloured modern building, but it is now grubby and forlorn. My mother tells me that it used to be Marshall and Snelgrove's, a beautiful shop which she visited from time to time. I try to imagine it as it was, its white façade gleaming and crowds of customers going in and out of its doors. Today it is just a shell, still standing. But above each of its many curved windows, now blank and gaping, a great black smear stretches up the stonework where flames and smoke erupted from inside as everything there was being burned. This is a photo of New Street, taken a few days after the bombing, a couple of years ago.  Before they had done much tidying up. It's a shame you can't see Marshall and Snelgrove's. But Horne's is there.

As I look to my right, towards where we have been to the circus, a Midland Red bus comes out of High Street from behind the circus tents and approaches us. It goes past us and pulls up at another stop, a few yards further on down the street. When this happens I sometimes see a soldier or airman or sailor stepping off the back of the platform before the bus comes to a halt. Then he hoists a kit bag onto his shoulder and strides off in the direction of New Street Station or Snow Hill. I would never be allowed to try getting off a bus like that. But no one is doing it today. Just one or two passengers get off, followed by the conductor shouting "Beeches" and then standing to one side as he watches the queue of new passengers clambering aboard.

Another Midland Red pulls up. This time it is ours. No.113. It stops in front of us, rattling in time with the throb of its engine. It gives out a funny scorched smell. We shuffle on board and we climb the stairs to the top deck because that's where I like to be. There it's less crowded and the view is far better. The seats are of slatted wood because it is one of the new, spindly "Utility" buses. The fug of cigarette smoke starts to grow as more passengers light up. I think Mum would rather be downstairs, even though she smokes Players herself.

When everyone has got on, the bus sets off, moving diagonally to the right across New Street. I don't spread my comic out over my lap. I know that reading on one of these buses very quickly makes you feel sick. So I just look out of the window. I've seen it all before, many times, but there is always something interesting to look at. And to try and remember later.

The bus rounds the corner and roars off up Corporation Street, then turns left into Bull Street and pulls up outside Grey's department store. Here another group of home-going passengers step off the pavement and clamber aboard. Then off again, turning right in front of Snow Hill Station into Steelhouse Lane and, once past the General Hospital, left into Loveday Street. We shall now have moved away from the central area of the city but the buildings will still be tall, towering over the bus. Every so often there are gaps where the Germans have done their work. Some of these bomb sites have been cleared. But often they still contain a great pile of rubble covered by dull, winter vegetation and what's left of last autumn's willow herb. Usually they are bounded by a blank wall which stretches up and up, miles above the bus. That belongs to the next building which has somehow survived, and it's sometimes held up by vast timbers. Blank walls like that fascinate me. All the way up are rows of little fireplaces. The colour of the tiles is still bright. Around each fireplace there's a small square of colourful wallpaper or peeling distemper. It was where a living room or bedroom once was. I find it difficult to fit these sights in with what I know. Fireplaces should be on the ground floor, in a lounge or dining room, or perhaps one storey up, in a bedroom. But not stretching up three or four or five floors, almost up to the sky. Who used to sit around them? And where are those people now?

As the bus passes along Summer Lane the buildings will become smaller, side-street after side-street of back-to-back terraced houses. Sometimes they have a gaping hole in their midst or a row of homes damaged and boarded up. It's the same view whenever I am on this bus. And perhaps, one day, years into the future, some of the houses might be covered in coloured chalk and flags and a large sign over the front door saying: "Welcome Home, Bill"...or Ron or Sid. But will that ever happen?

Onward, past the Crocodile Works. Despite what my elder sister tells me with a straight face on another occasion, I'm jolly certain they don't make large reptiles there. Although I don't really know what. Then through Perry Barr with its cinema and shops and the crossroads where the Outer Circle buses cross our path. And onward towards New Oscott and College Arms where our route turns left on to the Chester Road. After Beggar's Bush there is the feeling that we have finally left the city behind as Sutton Park spreads out to our right, past Banner's Gate. Then the Parson & Clerk and stretches of open fields start to open up despite all the pre-war building. At each stop another small group of passengers gets off. The last of them leaves at the Hardwick Arms crossroads where the bus will turn and park on the main road near to Cutler's Garage, ready for its return to the city. But Mum and I will have left it by then.

When we get home, we find that the gale has made a length of iron guttering come crashing to the ground, breaking a window on the way down. Another little job for Dad, when he gets back from work and before he goes off on Home Guard duty.

As for me, well, it's not ITMA until tomorrow night. But there will be something else to listen to. I'll probably lie on the soft hearth rug in front of the open fire while the old wireless mutters in the background, bringing the latest news from Russia or North Africa or Burma, or of last night's bombing raid on the Ruhr. I'll stretch out there on my front, chin resting on my hands, and gaze deep into the glowing coals. There I shall see frightening caverns and passageways opening up, with flames of red and orange and purple within, spitting and sizzling. For me they will be images of a burning city, like you see on the newsreels at the Avion. But only in black-and-white, not in colour like this. And then I shall try to imagine what peace will be like, if it ever comes. But that's something I shall never really succeed in doing, tonight or any other time.

So that was my birthday on April 7th, 1943 and my birthday treat, a week or so later. It's all in the past, now, but I shan't forget it.

And I have to say that since then I've been getting quite fond of the little chap in his red coat and stripey trousers. Just hope my school friends don't find out.

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P.S.
I nearly forgot to tell you, we've had a holiday as well, at the end of April. For a few days at a farm in a place called Tintern. The food was great. I don't think they have much rationing there. We travelled by train and the journeys were very slow and took for ever. Several changes and stopping and starting the whole time. On the way back we had the banker to help us get up the Lickey Incline. As we waited there Dad told me there would be a slight thump when it coupled up to the back of us and he was quite right. Even though it was dark by then I had a good look out of the window to see what was going on. The loco which had been the banker passed us on another line. I had quite a shock when I saw what it was......

We had companions while we were at the farm. Mr and Mrs Ward and their son, Martin. They are friends of Mum and Dad and live in Middleton Hall Road, Kings Norton. Mr Ward and Martin are keen fly-fishermen. I'm telling you all this because I want to show you a photo.  It's about the only one I have of Mum and me from this time - April and May 1943. It's Mr Ward, Martin, Mrs Ward, Mum and then me in the front. Dad is taking the picture.

I had my first taste of cider while I was there. Cheers!

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