Bunting, Bunting Everywhere! By Tracey Vale

"German armed forces surrendered unconditionally on May 7. Hostilities in Europe ended officially at midnight, May 8. 1945. Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command," the distinctive voice of Winston Churchill boomed into our home, decreeing the news we had all waited so long, while we endured so much, to hear.

The signing of unconditional surrender, which took place in Rheims, was not accepted by the Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin, who insisted on it's ratification the following day in Berlin.

We continued to listen to Churchill as he went on to say, broadcast from the House of Commons, "....Today, this agreement will be ratified and confirmed at Berlin, where Air Chief Marshal Tedder, Deputy Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, and General de Lattre de Tassigny will sign on behalf of General Eisenhower. Marshal Zhukov will sign on behalf of the Soviet High Command. The German representatives will be Field-Marshal Keitel, Chief of the High Command and the Commanders-in- Chief of the German Army, Navy, and Air Forces.

"Hostilities will end officially at one minute after midnight tonight, Tuesday, May 8, but in the interests of saving lives, the 'Cease Fire' began yesterday to be sounded all along the front, and our dear Channel Islands are also to be freed today. The Germans are still in places resisting the Russian troops, but should they continue to do so after midnight they will, of course, deprive themselves of the protection of the laws of war and will be attacked from all quarters by the Allied troops. It is not surprising that on such long fronts and in the existing disorder of the enemy, the orders of the German High Command should not in every case be obeyed immediately. This does not, in our opinion, with the best military advice at our disposal, constitute any reason for withholding from the nation the facts communicated to us by General Eisenhower of the unconditional surrender already signed at Rheims, nor should it prevent us from celebrating today and tomorrow, Wednesday, as Victory in Europe days.

"Today, perhaps, we shall think mostly of ourselves. Tomorrow we shall pay a particular tribute to our Russian comrades, whose prowess in the field has been one of the grand contributions to the general victory.

"The German war is therefore at an end. After years of intense preparation, Germany hurled herself on Poland at the beginning of September, 1939 and, in pursuance of our guarantee to Poland and in agreement with the French Republic, Great Britain, the British Empire and Commonwealth of Nations, declared war upon this foul aggression. After gallant France had been struck down we, from this Island and from our united Empire, maintained the struggle single-handed for a whole year until we were joined by the military might of Soviet Russia, and later by the overwhelming power and resources of the United States of America.

"Finally, almost the whole world was combined against the evil-doers, who are now prostrate before us. Our gratitude to our splendid Allies goes forth from all our hearts in this Island and throughout the British Empire.

"We may allow ourselves a brief period of rejoicing; but let us not forget for a moment the toil and efforts that lie ahead. Japan, with all her treachery and greed, remains unsubdued. The injury she has inflicted on Great Britain, the United States, and other countries, and her detestable cruelties, call for justice and retribution. We must now devote all our strength and resources to the completion of our task, both at home and abroad. Advance, Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!"

Crowds gathered around major monuments, which were to be specially lit for the occasion, as well as in Trafalgar Square, Parliament Square and at Buckingham Palace, rejoicing the end of the dark days. Effigies of Hitler were built in record time and burnt on bonfires sprinkled around the country.

We were the first in our street to decorate. Mum and I became industrious in the backyard with buckets and tubs of red and blue dye. We dyed old sheets and tablecloths, pegged them up to dry, then cut them into squares and triangles. These were evenly-spaced and sewn onto thin rope to form a few hundred metres of bunting. Once ready, we strung this from an upstairs bedroom window, across our front garden to the house across the street. From there, we zigzagged down the street to the upstairs bedroom window of Mrs. Mason, who lived above the corner shop. It was a major feat! I thought it looked magnificent and was caught up, as we all were, in the air of celebration and excitement.

Dad's contribution was to make models of spitfires and warships, to be displayed in front of a painted scene. When he was finished, this was displayed in the bay window of our front room, complemented by an array of spotlights in direct contrast to the black-out curtains we had already removed. People came to look and admire his work, standing on the footpath outside our front garden, pointing out particular parts to small, wide-eyed children. I felt so proud.

Then, came the street parties. They were everywhere. I had never danced and sung so much as in those days following the announcement of Victory in Europe!

Sometimes, a piano was wheeled into the street and Miss Hand would accompany me in my entertainment efforts. If a piano was not available, Isabel provided Charlie Kunz records to substitute. I was taken to Stourport, where relatives lived, to entertain in their street parties. I danced on top of tables or on make-shift stages. It was exhausting and I began to feel 'partied out'.

But, the war was over! I couldn't wait to taste real ice-cream instead of the substitute concoction made from cornflour. The thought of lights in the streets and shop windows spurred Jean and I to run to the nearest main road for the big 'Switch On'. Alas, our shoulders slumped with the disappointment as few of the lamps were working. We felt that Birmingham would be a better prospect and raced back home for permission to board the next bus. Sure enough, and to our immense excitement, many shop windows were lit. We were late arriving back home, despite being out alone at night, but this was accepted, such was the freedom of the times.

I was almost thirteen when the war ended. It was a pivotal time of change. It was a time when traditional education was only a small part of my life, with professional training and theatre vastly overtaking it in importance. 

Bergen Belsen, April 1945, By Tracey Vale

The frivolity of the Ice Cream Parlour front room was in direct contrast to the broadcast we were hearing from the radio we were huddled around. Barely daring to breathe, we felt the intensity and despair in Richard Dimbleby's words and voice as he revealed to us the detritus of what he had just seen and the realisation of the true scope of Hitler's evil. We felt his horror. We felt his pain. We were awash with disbelief and sorrow. I remember it clearly, to this day, the unmistakeable meaning in the faltering of his voice.

I didn’t know anything about the concentration camps or the plight of the Jews until the Allies entered Germany on their march to Berlin. The radio, which was on all the time, began it’s BBC broadcast and we were drawn towards it and listened to the report in its entirety. We had never heard anything like this before.

As children, we were used to the news that war brought forth. We were used to hearing how many soldiers had been killed or how many sailors lost at sea—and always in the thousands. We would hear such announcements often, and life would go on. It was not like it is today, when we hear of the death of a soldier, know them by name and see their coffin return to their homeland. Not so, in World War Two. It was generalised: “Five thousand British soldiers lost their lives today while defending the…”

But this—this was quite different. Dimbleby’s voice unmistakeably faltered several times, so confronting was his experience. My father was swearing as we listened and was stating his concern that I was hearing this nightmare.

It was April 15, 1945. British Troops had just liberated Bergen Belsen concentration camp, the first to be freed by the British. Although the Red Army had liberated concentration camps in Poland--including the largest, Auschwitz, liberated in January—little was known of the extent, conditions and inhumanity of the atrocities. Bergen Belsen was a work camp, a slave labour camp, where the imprisoned worked in the grounds or in the bullet factory from dawn to dusk. The camp, without running water, became over-run with disease, primarily typhus, tuberculosis and typhoid and it was mainly for this reason that Germany surrendered it to the British.

The camp was severely overcrowded and filthy, with piles of rotting corpses and thousands of sick and starving people, including children. Dimbleby had spent two hours in the compound and returned to immediately compile his report.

"Here, over an acre of ground, lay dead and dying people. You could not see which was which, except, perhaps, by a convulsive movement, or the last quiver of a sigh from a living skeleton, too weak to move.

"The living lay with their heads against the corpses and, around them, moved the awful, ghostly procession of emaciated, aimless people with nothing to do and no hope of life, unable to move out of your way, unable to look at the terrible sights around them.

"There was no privacy, nor did men or women ask it any longer. Women stood or squatted stark naked in the dust, trying to wash themselves and to catch the lice on their bodies.

