Iwas sitting at home last October, watching the local news, when a story came on about the Care organisation. They were talking to people who had received parcels through the charity during the war. The report then said there was an exhibition in London and showed a picture of a family opening a package. I thought, “Hold on, that’s my family!” It wasn’t on screen for long, but I recognised it straight away: I’d seen it about 20 years earlier, when my sister June had shown it to me after Care had sent a copy to her. I phoned her and asked, “Did you see the Six O’Clock News?”
I went along to the show that weekend – it really took me aback, seeing the photograph so huge. I remember that flat: we had two in a block in Westminster. They had to give us two, because my parents had eight children. It was a little bit rough. There was no electricity, everything was gas, the toilet was on the balcony and we shared it with the other flats.
In the picture, I’m looking at a bar of soap: I’d never seen white soap before. We had carbolic soap in those days, which came in blocks and was usually green; to see white soap that smelled nice was completely new.
A Care package was mostly tinned food – it had come from America, so they couldn’t send anything fresh. Anonymous families would donate stuff and Care would box it up and send it on. I don’t know how we were chosen; I remember it just turned up. There was rice, corned beef, Spam, things that wouldn’t rot. I’d never seen rice before. It wouldn’t have lasted long in our family, but it would have been like Christmas for my mum, not to have to use her coupons.
I remember ration books. Being a big family, Dad used to barter on the black market. He would swap sweet coupons for butter or whatever he could get his hands on. It wasn’t allowed, but if you’ve got eight kids, you’ve got to feed them. And he did. We certainly couldn’t ever refuse food, but I was never hungry. Dad used to make a stew, and it might be there for three days – we’d just keep adding to it. I remember going down to the market with my brothers and picking up what we called specks: bruised fruit and vegetables. Market sellers thought they probably couldn’t sell a bruised apple, so they’d put them aside. My mum would cut them up and make a fruit salad.
I have a few copies of this photograph now; one of me standing next to it at the exhibition is my desktop picture. When I look at it, I feel grateful that people sent food to us when we were in such a dire predicament. It would have given my parents peace of mind for a few days; we knew there were people out there in other countries who were thinking of us.
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