A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  Due to the coal and domestic fuel rations, Maguire & Sons, the coal merchants in Poplar, had been forced to sell off some of their fleet and Reggie had jumped at the chance to buy one of their trucks. He’d paid them a fiver over the asking price, thereby nabbing himself one of their new vehicles. Stacked around Reggie’s new acquisition were various piles of building materials, while the pallets of bricks and the rows of picks and shovels lined up along the back wall all gave the impression of a thriving business. Anyone looking more closely, however, would soon see that the sand had become solid, and that there were weeds sprouting amongst the paving slabs, and rust on the tools. Although he took on the odd bit of navvying just to show willing, everyone knew Reggie Sweete’s main line of work had nothing to do with bricks and mortar.

  As Tommy stepped through into the yard, Fred Willis and Jimmy Rudd walked out of the office.

  Fred, who’d been his brother’s shadow for as long as Tommy could remember, was a wiry chap with a jagged scar along his chin. In contrast, Jimmy was a low-browed, heavily built individual who even Tommy had to look up to.

  As they spotted Tommy they both looked relieved.

  ‘Fank Christ, you’ve arrived, Tommy boy,’ said Fred, lolloping across. ‘Your Reggie’s in one of his tempers.’

  ‘Yeah,’ added Jimmy. ‘Been biting our bleedin’ heads off all bleedin’ day, he has.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘God knows,’ Fred replied. ‘But me and Jimmy are skedaddling before he starts going off on one again.’

  ‘See you,’ said Jimmy, giving Tommy a light-handed cuff on the arm as he and Fred headed for the gate.

  The two men left, closing the door behind them.

  Tommy found his brother Reggie sitting behind a desk strewn with papers that had been anchored down with a bag of nails and an open bottle of Scotch. Behind him was a dusty three-shelved bookcase stacked haphazardly with files and ledgers. Nailed on the wall opposite the window was a cork board with last year’s calendar pinned on it showing Miss December, in high-heels and a scant negligee, making a snowman.

  Seven years his senior, Reggie was four inches shorter than Tommy and instead of his tight, athletic frame he had the physique of a prize bull.

  Dressed in a wide-collared shirt, a chocolate-brown three-piece suit with a flowery tie and fob chain dangling across his middle, his brother looked as if he were going out on the town rather than working in a builder’s yard.

  He looked up as Tommy walked in.

  ‘I was beginning to fink you’d got lost,’ he said, the half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips moving as he spoke.

  Dropping his tool bag on the desk, Tommy dragged a paint-splattered chair over and sat astride it.

  ‘Who’s been yanking your chain, then?’

  ‘Poxy council that’s who,’ said Reggie. ‘Sent me this bloody summons.’

  He searched out a crumpled manila envelope from amongst the paperwork and shoved it at Tommy.

  As Tommy scanned the letter, Reggie took the last drag on his cigarette and flicked it on the floorboards then taking one of the stained enamel mugs from behind him, he threw the dregs on the floorboards.

  Grabbing the whisky, he waved it at Tommy who shook his head. His brother poured himself a large measure.

  ‘Bloody cheek of it,’ he continued after swallowing a mouthful. ‘Who said they could sign me and my chaps up as part of their Civil Defence tosh?’

  ‘The Air Raid Precautions Act,’ Tommy replied, handing the compulsion order back.

  ‘And if that ain’t enough piggin’ cheek,’ Reggie continued, screwing up the council letter in his fist. ‘They’ve sewest . . . sekest . . . me lorry too.’

  ‘Sequestered,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Bloody fancy word for a bloody liberty, however they want to dress it up,’ said Reggie.

  ‘There is a war on and you want to count your blessing, Reg,’ said Tommy. ‘You’ve been allocated to the Shadwell. Some builders have been ordered to report to command centres on the other side of London not to mention you’ll get paid £2 17s 6d a week.’

  ‘I’m earning three times that now,’ scoffed Reggie. ‘And they’ll bleedin’ tax me too.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Tommy. ‘But if you don’t want to end up in front of the beak having to explain yourself then—’

  ‘All right, smart arse, you’ve made your point,’ said Reggie, knocking back the last of his Scotch and pouring another. ‘But I’m listing you as one of the crew. Unless of course you want to freeze your bollocks off doing fire watch on top of the India and Imperial warehouse all winter.’