"Babies had been born here—tiny, wizened things that could not live.

"A mother, driven mad, screamed at a British sentry to give her milk for her child and thrust the tiny mite into his arms and ran off, crying terribly.

"He opened the bundle and found the baby had been dead for days.

"This day at Belsen was the most horrible day of my life."

Harrowing as this excerpt is, it is nothing to the full description we heard. It was far beyond my comprehension and, I suspect, that of most people’s, to understand and believe that man could be so inhumane to man. The broadcast left us stunned, sickened, wide-eyed and desolate. We felt helpless in our inability to alleviate the suffering of these people, that it was much too late for so many—the numbers of which we still did not know—and that the few survivors had to live with their losses and with their nightmare of inherent horror, terror and forever-etched, painful imagery.

I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Mum held me for a long time afterward.

Soon after, Dad brought home pictures revealing the awful reality of Jewish persecution. I don’t know how it was that he came by them but I could see they disturbed him. I asked to see them but he wouldn’t allow it, despite my claims of being ready for it.

“But I’m old enough, Dad,” I coerced. I’m not sure if it was the reality of the photographs that I needed or if I subconsciously hoped they would reveal some level of falsehood. That it couldn’t possibly be true that such evil existed in the world I knew.

“Not to see these,” was my father’s quiet but firm reply, as he gathered the pictures together to remove them to a safe place.

Later, the world would embrace the writings of a girl, not much older than myself, who so eloquently put a much-needed human face to the suffering, grief and loss of so many who lost their lives or their families in Nazi concentration camps. That girl was Anne Frank. Her diary, published by her father in Dutch in 1947 and English in 1952, went on to become one of the most read books in the world—second only to the Bible. 

After two years of hiding, Anne and her family were sent in cattle trucks to Auschwitz. Anne was only just 15 which meant she escaped immediate gassing in the gas chambers, the fate of all children on arrival if under this age. Upon arrival, they were branded with a tattoo, shaved, stripped and disinfected. Within months, Anne and her sister were sent to Bergen Belsen where they rapidly became among the emaciated and diseased, both dying of Typhus in March 1945—tragically, just weeks before the camp was liberated.

Much later, I was to visit those haunted halls of Bergen Belsen and witness first-hand the intensive German record-keeping during that time, for there remained, despite the considerable passing of time, rooms full of reams of recorded details from that camp. As well as items of what can only be described as barbaric gore.

School and stage life continues, By Tracey Vale

All of those performances became an integral part of my life and as much a part of my war years as the now-familiar sounds of the air-raid and all-clear sirens, the planes overhead and the whistling sound of a falling bomb. Life continued and we all felt the camaraderie of it. It was a time when friends, family and neighbours were close under a common and shared experience. A sense of closeness prevailed even with strangers, striking up conversations with each other—a direct symptom of war and a common alliance that would have otherwise not existed.

Another symptom of war was the fashions, or lack thereof. During my walks to and from school, accompanied by Malcolm and Jean, and while in the war-time queues, I noticed that all the women tended to look alike. That is, apart from my mother. They all wore overalls, coats made from old blankets and head scarves or turbans. It was a very distinctive war-time look.

Although often embarrassed by my mother's over-dressed appearance, I realise now that I should have been proud. She was a woman of style. I can see her now, sitting in our 'Ice Cream Parlour' front room, dressed with 1930's movie-star appeal. Her legs are crossed and she is smoking a coloured cigarette, from its holder—just for the effect when we had visitors.

Monday, however, was washing day. Isabel's attire was completely different. She dressed as a stereotypical 'washerwoman'—and this despite the fact that we owned a washing machine! It was similar attire to that which she adopted to play the part of a poor housemaid when going down the street to help at her parent's cottage. I can recall her as the washerwoman when I was about five and I suffered burns to part of my leg.

Once the washing cycle was finished, the machine was emptied of its water through a tap near its base. A bucket was placed below the tap to collect the boiling water. On this particular Monday, Dad had arrived home from work and, lifting me into the air, proceeded to dance with me before plonking me down—with one leg in the bucket. My screams could be heard by our neighbours, who came running just in time to hear me screaming even louder.

Isabel believed that the antiseptic treatment, Miltons, was the healer of everything. She had grabbed this and poured it onto my scalded leg. I'm sure my screams could have been heard in the next town! Had Nanny been home at the time, my mother wouldn't have been allowed near the Milton bottle. It took many weeks and, thanks to Nanny's treatments, my leg completely recovered.

Nanny could soothe an aching ear or a sore throat with her homespun medicines. Her remedies helped me throughout my childhood, at times bringing immense relief.

It was 1941 and I was nine years old and suffering from a severe earache during final rehearsals at the Shyre Hall. The performance was to follow that evening. Eileen Hall contacted my mother.

"Joan is in a lot of pain with an earache. She needn't do the show tonight as we've sorted a replacement for her. You're welcome to come early to take her home," she said.

"I'll be there shortly," was Isabel's response. However, upon arrival at the Hall she announced that she wouldn't be taking me home. "Joan is a little actress and she knows the show always goes on."

So, I performed. The pain was incredible and it was difficult not to wince. When we finally arrived back home, Nanny was furious. She immediately applied her remedy—a hot onion placed in the ear and held there with some cloth—and sent me to bed. By the morning, the cloth and pillowcase were badly stained but the pain was completely gone.

*    *    *    *

I didn't like the clothes Isabel insisted I wear. Children in our working class area, and especially during war-rationing, just didn't wear clothes like mine. Shirley Temple dresses and velvet coats, trimmed with fur. Little hats with matching gloves and special shoes and boots. On occasion, I did express a subtle objection by explaining that some of the children in the neighbourhood laughed at my clothes, but nothing changed.

"Oh, that's just because they're a bit jealous that they haven't got dresses like you," was her response. I was quite sure they didn't want Shirley Temple dresses, but I left it at that.

Many times during the war and throughout my childhood, these clothes were packed into a small suitcase for me to take to a relative for a short stay. Another small case was packed with a costume or two as I was never sent anywhere, bar school, without at least one at hand. I was sent to relatives for a weekend or during school holidays and yet, when I had the opportunity to go on a school camp, Isabel refused. It was to be three days in the nearby countryside and I dearly wanted to go.

"No," Isabel said. "You wouldn't like it—and, remember, there is a war on." I wondered why it was okay to go to Uncle Tom's, as had been arranged for the following weekend. But I didn't argue.

Uncle Tom ran a local pub and Isabel arranged that I would perform in his Village Hall, while I was there. When staying with Auntie Nancy, I would recite poetry at her Ladies' Club. For Auntie Minnie, I would dance ballet every morning while she listened to classical music on the BBC. I was also 'farmed out' to an Auntie Chris and an Aunt Molly, but thankfully wasn't required to entertain.

Isabel would say "Auntie Minnie would love to have you stay for a while." Or "Uncle Tom is expecting you for the weekend and he wants you to sing and dance at the Saturday Social." And "Auntie Chris is looking forward to you visiting and playing with Mary." There were many others—the list is quite long. Fortunately, they were all lovely people and made me feel wanted.

At other times Mum and Dad and I would go away together—also in spite of the war. We would spend two weeks by the sea, travelling by train and staying in rather cheap boarding houses. Dad would take me rock climbing, beach-combing for shells or trawling antique and second-hand stores—all without Mum. Mum, without Dad, would take me to lovely tea shops for cakes and to nearby theatres. We would all go together to see old castles, country houses, or to sit on the beach building sandcastles with the miles of barbed wire, intended to stop the German invasion, in full view. 

