My first memories of the impact of the war as a pre school child growing up in Canterbury were of a bomb site. The city had been badly damaged in a Baedeker raid. By the time I was born the shopping centre area by the Eastgate had been completely rebuilt. It was only one day when my mother walked me past a large piece of wasteland beyond the city walls that I asked about it. Why full of weeds, and why were there remains of low brick walls? My mother was reluctant to answer, told me it was a bomb site and wanted to change the topic. Understanding nothing I asked more and got out of her that some people were so nasty they blew buildings up , dropping bombs out of aircraft. As I tried again a worse truth was half peeking out. These people were so nasty they blew them up with people still inside them. I could not fathom why anyone would want to do that. A fear gripped me. Could it happen now?
As I went to primary school grown ups would share a bit more with me about the war that had dominated their young adult lives for five long years. They were still talking to each other about it as they sought to digest what had happened to them. I was shown the ration books they had to rely on, told of the shortages and the limited meals.
My grandparents and father grew food in their gardens as if still part of Dig for victory. They would say careless talk costs lives. Waste not, want not was a favourite phrase, encouraging thrift and careful use of limited resources. My grandmother still had her black out sheets that were used to stop the light at the wartime window. My father told of his evacuee experiences being sent to Stafford from Ramsgate and how he enlisted in the navy as soon as he could. My mother showed me photos of herself as a young woman in Wren’s uniform.
When I did my junior school local history project I heard how the great cathedral had been saved from the fire bombs and saw the work still going on to restore all the precious medieval glass.
( for more childhood memories see What do boys want?)