Just a boy from Bristol by Michael John Kelly PART 1

Busy at the moment writing Part 2, but hereunder please find the opening pages of my story. I will be publishing further extracts and some snippets from Part 2, in the coming weeks. Book is available from Amazon. Watch this space for further developments.

Chapter 1

Through the eyes of a child

On the 3rd September 1939 a war started that would not only change the course of history, it would also deny millions of children across the world the opportunity for a normal, happy childhood. I know, because I was one of them.

My father, who had spent the bulk of his adult life in the Royal Navy, re-enlisted as soon as the storm clouds of war started to gather over Europe. He left my mother alone, to bring up two young children, in poverty, and in what was becoming a scary, changing world.

My mother was an incredibly beautiful young woman, but she was emotionally fragile. She was an, unpredictable, free spirited, capricious butterfly, who was constantly fluttering around; she was never able to settle anywhere for long. In many ways she was totally unsuited to the task in hand, but she was a mother, and she did what mothers do best. She cared for me; she did it well, and I will be eternally grateful to her. Mum, I thank you for teaching me how to live and how to love. I thank you for the incredible journey, and I thank you for all the many wonderful memories.

I was only two when my father went off to war. I was far too young to have any memories of him. All that I had was a small, crumpled photograph, which showed him as a young man wearing football kit. He had scribbled a message on the back.

I won’t be long, don’t worry, because I will be lucky.

Joe

That photograph was to live behind the clock, on the mantle shelf of whichever house we were living in for the duration of the war. Whenever the going got too tough, which was often, Mum would take it down and read the message aloud to me. I think it was probably as much for her benefit as it was for mine.

My earliest memories are of the spring of 1940. I was still a few months short of my third birthday, but my memories, although few, are very clear. We were living like three rats, in a tiny ground floor flat in Badminton Road, St Paul’s. The house was right on the junction of Ashley Road, Lower Ashley Road and Sussex Place. I shared a double bed with my mother, and my baby sister Mary slept in her pushchair, under the window in the cramped living room area. I envied Mary’s ability to sleep. It would stand her in good stead later on when the German bombers flew over Bristol.

The actual fighting hadn’t reached Bristol yet, but the effects of the war certainly had. The strict rationing meant a shortage of food, and in our case, there was always a shortage of money. There were frequent trips to the pawn shop, and there were ration books, blackouts at night, gas masks to carry, and frequent air raid drills. Despite all this, life carried on remarkably normally. We all got by somehow, and we all survived. Whenever shops had food supplies, the rumours spread like wild fire and the housewives would queue for miles. I think in a funny sort of way, the women quite enjoyed those long queues, and they would gossip away contentedly as they waited for their turns.

My first, my best, and my only friend, was Mrs. Grant who lived across the road. Mrs. Grant was a formidable looking Irish woman. She was short, sturdy and permanently wore a flowered pinafore and a hairnet, which covered an army of rather vicious looking metal curlers. She may have been a woman, but she still had whiskers, warts and muscles. I had already decided if and when the Germans ever invaded Badminton Road, I would hide behind Mrs. Grant. Those curlers would be more than a match for anything the Germans could throw at us.

Mrs. Grant and I had a simple, but very effective relationship. She gave me food in the form of biscuits, cakes, sweets and sausage sandwiches; in return, I satisfied her curiosity by answering her many questions and supplying her with information about my mother. The questions would come at me thick and fast.

“Where was your mother going yesterday afternoon?” “Where did you last live?” “Do you remember your father?” “How old is your mother? How old is your father?”

I could tell her nothing, because I didn’t know the answer to any of her questions, but I valued those extra rations, and to keep her happy I would fabricate stories about my mother’s movements, her past life and her future intentions. It all seemed to work rather well, and I lived in my own idyllic world where I could have both a full stomach and a clear conscience.

The highlight of my week was a Sunday morning when the Salvation Army band came a-calling. They would always stop at the top of the road and belt out a couple of big, brassy numbers. It was my first taste of live music, and its appeal has never left me. I was fascinated by all the instruments and the musicians. In particular, I was taken with the big bass drum and the drummer. It was a very big drum, and the drummer was a very large man with a florid complexion and a bushy black moustache. For the final leg of the journey back to the Citadel, I would march alongside him. I held my left index finger across my upper lip to simulate his moustache; I puffed out my cheeks to simulate his size and with my free right hand, I would air drum like a maniac. Boom! Boom! Boom!

When the show was finally over, I would trudge slowly home. It seems inconceivable in this day and age, but there I was, yet to reach the age of three, and I was already wandering around St Paul’s all alone and unattended. I knew no fear, because I didn’t see myself as a young child and, in any event, I considered the area bounded by the triangle of Brigstocke Road, Ashley Road and City Road to be my manor; it was my hood, and I strutted around those streets like a miniature boss.

It was around about this time I learnt my first harsh lesson in life. I learnt that nothing good lasts forever. It was a warm April afternoon, and Mum, Mary, the pushchair and I headed down to St James Churchyard. This is now the site of the Primark store, but was then a triangular, concrete surfaced park. There was a weighbridge, a few scattered benches and, what felt like a million pigeons. I would wander amongst those birds, scattering stale bread crumbs for them. They were very tame, and it gave me a great sense of power.

On this particular day I had run out of bread crumbs and I turned to Mum for reinforcements. To my shock, she was talking to a man; a complete stranger. He was a tall, thin man, with very white teeth. Apart from a white collarless shirt, he was dressed entirely in brown. He wore shiny brown shoes, a three piece suit, and a trilby hat, which was perched at a jaunty angle on the back of his head. A mop of thick, black curly hair was protruding from the front. He was reaching forward to light a cigarette for my mother. It was the first time I had ever seen her smoke. His hand was cupped across the cigarette protecting the flame of his lighter from the breeze. His long fingers were touching her cheek. I sensed trouble, I didn’t like this stranger, but that was nothing unusual. I never liked anyone who got close to my mother, she belonged to me.

The pair of them sat smoking and talking for some time. There was a lot of laughter and Mum was giggling like a young girl. I had never heard her laugh like that before. Then, Mr. ‘Brown’ was on his way. He waved and shouted “Goodbye Michael.” as he left, and headed off along the Horsefair towards Milk Street. I watched him walk away but I ignored him and I didn’t reply.

“His name is Tom Burke,” explained my mother when I questioned her. “He just wanted a chat.”

That night was a cold one, and I was curled up against Mum’s legs in front of the coal fire. She was trying to teach me to read, but I wasn’t in the mood. Tommy Handley and ITMA were on the radio. I didn’t understand a word of it, but loved to guffaw along with the studio audience. Looking back now, I can truly appreciate that magical combination of the coal fire, the flickering gaslights and the radio. It made for a very intimate and atmospheric experience, and the memories evoke very special feelings.

Suddenly, there was a tap on the front door.

“I’ll go.” Mum was quick off the mark, but I was quicker. This could be the German invasion, and I needed to get to Mrs. Grant first. I got to the door just before my mother.

“Hello Michael.”

I blinked into the darkness. I knew the voice, and then I recognised him. It was Mr. Burke from the park