                                                                         *    *    *    *

So many times I was given the responsibility of an adult and yet, even as a teenager, my mother kept me looking like Shirley Temple. My extended family tried to change this by giving me dresses or offering suggestions. Auntie Molly bought me some, as did a close friend of Isabel's. But they were whisked away and never worn.

On a weekend stay with Auntie Chris and her adopted daughter, Mary, who was the same age as me, I became painfully aware of how much younger I appeared. It was at Mary's suggestion that she and I take a walk along the river one Sunday as it was "a good place to pick up boys". I was wearing a , royal blue dress trimmed with silver stars, pinched in above the waist and with a short, gathered skirt. One boy said to Mary "Is this your little sister?". It became obvious that Mary would attract more attention alone, so I chose to sit on a bench watching the ducks and swans and eating ice cream.

When I was 13 and at a full-time theatre school for the first time, I had been instructed to take along practice clothes, tights, ballet shoes and tap shoes. It was summer and I was sent in my usual style of pretty dress, very short, and with white socks. When I entered the building—a beautiful old mansion—and walked along a hallway, I met Madame Lehmiski, the school's owner and principal teacher, coming the other way.

"What a lovely practice dress you're wearing, Babe," she said, as she breezed past. She called everyone 'Babe', whether they were three or thirty. She didn't know that this was my usual outdoor wear, so I decided not to change into my practice tunic and became known for my lovely practice dresses.

The following Christmas, I opened a gift from Auntie Molly. It was two dresses with a note saying 'I hope you enjoy wearing these. I'm sure they are your size.' I was so excited! Clothes like the other kids wore! But they were spirited away without me ever being allowed to wear them, let alone try them on. Again I didn't argue, partly out of not wanting to upset Mum and partly because I believed that if I stayed the way she liked me to be, she would be the happy, fun Mum that I loved.

It was not until I was 17, going on 18, that my look was changed—and this only because it was done behind Isabel's back, with the belief that she would be nothing but pleased upon sight of my new appearance. It was thanks to Dorothy, who was now married to Gordon. Dorothy was about five years older than me, about 23 at the time. She looked at me one day with a decisiveness I hadn't seen in her before. She said "I have to do something about your look!" The cute curls and Shirley Temple dresses were about to see their last. My hair was styled into the latest forties look. The curls were gone and, in their place, a sleek, shoulder-length style with a subtle, soft wave.

Mum gasped when I returned home. "What has Dorothy done to you?!" But soon after this, Madame Lehmiski made me Head Girl, an appointment that wouldn't have carried any weight had I still looked like a ten year old. Isabel was proud and realised it wouldn't have happened had I not been made to look my age.

                                                                          *    *    *    *

Gordon became and remained my big brother from the moment he and his sister, Ceinwen, became such a big part of our home life during those years. I had always admired Jean, who was one of five children, and her crowded, noisy household which I loved to visit and be a part of. Until my cousins came to stay, Jean, on the other hand, loved the quiet of my home and was envious of me not having to share a room or vie for space. For me, the novelty of it didn't wear off—sharing the space meant more love and laughter in our home and I never longed for the quiet.

Gordon taught me to ride a bike. He took me to fairs and showed me how to ride on the roundabouts and switchbacks. From there, he took me on the fastest rides he could find and always made me laugh. He even taught me to swim and I adored him as I would the older brother I didn't have, missing him terribly when his call-up came.

All young men were called up for compulsory service in the armed forces but coal pit workers were also needed. The ballot system was introduced to solve the allocation problem and Gordon drew the coal mine, or 'down the pits', as it was known. His first day down in the depths, with it's dim lighting and dank air, he panicked. With a feeling of terror, difficulty breathing and a racing heart, he was brought back up and deemed unsuitable for pit work. His transferal took him into the Royal Air Force and, in direct and remarkable opposition to his panic and fear below the earth, he became a paratrooper.

He was posted to the Middle East and, on his first return on leave, he brought me back a banana. We hadn't seen a banana for years, one of the casualties. I took my precious cargo to school, although it was quite black by this time, and we all watched our teacher peel it enticingly. We passed it around and smelt it. Some of us even got a taste.

As the war continued and the British banded together on the home front, Churchill continued to buoy up both the troops and the civillians. When Churchill spoke, everyone listened and we, as children, had great fun impersonating him and many of us learnt his words. His speech on June 4, 1940, in anticipation of imminent German invasion, resonated with many and we heard it repeated throughout the war on our radios, as well as his many speeches at each stage.

The first time we heard his announcement that we must brace ourselves against our enemies and that we would not surrender, regardless, we sat huddled around the radio to listen and felt a sense of trepidation, anxiety and fear, but also a knowledge that we would be there for each other. That, in the end, we would come out the victors.

"I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our island home, to ride out the storm of war and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years. If necessary, alone," Churchill's dictinctive voice boomed forth into our Ice Cream Parlour front room.

"....That is the will of Parliament and the nation," he continued. "The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.

"Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous states have fallen, or may fall, into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in France. We shall fight on the seas and oceans. We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air. We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be."

And the part that we children most often impersonated: "We shall fight them on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender." With exagerated intonation, we decreed, as we marched in powerful style home from school, "We shall nev-ah surrend-ah!"

"...and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island, or a large part of it, were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old." We trusted in the power of those words and continued to have faith that justice would prevail.

Churchill's speeches on "the menace of tyranny" continued to speak out passionately against Hitler and the Nazi regime's atrocities against those of Jewish descent. On November 14, 1941, he said "None has suffered more cruelly than the Jew the unspeakable evils wrought upon the bodies and spirits of men by Hitler and his vile regime. The Jew bore the brunt of the Nazi's first onslaught upon the citadels of freedom and human dignity."

And, following a French news report in 1942 on the deportation of thousands of Jews out of France, Churchill spoke in the House of Commons: "The most bestial, the most squalid and the most senseless of all their offences, namely the mass deportation of Jews out of France, with the pitiful horrors attendant upon the calculated and final scattering of families. This tragedy fills me with astonishment as well as indignation and it illustrates, as nothing else can, the utter degradation of all who lend themselves to its unnatural and perverted passions."

Also in 1942, German offensives were struggling to make a foothold in Stalingrad and El Alamein, Singapore fell to the Japanese with upwards of 25000 prisoners taken and, in Auschwitz, and unbeknownst to us, the mass murder of Jews began.

I didn't know or fully understand what was happening to the Jews at the time and it wasn't a subject discussed at school. I knew that they were being unjustly persecuted but I didn't know how or why, just that Hitler and the Nazis were to blame. As our nation and our Allies continued to fight against the "utter degradation" and "perverted passions" of the Nazi regime, home life continued as normal as was possible.

By this time, my cousin Margaret had met Joseph Addlington, a signalman who was soon to be sent to Italy. They were married from our home and Isabel had taken care of all the arrangements, right down to the colour the bride was to wear. I went shopping with Isabel and Margaret for this dress, armed with as many clothing coupons as we could muster. We searched in vein for what Margaret wanted—a long, white wedding dress. We were unable to find one but we did manage to purchase a white veil. Then, in a shop window, Isabel spotted a delicate blue evening gown. It was Margaret's size and she liked the style.

"But what a pity it's blue," she said.

Decisive and firm as my mother could be, she responded, "We'll dye the veil to match. It will be lovely!"

And it was. It was spectacular and made all the more surprising by its availability during war depletions, aside from being a colour that you just didn't 'do' for a wedding in those days.

In January of 1943, Russia began an offensive against the Germans in Stalingrad, leading to Germany's first major defeat and to their surrender in Stalingrad. The Allied invasion of Italy was launched following victory in North Africa.  Joseph was on his way to his Italy posting.

