Beggar-my-Neighbour and the Blackspot

The most vivid memories I have of the war are Beggar-My-Neighbour and the Blackspot.
My father was a waraholic - no such word in those days of course then it was called warmongering. He had been in the first world war so he followed this mere secondary skirmish with dedication and intensity, like a game of chess. The daily paper was devoured from first to last page and every wireless broadcast was commented on. Every activity stopped for the 9 o'clock news. I can remember him shouting at the radio.
As he was too old for fighting he joined the local home guard.
The highlight of the week for him in those war years was Saturday evening when he and mother used to go to the town hall to the pictures. Ninepence foe a bench at the front or one shilling and ninepence for a chair with a cushion.
Mam went to see Rita Hayworth or Ronald Colman but Dad went to watch Pathe News, that scrawny old cockeril. It was always war news given out in that B.B.C. starched voice, moving pictures of our brave soldiers or Winston Churchill encouraging everyone to help with the war effort.
' Above all be vigilant - remember the enemy within BE LIKE DAD - KEEP MUM.' It was many years before I understood that one!
Saturdays was when Mrs Hunt would come and sit with us. We played Beggar-My-Neighbour and Donkey, two simple card games. I loved it because we were allowed to atay up late.
Mrs hunt was the oldest person we knew. She wore the most outlandish clothes for that reserved farming community. She had a bright red cloth coat and round her neck lived a fur tippet with a fox's head. It had very bright shiny button eyes and I was convinced that they looked at me.
Mrs Hunter wasn't paid in cash for her services just a warm fire and a supper of home made bread and jam.

The horror of the Blackspot only struck on two or three occasions but they are fixed in my memory like negatives. When the Germans dropped bombs on Manchester they often took the long way round over the Pennines. At these times the air-raid siren would sound and Mrs Hunter would bundle the three of us children into the cupboard under the stairs. This was our air raid shelter. It was pitch black in the cupboard which was fitted out with stools and an old rug.
Mrs.Hunter then went back to the fire and lit a candle which she brought in and we sat and waited until the all-clear sounded. I sat mesmerised with fear and stared at the fox's eyes. I knew that if I closed my eyes it would creep a little closer. The candle light made his eyes glitter and sent off tiny sparks of light. I didn't really understand what bombs were but I did know that foxes carried off small girls in the dead of night.
On these horror nights Mam and Dad came home early from the pictures and Grumled at being done out of his weekly treat.

We did have one misdirected bomb which dropped on the moors. Everyone climbed on to their horses and farm vehicles and went to look at the crater.
I didn't think much of it at all, just a hole in the ground. Not half so terrifying as beady eyes lit by candlelight.

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