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searchlights of Belfast were swinging wildly in all directions; then when a few flashes at ground level were followed within seconds by a loud wump , my mother decided it was time to hide under the stairs. Unfortunately the underground shelter she and my aunt had dug in heavy clay had slowly filled up to knee height with water. I remember being frightened only when some landmines were dropped in the Castlereagh hills. I also recall feeling sorry for whatever Nazi bomber crew were caught by searchlights, thinking they were so far from home and were, after all, only doing what they considered their duty. I was at the time hopelessly enamoured of an RAF bomber pilot whose family lived nearby.
    Ration books were issued, and soon the weekly food ration was in operation. Northern Ireland, in the rural areas at least, suffered less than Britain, almost everyone having a contact within the farming community. Rationing presented my mother with a new challenge. Hitherto unknown dishes would appear: crumbed sweetbreads, stuffed lamb’s heart, eel, and even, I regret to say, whale. The sweetbreads were quite palatable; the hearts – which strangely I did not connect with frisking lambs – tended to be rubbery even after long baking, but I liked the stuffing. I shall never forget the writhing of chopped eel in the frying pan – although dead, the bits appeared to be in death agonies and I refused to try them. Whale, I gave a try, but even the grown-ups decided that once was enough. Marmalade was concocted from a gelatinous, artificial lemon-flavoured mix, in which fine ribbons of carrot simulated Seville orange peel. Butter and margarine were whipped up with milk to increase the volume. It shames me now to remember how little thought my peer group gave to the war that was raging in Europe, or the dangers the merchant navy encountered in order to keep the civilian population from starvation.

6
    Work, Recreation and Liaisons
    B
y the time I was fourteen the three-year disparity in age between me and my best friends was more apparent. Annie, temporarily in remission from anorexia, had been accepted by the WAAF . Celia, now a succulent young woman, had joined the Women’s Royal Naval Service based on HMS Caroline at Sydenham, under the command of the Earl of Kilmorey, whom she worshipped. We kept in touch by meeting for coffee either in Robinson and Cleaver’s restaurant, or Campbell’s Coffee Shop opposite Belfast City Hall. The latter was furnished with art deco scarlet upholstered chairs with tubular steel frames, grouped around low red metal-topped tables; the walls had been decorated by Rowel Friers, with cartoons of local characters. The coffee, served in mugs, was deplorable by today’s standards, but Campbell’s rolls, liberally filled with a mixture of bacon and mushrooms, chopped hard-boiled egg, sardines, or grated cheese and chutney, were deservedly popular and, at three pence, very good value. There was also a variety of sticky, fruit-spotted buns topped with a swirl of white icing. The first floor was favoured by artists, architects, playwrights, and the embryonic Reverend Ian Paisley, who even then, had a loyal circle of acolytes. The ground floor was where teachers from Inst and other grammar schools, my own included, socialised after school. Among them, Celia’s mother, who had, to universal astonishment, a science degree, and had been recruited to fill a gap caused by loss of staff to the forces. Memorably, on spotting one of the few African students at Queen’s, she was heard to say: ‘It’s funny them being black and us being white.’ By this time she was a widow. Celia’s father, an imposing figure, always dressed in a fine tweed suit, was a Great War survivor, probably suffering from depression, though this was never mentioned. He drank heavily, about which his wife spoke in confidence to my mother, who otherwise seldom had much in common with my friends’