By July 25, party leaders voted 'no confidence' against Benito Mussolini, with 100 000 Italians killed and a rapidly declining economy. Thus, his 21-year reign as dictator of Italy was over. Marshal Pietro Badoglio was named new Prime Minister.

A secret Armistice was signed on September 3, between the new Italian Government and the Allies. Operation Baytown began with troops arriving to invade Italy. By September 8, Italy officially announced their surrender and, by mid-October, Badoglio declared war against Germany.

With Italy's surrender, the Germans had taken up the battle in their place, taking up highly strategic positions to form the Gustav Line, a defence that was to prove difficult, treacherous and costly, both financially and in death and injury, to British, American and their Allied troops, in their efforts to break through.

By the end of September, Allied troops had seized Pompeii and, by early October, Italy had regained control of Naples before the Allies' arrival. As well, a new wave of British troops had arrived to enforce the northbound troops. Meanwhile, U.S. troops had succeeded in seizing Italy's Caserta and Capua. By early November, U.S. troops had seized Isernia and joined the British Eighth Army, of which Joseph was a member.

Now, at almost 11, it was time for my friends and I to sit the exam that was to determine which students would benefit from a higher education. However, I was very ill with pneumonia and was unable to sit them. The Headmistress contacted the education office on my behalf and managed to enable me to sit the exam at a later date. When informed of this, Isabel refused the opportunity. The Headmistress was reportedly furious and deeply exasperated as she was confident that I would be offered a place at the prestigious St. Mary's Girl's School, in Walsall, but nothing she could say would sway my mother. 

So, for my next stage of education, I went along to the Wolverhampton Road State School. I would see the St. Mary's girls walking to and from their school and I thought how nice they looked. I longed to join them and wear their uniform. The dress was casual for the state school as there was no requisite uniform.

Within a week or so, my new Headmistress, contacted Isabel for an informal meeting in her office. When Isabel arrived and sat down, she remarked on my progress, good grades and ability, finishing her speel with: "What on earth is Joan doing at this school? She would benefit and be challenged at St. Mary's and in a manner that we are unable to offer her here. That is really where she is best suited."

But my mother's ambition for me was the stage. Theatre school was what was important to her, not a higher education. In my heart, I thought I would either be a dance teacher or a nurse. The sight of the uniformed nurses walking around the hospital grounds opposite us, and to and from the wards and nurses home, had always appealed to me. And, thanks to Nanny, I knew I had the stomach for it. I was never concerned at the sight of blood and one of my jobs at home was to do 'nursing' tasks for my grandparents, jobs that Isabel was too queasey to undertake. I would cut toenails, apply peroxide in their ears and empty their commode—and all as a young child.

As 1944 began, I continued at Wolverhampton Road State School. All the while, events in Italy were building. The historic and commanding monastery of Monte Cassino, originally built in 524 A.D., was bombed on February 15 to utter degradation due to unfounded fears of German occupation, although we did not know this at the time. As a result, German paratroopers moved in, hidden and protected by the jagged ruins, and took up posts from this high point, where they could not be seen but where they could spot all approaches on all sides, even better than before.

Movement up this steep mountain was slow, treacherous and difficult, most of which could only be attempted under the cover of darkness. Eventually though, following costly and gruelling battle, victory was achieved at Monte Cassino. By mid-April, Germany's defensive Gustav Line had begun to fail and, by mid-May, British Eighth Army and the U.S. Fifth Army launched a massive assault on the line. As the year wore on, British, U.S. and Allied troops continued to break Hitler's lines of defence and regain Italy from his clutches.

I returned home from school one day in September to find my mother and Margaret in a sombre embrace. They told me that Joe had been wounded and was in hospital. 

"What it does mean," Margaret said, putting a brave face to the news, "Is that he'll be sent home."

Within a few days, she received notification that his leg would need to be amputated. On this news, she seemed calm but sad.

"As long as he comes home, I can look after him," she said. "The loss of a leg won't worry me too much."

However, the next communication was of his death. Margaret was desolate. Joseph was the love of her life. She hated that war had taken her father, also Joseph, before she could ever know him and hated it even more that she had lost her Joe.

On November 29, 1944, Joseph passed away at the age of 24. He is now buried in Italy, at the Caserta War Cemetary, where many who died in the local hospital are buried along with Prisoners of War. His tombstone states simply:

In Memory of
Signalman JOSEPH THOMAS ADLINGTON

14287170, Royal Corps of Signals
who died age 24
on 29 November 1944
Son of Joseph and Elsie Adlington; husband of Margaret Joan Adlington, of Cannock, Staffordshire.
Remembered with honour
CASERTA WAR CEMETERY

As for so many in these times of multiple deaths, she was stoic despite her inner, bitter sadness. We heard her say often, "I am not the only one suffering...so many killed..."

Many bore their grief in the stoicism that seemed to be required of them during this time. With recent death being the experience of almost all around them, they were almost expected to rally sooner and carry on with their lives without fully giving in to the grieving process. A lone death in peace-time was quite different, giving the person or people left behind the time to grieve and the support from the people around them who cannot imagine what it must be like for them for this particular loss, offering their sympathy and empathy because of this.

It was not until several years later that Margaret married again. I thought her new husband was very understanding and empathetic when he agreed to the name Margaret chose for their first-born—Josephine.

On the eve of 1945, I performed my fourth appearance as 'Miss New Year' at the annual pageant in Walsall's Town Hall. With Churchill's D-Day Speech of June 6 behind us—in which he spoke of the triumphs in Italy and elsewhere—there was hope in the air for this new year. A year in which victory against "Nah-zism", as Churchill contemptuously pronounced it, would soon become a reality.

Isabel's War Effort, By Tracey Vale

I was my mother's war effort. Apart from giving her butter ration to me and her bacon to Dad, she felt that she wasn't doing enough for the war effort. Theatres, which had been closed for a time during the war, were now open again with their value considered of great importance for morale and normality for the continuing war. Concerts were being held in church halls and town halls. This had got her thinking.

Living opposite the local hospital, it was soon obvious that an available and willing audience was close at hand for the beginning of Isabel's planned war efforts. From an upstairs bedroom window, she could watch the wounded arriving. "Surely they could do with some cheering up," she thought. "Joan's speech has improved. As has her singing and dancing. Miss Hand could play piano for her...a nice, bright costume could be made..."

By this stage, Eileen Hall's direction and training had made a big difference in my life. I had confidence and ability. I could dance in both disciplines of ballet and tap. I could also sing, and I could recite poetry with appropriate actions.

And so it began. The patients loved the break in hospital tedium and loved to be entertained. Miss Hand accompanied me on piano for many of these 'war effort' performances, as did Mr. Tinkler, a professional pianist, whenever he was able. Mr. Tinkler was a friend of Miss Hand's, and lived in the next street from us. He was quite well-known in Walsall and had been involved with a few BBC Broadcasts.

With war-time rationing in full swing, suitable costumes had to be made from the recycling of old dresses. For special materials, the family banded together in the donation of clothing coupons so that my costumes could be at their best, especially when I became 'in demand'. Entertainment was a more then welcome diversion and was especially important in those dark days. The famous quote from Victor Hugo (1802-1885), although well before it's time as far as promoting entertainment as a war-time morale booster, sums this up succinctly: "The stage is a grand and serious thing. It has a national mission, a social mission, a human mission." Never was this more true than during the Great Wars and their impact, particularly World War Two, on the British home front and for its use as a morale booster and welcome diversion for the troops on the war front.

