Paul | WWII | North Yorkshire | Parkview | February 2026

Parkview Shopping Centre near Zoo Lake has been part of my life for over 50 years. I have vivid recollections of my Mom dropping my friends and me off to watch movies at the long defunct Lake Cinema. Decades later, when we moved to nearby Saxonwold on our return from Namibia, Peter the Picture Framer framed the majority of our art and photos, many of which were developed at the nearby photo shop. I wonder if he (Peter) is still there. I’ll go and have a look.

Van der Wat Optometrists, his daughters went to the same school as mine. I somehow ended up with his late brother’s vintage motoring books collection. Franco’s Pizza & Trattoria where generations of families have eaten. I was last there with the Conidaris’s and the Slavens, old friends from Wits and East London. My kid's nursery school teacher, Tina from Limberlost Nursery School worked there on occasion. Memories, that is all we have in the end.

I recall meeting author, mother and publisher Melinda Ferguson at the small restaurant next door to Peter’s in the late 1990s. She worked as a waitress there, recovery from drug addiction (all this is public knowledge, read her book "Smacked"), and had just started on her writing and publishing career. Maybe it was even before that. The start of a new life. She shared her story with me. I gained some insight into the world of the likes of Lolly Jackson. Look at her now, an amazing journey, one where courage and tenacity and no mean talent have prevailed, amidst past and present challenges. Melinda won’t remember me, but I haven’t forgotten her.

Various characters in the maze of businesses that found a home in the old Lake Cinema (which became the Old Lake Market) were part of my life. Probably yours as well. Simon Peacock, the King of Oregon, sold us more than our fair of furniture. The clock guy, John, restored a beautiful clock for me. There was a disagreement about price and it turned into a shouting and pushing match. Simon came running over and managed to restore peace before blood started flowing. It was no big deal, the clock guy and I patched things up pretty quickly. I suspect we were both quick-to-temper and quick-to-embrace kind of guys. I’m glad we didn’t get to blows though. In the pushing and shoving I could feel that he would have given as good as he got. Perhaps he felt the same. That must have been 20 years ago.

The lovely chap who owned the rare books corner next to Simon was always good for a chat. We were from the same tribe. Book guys. I am not sure that I ever bought anything from him. I hope I did. I must have.

No surprise then that I have been a regular at the various iterations of Scusi/Bread & Butter/Croft. I may have missed one iteration. Grant and Marisa have been constants through this period, albeit with a hiatus in Australia and also Croft being in a different place (a few shops down) for a while. They have the perfect formulae. Grant makes the ladies feel good, Michelle does the same for the guys. Know your customers. They sure do.

I am a gregarious chap and invariably get to chatting to whoever seems up for a natter. Chat once, chat twice and before you know it you have a coffee shop buddy. Years may pass but if paths cross again at the same location the conversations pick up where they left off.

Helen Roman (nee’ Henderson) is one of my long-standing buddies at Scusi/Bread&Butter/Croft. A few weeks back we crossed paths again. She enquired as to how my collecting and storytelling habits were progressing. “It’s out of control” I replied, “but in good way. Too many stories, but I’d rather have it that way”.

“I may have a story for you” she said, “It is to do with my mother, Paul”. This got my attention because I haven’t met too many people who have a mother named Paul. In fact, this was the very first time. I soon discovered that ‘Paul” was short for ‘Pauline”, but Paul was the name she went by.

We chatted and the next day Helen brought along a Woolworths bag full of letters and photographs. “See what you think. If there is story, please tell it. My mother led a full life”. A few days later she produced another bag, this time an Aerotude Whisky & Craft Spirits bag, again full of photos, letters and ephemera from bygone years. The latter included a mint condition 1960s Snake Bite kit. I like that kind of stuff. The vials of anti-serum only have a shelf life of three years but in an emergency I’d give it a go.

The past few days I have been sifting through the letters and photos, following up on various leads and getting to grips with Paul, so to speak. To say that I am now invested in Paul’s story is an understatement.

The part of Paul’s life that I think is especially worthy of telling (not that the rest of her life isn’t!) lies in 1940. It was early in World War II (although in 1940 it wasn’t yet a “World War”, Germany only invaded Russia in June 1941 and Pearl Harbour took place later that year in December). In Britain being of age meant the chances of being called up were more than pretty good. Paul was 18 at the outbreak of war. She lived up in North Yorkshire and she joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. WAAF girls drew the attention of young men (and vice versa) in uniform, in particular the dashing young aircrew.

I have the responsibility and privilege (and permission) of writing and sharing Paul’s story. The letters that Helen (Paul’s daughter) gave me were sent to Paul by mainly her Royal Air Force (and Canadian Air Force) beaus. They paint a vivid picture of the urgency, intensity and sadness (and joy, yes!) of that time. The accompanying photos and documents vividly amplify the memories of life in North Yorkshire during that time.

I am well into the process of making sense of Paul’s legacy. Howard Battersby, an old school friend of mine (Howard beat me to the main History prize in Matric, although they kindly gave me a “Special Prize”. I guess it must have been close) and a fellow historian is doing a very decent job of researching the various war records of the characters that lie within the letters. I have made some progress reading through the pile of letters, around 100 of them. There are also photographs, men and women in uniform, cars, a trophy lion.

Various collectives of curious older folk, like me, have been following up on shedding light on currently unclear matters of fact. What make, model and year is that car in the photo? This kind of detail is important, well it is to me.

I intend telling Paul’s story piecemeal, as is my wont. This is the first chapter. Feel free to join the researchers, with these kind of stories there are always rabbit holes to explore.