  ‘All right, count me in,’ said Tommy. ‘As long as it’s all above board and legit.’

  Holding his little finger down with his thumb Reggie raised his right hand. ‘Boy Scouts’ honour.’

  Tommy gave him a wry smile. ‘Anything else in the post?’

  Reggie grinned. ‘I suppose you mean from your bit of fluff in the country.’

  Tommy’s mouth pulled into a hard line. ‘Her name’s Jo.’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ said Reggie. ‘There was nothing from Jo.’

  Tommy’s shoulders sagged.

  ‘Come on, cheer up.’ Reggie shoved the bottle across the table at him. ‘Have a drink and forget about her. Plenty more fish in the sea and haven’t I always told you to follow your big brother’s example and love ’em and leave ’em.’

  Tommy didn’t reply.

  Reggie held his gaze for a second then his eyes flickered onto the tool bag on the desk. ‘I did think when they released you from Borstal we’d go back to our old games, you know.’ He gave Tommy an ingratiating smile. ‘The Sweete brothers, quick and crafty, living by our wits.’

  ‘By breaking in and nicking stuff, you mean?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Yeah, but didn’t I teach you everything you needed to know?’ said Reggie.

  ‘True,’ Tommy conceded. ‘If it weren’t for you I’d never have learned how to shin up a drainpipe, pick a lock or open a three-tumbler safe using a drinking glass.’

  ‘I know it’s that bi . . . that Jo who’s been stuffing your bonce with all that going straight nonsense,’ said Reggie. ‘And it’s understandable, you being swayed by her. You’re young and your sap’s rising, making you frisky, but you shouldn’t let that get between us.’

  Tommy forced a smile. ‘It won’t. Now, I should be off.’

  There was a long pause then Reggie picked up the crumpled pack of Senior Service lying amongst the paper debris on his desk. ‘I suppose you’re going to see her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tommy stood up.

  ‘I don’t know why you bother,’ his brother said.

  ‘Because I have to,’ Tommy replied.

  The two brothers stared at each other for a moment then Reggie looked away.

  ‘I’ll see you later at the Admiral?’ he said out of the side of his mouth as he held the flame to the tip of his cigarette.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Tommy replied, picking up his tools. ‘I’m freezing me bollocks off fire-watching on the India and Imperial.’

  Tommy turned and headed for the door.

  ‘Don’t bother to give her my love,’ Reggie called after him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tommy replied, without breaking his stride, ‘I never do.’

  •

  Twenty minutes after leaving his brother’s yard, Tommy turned down Limehouse Causeway carrying a full shopping bag in one hand and his tool bag in the other. He continued on until he reached the bend in the road at Milligan Street. Staring past the line of warehouses, his gaze fixed on Potter Dwellings. Despite being just a stone’s throw from Limehouse Basin, the solid yellow brick tenement had survived the night’s bombing, and Tommy gave a sigh of relief.

  As the plaque on the wall informed those who might be curious, the three-storey council block had been opened less than forty years before in 1904 by Alderman Henry Potter who gave the building its name. Walking under the wrought-iron archway
and into the central courtyard, Tommy headed for the furthest staircase then took the steps two at a time to the top floor. He strode along the balcony until he reached the door at the far end.

  With two bedrooms, a kitchen with running water and one toilet for every three families, the flats were much sought after and all tenants maintained them to a high standard, as the freshly painted doors, window boxes and scrubbed stairways testified.

  All, that is, except the one Tommy was standing in front of now.

  He looked at the faded front door for a second or two and then, knowing it was never locked, pushed it open. Stepping over the discoloured door mat and ensuring he didn’t kick the three-day-old milk bottle beside it, Tommy walked inside.

  ‘Mum,’ he shouted, as the foetid air clogged his nose. ‘It’s Tommy?’

  Nothing.

