I never have anything brilliant to say when asked about what I read as a child. It was such a long time ago! I don't mean that I've forgotten, but that during and after World War II, there weren't many books published for children. I remember reading battered old prewar copies of E. Nesbit's fantasies, and The Railway Children, and almost everything by
Kipling. There were the Pooh books and A.A. Milne's verse when I was small. Sometimes they went into the air-raid shelter with us, to be read by candlelight as a distraction from the bangs and thumps going on overhead.
Later I was totally addicted to Arthur
Ransome. If he published a new book, it was always the favourite birthday or Christmas present and I would have to be kept forcibly from retreating into a corner and instantly starting to read. I read Malcolm Saville's adventure stories, Pamela Brown's theatre books - and skipped my way through Dickens, Thackeray and
H.G. Wells. I was book-hungry and out of reach of a library, and those happened to be on my parent's shelves.