Ban the Bomb!. Martin Levy

a living at the time of your birth?

      He ran a children’s clothing factory, Hitchen, Smith & Co., Ltd., in Old Street, London. The firm was originally based in Nottingham specialising in lace wear. Nottingham was where his father’s family hailed from, though he himself was born and brought up in Folkestone and London. His father took over the firm sometime in the 1920s after it ran into financial difficulties and moved it to London.

       Did your father employ many people?

      It wasn’t a big factory, but there must have been thirty or forty people. I occasionally did some work there when I was on holiday from school.

       So, the company stayed in business for some time …

      Oh, yes. Later on, in the 1950s, my brother Arthur took it over after graduating in accountancy from the London Polytechnic and doing National Service in the army.

       Tell me about your mother.

      My mother, Ellen, came from what was pretty much a working-class family, with roots in County Carlow and Kildare. Her father, Patrick Treacy, was from Bagenalstown in County Carlow and set up as a builder in Dublin employing a few people; her mother, Esther Treacy, née Dowd, was from Prosperous in County Kildare. My mother worked in a local shop before coming over to England and entering service.

       How did your parents meet?

      They met at a New Year’s Eve party. I think at a Conservative Club. But neither of them was active in the party and I don’t think that my mother was ever a member. I’m not sure about my father.

       I know that you were brought up as a Catholic. Were both your parents Catholics?

      My father was brought up in the Church of England and it was only after meeting my mother that he decided to change. But it was very much a gradual thing. My mother told me that he asked her so many questions while they were courting about the Catholic faith that she finally asked him, ‘Well, are you thinking of becoming a Catholic, Arthur?’ And he replied, ‘No, no. I’m just interested in finding out a bit more.’ This was at a period when there was a revival of interest in that whole Cardinal Newman wing of Catholicism. But then he did convert to Catholicism.

      Fig 1: Michael’s parents at their wedding in April 1931. Photographer unknown. Private Collection.

       So, I would imagine you attended mass as a youngster.

      You bet. Mass and Benediction [laughs]. It was coming from both sides at that point!

       Bearing in mind your father’s business interests, you obviously had quite a posh upbringing. Did that include servants?

      We always had at least one maid, who was nearly always Irish and usually someone my mother got through contacts in Ireland. I remember one young woman called Moira, whom we all liked and got along well with. Then I also remember an Englishwoman called Rose, who came and helped as well.

       Would you say that your parents were happily married?

      On the whole, yes. The only cause of serious tension between them stemmed from the fact that during the late ‘forties dad changed back to the C of E. Why was that? He had become critical of the whole Catholic ethos and the clericalism. Then there was another reason: he got the idea that there was something going on between my mother and an Irish priest, who used to visit. But that I’m sure was nonsense.

       Were you a sociable child?

      Well, I had my school friends and other children. The first school I went to was St. Cecilia’s in North Cheam and one of my best friends there was a boy named Jimmy Seymour, whose parents ran a greengrocer’s shop not far from where we lived in Cheam village. But then the war came and my family moved around a bit. In fact, initially, all of us except probably my dad moved to Merthyr Tydfil, in Wales, to a house which belonged to a Cheam couple. Then, when the Blitz started, my brother, Arthur, my sister, Margaret, and I were sent to Ireland, to a Catholic boarding school, St Dominic’s College, in Cabra, West Dublin.

       Did you miss your parents?

      Of course, but probably no more than any other child in that situation. In any case, during the school holidays I stayed with my mother’s parents and my aunt, Nan, who had a house in Inchicore on the west side of Dublin, and who all made sure that I was very well looked after. And I wasn’t on my own. Although Margaret stayed with cousins during the holidays, I always had my older brother, Arthur, for company. Then, during the latter part of the war, another sister, Terry, arrived, who, incidentally, was very intelligent and quick witted. Then, there was a cousin on my mother’s side, a Catholic priest, Uncle Tom, who used to come and play rebel songs on the piano like ‘Kevin Barry’ and ‘Kelly, the Boy from Killane’. So, yes, I did miss them. But not quite as badly as I could have done.

      Fig 2: Michael’s maternal grandmother, Esther Treacy, and his Aunt Nan, with child. Early 1940s. Photographer unknown. Private Collection.

       Did you return to England during the war?

      No, but my parents used to come over at least once a year, bringing with them a growing number of younger siblings to meet me.

       Let’s rewind a bit back to St. Cecilia’s, to 1939. People knew that war was coming. Do you remember gas drill, for instance?

      I do remember having a gas mask and learning how to put it on and the smell of rubber that came from it. I don’t remember organised drill, but at school when there was an air raid warning, we’d put them on and go down to the main shelter in the playground and have our lessons there. I have a vivid memory of the smell of concrete. We used to have little hand-held blackboards to write things on.

       Slates?

      That’s right. The first time I ever got smacked at school was when I annoyed the teacher by slapping the thing on my knee [laughs]. But at that point the war for me was just an adventure. I had no understanding of the danger. We used to pray for peace, but I remember thinking, I don’t want this thing to end too soon; it’s too exciting. Not that I wanted to be a soldier. But the air raid warnings and the shelters were thrilling. At home I slept under the stairs, which was supposed to be the safest place. Then at some point we also had an air raid shelter in the garden.

       What was your parents’ attitude to the war?

      Well, my father was against it, not on political grounds as far as I know, but on moral grounds. Early on he registered as a conscientious objector, but his application was rejected. However, because he was in a vital industry, the clothing industry, he was exempted from military service, anyway.

       Can you tell me something about the experience of being at St. Dominic’s?

      For starters, it was run by Dominican nuns. Three of us went there: Arthur, Margaret and me, while Terry went to a local day-school in Inchicore. I remember our excitement at the prospect of being at a school where you slept in. We thought that was terrific. But when we got there it was very strict and oddly puritanical.

      Fig 3: Michael (on the right) with his older brother, Arthur, on Killiney Hill, County Wicklow. Early 1940s. Photograph by Arthur Randle senior. Private Collection.

       How so?

      Well, I remember one kid who was very young, probably just three or four. One day he got up in the dormitory. His pyjama bottoms fell down, and he was beaten with the thick leather strap that was used for administering punishment. Then I remember other examples of the nuns’ severity. In the school grounds there was an institute for the deaf and dumb, some of whose inmates worked as servants