The day the circus came to town, by Peter Morford

          It’s funny how the memory works. You’d think that it would be the big things that you’d remember all your life.  What I call the “peaks” – first day at school, or the new job, your wedding day, the first-born child.

If you’d scored a century at Lords, you’d remember – and I suppose no one forgets the dark days of clangers and embarrassments. But amidst all these big things are the little events which make a distant day stick in the memory.

Mention D-Day 1944. It was also my tenth birthday and we were all looking forward to the summer holidays.  Dad was probably in Normandy with the first wave – we couldn’t be sure. As I finished breakfast Mum put sandwiches and an apple into my lunch box.

          “You’d better take this with you,” she smiled.

          It was a new cricket ball.  Not a proper leather one but a hard, red composite with a moulded seam.  I knew it would sting my hand when I caught it but unlike a real cricket ball it would keep its shape.

          “Thanks Mum, I can try it out in the lunch break.  Johnny Vaughan’s got a new bat. I’ll bowl this so fast that I’ll break it,” I boasted.

          School was a mile away. Johnny was waiting for me at the cross roads and we had to run the last half to arrive, a bit breathless, just as the bell was ringing.

          All through that morning’s lessons I planned how I would bowl my new ball. It would leave my hand at 80 mph, pitch on just the right spot, break away to the left and take out Billy Anderson’s off stump.  The next batsman would fall to my leg break and –

          “What did I just tell you Charlie Morris?” Mrs. Skeet yelled. “Stand up.”

          But before I could say anything, the noon bell rung and I was saved.  Far louder was the howl of the siren, the air raid warning.

          “A fine time to have an air raid,” Johnny muttered. “You wouldn’t think the Jerries would have time to come here.”

          “Right class, bring your lunch-bags and gas masks and follow me,” Mrs Skeet shouted, leading us to the shelter.

          We had to cross the yard and go down about a dozen steps into a cold and dim place with bare concrete walls and ceiling. Against the long walls were benches for the girls on the left facing the boys on the right.

          The caretaker brought in a crate of milk and went out again, slamming the heavy door behind him.

          Mrs Skeet lit a candle and we waited for the bombs to fall.