When Dad came home, he would change out of his working clothes. Sometimes he was wet through. A persistent rain would have found its way down his neck, between the back of his cap and the top of his cape. Water out of puddles might have splashed up higher than his leggings and soaked his trousers. A driving rain would find cracks in the protective clothing and there would be patches of wetness on his jacket and shirt.
He would run some hot water into the bath and stand in there, warming his feet. Sometimes they hurt as the circulation came back into them. Then he would wash and shave and don a freshly-ironed and aired shirt. They were warmed by hot tank in the airing cupboard.
He often remembered how much harder it had been at Edward Street when he'd arrived home, cold and miserable during hard winters. It had taken him ages to thaw out. He still regarded constant hot water in the house as one of the blessings of his life.
Then he would go downstairs. His dinner would be hot from the stove and placed in front of him. Despite Margaret's new dominance, the customary rituals and conventions were still observed by the diligent housewife. If she'd forgotten to give him a spoon for his pudding, or left the mustard pot in the kitchen, Gordon would not go for them himself.
"Margaret,"he'd say, "I haven't got a spoon!"or "You've forgotten the mustard." Margaret would leave her meal and dutifully remedy her mistake.
"Sorry Gordon, "she'd say, placing the missing item within his easy reach. Gordon would carry on with his meal quietly, demanding silence from his wife and children, as he listened to the wireless and absorbed every item being read by the announcer on the BBC six o'clock news.
"Shh!" he'd say, if either of the children asked their mother a question. "Shh! Wait until the news is over!"
The children would be quiet until the broadcast finished. Then their Dad would sit in his easy chair near the fire with the wireless on the shelf close to his left ear. He'd turn the volume down but not switch the wireless off. He'd reach for the Daily Herald, open the newspaper, hiding behind it, while he read or thought deep thoughts. Sometimes the paper would slip out of his hands and cover his face. Then he would start to snore.
Mam would urge the children to play very quietly. "Don't wake your Dad up. He's had a hard day at work."
A picture of domestic bliss! But it wasn't! Gordon was full of guilt and resentment at having been found out. It wasn't as though he had done anything really wrong. Nobody had been hurt, had they? What did it matter?
But it did!
Gordon gradually became so fed up with the situation that part of him wanted to leave home. The major part of him put that out of his mind. There were the children to consider. And his own feelings for them. He could not bear the thought of upsetting them in any way.
But he was really fed up!
Late one evening, he was fiddling with the knob of the wireless. He liked doing that. It was a source of wonder to him to hear music and voices from far away places. Radio Luxembourg, with its popular music programmes, was a favourite. He often listened, despite his irritation at the adverts which interrupted the broadcasts. All the latest tunes were played including, 'Deep Purple', 'I Get Along Without You Very Well', 'Boomps-A-Daisy' and 'Wish Me Luck (As You Wave Me Goodbye).
One evening he'd tuned in to a German wireless station and it was broadcasting a speech. Michael and Gwyn were changing into their night time clothing. Gordon called a halt to that. "Shh!" he said, urgently, vehemently. Michael and Gwyn frowned quizically at each other then subsided into silence. They sat obediently quiet on the rug by the fire.
"Just listen to that!" Gordon said to Margaret. They all listened intently to the loud, ranting voice. There were intervals of cheering when there was a pause in the speech. Loud applause made the wireless vibrate. Thousands of voices were shouting.
"Heil! Heil! Heil!"
On and on and on! Rapturous acclaim for the speaker!
None of the family could understand a word of German. But the message was clear. It was threatening. There was something ominous in the air. All over Britain, those who heard that broadcast, and others like it, knew that something unstoppable was happening in Germany. Aggression was the message. War was coming nearer and nearer.
Hitler continued his speech. "Mad as a bloody hatter!" Gordon thought to himself.
"The bloke's completely bonkers,"he said to his wife.
When the speech ended, the applause, cheering and the chanted slogans went on for ages. Gordon did not switch it off. He sat there, his newspaper on his lap, transfixed. He worried for the future and what was probably just round the corner.
"Puts my little worries into perspective!" he thought.
Before summer, 'The Coming War' was a phrase on everybody's lips. You could collect cards which came in packets of cigarettes. One of the most popular sets was 'Air Raid Precautions'.
Michael, Rob and John were all collecting them. Two of Gordon's mates at work smoked Churchman's cigarettes. They gave their cigarette cards to Gordon for Michael. He kept some and used others as swaps. It was not long before he had a complete set. Gordon bought an album for him for a penny.