  Shutting the door behind him, Tommy walked down the narrow passage and into the main living room. With the exception of perhaps a few additional stains on the sofa and more dust on the mantelshelf, the ten-by-twelve room looked much as it had looked when he’d visited last week. The pile of newspapers remained stacked haphazardly in the corner and each surface had an item of used crockery on it. There were a couple of lazy flies buzzing around a half-eaten piece of fish and a handful of last week’s dried chips nesting in a screwed-up piece of newspaper on the floor. Although he paid the rent on it each week, the thought of living there made his stomach churn. He and Reggie lived in Tarling Street instead.

  There was a shuffling sound behind him and Tommy turned to see his mother leaning against the doorframe.

  Ruby Sweete was just forty-five but looked at least ten years older. She was wearing the dressing gown he’d bought her in Boardman’s a few Christmases ago but lack of regular washing meant the bright pink garment was now grey. The lace around the collar was mostly missing while the matching decoration on the cuffs hung in twisted threads around her bony wrists. In the photos of her as a young chorus girl at the Hackney Empire, Ruby’s blonde hair was a riot of curls but now it looked like an abandoned bird’s nest. The remnants of last night’s make-up were still smudged around her eyes and what remained of her lipstick had sunk into the etched lines around her mouth.

  She had never been what you’d describe as full figured, but in the last couple of years her slender figure had become gaunt and even the rouge on her cheeks couldn’t disguise the grey tinge to her skin.

  She stared uncomprehendingly at him a moment then a light flickered on in her eyes. ‘Tommy.’

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ he replied. ‘How you been keeping?’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she replied. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m in the pink,’ he replied. ‘I thought I’d just pop down to see if you’re all right. Where did you go last night?’

  ‘Down to the Angel,’ she replied. ‘You get a nice crowd in there.’

  ‘No, I meant when the air raid siren went off.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Air raid—’

  ‘Which shelter did you go to?’ Tommy persisted.

  ‘I stayed in the pub, of course,’ she replied. ‘I reckon if your number’s up, your number’s up. You got a fag?’

  Reaching into the bag, Tommy took out a packet of Senior Service and handed them to her. Fumbling, she unwrapped it and took one out. Placing it between her lips she took a box of Swan Vesta from behind the motionless clock on the mantelshelf.

  After a couple of attempts to strike a light, Tommy put the bag on the sideboard and walked over to his mother. Taking the matches from her, he lit one.

  Her hand shook as her nicotine-stained fingers closed over his and she drew on the cigarette.

  ‘Thanks, luv,’ she said, looking up at him through bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s this weather. Plays havoc with me circulation.’

  Moving away before the smell of her unwashed body made him gag, Tommy returned to the sideboard.

  ‘Dolly sent you some pie and mash,’ he said.

  Shoving aside a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s, Tommy started to unpack the shopping. ‘There’s a couple of tins of pilchards, some of that rice pudding you like, a tin loaf. It’s off the first tray of the evening batch.’

  He laid the tissue-wrapped bread that he’d bought after leaving Reggie’s yard next to the collection of tins. The smell of freshly baked yeast and flour drifted up and almost masked the stale odour of the room.

  His mother studied the collection unenthusiastically and blew a stream of smoke towards the discoloured ceiling.

  ‘I know,’ he said, pulling out the tin Dolly had given him from the bottom of the bag, ‘why don’t I find a plate for your supper?’

  ‘Ta, luv, but,’ she patted her stomach, ‘I’m a bit jippy. I’ll have it later. But you can make yourself a cuppa if you want. There’s milk on the doorstep.’

  ‘No, it’s all right, Mum,’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen Reggie?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘I dropped in at the yard earlier. He says hello.’

  ‘That’s good of him,’ she replied sourly.

  ‘He’s busy, Mum,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Too busy for his mother,’ she said, the cigarette dangling from her lips sprinkling ash as she spoke. ‘It ain’t right. Do you hear me, boy? It ain’t right.’

  Tommy said nothing.

  ‘I suffered agonies for two nights bringing him into this world and this is how he treats me,’ she continued, with tears of self-pity shining in her bloodshot eyes. ‘My own flesh and blood. And after all I’ve done for him.’

  Memories of him and Reggie, hunger gnawing at their innards, huddled under a dirty blanket for warmth, shot through Tommy’s mind.

