I moved about far too much as a child to ever think of anywhere as “home” — but my first real memories are of the Carpenter’s Arms, a London pub that my parents ran for Brakspear beers, and which is still there, on the King’s Cross Road, in north London. I’m not sure how old I was when I moved into the pub, and now there is nobody alive to tell me. But I do know that I was very little, and that I lived there for two or three years before the war, when I was evacuated to the countryside.

My family — me, my parents, my sister, Billie (who was eight years older than me, and attended the Italia Conti arts school), and two grannies — lived above the shop. Our space was pretty cramped: I shared a room with my sister and my mum would use the tiny, rudimentary kitchen to cook our food, as well as sandwiches and pies for the pub. It was noisy up there, but I was used to it, and would find the sounds coming from the pub below comforting. My parents would entertain a lot in the bar, and have singsongs, and when my father called “Time, gentlemen, please”, all the customers would spill out loudly onto the street.

When I lived there, the Carpenter’s Arms had a saloon bar, a public bar and a ladies’ bar at the back. Kids weren’t allowed in the pub, but there was only one main entrance to the place, so we had to race through. I would sneak into the bar sometimes and “entertain” the old ladies, playing all the parts in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. They were dear old things, with their port and lemon, and they must have wondered how to get rid of this dreadful girl.

My parents were terribly busy and I hardly ever saw them. When the lunchtime trade finished, they would have an hour’s rest before getting ready for the evening. During that hour, I had to be absolutely pin-drop quiet.

King’s Cross was a working-class area, but it was very neighbourly and not too rough. I was put out onto the street to play for hours. And if a few villains came into the pub, it didn’t seem the least bit threatening. Besides, it was opposite the magistrates’ court, and the police would keep an eye on things. On Sundays, the winkle and shrimp man would come, and my sister and I would put on our best dresses, with aprons to match, and go and get a pint of each. The Salvation Army would come, too, with their tambourines, and us kids would sing and dance.

We left the Carpenter’s Arms, I think, because my dad was sipping a bit too much beer. He left the industry and we moved to Kent. I went back a few years ago, when I did Who Do You Think You Are? The pub is unchanged, apart from a few walls having been knocked down. It is still a spit-andsawdust local that hasn’t been gentrified, and, as the pub is over a railway line, the glasses still shook every time a train went by.

The fixtures and fittings — the rather spotted glass, the lamps — were all the same. Even the lino on the stairs, on which I would sit, on the other side of the door, and listen to my mum and dad playing the piano and singing. I was so touched during my visit, because there was one guy in there drinking — a very, very old guy — and he claimed to have known my dad.

I don’t remember feeling poor, but I think our existence was pretty hand to mouth. My parents were caring, and were perfect for each other. My dad, particularly, I adored. He was an entertaining man with an amazing personality. At the end of his life, Mum and Dad went to live in a caravan park. There was a bar there that Dad started working at, and made a success. The night he died, in the 1970s, he’d been doing high kicks; he had a coronary.

Just Me by Sheila Hancock is out now (Bloomsbury £7.99). She is appearing in Sister Act, at the Palladium, London W1, until May 2010

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