Kisses on a Postcard Read Free Page A

quiet world of his own from which he tried, with no success, occasionally to remonstrate with an errant child. Dad was absent from Monday to Friday: ‘essential war work’ on the railway in London was the hushed, reverent explanation.
    I remember one dispute that left me with a sense of the injustice of life. We were at table for a meal. Maureen, our youngest cousin, picked up a spoon and whacked me over the head with it. I could find nothing else to hand except a knife, so I picked it up and whacked her back, being careful even at my tender years to hit her with the flat and not the blade. It made no difference; Maureen yelled and retribution clattered about my ears as Mum and Auntie Esme joined forces to bombard me with outrage for using a knife on my little cousin. She got away with her attack scot-free – and cut-free too because of my unappreciated care.
    One result of us children being herded together at bedtime was that I got my introduction to sex. Jack and I, having no sister, must have seemed pretty naive to our mixed cousins. One night we played the ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours’ game. I cannot remember who suggested it but it certainly wasn’t me and I do not believe Jack would have dared to do such a thing. Anyway, we shyly pulled down our pyjama trousers and solemnly gazed at each other. Maureen, aged five, said, ‘Look,’ reversed herself, bent over, head upside down between her knees, eyes looking up at us through her legs, and gave us a grandstand view of her back bottom. Jack and I stared, fascinated as much by the gesture as by the sight before us. ‘Oh Maureen,’ said Audrey wearily, as though this happened frequently, but I felt a rebuke was out of place; Maureen’s action was daring, generous and stylish; she offered more than she was getting. Perhaps she was just being exhibitionist but I don’t think so. She became my favourite cousin.
    We were – as was promised to the soldiers of the previous world war – home by Christmas. It was a relief to all of us, each family being mightily relieved to be rid of the other, though Mum and Auntie Esme were sorry to be parted again.
    Back in Welling the Phoney War continued, a few months of a sort of pre-war existence, except that now there were shortages of everything that had been available even in a Britain barely emerging from the Great Depression. In anticipation of air raids barrage balloons hung above us over Shooters Hill golf course, great useless bags of gas that were supposed to deter low-level attacks and did absolutely nothing as far as anyone can remember. Occasionally one broke free and sailed away on the wind, trailing its cables, which hit the odd pylon or overhead electrical wire and created havoc and power cuts. The balloons always came down in the most inconvenient places, giving photo-opportunities to enterprising local reporters and the chance of a great deal of comedy business to the soldiers who were sent to retrieve them. Where possible the troops attached them to lorries and towed them back, followed by packs of cheering, jeering boys on bicycles.
    Up in Oxleas Wood, a few hundred yards from our house, anti-aircraft guns, searchlights and rockets were hidden in the trees. The long menacing shapes of the barrels of the ack-ack guns poked up through the leaves and branches. The beams of the searchlights waved about hitting the underside of clouds or continuing to infinity as the Observer Corps trained on them at night. But when the rockets were fired the shattering whooshes and roars seemed to open the doors of hell. We cowered in our beds, aghast, our stomachs turning to water, even though we knew they were on our side, and pitied any Germans who would dare to come near. To have close looks at these alien, thrilling objects we children invaded those parts of the woods that were fenced off and marked ‘Private’ only to be good-naturedly driven off by the soldiers and chased with less amiability by the