It was Saturday, November 10th 1945. Saturday was always the busiest and most important day of the week for the Ford family of Pembroke Terrace, Penarth.

It could be said that our very survival depended on the trading success of Saturday as this was the day of 'The Round', when Dad (a.k.a. Pop), having collected the produce from his smallholding near the Toll Gate on Penarth Road, more fruit and Veg from the warren of wholesalers around Custom House Street, Cardiff and breakfasted for the last time at about 9.30 a.m. would load up the cart with the last essentials from the basement scullery would prepare to leave on the day-long round of his customers around the streets of Penarth.

I, his youngest son -then aged 11, had taken up the outside stone steps the scales and the weights:14lb,7, 4, 2, 1 a half pound, quarter and two ounces with which I knew all combinations were possible. Pop was carrying out a last minute check to see that everything was loaded.

Then, waiting with Mum and sister Bea, we caught sight of the telegram-boy coming dowen the steps from the street above. Knowing that my RAF pilot brother George was already engaged to a WAAF (member of the Women's Air force) and that a baby was expected, I let a whoop, guessing (wrongly) that it was to announce their hasty wedding. But Mum had already guessed the real purpose of the telegram now being brought to our downstairs door by a very sober looking telegram boy.

Supported and comforted by my sister Bea, just 9 years older than myself, she sank quietly sobbing onto the battered old couch. I was equally shattered by the news that George was missing believed to have lost his life, just the previous day. But before anything more could be said, Mum turned to me and begged me not to tell Pop. It was vital that The Round be got through. I, as usual was to go with him but not breathe a word about the telegram. Pop would be told the terrible news at the end of the day.

That day is a memory that still haunts me, although I know that countless thousands of other families suffered the same traumatic period. But for an eleven-year old boy to keep such a terrible secret from his dear father for a whole day, serving customers, hiding the welling tears, trying to smile at any jokes between Pop and the customers was the most difficult task of my life.

All went reasonably well until late afternoon, when approaching Penarth Centre Roundabout, the sounds of martial music , a whole band and an approaching parade became louder and louder. Then, confronting us came the parade, headed by an airman with pilot's wings who seemed to me the spitting image of my now dead brother. To my father's puzzlement, I could hold out no longer, and with a howl of anguish fled through the nearby Windsor Arcade, closely followed by my mongrel dog, Bulla.

It had, I now presume, been The Armistice Day Parade but to me such occasions are just too poignant to celebrate or even watch such events with a feeling other than horror.

Pop would learn later and grieve but The Round and The Day had been saved and Pop spared for just a few more hours.

Mike Ford - Penarth - April 2007