"The day war broke
out . . . Well not quite, but the voice of Rob Wilton still echoes
across the years. And it is voices, not faces, that evoke the memories.
"My father waking
me in the middle of the night as the Fuhrer did his best to blast
Birmingham to bits: Time to go down to the cellar, son . . .'
"My own voice
sobbing when my parents wouldn't let me watch the bombs falling.
The clamour of neighbours as we emerged one day to find our doors
and windows blown out.
"Later, more
voices as the wireless became the heart of the home. Rob Wilton
patiently explaining how he and five chums would repel the Nazi
hordes. Tommy Handley, punnery officer in chief, spitting out his
humour like a machine gun. And Valentine Dyall, terror personified
as the Man in Black.
"Television,
when it came, was a novelty, nothing more. Something you went next
door to watch because your parents couldn't afford one.
"Certainly no
serious rival to the radio. Or to the local fleapit (front seats
six old pence) where the likes of Jimmy Cagney, George Raft and
Edward G tommy-gunned their way to the electric chair.
"Tastes still
linger, too. The taste of dried egg (pleasant), whalemeat (revolting),
and something called snoek - whatever that was.
"The arrival
of the first banana was a talking point for days - we really did
have to be shown how to eat it. And of course there was the glorious
day when sweets finally went off ration.
"His face is
long-forgotten, but I can still hear the local shopkeeper saying:
"Yes, you can have as many as you like."
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