  ‘He’s busy, Mum,’ he reiterated.

  His mother mulled this over for a moment and then a maudlin expression spread across her face.

  ‘Not like you, Tommy,’ she said. ‘You don’t forget your old mum, do you?’

  ‘No, Mum,’ he replied in the same flat tone.

  ‘You always were my favourite.’ She smiled, showing her irregular, nicotine-stained teeth. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  There was a long pause punctuated only by the echo of the dripping tap in the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Tommy.

  Walking across the sticky rug he headed for the door.

  ‘Tommy.’

  He stopped and looked back at her from the doorway.

  ‘Can you spare me a couple of bob?’ she asked.

  ‘What happened to the half a crown I sent round on Tuesday?’ he asked.

  Her pale lips lifted in a self-pitying smile. ‘You don’t begrudge me a bit of comfort, do you, Tommy?’

  Tommy studied his mother for a couple of seconds then shoved his hand in his pocket. He pulled out his change and selected a couple of florin.

  Retracing his steps, he dropped them in his mother’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, her chipped, painted nails scraped the back of his hand as her fingers snapped around the coins. ‘You’re a good boy.’

  Tommy turned, marched back across the room and left the flat.

  The sun had crept around the end of the block, illuminating the grimy and smeared window behind him. Resting his hands on the rough brickwork of the balcony, Tommy took a deep breath to clear the cloying stench from his nose and mouth.

  He’d been born in this flat and somehow survived there, until Reggie had offered him a bed with him and the woman he was knocking about with at the time. Family life for him and Reggie had been dirty clothes, hungry bellies and random aggression. For a while he’d gone along with Reggie’s philosophy towards women and had begun to drink more than was good for him to numb the hollowness of his hand-to-mouth existence, but then he’d met Jo and everything had changed. Seeing the possibility of a different life with her had formed a steely resolve in Tommy, and he’d sworn by all that was holy that no child of his would ever have to endure the nightmares he had.

  Chapter Three

  ‘SO,
’ SAID LUCY Tomlinson as Jo wound the end of the crêpe bandage around her toe, ‘there’s still no letter from Tommy.’

  ‘No.’ Jo sighed, pulling the strip of fabric taut to mound around her friend’s heel. ‘Nothing – just one from my mum and my ruddy big sister.’

  It was now half past eight and she and Lucy were in Melton Winchet’s village hall at the end of a line of St John Ambulance cadets all intent on bandaging various bits of each other. They’d been at it for an hour and had already demonstrated putting a casualty into the recovery position, splinted both legs, arms and fingers, shown how to wash noxious substances from the eyes and how to apply a tourniquet to stop an arterial haemorrhage. Now they were on their last test.

  Lucy Tomlinson was a friendly easy-going blonde with a wide smile and a snub nose splattered with freckles. She lived on the other side of the village green with her parents and four brothers. Although Lucy was a year older than Jo, the two girls had struck up a friendship immediately, mainly due to Lucy’s insatiable interest in London. Having travelled no further than Chelmsford, she was forever quizzing Jo about events and places in the capital.

  As the plaque on the wall proudly announced, the village hall had been built to celebrate the Old King’s coronation in 1910 and opened by the local landowner’s wife, Lady Williamina Tollhunt. With a stage for concerts at one end and a serving hatch through to the kitchen at the other, the wall between reflected the building’s role in village life.

  Above the door was a carved wooden plaque listing the local good and great who had donated generously to the building of the hall. Beside the main door was a list of the parish council and the time of the next meetings. Side by side on the wall were the Boy Scouts’ and Girl Guides’ cork boards displaying the respective troops’ monthly activity and badges achieved. Opposite them, above the cast-iron radiator, was the Women’s Institute noticeboard on which were pinned the dates of future meetings, as well as appeals for members to knit hats and gloves for seamen and donate unwanted clothing for those ‘less fortunate’. In addition, there was a hand-drawn thermometer in the shape of an aeroplane with an RAF bull’s-eye on each wing and sections blocked out, indicating how much the worthy ladies of Melton Winchet had raised towards purchasing a Spitfire.