Isabel and my Grandmother Meers, Nanny, made the costumes. Nanny had been trained as a gentleman's tailor, so her costume-making was of the highest standard. My costumes were wonderful and anything else I needed was found in Isabel's wardrobe. Nanny worked in a tailor's shop for many years. It was how she met my Grandfather. I used to love to hear the story.

Grandad Meers, Joseph, visited the tailor shop and ordered a pair of trousers. The task was given to my Grandmother, Mary, which she was thrilled about due to the colour of the fabric--an unusual, almost violet shade. As she worked, hand-stitching the garment, she imagined the young man who would wear them. "Very handsome...," she thought. Some time later, when the trousers had been purchased, Mary was helping out in her mother's store. A gentleman had just been served by her mother with the purchase of a box of chocolates for his girlfriend and was about to leave the store when Mary entered from the back room. Upon sight of the purple trousers, she exclaimed without a backward thought "Oh! You're wearing my trousers!" Laughter ensued, with the end result being that the chocolates were given to her and, just like that, the girlfriend was deserted!

*    *    *    *

I was soon performing for factory workers, doing lunch-time shows in their canteens. These were mainly the local factories converted to build or repair aircraft, such as Helliwells where Dad was sent as his part in the Home Guard, and for the manufacture of bullets and bombs. Eileen Hall had to work in one of these factories at this time and I remember thinking that it was unfair.

I performed at the Town Hall and as part of Summer shows at Arboretum Park, which featured an open-air theatre. There were many performances in church halls and, sometimes, I would entertain in schools for their end-of-year Christmas parties. I hated these school shows, however, as there were times when the boys would tease me for showing my legs in short costumes.

Jean and Malcolm did not make a fuss of my stage life, hardly ever mentioning it. It was just accepted as part of who I was. But, in the school-yard, I would have the occasional child point at me and say "I saw you in the play at Arboretum Park...," or wherever it happened to be. I remember being upset when one boy accused "You showed your legs!". My costumes were often very short.

There was a song and tap dance routine I used to do where I would use a stick and wear a top hat. I hated having to do that one--and not because of the song and dance but because of the attention the accessories drew as we walked down the street on our way to the concert. My mother would carry the top hat, with the stick under her arm. The children who saw us, and sometimes their parents, would call out "Going to another concert, are you?". I was really sensitive about being looked at and pointed out, although I was fine on the stage.

Living in England's working class midlands meant being influenced and surrounded by the somewhat harsh north country accent. It is argueably one of the worst accents in England and added another facet to my speech problems and to being teased. All of the improvements made by Miss Hall, meant that I was teased at school for 'putting on airs'. They would say "Yo don arf talk funny, yo!"

A military band played for me when we travelled to a nearby army camp for a big show. I was introduced to the band at rehearsals, as well as to their mascot, a dog named B Flat. The dog was not stage-shy and would be joining me at the performance. Throughout the concert, he sat attentively on stage, looking out to the audience. At the end of the show, B Flat joined me for a bow, obviously for his part. I loved that.

The Savoy Theatre, the biggest in Walsall, was also a big part of my childhood performances, and Isabel's war efforts. Mr. Arthur Taylor, the manager, loved all things theatrical and was involved in performances himself. He had wanted to make use of the large stage to present live entertainment between movie sessions and as introductory entertainment before a movie. On Sundays, there was to be a concert with stars heading the bill and supported by local acts. It was not long before his dream became a reality.

I did a lot of those concerts at The Savoy and became known as 'Baby Joan'. As any child does, I disliked being labelled as 'Baby' but I realised I must have looked very small on that huge stage, marching in front of a troupe of tall, high-kicking girls. I would stride onto the stage wearing an air-force blue suit to sing, with a cute lisp "Out of the blue, here we come again. We are the lads of the bright blue sky...." and worked with numerous famous people including George Formby and Jessie Matthews.

I didn't take much notice of these people at the time--they were simply part of the performance I was in. In fact, I'm not sure if I even knew that they were famous. I remember George Formby carrying me onto the stage in the finale of one of the shows and I can recall Jesse Mathews smiling at me. I remember thinking she was very pretty but I was not 'star struck'. These performers were well-known in variety theatres and, sometimes, radio, whereas the only shows I went to were Ivor Novello musicals, the ballet and pantomimes.

Judy Garland appeared for a fleeting performance in one of the Savoy Theatre shows. I remember this because she was late and, according to Mr. Taylor, did not want to perform. "Too much drink inside her," he said.

Ivor Novello's leading lady, Vanessa Lee, was another performer there. She was lovely and sang beautifully. The comedy act, 'Old Mother Riley and Daughter Kitty' was another. They were a husband and wife team , Arthur Lucan and Kitty McShane, and these were their stage names. From the late 1930s, they were the most popular British box office act and their comedy routines were much loved and very funny. From 1937-1952, they appeared in film, making Lucan one of Britain's top ten stars. In real life, as witnessed back stage, they argued a lot and were not the happy couple they were otherwise believed to be!

With so many performances at the Savoy under my belt, Mr. Taylor put me forward to perform as Miss New Year at the annual pageant held at the Walsall Town Hall to see in the New Year. I was nine years old and the year was 1942. At this time I also did several appearances for the Walsall Town Council, as well as being driven around the town in a horse-drawn coach.

Mr Taylor played the part of Old Father Time in the annual pageants and knew when the role of Miss New Year had become available. I did this for five consecutive years, with the last one being in 1946. It also meant that I had my first photographs in the local newspaper as well as more appearances to dance and sing at The Savoy. I would either pop  out of a huge, scenic egg,  be pulled onto the dance floor in a sleigh or be escorted by Father Time. I can't recall all of my entrances but I do remember having to lift my arms in the air and shout "HAPPY NEW YEAR!", followed by the throwing of kisses as I danced around the stage.

Jenny Wren, By Tracey Vale

On my fifth birthday, Miss Millington, my new teacher at the Wolverhampton Road Infant's School, was expecting me. Isabel, having grown up in the same house we were now living with my grandparents, had been a pupil of the same school and had filled Miss Millington in on my 'shyness'. But I knew, as I think my new teacher did also, that it was not shyness but only a desire not to be different. I simply wanted to observe, fit in and not be laughed at if my speech was considered amusing.

So, in this new environment, with these new people, I again kept my mouth firmly closed. However, I did speak out on the initial roll call. When 'Joan' was called, I spoke out and corrected it to 'Joan Mary', a name some of my relatives called me by and one I preferred. No, I was not shy!

I was seated next to a child by the name of Jenny Wren. We soon became friends and often walked home together. I can recall her so clearly--and not because she talked too much and I did not talk enough, although this was true. Jenny was constantly in trouble for talking, while I was always asked to "speak up". But rather, my memory of her is sharp because of a sadness I feel for her and a hope that she didn't miss all the opportunities life had to offer because of a decision made by her parents when she was so young.

When we first started school, Jenny and I were the same height but, by year three, I was much taller. Also, as each year passed, I became more talkative while Jenny became increasingly less talkative. She had been diagnosed with Bone Dysplasia, or dwarfism, and was to face a life very different from mine or any of our classmates. By the end of Year 3, she was gone, and without a 'goodbye'--virtually ushered away silently, her parents not wanting to give an explaination.

Some years later, I learned she had been admitted to a 'Special Home' simply because she was a person of short stature. Institutionalisation was not uncommon then for those with dwarfism. This was not the right place for a bright girl like Jenny Wren. It is with a heavy heart that I often wonder what became of her.

The unfairness of such institutionalisation and the discrimination of short-statured people was to become an issue for me and was at the centre of a fight I won to allow a young boy to begin his school life at the same school as his 'normal-sized' sister as late as the 1980's.

