As Luck Would Have It. Derek JacobiЧитать онлайн книгу.
The Pathé or Movietone newsreels at the cinema where we viewed the horrifying footage of these new terror weapons were miles away from the reality of their destruction. The rockets had a double demoralising effect on a tired and war-weary East London, where destruction had been diabolical. Over 6,000 people died, many in our area, and tens of thousands more were wounded – a huge toll. My evacuation to Bletchley had then proved to be effective because my worst moment of the war was back at home on my return.
Even so, these years, when so many suffered death, destruction and misery, were for me a happy and secure time when only at rare moments was my sense of good fortune disrupted or broken. We were fighting the Germans, but that was all I knew.
I didn’t see much of Dad, so I was hardly aware of him, but in the laundry he sent home to Mum he would include sheets of Bakelite (which he used in his war work in the army to wrap up the imitation planes and soldiers) for me to play with. Aside from the separations, there was such a great spirit with everybody pulling together, and we kids had a great time.
Later when I was a bit older on my return to Leytonstone in late 1944 I remember rushing down the steps in daylight to the shelter, but without Dad. He had gone away and was now a stranger, a shadowy figure who occasionally visited on leave. He played very little part in my life in those early infant years.
Yet even without having my dad there to look after me I was never worried, never scared, and never had any decision to make: I was supremely well cared for by everyone. I never felt lonely and on my own.
I accepted life, I accepted what I was doing, the world around me, and what was happening to me without ever questioning it.
The war in Europe was over. I had seen virtually nothing of Dad now since 1941 and was excited at the thought of his homecoming.
On Victory in Europe (VE) Day in May 1945 we held a fancy-dress party in Poplars Road. Everyone carried out chairs and tables into the middle of the road and covered the tables in tablecloths of all different shapes and colours.
With basic foodstuffs rationed, we had been fed on spam – plentiful tinned spam – and cheese-and-potato pie was my favourite, which Hilda used to bake. Vegetables were even scarcer than fresh meat, but I was too young to know what they were, so I hardly missed them. Powdered milk and powdered eggs were part of the staple diet, and there was hardly any fruit to eat. Everyone has their first banana story. I had no idea what to do with the first banana I held in my hand, how to peel it and get at the inside, but it was exotic – extraordinary.
Foods which had been scarce were brought out of hiding and piled high: sausages, eggs, cakes, cold chicken, mince pies, cup cakes. Fizzy drinks, too: ginger beer, lemonade, Dandelion and Burdock, and the new import, Coca-Cola.
There were races and stalls, as well as the sumptuous spread, and everyone was merry, danced and sang and had the time of their life. I wore a costume made by Mum out of wartime ration cards and books, all of which she had carefully sewn together. I had a painted sign pinned to the front of my costume – ‘Mother’s Worries’ – and with this I won first prize. They even took a professional photograph of me wearing it as ‘Wartime Ration Boy’.
When Mum took part in the egg and spoon race, she fell over just as she was winning and nearly broke her nose. She was covered in blood and I was screaming. I was terrified by what had happened and suddenly had a terrible premonition and fear that she would die.
I was too young, not yet seven, to take in the speeches on the radio, the thanksgiving service, the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, voicing his relief and exultation, and everyone paying their tribute to the King as the Head of our Great Family. All this was going on, yet I missed my chance to listen to the Archbishop of Canterbury who spoke in such a dignified and unselfconscious manner, without an inkling that one day I would be playing his predecessor, Cosmo Lang, who was something of a villain, in The King’s Speech.
When we were back home fireworks lit up the sky, which made me for a moment start up with fear, as not long before flashes and explosions had told a different story.
Uncle Henry could pick up any tune on the piano and play it. Just as victory was declared and we were celebrating at home, he got very drunk. He was the one who had cooked for victory all through the war, and been in Iceland, but now he was very inebriated and started hammering out something on the piano. Turning to us with a big grin he said something in a kind of roaring voice which really upset me, really terrified me.
‘I’m going to set the house on fire tonight!’ he roared.
I instantly burst into tears. I took Uncle Henry’s jovial remark quite literally, instantly remembering the V2 rocket that had hit the Baker’s Arms bus shelter. It seemed the most dangerous thing anyone could say, and even though I knew he was very jolly and drunk I really believed he was about to set our house on fire with a box of matches.
I looked around at everyone and they didn’t seem to mind – but I minded!
The VE Day celebrations in 1945 had been and gone and still no Dad had appeared. But then in 1946 there was a national holiday commemorating Victory in Japan (VJ) Day and suddenly Dad was back, still in uniform. Immense crowds gathered in central London, and the rejoicing was universal. The lights were switched on in Piccadilly Circus and the Coca-Cola sign illuminated. We caught the Tube and joined the great congregation of people. Dad hoisted me up on his shoulders above the crowd to give me ‘a flying angel’.
I loved it. I was with him at last.
This was the first time I reckoned my father as a presence. Would I rush at him, throw my arms around him as Mum did with me? I had a sense of ‘Was I going to like him? Would I take to him?’ It was from both of us, Mum too, this feeling of reticence. Mum and he had to get their lives together after the war. There were to be no more babies – and what about sex? Neither ever spoke about it, and I guess probably never did even with each other. I had no insight into where babies came from: I must have lived in cloud cuckoo land. But I never thought about it. Why should I? We never lived in a sexed-up universe.
I’d love to have talked more to both of them, heard more about their experiences, for what had happened during the war would be with them for the rest of their lives. I never discussed with my mother how it had been for her, never questioned her, which I regret. But everyone, in spite of the extreme deprivation, had helped one another, and we knew what it really meant to be a neighbour.
So many people around us lived life without complaining, not fearing death or injury, and accepting one or the other when it came. Life generally was dedicated to a higher role, and it was rare for those around us to exaggerate their sorrows or miseries, or their survival.
But soon people retreated into themselves again and became self-centred, so that feeling of camaraderie after the war didn’t last long.
At the end of the same year, Christmas 1945, there were twelve of us at home, and I was now seven years old.
The Poplars Road crowd came to our house every Christmas. After Christmas dinner, for which Mum cooked the turkey – the first I’d ever seen – and after we’d heard the King’s Christmas Day speech on the Home Service – the first since VE Day, 1945 – we settled down to play games. One was called ‘Conned ’em’ (slang for ‘conned