Dave White's Field

Auntie Mary was my mother's elder sister. Auntie Mary of the glorious, flaming red, hair --- a characteristic that was to re-appear in the family after skipping a generation. She lived below us in the middle flat at 50 Lydford Road in Paddington.

It was the early fifties, and when my mother was at work, we were in and out of “auntie Mary's” --- as we called her flat. She would welcome us into her kitchen, her family's living space, to a slice of bread and jam, the rare treat of a biscuit, and, occasionally, a story.

As children, my sisters, Mary and Jean, and I would sit on the floor by the fire with my cousins, Brian, Ann and John, hoping we would get a story before uncle Jim arrived home from work. These might be stories of Ireland --- the banshee, leprechauns, headless horsemen, or of the war --- the blitz, the blackout, the bombers and the doodlebugs.

We are living in a London of the years just after the war; when memories of the insecurities of war were still fresh: how death, riding a bomb or a doodlebug, suddenly but routinely paid Londoners a visit.

The nights are drawing in. It is cold. Just around the corner is Hallowe'en, All Saints day and All Souls day. And then Guy Fawkes' night and Remembrance day. It's a time for sitting round the fire for a scary story.