STREETLY,
STAFFORDSHIRE MEMORIES
(1936
- 1961)
PEACE
(Monday, 7th May 1945)
by Chris Myers
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It's Monday May 7th 1945. And it's
nearly evening in our house on the
Chester Road
in
Streetly.
I've lived
here all my life. I had my birthday a
month ago. Now I'm nine.
I'm sitting at the table in our dining
room (which is really our living room).
Quite a lot happens at this table. I do
my homework here (I've done tonight's
although I'm not sure I needed to). Mum,
Dad and my sister Sheila write letters,
especially to my brother Graham who's
still in Italy. Mum does her darning
here and sometimes lifts the Singer
sewing machine up onto it to do seams on
clothes or big things like curtains. My
big sister Sheila uses it as well
sometimes, when she's making dresses
from patterns and that sort of thing.
I'm not allowed to get anywhere near it.
They tell me the needle could go right
through your finger. Doesn't look to me
anything like as dangerous as Dad's Home
Guard rifles (he's still got three), or
his revolver which I know is in his vest
and pants drawer, but it's not worth
arguing about because I'm not that
interested. Although it IS quite good
fun to turn the handle and hear
everything whirring and see the needle
going up and down and the material
moving itself forward underneath it. I
wonder how it does it.
Behind me, on either side of the
fireplace, are Dad and Mum's leather
armchairs. Dad's just got back from work
and he's sitting in his, reading the
newspaper and smoking his pipe. Sheila
is upstairs, getting ready to go out,
somewhere. She goes out a lot. To the
Youth Club
in Streetly or to dances and the ice
rink in
Birmingham.
She's seventeen. Tonight she'll probably
be meeting up with her friends to talk
about what's happened today. Mum is in
the kitchen, getting supper ready. So
her chair by the side of the fireplace
is empty. I glance over my shoulder at
it. About three weeks ago the morning
newspaper seemed to be rather special. I
didn't know why and I wasn't allowed to
look at it and my parents wouldn't talk
about it. Mum or Dad put it under Mum's
armchair to keep it away from me. That
wasn't a very good hiding place and, of
course, the moment they were out of the
way I grabbed it. It was all about one
of those camps, concentration camps they
call them. I had heard about them
before. I think this one was called
Belsen which our troops had liberated a
few days earlier. The newspaper was full
of dreadful photographs and
descriptions. I read it all, every word.
And I'll probably never forget it. It
has just made us all hate the Germans
even more than ever. If that was
possible. It is easy for me – I have
never met a German, except in my
nightmares. But Dad had friends there
before the war. I expect he is wondering
what has happened to them and, if they
are still alive, why they have done such
awful things since he last saw them.
Every day, we have been getting nearer
and nearer to
Berlin.
I read all about it in the paper every
single day. They tell us how many miles.
Each morning it is less than the day
before. My brother is still in
Italy, he was fighting last week near
Ravenna
but everything there stopped a few days
ago and we think he is OK. Last
Wednesday we heard that Hitler was dead
and that was just marvellous. Since then
it's been obvious that we are going to
win. But they have a new leader now. His
name is Doenitz. He said a day or two
ago that he's not going to give up. And
so we have been carrying on, not knowing
when it is really going to happen. Or
even if.
Anyway, I'm sitting here at the table,
thinking about what went on this
afternoon and writing it down.
I was in the garden, mucking about. It
had been a nice day. I had got back from
school and then went outside. Just Mum
in the house. Dad and Sheila not home
from work. They've both got jobs at ICI
at Witton. Don't think I was doing
anything in particular. I like our
garden and just being in it. Dad has
done so much to make it beautiful and
interesting. This was it not long after
they had moved in, in 1931. (This is my
elder brother. I think it was his first
day at
Bishop Vesey's
in
Sutton
where I go to as well. I'm in the
Junior School.
I've put the picture in because it shows
the back of the house which I was
standing looking at this afternoon. And
the back of our neighbour's as well.
That's
Mrs. Bacon).
