Adelaide's party ..

commemorates the 60th anniversary of the end of the Second World War.

Rob Farley, now a 74-year-old retired banker living in Knutsford, was eight as the bombs fell over his then home in Northolt.

Here - 66 years on - he describes in detail how childhood ignorance turned to fear overnight

IT was tough on parents to hear the staccato, impersonal declaration of war with Germany in 1939.

To an eight-year-old, vaguely listening in on the radio, it did not immediately register as much more than a prospective cowboys v Indians shoot-out skirmish.

I probably then was concerned with swapping my much-thumbed Beanos and Dandies for more seriously adult literature such as Hotspur, Adventure and Champion.

No notion occurred of the impending absence, probably forever, of pear drops, Mars bars, oranges or most forms of red meat other than ox hearts, liver or horse.

Or the recognition of ration books, ARP wardens with their brass bells and tin hats, blackouts, artillery batteries at street junctions, the threat of blood spilt.

With the early sight of Hurricanes and Spitfires in spiralling formation across the skies and the wail of sirens, the tempo of life changed even for childish minds.

New words became part of day-to-day vocabulary - incendiaries, camouflage, barrage balloons, searchlights, shrapnel.

We were living on one of many mid-1930s' housing estates every developable inch occupied by terraced and semi-detached houses with neat gardens.

Positioned in the general vicinity of Northolt aerodrome, the area was bound to become an inevitable target for random, aerial bombardment.

For the adults, this prospect must have struck terror in the heart.

For a child, like me, it took more than a while for the perils implicit in the sound of the siren to dawn.

We lived in a compact, terraced house near the beginning of the road. The Browns were halfway down it in a semi-detached.

Unusually for the neighbourhood, one realised with the benefit of hindsight, Mr Brown had his own private business in the construction world.

Adelaide was the daughter, roughly my age, but never one of our gang.

She was a girl to start with and far too pert and porcelain-like for our re-enactors of the fastest gun in the West.

And at football, one could scarcely contemplate a girl in goal.

As we all edged older month by month the pattern of our lives changed in terms of the nature of hostilities.

Still, there were the odd fighter planes, adorned with swastikas, machine guns spewing, and bombs of increasing venom reeking havoc in one community or another.

Then arrived the era of the silent destroyer, the V2 and, of course, the doodlebug.

In its case, you were safe enough while you could hear the riveting bass drone of its engine. Most houses in our street had resort either to an indoor Morrison shelter or a self-erected Anderson in the garden.

The only locally, well-publicised exception was at the Brown's home.

Thanks to the dexterity and inclination of Brown the elder, they had a serious underground bunker backing on to the alley at the rear, a great haunt, anyway, for shrapnel seekers.

At that stage of the war, every evening as a family we retreated with some Irish friends to our cosy, familiar Anderson. We were armed with Thermos flasks, knitting needles, wool of many hues, a galaxy of Irish stories and protective sprinklings of Holy water.

On this particular, pre-dawn morning, tucked up in overcrowded comfort we were shocked awake by an explosion that rocked the foundations.

In the land of nod we had no presentiment that the doodlebug's engine had cut out seconds before.

Almost as if Hitler himself had specifically schemed it, the bomb landed directly on the Browns' architectural bunker.

The conscripted air raid wardens were quick to scour the debris strewn over our beloved street for much of its length.

Our own house, on cursory inspection, had most of the ceilings down, doors blown off, bizarrely both inward and outward, and shards of glass like mottled darts piercing my parents' otherwise intact wardrobe. A headcount revealed that, with one exception, everybody was groggily on parade. The one exception was Adelaide. Probably because it was at least as comfortable as the house, as a matter of rote, the Browns always spent their nights in the bunker - now a shattered heap of reinforced concrete, Middlesex clay and Ruhr metal.

On that night, though, the hand of fate had intervened and for some reason the Browns had elected to sleep in their own beds.

In the cool of the morning, rescuers found Adelaide still in her bed save for the odd, trophy scratch acquired in her descent through the collapsed ceiling.

It must have been shortly after that too-close-to-call incident that I first recognised an ominous awareness of my own mortality.

Perhaps it was no more than a symptom of approaching adolescence but I began to shake with fear whenever the syncopating rhythm of the air raid siren sounded.

The all clear gave unmitigated relief.

But from then on, I abandoned the Anderson at the end of the garden and knitting scarves, preferring to shake alone indoors under the stairs alongside the brooms.

The fear of fear made me crave my own company.

It was doubly good fortune that the war from our point of view was veering toward its close. The skies were now full of waves of Wellingtons, setting off on missions that flattened Dresden, Dusseldorf and Frankfurt

The newspapers dwelt less on our accustomed, domestic ills but vividly portrayed the daily advances by the Allies ultimately on Berlin.

Almost as imperceptibly as we had moved on to a war footing, the need to celebrate peace with vigour began to ascend the priorities.

VE day followed with eager anticipation by VJ Day.

Impromptu street parties gave outward recognition to immense relief from accumulated tension. It is hard to be precise but I suspect that it was in that mood of rampant euphoria that Adelaide gave a party in her house and I was asked to it.

Why I was asked was never entirely apparent. I was not a member of her contemporary clan and no other members of my gang were invited.

The only logical reasons to ascribe were that I lived in the same street, was near the same age and wore trousers.

Peering back now through the decades, that party probably set me on the path, in modern parlance, of an instinctive, natural net-worker.

That word would not have been coined in the late 40s when apart from having a vague, historic link to our hostess, Adelaide, I started off by knowing no one else. And no one else knew me.

Unfamiliar skills needed to be rapidly mustered to combat a frustrating sense of isolation.

Putting on my interpretation of an Alan Ladd swagger I started off with mannerly greetings to two of the girls who had arrived more or less at the same time in a cloud of mother's eau de cologne.

They were more immediately accessible, and distinctly more attractive, than the other boys Brylcreemed up and puffing away on Woodbines.

Very early on, I discovered that the art of networking largely revolved around asking questions and having a fertile memory.

Here, some years later, that child had metamorphosed into a Grable-like dream.

I never saw or heard of Adelaide again or any of her fellow guests.

The only thing we all had in common was that we had lived through the Second World War and had survived to tell our tales.

I wonder what happened subsequently to Adelaide and her party guests during the intervening decades.

There must be a yarn or two to emerge of setbacks, sadnesses, victories and enduring joys.