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                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

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As I mentioned elsewhere, that old house had large cellars, a fact that was somewhat taken for granted when I was young, but which in retrospect prompts its own little crop of  memories.  Following the onset of the war, the decision was made the strengthen the cellars in certain houses, so that they could be used as air raid shelters, and ours was selected as suitable for this purpose.  I do not know the hows and the whys, but each time the siren sounded – usually in the dead of night - we were joined by some neighbours, including our cousins who lived ‘down the street’ along with their mum, my nearest Aunty.  Her husband - my Uncle - will have been on his Home Guard duties, as was my father. Bunks had been built so that the young ones could sleep, and some seating had been acquired for the adults.  Though we were relatively safe it was far from comfortable.  Cosy might be nearer the mark, but even then there was room for a choice  of views.  
       The young ones of course, unaware of the true nature of war and its dangers, saw these night time capers as an excuse for fun. My cousins lived a few houses further down the street so we saw a lot of them. Our two families had developed along similarly lines, with roughly the same number of children, at roughly the same ages, so there was always a group of the younger end keen to enjoy themselves.  It was a strange experience being in the shelter, but the innocence of childhood allowed us to play, while elsewhere, others less fortunate, were dying. Some of the other neighbours who shared our shelter - none of whom still had children at home - might have been forgiven for taking their chances with the bombs, though perhaps we were less noisy than my memory suggests.
      The sleeping furniture had been hand made, probably by my Dad, and what it lacked in finesse, was easily made up for in its sturdiness. The two tier bunks were like drawers with no bottoms, across which was stretched some strong ‘canvas like’ material; each tough enough to carry two kids ‘top to tail’, and held together by four stout corner posts. There was always competition for choice of bunk, as those on the top usually had to put up with a four foot assault from those on the bottom. Nevertheless, the lateness of the hour usually took its toll, and eventually horseplay became wearisome and we would tire, then slumber. The grown ups would drink their tea, sitting on whatever chairs had been acquired, talking and sharing the moment, until the siren heralded a new peace, and more often than not, a new dawn.  The adults would collect their belongings and make their way to their own homes while us children, long since fast asleep, were left to slumber on, dreaming of anything but the war.
      But the cellars were too useful to be just an air raid shelter.  One of then was quite large, and a few years later I installed a three quarter size Table Tennis table; which turned out to be popular with all the family, and became the home of ‘The Four Aces’, about which I will tell you later.
      Also in the cellar was the food store, dads workshop, and a room where all those things for which no further use could be found, but which might just ‘come in handy’ one day, were stored.  
       OK, if you insist - a junk shop !, but there was also another very important commodity stored in the cellar.  Remember that this was long before the days of smokeless fuel  and mass central heating. I am of course talking about coal.  Dirty, dusty, flaky coal.  A blessing and a curse at the same time, even though concerns about fossil fuels had not yet surfaced, and the term global warming had not yet been invented.  It was however coal that kept the nation warm, and dirty. That freshly washed shirt or blouse could be ruined in a trice, if coal was handled without care.  With hands as black as spades, and coal-dust in your hair, it was for most people a love hate thing, only avoided by those with money.  It was also magic to a pre-pubescent boy who had not yet learned to care about appearance. Now I didn’t actually play in the coal cellar, but someone had to be there when the coalman called, and more often than not, that someone was me.
        I used to wonder how he managed on his flat backed lorry stacked with those dirty brown sacks, which always seemed to stay in place no matter what manoeuvre -or at what speed - the driver performed.  There were seldom any signs of a sack having accidentally fallen off, though no doubt if one did, all evidence would quickly disappear - sack as well !!
      As I said, it was usually my job when our delivery was due to take my place in the coal house, so that I could count how many sacks were tipped down the shoot.  As each sack was emptied I would take one piece of the black gold and put it in an old shopping bag. That would be my measure to compare with the coal-mans pile of folded sacks lying on the path at the top-side of the shoot. His proof of how many he had put down..  I don’t know why we did not trust the coal man, and I can’t remember any occasion when an extra sack found its way onto our pile. (perhaps because he knew I was counting) But this, or something like it, was the regular routine for all the neighbourhood.
      Like most memories of those days, the coal man, carrying a hundredweight sack on his shoulder with apparent ease, then hurling it down a shoot with seldom any lost, seems of another world. Today he would be today a rare sight indeed, more likely to be an attack of nostalgia than for real. It would certainly be worth a few minutes of your time to stop and stare if you chanced upon one.


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