The house was brand new then. Dad had
just started on the paths. They were
later done in concrete, marked to look
like crazy paving. Tons and tons of it.
Of course the garden's got quite
neglected over the last few years
because Dad has been so busy. He still
talks about what it looked like before
the war. (And we have colour photographs
of it then). But it still looks pretty
good to me with lots of colours in
summer and now here we are in early May,
and everything is sprouting and starting
to flower again. Even the spuds are
beginning to show themselves.
This is another photo after a lot of
work had been done. It's from about ten
years ago, in 1935 or 1936. So its an
old photograph, taken not long after Dad
had done most of the work.
You can see the borders, the rockery,
the paths, the swing which looks like
the entrance to a church, the pool,
Sheila's Wendy house which he built for
her 7th or 8th birthday, some of the
plants. What isn't there is The Dugout,
our air raid shelter. It wasn't needed,
then. Dad built it just beyond the log
and the little cherry tree and I can
just remember him doing it. We haven't
been down in it for ages and it's
starting to get a bit damp and smelly.
I am only showing you
all this so you can see where I was
standing this afternoon - near the log
at the end of the lawn. Just when
something special happened. Not anything
terrific. Just something which
lasted a couple of minutes. But
something I think I shall always
remember.
So that's where I was at that moment.
Somewhere near the big log. I am looking
back towards the house, into the sun.
Nothing's happening. Everything's just
as it usually is. The terrace
right behind the house is empty.
Once upon a time it was used a lot in
summer. Here's my brother and sister
there, one bright morning years before
the beginning of the war. It is what
they call pre-war. When wonderful things
seemed to happen which don't any more
and haven't done for a long time. Behind
them is the bay window of the dining
room. And the French window of the
lounge. We used to go out of that door
in the dark, to get to the air-raid
shelter. When I was little Dad
used to carry me, wrapped up in a
blanket.
Then suddenly, as I am standing
there, not thinking about very much.....
Our neighbour,
Mrs. Bacon,
appears at the back of her house and
comes to the fence, just near the French
window. She is holding a newspaper and
calling out to my mum. Mum comes out of
the house and goes over to her, past the
bay window and stands by the fence. I
hear exactly what is said even though
Mrs. Bacon is speaking quietly as she
holds out the paper. It's the
Birmingham Mail
which has just been put through her
letterbox. This is all she says:
"Freda, it's all over".
Mum takes the paper and looks at it.
They talk for a few minutes. There's no
whoops of joy, no clapping of hands.
Just quiet chat. But I know that it's
important. I don't think to check if
anyone is crying. Grown-ups don't
normally do that. Mum did just once,
which I told you about before. But you
can never tell. Grown-ups are funny
people. Perhaps there is the odd tear,
again. I'm too far away to see. And
anyway, they should be happy, not sad.
Then finally each of them walk away from
the fence and go back inside.
Mrs. Bacon is probably thinking about
her husband. He's been in
Malta
for years and years. I can hardly
remember him. Now perhaps she will see
him again, fairly soon. And Mum will
certainly be thinking about my brother
in
Italy.
And that's the moment when I knew that
the end had come. Tomorrow is VE Day,
Tuesday May 8th. I must remember that
when I wake up in the morning.
It's a very important day. No school.
Mr. Churchill
will be on the wireless at 3 o'clock in
the afternoon. And in the evening there
is a huge bonfire a little way up the
road, here in Streetly, in a field just
after
Bridle Lane
and
Puddepha's corner shop. I may tell you about
it some time. So I'll have to try and
remember what happens. It'll be super.
And as for tonight, I'll go to bed
eventually. Just like any other night.
Then, after reading for a bit, I shall
go to sleep with the world at peace. (Or
at least our part of it - because the
Japs are still there). That's what will
be different. I wonder what it will feel
like. I can't properly remember doing it
before.
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(The Home Guard of Great Britain, 1940-1944)
Please see INDEX page for main acknowledgements.
All text and images are,
unless otherwise stated, © The Myers Family 2023
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Streetly and Family Memories
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L8W May 2023
© The Myers Family
2023
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