My first performance, By Tracey Vale

My mother was beautiful, captivating. She had a lovely, big smile and could be so full of fun and humour, yet she could also fall into the depths of depression without warning. When I first started school, I didn't understand how she could be happy, and then so sad a short time later.

Sometimes, I would be sent to school with Isabel waving to me, happy and laughing. Upon my return, I would find her sitting on a stool, crying and asking me to sing and dance for her. She didn't show many people this side to her personality. To most, she was this attractive, smiling person, with a love of clothes, shopping and dressing like a film star.

As a child, I was very plain. I saw pictures of my mother as a child and she was beautiful. I was not a beautiful child. I remember my Grandmother’s younger sister, Aunty Bell, telling me as much. Her name was Isabel, my mother's namesake, and I loved her dearly. She was a very jolly person and the only one, on both sides of my family, to be seriously overweight. At times, however, she was less than tactful. On this particular day, her eyes followed my mother as she left the room, all elegance and dressed once again like a movie star, and she turned to me and said “You know you’re a nice little girl but you’re never going to be like your mother.” I took it to mean that I would never be as attractive.

I was used to people telling me how attractive or glamorous Isabel was. Everyone in our street knew her and would tell me stories about her. “She was the first to have a hair cut into a fashionable ‘bob’”... “She was only seventeen and she used to go tearing down into town on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike”...”The Territorial Army Band would always play ‘The Army Fell for Little Isabel’ when she visited them on camp.” Everyone seemed to know her, whereas I was the quiet, shy little girl, a contrast to my beautiful, radiant mother—and I knew it.

While Isabel loved to dress to draw attention to herself when she walked down the street, I was the opposite. I hated being dressed like Shirley Temple and hated having my hair curled into unnatural ringlets. But it was my mother who was not able to go out onto a stage. She was an accomplished pianist but only played when she thought there was no-one around to hear her. She said it was her nerves. She would say to me “I would love to be able to go on stage, like you, but I’m too nervous.” I was the one who could walk out on stage ...I had to... 

You couldn't argue with Isabel. It would spark her depression and sudden disappearance into someone's air-raid shelter. Time spent with my mother was either lovely or terrible. Nothing inbetween.

So, I just went with it. I did it well and did what Isabel told me to do, ever the pleaser. While I was on stage, I often thought "This should be my mum up here...she was the actor". I recalled her melodramatic poses and the way Dad would respond upon seeing her like this. A "How is Joan Crawford today?" or something similar. Isabel acted a part every day.

When my Grandparents, the Meers, had moved out to a nearby cottage during the war, Isabel would help them with the cleaning and washing. From our home, if you walked up our street one way, you would be at my Grandparent's. The opposite direction, was the way to the city. When Isabel went to my Grandparents, she dressed the part of a poor housemaid, complete with head-scarfe and a bucket of cleaning goods. The people on that end of the street would say to me, in a low, commiserating voice, "I saw your poor mother today....she is so good to look after her parents as she does...". For her city visits, she was all glamour. Those at the other end of our street would be in awe and say "I saw your beautiful mother today on her way to Birmingham...she always dresses so well...you must be so proud...".

But there was something I truly disliked. When I was invited to a friend's birthday party, I would show Isabel the invitation and, almost immediately, she would be on the telephone asking the mother of the child concerned, "Would  you like to have Joan sing or dance at the party? She would love to do it..." It would make me cringe. And of course, the response was always: "Oh yes, that would be lovely." I resented that. I did it but I didn’t want to. I just wanted to be a party guest, like all the others—one of the crowd. I didn't want to stand out or to have my school friends become my audience. No-one wants to be seen as different by their friends.

So I danced, sang and performed—all that my mother desired. But this was not easy in the beginning. My first 'stage' performance was at my Grandparent's home, in front of our relatives. I was about four years old when Isabel decided to teach me a song. That song was to change the way I thought about myself.

There were so many musicians in our family and every Sunday they would get together at my other Grandparent's home, the Jenkins. Most of my father's side of the family were musical and/or stage talented in some way. There were also a few musical talents on the Meers side, but they were seriously out-numbered by the Jenkins. On the Meers' side, Eric and Richard Bird, sons of Aunty Bell, were fine pianists, although they did not perform professionally. Eric played beautifully and was particularly fond of Bing Crosby hits.

Isabel also played piano beautifully, but never in front of anyone, with me being the exception. Sometimes, I would catch her playing alone—beautiful, expressive music. As a child, her father made her practice for two hours before school and one and a half hours after school.

"He was terribly strict," she would tell me. "One day, when he was teaching me to swim, he became so angry that he threw me into the deep end of the pool!" She'd had a panic attack, never learned to swim and refused to play piano for anyone, until I came along.

I could never imagine my dear, kind Granddad ever being so angry. Joseph was always the gentleman and loved me so much. In his retirement, he would spend hours talking to me as if I was a grown-up. Even as an elderly man, he was a handsome gentleman who dressed well and walked with a stick, just to be distinguished. In his working days, he was a landscape gardener for the Walsall Council and every day, come rain or shine, Nanny would pack a lunch to share with him in a park where he would be working. I have fond memories of picnics in those parks: paddling pools, row boats, swings, slides, ducks to feed, lunches in the potting shed if it was raining, and daisies, buttercups and bluebells to pick and take home for mum. Sometimes he would let me help plant the seedlings—such a joy to watch them grow into 'my' flowers. He had a fine, baritone voice and taught me so many songs.

Granddad Jenkins, Alfred, was a talented performer and had been a comedic stage performer. He was a look-alike for Stan Laurel and, as such, had worked with him, when he was known as Arthur Stanley Jefferson, in the show The Mumming Birds. He also worked with Charlie Chaplin, when he joined the show. He was multi-talented, performing in the comedy sketches on stage, then running back to the orchestra pit to play trombone, and back again to ride the unicycle. Eventually, the cast of The Mumming Birds moved to the United States. By this time, Alfred had married and, at his wife’s, my Grandmother Mary’s, insistence, had left the stage and the orchestra pit.

                                                                    *    *    *    *

Mary's parents always felt that she had "married beneath her", due to their famous forebear, Rowland Hill, of postage stamp fame. Hill's statue stands in Kidderminster and Grandma Mary was so proud to show it to me. We never visited her side of the family, although they had been so kind to my Dad in his youth.

While Granddad always made me laugh, Grandma was always kind and gentle. She smelt of lavender and carried lovely sweets in her handbag, just for me. However, after the death of her daughter, Hilda, in the Easter tragedy of 1939, she never seemed to smile anymore.

It was April 9, Easter Sunday, 1939. We were celebrating at the Jenkin's home and, as usual, music and musicians were involved. Aunt Hilda had hidden an Easter egg for me and my quest to find it eventually led to the piano, where it was hidden under its lid. With the piano now open, Hilda sat down to play her favourite Noel Coward song, 'I'll See You Again'.

The following day, the 24-year-old Hilda and her fiance, Jack Darby were driving to a hall just out of Walsall, to help decorate it for the work function to be held that evening--an Easter party and dance. They spotted a friend at a bus-stop, also on their way to help with the hall. They pulled over to offer a lift and Hilda scooted across to perch in-between the two front seats for the short journey. They proceeded on but, within minutes, the car swerved out of control and rolled over. The vehicle's sun roof was open and poor Hilda's neck was broken on impact.

She was buried in the ball gown she was to wear that evening and is now at rest in Walsall's Ryecroft Cemetery. Grandma Jenkins would never allow Noel Coward's song to be played again after that and she became very particular about Hilda's grave.

