WAR STORY I you do the math, it seems likely that I was conceived within minutes of the end of World War 2: let’s say ‘in the shadow’ of The War, for my childhood was dominated by it, from rationing and shortages to the nostalgia and anecdotes of my parents’ conversations, that 6-year conflagration was a constant reference. Maybe they had been transported by the wonderful news of peace to start a new life: double meaning intended. That’s OK, I’m content with being created in elation. My father was a pharmacist, which was a reserved occupation, necessary to continue the smooth running of the society and maintain essential services. There was a moment when he thought he might see action: the slightly hearing-impaired recruiting officer asked him his occupation but wrote down ‘farm assistant’. Without stereotyping, Jewish businessmen don’t generally look much like farm labourers, do they, so the mistake would have been discovered very soon. Probably when they asked him to do anything practical or manual. He was not exactly clumsy, more slightly ungainly and uncoordinated; it was toe-curlingly stressful to watch him wield an electric drill, for example, and his imprecision was commemorated all over their house in uncompleted projects, botched jobs, and enough Polyfilla to fill the Grand Canyon. He would have gone willingly to war but it’s as well that he didn’t. I think it’s possible he might have been an early victim of ‘friendly fire’ – probably his own. My father, mother and older sister Jacky took a flat in Bloomsbury in the early part of the War. Until the Blitz intensified and drove them out. It sounds posh, but they had calculated that their saving on fares to work more than outweighed the higher rent there than the suburbs and saved the commute. Later my mother and sister were evacuated to a large country house in Wiltshire where the lady of the manor reconstituted the essence of the Slave Trade (only without the travel), substituting ‘Cockneys’ for blacks; they were totally miserable and fled the place for London at the first opportunity, pausing only to strangle Her Ladyship and remove the silver and one or two of the better paintings. Back in London they stayed briefly in the flat in Coram Street and then moved to Mill Hill where I was born subsequently. So far as I know there is not a blue plaque on the house in Lawrence Gardens. I don’t know what can have held this up, but it can only be a matter of time. In the house there they accommodated waves of American Servicemen who were my father’s distant relatives, on leave from the European theatre of war. Jacky came in for stellar levels of attention from these brave men who missed their own kids badly; had the war not ended when it did she would certainly become clinically obese from the industrial levels of chocolate consumption necessary to show gratitude for their kindness. It has never occurred to me before but this period may also account for her attraction to men in uniform (correction: man in uniform). But in their Bloomsbury period the Blitz reached its height. Almost every night they would have to run from the flat to Russell Square tube, or one of the other makeshift shelters. They began to get used to it, feel fatalistic and sometimes just turn over and go back to sleep. But one night it was terrible, and there were much louder explosions, suggesting bombs landing nearby. After a deafening bang my father sprung out of bed and yelled at my mother to grab Jacky and head for a shelter, which she did. There was then a bang, followed by my father falling to the floor, moaning, and his weakened voice saying “I’ve been hit….don’t worry about me, save yourself and Jacky”…..and then there was just the sound of my mother laughing hysterically. In his rush to dress, he had stuffed a bit of the curtain into the back of his trousers and as he moved away, brought down the pelmet on the back of his head. You couldn’t make it up. But the valour, the valour. Paul Merton used to do a gag about the Blitz (I heard him do it several times) that he said was so old that they had a copy in the Imperial War Museum. He said his father had told him that you were perfectly safe in the bombing unless the bomb had your name written on it, which was fine for them but worrying for Mr and Mrs Doodlebug next door. On the Night of the Guided Pelmet, my family reached the shelter and survived. Their flat was left standing. But there was a big hole in the roof, and in the roof space they found a huge unexploded bomb. And when they defused it and removed it, on the underside was revealed a neatly stencilled message: ”For Jack,Joan & Jacky Milner, from Mr.A.Hitler”. Uncanny.
Posted on: Mon, 25 Aug 2014 08:21:57 +0000
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