Growing up and chocolate treats

It was a fine day in June 1942, when a few short hours ago Dad, my older brother Fred, and eight or nine men inside the canvas covered deck of a flat truck were returning from repairing houses damaged in and around Liverpool by German bombs. I was with them aged fourteen and shouldn't have been on the truck at all but Dad thought I should see the bomb damaged streets and houses for myself. It opened my eyes to the strange way some houses survived alongside others which were demolished, half-demolished or just had one window broken. Bomb blast was unpredictable in the way it destroyed streets and people. My emotions had me wishing I could talk to somebody about it but even if I could pluck up the courage enough to do that there was hardly anyone around at that time. I had seen enough of the damage in about an hour's walking around, so with an unexpected hand-out of loose change from Dad to the amount of two shillings and ten pence, I took the ferry over to Bootle near Liverpool.

This was the first time I'd been on my own free to explore being in a different place than my home town of Preston. Outwardly I was just another youth wandering around the streets who should have been at school or at work, while inwardly I gradually become aware that I was growing up, stimulated by the prospects of making decisions for myself.  Near the ferry terminal I saw several slot machines, mostly offering cigarettes or tobacco but in amongst them stood toffee and chocolate machines looking dusty and in need of a clean. I looked closer and saw bars of chocolate with that enticing look which had my mouth eager to taste some. It was wartime and rationing meant I had to present coupons to obtain some, then my pulse quickened as I realised these delights weren't in a shop, so no coupons needed. I slipped sixpence into the slot, pressed my choice and waited, a slight tingle of excitement warming my insides and out it popped, a bar of chocolate in its clean wrapper. This was discarded quickly as I stepped lightly down the street enjoying savouring the smooth creamy taste all to myself.

Later as I joined Dad and the other men for the return trip to Preston I sensed the men, and Dad especially were concerned that the driver had been drinking but no one else there had authority to take control of the vehicle to drive us back. Looking at Dad and my brother I saw their concern and looked again at the driver, smiling and relaxed as he saw us all in and seated on the planks set around the three sides with our backs leaning on the canvas cover. He raised and fastened the tailboard up before getting into the cab and driving off. We all survived.

Dennis Crompton © 2013