Housebuilding in the new development of Helme Drive, Kendal, was progressing in 1939. A few even-number houses were completed as far as the allotments, plus four more.

Beyond the remaining field up to the heavily-fenced electricity station's giant, loudly-humming transformers were filled with tons of large rough-cut limestones, ideal for fort-building boys.

Most even numbers after 30 were also finished but those behind the back garden of number 14, my home from 1934, were in their early stages.

Scaffolding was supported by wooden poles. Bricks were carried in wheelbarrows and shoulder-borne hods.

The lime to make mortar and plaster was kept in a deep 15-foot square pit with only a rope fence.

Children were told that if we fell into the smelly blancmange-like toxic mixture, we would never get out.

Jeans were years in the future. My mother brewed tea for one jovial, bit-and-brace clad bricklayer called Bill.

My friend and I were so taken with him that we both immediately adopted his name and for years each called the other 'Bill'.

My mother had ambitions for me to become a pianist, so was horrified when I seemed to be turning into a builder.

Half-built houses were 'adventure land' for young lads (no public children's climbing frames then).

Walking on joists with no floorboards was challenging, about a four-foot drop if one misses one's footing.

Going 'upstairs' by ladder was fun, but laid floorboards held no excitement.

A policeman once came round on his bicycle, warning parents of the dangers.

The completed footings of one pair of semis on Burton Road nearly opposite the easy-to-climb oak tree (old even then) were abandoned when the builders were 'called up' into the forces.