For special days, she would inform and instruct her family in great detail as to what colour and type of flower was to be placed on her grave, as each time she had planned a new colour scheme. My father, in his usual form, would go to the grave the following day, as instructed, but would place his own choice, and of a different colour. Like Queen Victoria, Grandma "was not amused".

*    *    *    *

Alfred was a born entertainer and often made me laugh with his antics. He would ride a unicycle around the yard just to amuse me. He could even juggle at the same time and I found him hilarious when he pretended to be Stan Laurel. He would do funny walks and trip over invisible obstacles, or burst into song at the drop of a hat. I remember him singing to a startled woman who was sitting alone outside a hotel.

"I'll take you home again, Kathleen...," he warbled. By the time he was finished, a group had gathered and all applauded. It was his suggestion that I should attend a theatre school, before starting traditional schooling.

Alfred, along with one of his brothers, my father and his brother, Uncle Frank, were also part of the South Staffordshire Territorial Military Band, known as The South Staffs, and all were part of our Sunday afternoon gatherings. Alfred played the trombone, my father played drums and cornet and Uncle Frank played the trumpet. On top of this, other relatives present were also members of pit orchestras in Birmingham, Wolverhampton and Kidderminster Theatres.  Three of my aunts were highly trained pianists, as was my cousin, Marian. Two of these pianists were Dad’s sister, my Aunt Hilda, and Uncle Frank’s wife, Aunt Alice. My cousin, David, played violin and various other instruments were available, including a saxophone, through brothers of Alfred's, also members of a military band. The sound of an orchestra tuning up, a sound I quickly grew to love, became very familiar to me. For the voices, we had tenor, baritone, alto and soprano.

The first song my mother chose for me to sing in front of this high calibre audience, proved to be a poor choice, not only for a child, but for someone with an, as yet, undiagnosed  case of restricted tongue mobility, commonly known as being tongue-tied. It was beyond me to correctly pronounce 'L' and 'R' sounds. Standing on my table-stage, I sang ‘Why am I always the bridesmaid, never a blushing bride...’ I was dressed in my best party dress and did all the hand actions, as Isabel had directed.

They all laughed. In all fairness, it was probably gentle amusement, but I felt I was being laughed at and I felt humiliated. No child wants to be laughed at. It was the first time I realised that I had a speech impediment. The words I was singing just did not come out right. Among other incorrectly pronounced words, ‘bride’ came out as ‘bwide’ and I had a pronounced lisp. Throughout my career, I would continue to have problems with this and would have to concentrate much harder to say words I found particularly difficult. One such time, was when I had to sing a song with the word ‘optimistic’ in it—an especially hard word for me. Looking back on that first ‘performance’, my family probably thought it was adorable but I felt silly and shamed.

I quickly came to the decision not to sing or speak. “I won’t sing anymore!” I announced, indignantly. “And if my speaking is so funny—then I won’t talk either!” From then on, I did speak at home but never to strangers.

Successive Sunday afternoons wore on and my relatives did not get much conversation out of me, but I adored listening to the music and everyone understood that I didn’t want to sing. Instead, I helped Grandma Jenkins with the afternoon tea.

Her pantry was a delight. I was allowed to choose the tinned fruit we would have, served with whipped cream. I would help to make cucumber and salmon sandwiches and to lay the table with the best china. Grandma Jenkins was very ‘proper’ and everything had to be done just so—unlike Alfred, who always seemed to get everything wrong!

*   *   *   *

At Grandad Jenkin's suggestion, and in particular because of my speech difficulty, I was soon enrolled at The Shyre Hall School, a theatre school. My lessons were every Monday and I would ride a little red bike there. I immediately warmed to Miss Eileen Hall, who welcomed me into her class of pre-schoolers, but I refused to talk to anyone, nor did I join in, appearing very sullen and impolite. It was not a good start. 

The following week, I was listening to Miss Hall tell the class what was planned. "Today, we are going to teach our dollies to dance." She gestured towards the dolls lined up on the piano. Miss Hand, the resident pianist, began to play as each child lined up to collect a doll and begin dancing. I held back and wasn't going to be part of it when Miss Hall approached me.

"Do you see that one lonely doll left sitting on the piano?" she asked me, gently. I looked to where she was pointing and nodded. "She's waiting for you and she's very sad. She has no-one to teach her." I was given the doll I was to teach and immediately began to skip, spin and dance about the room with my dolly pupil clutched in my arms. Soon, with gentle persuasion and encouragement from Miss Hall, I was able to sing in front of my class. I was still painfully aware of my lisp and accepted that my classmates might be amused by it—but they certainly didn't greet me with outright laughter. For my first song there, I remember singing "Wiff my likkee horse and wagon, I keep on wowwing awong...", which should have been "With my little horse and wagon, I keep on rolling along..."! Before long, Miss Hall was making great progress with my speech.

Once I had started school, I also attended ballet and tap lessons on Saturday mornings. I stayed a pupil of Eileen Hall's until I reached thirteen. I have so much to thank her for. Now in her nineties, she resides in Bournemouth and we talk regularly by 'phone.

Her pianist, Miss Doris Hand, met my Uncle Harry at one of our family musical 'events' and would soon become my Aunt. Music played such a big part in my life and the union between Miss Hand and Uncle Harry, with his beautiful tenor voice, served to increase it's role. (I always found it amusing that someone with the name 'Hand' was a pianist—made all the more funnier when she was joined by a Mr. Tinkler, also a pianist, when they played for many of my childhood performances!)

They would visit us every week for a musical evening—not even the war could stop them, despite, or in spite of, the air raids! I was taught how to make coffee for them, as they liked it made with coffee beans, unlike my parents. I loved it. I was enthralled by their music, mostly Ivor Novello or Noel Coward—I still remember most of the words and still sing them around the house. I much preferred these songs to my cousin's jive favourites.

Music and dance were an important part of the war years. Every Saturday night, my cousins, Ceinwen and Margaret would dress up for the dances held at the Walsall Town Hall. With the war years set to drag on to an unknown and unforeseeable date, it was felt that young adults should not be denied a life as close to what they would lead had it been peace-time. Many attended these dances also despite the air raids and would have stories to tell of their journey home if left with the predicament of joining a stranger's Alexander Shelter or choosing to brave it to their own homes.

Sometimes, Margaret and Ceinwen would bring boyfriends home and we would all dance in our front room, either to records or the radio. Miss Hand, who lived across the street, would often be willingly 'dragged' over to a seat at the piano. This was when the music  in that front room changed to the 'jive' numbers loved by those much younger than our otherwise orchestral members.

So much laughter and merriment, despite the times. My mother loved the full house, as did I. 

World War Two Childhood, Part 2 , By Tracey Vale

Before long, we could differentiate between German and British planes. We would hear the German bombers flying over our town on the way to Birmingham and Coventry. We would then listen to the German planes returning with the ominous knowledge that if any bombs were still on board, they would be released over Walsall.

My fear of this happening over our home was lessened by the nearby presence of the hospital and my Dad’s assurances. Malcolm, a school friend and also Mrs. Preece's grandson, and I had been standing on top of our air-raid shelter one afternoon after school, when we noticed a small plane flying low over the houses. As it approached, and descended even lower, we could see that it was a German plane and the pilot was waving to us. As soon as Dad returned home I told him about it.

“It was so close, Dad, we could see the pilot waving!” I told him as soon as he opened the front door. “What was he doing flying over us like that?” I asked.

“He would have been photographing possible bombing sites,” he answered, and then swiftly upon seeing my eyes widen in fear, he assured me. “As we live opposite the hospital, we’re safe. A big red cross is painted on its roof. Not all Germans are bad,” he said. “They won’t bomb the hospital, or near it.”

