My earliest memories

I was born on 10 April 1931, in the front main bedroom of my paternal grandparents’ house at 76 Brent Street , London NW4. I was in the vicinity a few years ago, and decided to knock on the front door. Unfortunately, the property was devoid of people and furniture. Even the garden gate was locked, so I couldn’t visit the area where the wartime Anderson shelter used to be.

Unlike most people, I have hardly any memory of my very early years. I was about 9 years old before reasonably continuous memory set in.

At the age of 9, we lived in a block of flats on the North Circular Road, not far from the Finchley Road, and not far from 76 Brent Street. My bother Gerald and I went to Bell Lane School, which was halfway between our flat and No.76. As my brother was, and still is, 16 months younger than me, I was given the responsibility of seeing him across the North Circular at the appropriate set of traffic lights. At that time the North Circular was far less busy than it is today. Nevertheless, it was a main road, and my father instructed me accordingly.

One day, my young uncle Derek, who was only two years older than me, and also went to our school, told me that his cat had had kittens. I abandoned my little brother, and went to No.76 to inspect the newcomers. I then hurried home. Just before the entry to the flats, I met my mother coming out, and she was also hurrying. I didn’t know why she was leaving at lunchtime, but I was soon to find out. You see, she didn’t like to hear her children crying! I have a vague memory of yelling before my father’s hand (or maybe slipper) reached by behind. He gave me a few hard slaps, pointing out that I must never again leave Gerald to cross that road on his own. And I didn’t.

I have one other memory relating to my place of birth. Derek, the young uncle, and I used to play hide and seek in his house. On one particular occasion, I found a hiding place in a small room at the back of my grandparents’ bedroom. This room had another door which led to another small bedroom in which the maid slept. Just to complete the geography, her bedroom was accessed through Derek’s bedroom, which was where I first saw the light of day. Where I was hiding was full of mattresses and bed heads, so I hid behind these and waited in the hope that I would not be discovered.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of my grandparents coming into their bedroom. I had completely forgotten that it was their habit to have an afternoon nap in bed, and heaven help the individual that disturbed their rest. So I had only the second door as a means of escape, but I was in no hurry, as I wanted to stay hidden. And then, unbelievably, I heard someone coming into the maid’s bedroom. Now I was completely trapped. I decide to see if I could determine who was in the room, as I could see that there was a keyhole in the door. I put my 9 year old eye to it, and there was the maid! I would guess that she was a teenager, but it wasn’t her face that seared itself into my memory. Oh no. For, before that very same 9 year old eye, she began to undress. And there she stood, before the full length mirror, totally naked. Even at that early age, I remember feeling a stirring. And then she started to comb her hair; but not on her head! I suppose it was a bit of a waste on a 9 year old, but at least it become one of my earliest memories. Any further developments were cut short as Derek burst into her room from his side, pulled open the door with the all seeing keyhole, and I was dragged out of my hiding place.

Back in the flat, life was as normal as it could be in 1940. The air raid siren became a nightly occurrence, and we used to go down into the caretaker’s flat, with others, because it was situated in a more protected area than our own. There were many incendiary bombs that landed in the surrounding grounds, and I only remember one large bomb landing nearby, which caused the picture on the wall to rock.

It was in 1941 that we moved from London to a farm near Dunstable, which will form the start of my next tale.