Memory Lane

Birthday mornings in the 1950s were full of anticipation, not only for presents but also the arrival of the postman. In those days items could be posted First Class for guaranteed next-day delivery and Second Class for two days. So birthday cards were posted with a known delivery date, which meant that the postie could identify

exactly whose birthday it was as he had a bundle of cards, all addressed to the same person. Our postie would always ring the bell, ask for that person by name and deliver them into the waiting hands of the recipient.

But my fourth birthday on 6th February 1952 was altogether more sombre. Early that February the mood of the whole country was gloomy. Shops, school, tradesmen and everyone in the street walked and talked quietly. For King George VI was dying, and indeed actually died on my birthday.

Two weeks later, my brother and I were bundled up against the damp cold

and the whole family walked down the street to Greenford Avenue in Hanwell, where we lived, then along to the viaduct. Here the Great Western Railway crossed the road, on its way through Hanwell and Elthorne stations towards Reading and the West Country, with the branch line to Windsor and Eton.

We joined a large but silent crowd. A policeman, in pointed helmet and dark mackintosh, walked into the centre of the road. He held up his arms to stop the traffic in both directions, and drivers and passengers got out of cars, lorries and a red double-decker London Transport bus.

All heads turned towards the railway line to London, and out of the gloom came what seemed even to a four-year-old boy used to steam engines a monstrous apparition swathed in purple and black, moving slowly and belching smoke and steam. As the engine and four carriages passed slowly over the viaduct, every man removed his hat, and men and women bowed their heads until the train disappeared towards Windsor and the final resting place of the king.