He was right. Our street survived the Blitz, the German onslaught of both night and day bombing raids. Not a window was broken, although Mrs. Preece had an incendiary bomb land in her backyard. She was ready with the Government-issue tongs and an already-full bucket of water. We were told that an incendiary bomb dropped in water within minutes of landing would not explode.

On the next school day following a session of heavy night-bombing, we would chatter amongst ourselves about which shop or street had been bombed and which of us had collected the biggest piece of shrapnel. I remember our delight when we saw what was left of a German aircraft which had been shot down the night before and now lay derelict in the street beside our school.

A large underground Air Raid shelter was built at the school underneath the playground as, by 1941, daylight bombing raids had begun. We were frequently marched across to the shelter upon hearing the air raid warning siren. The shelter was horrid. Often, it was flooded and we would have to manoeuvre across planks to reach the uncomfortable benches we sat on for the duration of the raid, until the ‘All Clear’ siren sounded.

The shelter was dank, musty and dark, limiting our learning opportunities. We would do spelling tests, sing songs or make suggestions as to how we could all help in the war effort against the Germans.

We spent a great deal of time down there singing war songs and telling of our relatives who were being sent away in the armed forces. We had no doubt that the Allies would win—the songs told us so.

We sang ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover...’, ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when...’, ‘We’re going to roll out the barrel...’, so that we knew all the words thoroughly. We even made up our own war-time ditties such as “It’s raining, it’s pouring. Hitler went to Goring! He lost his pants in the middle of France and won’t be back ‘til morning!” Jean, Malcolm and I would sing this on the way to school, stopping along the way to purchase a stick of licorice root or a carrot stick, the replacements of pre-war sweets.

We were all word-perfect when singing the songs intended to keep up our spirits. We belted out such numbers as ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ and ‘Run, Rabbit, Run!’. No German was going to frighten us! Later, of course, huddled in our Anderson shelters at night with the ominous sounds of falling bombs and of German planes overhead, it was a different story. No-one was singing then.

Class numbers were decreasing as some children in our area were offered evacuation to safety zones in country areas. It was a choice our parents had to make but most of my friends stayed on where they were. I was thankful not to be sent away.

School days were reduced to half a day. We were all reminded by our parents that, on the way home, “if the siren sounds, run into the nearest shelter”. If the siren didn’t sound, we would seek out the nearest bomb site and fossick for the biggest piece of shrapnel. This was followed by a trip to the nearby shop for the usual carrot or stick of liquorice root.

Despite the rations and the grimness and uncertainty that war on the homefront entailed, we all settled into a life that seemed normal. As children, there was plenty of fun and excitement and plenty of things to do. I don’t recall ever being bored.

Having an air raid shelter in the garden was like having a den. When there wasn’t an air raid, we would have secret meetings in them and arrange concerts. We made wonderful costumes out of coloured paper and performed on top of the air raid shelter or in the Wardens shed. Entrance to our show would set you back one penny.

My mother taught Jean and I to make little golliwog lapel pins out of wool. We stood outside the hospital, assisted by Jean’s sisters, to sell them at a threepence a piece. The local government gave us an award for our war effort.

After school, when we weren’t commissioned into a queue, my school friends and I would often travel on foot quite a distance from our homes to go tadpole fishing. During the Spring, Jean and I, prior to the daylight bombings, would catch two buses just to pick bluebells from our favourite site. Even with daylight bombings we would still go on little adventures with the warning to “Go to the nearest shelter or house if the siren sounds.” Despite there being a war on and with all the dangers that entailed, we children were given so much more freedom than the children of today.

I remember seeing people digging and collecting coal chippings from the nearby Bentley Estate ‘slag heaps’ on Pleck Road and also recall the long queues for people wanting coke for their household heating from the Walsall Gasworks, a pleasure we did not have to endure as we enjoyed electric heat, thanks to Dad, and an oil heater for our shelter.

These same ‘slag heaps’ got me into trouble one day when some school friends introduced me to sliding down the open-pit mines on a piece of tin. It was great fun but I arrived home a far cry from the clean child that had left for school that day. Not only that, but the back of my dress, as well as my knickers, were torn to shreds!

“Never again!” were my mother’s last words on the subject.

And, of course, we had our fears and fair share of sadness amongst all of this. It was a  deeply sorrowful time when someone we knew had been killed. I remember hearing the hushed words of my parents when a relative of my father’s had been killed during the London bombings. She was a dancer and I was given one of her costumes, an elaborate, velvet cape which I later remodeled into a leotard.

As for the fears, we had heard stories of German pilots machine-gunning children on their way to school. I don’t know if this was true but we nevertheless sought out ‘hidey-holes’ along the route as a back-up plan. No-one ever walked to school alone. We were always in groups—although, strange as it may sound, a parent accompanying any of us was a rare sight.

After school, our mothers would be waiting for us to begin queuing for food, as this was the optimal time. We would queue for the food that wasn’t rationed. Mum and I would begin with the local Bakery. It was a good day if we came out with cake or buns.

On other days I would queue alone and it was quite a common sight to see children patiently waiting in line. My mother would often give me money with the instruction: “After school, if you see a queue, join it and bring back whatever they are selling. Try the Butcher’s first.”

Sausage meat, whale meat and horse meat were not rationed and were therefore on offer. We never ate the latter two options and our own rabbits and chickens were also off limits, much to Mrs. Preece’s disgust. When the Ministry of Food men would come to kill the Preece’s pigs, we would go out for the day, so as not to hear their death squeals, and I would shed more than a few tears for them.

Birmingham was our nearest city. Beyond that was Coventry. They, along with London, were bombed almost out of existence. Birmingham had become an industrial centre with munitions and aircraft factories taking up the spaces once used for peace-time manufacturing of motor vehicles, clothing and so on. As such, Birmingham was a major target for German bombing.

Despite this, many times, mum and I caught a bus to Birmingham during the war. Mum loved shopping there and so we would board the Midland Red Bus for the nine-mile journey. Often, just outside the City Limits, the bus would come to a halt.

“Everybody out!” The conductor would bellow. “Can’t go any further! Street has been bombed.”

So, along with the other passengers, we would all alight from the bus, climb haphazardly over the bomb-damaged area and discover another bus waiting on the other side or in the next street. We would board the bus and I would have another piece of shrapnel to add to my collection.

We would always go to the big Lewis’ Department Store. I think Mum just liked the feeling of being there as we never seemed to buy much. We would go to the basement cafeteria and queue for whatever was available. I loved it, yet I don’t know why we risked this trip and why we did it so many times. Perhaps mum thought it brought normality to our lives—but it was far from normal. Worse and riskier still, were the times when I was sent alone.

Mum had read in the paper that there was to be a “Once in a Lifetime Sale” at the Lewis Store, offering such items as sheets without requiring the sacrifice of clothing coupons. Mum had planned to go but had woken with one of her headaches and was on the threshold of one of her ‘bad’ days.

It was in October of 1941. I had only just turned nine and there I was alone on a bus to Birmingham to purchase anything that wasn’t rationed at the Lewis Department store. I don’t recall what I bought, and often this was the case when a queue was spotted—you joined it, regardless of whether you knew what it was for, but I returned home safely with my purchases.

Two days later, in that same month, I heard in a radio broadcast that, along with Selfridges and Marshall and Snellgrove, Birmingham’s Lewis Department store had been bombed. Worse still—it had been bombed during a daylight raid with many people killed, unable to escape from the basement.

“In Birmingham, yesterday,” the broadcaster reported, “Lewis Department Store was bombed during a daylight raid. There was a large loss of life...”