This week Marion looks back on the peaceful years before World War II broke out.

When we are youngsters, provided all is well, we don’t think to analyse our feelings.

Sometimes we see more clearly in hindsight.

When I look back at the years between moving to Connaught Road in Knowle West and the start of World War II I think of them as a peaceful time before so many lives were disrupted.

I loved Connaught Road school and had many little friends in school and nearby.

But after the Salvation Army – “the Sally Anne” – opened a church nearly next door in Padstow Road it meant no more Sunday lie-ins.

Every Sunday morning we would see the “soldiers” arriving for church in their uniforms and shortly afterwards the children would go in for Sunday school.

As regular as clockwork we would hear the children singing and clapping accompanied by tambourines.

“ I am H.A.P.P.Y, I am H.A.P.P.Y, I know I am, I’m sure I am, I am H.A.P.P.Y,” they would sing.

Dad had a lot of time for the Salvation Army lassies.

Although they preached the perils of alcohol they were brave enough to enter the newly opened Venture Inn in Melvin Square on a Saturday night to sell “War Cry.”

Mum and dad always came home with a copy.

Woe betide anyone who spoke out of turn to those young ladies.

When the cinema opened at Filwood Broadway mum and dad went twice a week.

Occasionally I would be taken but as I got older I was sometimes allowed to go to the Saturday matinee.

Some of the boys were quite naughty.

One or two would pay and then let the others in, I think through the toilet window.

Pictures were then graded “A” or “B.”

Any one could get in if was “B” but if it was an “A” youngsters would have to be accompanied by an adult.

There would always be a small group of kids outside the cinema asking them, “Will you take me, please” and proffering their money.

I liked cowboy films best – especially Roy Rogers and his horse, Trigger.

I think our front room must have been quite crowded what with mum and dad, gran and granfer plus me and my two sisters.

We had a piano (I had lessons later) with gran’s stuffed parrot on top in a glass case.

It had right beady, little eyes.

Then there was the gramophone with a big horn which had to be wound up and, of course, a record of the laughing policeman.

We had a radio but since I went to bed quite early I don’t remember much about what was listened to at night.

I quite liked Saturday mornings as granfer would give me a penny and a half for pocket money.

I would go to the Wrigley machine in Melvin Square to buy chewing gum where, if I was lucky, or if I waited, I might get the extra packet of gum the machine paid out for every seventh coin.

On a Sunday morning, weather permitting, dad would be out in the garden, whistling away, and sometimes he would take us out for a walk.

Mr W. down the road owned ferrets and when they were let loose in the fields they would go down a burrow and chase the poor rabbit out the other side where, of course, he would be caught and killed.

I don’t know how often dad went but I only went once but I don’t expect I had any trouble eating the rabbit.

We didn’t have a posh home or any “mod cons” in those days but we were content.

When we went out we could leave our back door open without any worry.

In fact we didn’t often use our front door.

I don’t think money was plentiful but we had enough to eat.

When the knife grinder came round on his bicycle the housewives would come out with their knives to be sharpened.

I don’t know how he did it but he used to turn his bike upside down where I think there must have been a strap – a bit like dad’s razor.

Sometimes the Walls ice-cream seller would come round on his tricycle ringing his bell.

He didn’t sell wafers or cornets, just vanilla ice-cream rolls which we had to unwrap.

Home was happiness – and Walls ice-cream was perfect happiness.

Take care, Marion.