My dad, Peter Fowler, was 10 when war broke out.
During his childhood in Sunbury-on-Thames, his home had no electricity so there was no fridge, electric light, oven or radio. Cooking was done on a hob over a fire. A wireless was powered by an accumulator which was recharged every few days. The washing was boiled in a copper (my dad was one of twelve children – imagine all those nappies!) and scrubbed with Sunlight soap on a washing board.
Milk was delivered daily by horse and cart and poured from churns into customers' jugs, the minimum sale being a gill (4 pints). Bread and muffins were delivered from a three-wheeled bicycle with a basket at the front for those who did not bake their own. Everyone grew their own soft fruit and vegetables and my grandfather (who was in the Auxiliary Fire Service) would snare rabbits to make rabbit stew.
Everyone shared. When you ran out, you would go next door for a cup of sugar or a bit of margarine. When someone baked, they would take a cake to a neighbour (a little different from the 2020 lockdown when neighbours in my road asked for someone to leave dried cumin on their step!).
On the day war was declared, a siren sounded and everyone wore the gas masks they had been given. Ration books were issued. The family had a Morrison Shelter in their Living Room towards the end of the war. It was made of 8-gauge metal, and six people could sleep under it. It had square mesh around it to keep the bits of flying debris off if your home was bombed, and the top took the weight of the house descending on you. This was better than the Anderson Shelter which preceded it, a corrugated iron affair in the back garden over a hole in the ground. In winter these would fill with water and could not be used.
My dad’s family were bombed on 28 November 1940 at around 10.15 at night. The area was a target because the Anglo Iranian (now BP), the oil refinery, was nearby. The bomb hit the back of the house, taking out four houses and burying the family of seven for two hours until they were dug out. The dolls' prams belonging to his younger sisters were found half a mile away. The family was pulled from the wreckage and taken to a friend’s home that night. Dad had to wear a kilt to school next day because no trousers could be found for him.
To me that is unimaginable: a bomb hits your house and YOU SEND YOUR CHILDREN TO SCHOOL NEXT DAY!
Shared by Annette Reynolds, his daughter
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