Memory Lane
Eighty years ago, in 1940, I was four years old. My father was at RAF Dover and we lived in Folkestone, where we suffered the nightly shelling and watched the dogfights over the Channel.
Some nights, we slept in the Anderson shelter in my grandparents’ garden. At other times, we slept in the cupboard under the stairs – supposed to be the safest place if the house collapsed.
In 1941, my father was posted to RAF Uxbridge and we lived in a house opposite the main gates. When he finished night duty, he would bring us warm doughnuts from the NAAFI for breakfast.
I had just started school when I caught scarlet fever. I was immediately put into the local isolation hospital (the site is now part of Brunel University).
I was in a ward with about 20 children. There was no special medical equipment or medication. You just waited for the infection to take its course.
I could not see anyone, other than medical staff, for four weeks. My parents could look at me from afar, through a small square window, once or twice a week.
After finally being declared fit to leave, I was given a bath and scrubbed all over with carbolic soap, which stung like mad. When I got home, the house had been disinfected and all my toys thrown away.
This all took place at the same time as the Blitz. Our road was a hill, and we used to climb to the top at night and watch the dreadful bombing over London and see the fires everywhere. Very frightening.
However, somehow we all survived. My father’s next posting was to Burma which he managed to survive as well.
By Janet Thorogood, London SW2, who receives £50
Readers are invited to send in their own 400-word submissions about the past