Michael showed the complete album proudly to his two friends. The Churchman's was a set of forty-eight cards. On the front of each card was a coloured picture and on the back was printed advice about planning a refuge room at home, dealing with incendiary bombs, fire-fighting or coping with gas attacks. Eight other cards described the country's air defences.
Gordon decided that their best place of refuge would be in the pantry under the stairs. Michael read the back of his cards and agreed. There were ways of making your refuge-room gas-proof and of protecting its windows against blast.
Mr. Martin, next door, decided to build a dug-out in his garden. Part of what was going to be their lawn disappeared underneath high mounds of earth. Unfortunately, he was unable to prevent water from seeping in and by the end of winter it had filled up nearly to ground level.
Michael and Gwyn hated the gas masks that went over their faces and were held in position by straps at the back of the head. There was a cellophane window through which to look out. This misted up and you couldn't see where you were going. There was a heavy metal base to breathe into in front of your nose and mouth. When you breathed in-and-out the sound was amplified alarmingly.
There was a strong smell of rubber from which parts of the masks were made. When Gwyn smelt it, she hought she was being gassed and screamed for the thing to be taken off her.
Michael thought the name was a bit funny. 'Gas mask'? It sounded like the mask was something to gas people with, not to stop them from being gassed. Both children, like most of their contemporaries, detested having to practise puttting them on.
The cigarette cards described Air Raid Wardens and volunteer despatch-riders, in case telephones would not work.
Mr. Jackson, who lived down the road from the Watsons, was appointed the official local Air Raid Warden. He visited and gave advice about blackout curtains and blinds. He wore a tin helmet with 'ARP' on it. He had a black siren suit, similar to a track suit. It had an impressive metal 'ARP' badge pinned to it. He showed them how to wear their gas-masks properly. He let them hear his huge wooden rattle, a bit like a giant crow-scarer, which lads on farmers' fields used to use.
"If you hear that, it means there's a gas-attack. Put your masks on right away!"
"When this war starts,"he said, "you mustn't show even a chink of light from any of your windows. Enemy bombers might see the lights and bomb us. By the way, do you want to order a stirrup pump? They aren't expensive if you purchase through me."
"What for?" Gordon asked.
"For putting out incendiary bombs!"
"Yes please! We might need one in an emergency," said Margaret.
"There's a waiting list. I'll order one for you. When they send one, I'll bring it and show you how to use it."
"Thank-you, Mr. Jackson,"said Margaret.
Before he went he asked Gordon, "Have you signed up for anything?"
"No!" said Gordon, mindful of the curfew his wife had imposed on him.
"You should, you know," scolded Mr. Jackson. "Everyone is going to have to do their bit. It's going to be what they call total war! Perhaps you could learn First Aid. St John's are running special courses for volunteers. I know they could do with a lot more."
Margaret decided to relent.
"I'm sure my husband will want to do his bit, Mr. Jackson."
"Right," said Mr. Jackson to Gordon, "that's the spirit! You know where I live. Be at mine seven o'clock tomorrow. I'll take you and a couple more newcomers to where the classes are being held."
"He's a bit bossy,"Gordon said, after the Warden had gone.
"Somebody's got to organise us,"Margaret replied. "At least he's doing something useful! Not sitting around in meetings gabbing! Or drinking with sluts in pubs!"
Gordon put the wireless on and hid behind his newspaper.
During the following weeks, Margaret sewed in extra linings to their thin curtains. Gordon brought thick oil cloth from Williamson's to make roller blinds for some of their windows. The black-out, which was to last nearly six years, was quickly becoming a reality.
Michael and Gwyn felt the apprehension their parents communicated. More and more of Michael's and his friends' games involved playing at being soldiers, airmen or sailors. They were always pretending to be shooting, bombing or sinking the enemy. Rob had learned a song from the older boys, in the playground, at his school. He taught it to Michael. He didn't understand what it meant but he enjoyed chanting it. Until his Mam heard him telling it to Gwyn!
"Hitler has only got one ball,
Goering has two but very small,
Himmler has somewhat similar,
But Goebbels has none at all."
"Wait 'til your Dad comes home! You'll be for it. What language! Where do you hear it?"
When she reported to Gordon, it gave him a good laugh. He needed one! "You don't really expect me to go to town on him for something like that! Come on, Margaret, where's your sense of humour?"
"I lost it at Halton, before Christmas."
That's how she was! Forever reminding him! Always having a dig! It really pissed him off.
"He's only six years old. There's no harm in him. He's bound to pick up things at school and from his friends. Don't expect too much of him. Nobody's perfect!"
"You're certainly not, that's for sure!"she hissed at him.
Gordon went upstairs, to get away from her and her sharp tongue. "If only that bloody Joyce had done what he'd asked her to do and kept her mouth shut!"
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