A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  Going to the door she opened it, poked her head out and listened. Other than Mr Garfield’s faint snoring from the floor below where the family slept, the house was completely silent.

  Tiptoeing across the landing she grasped the handle of Billy’s door and crept in. Closing the door behind her, Jo picked her way across the room between his scattered clothes and comics and went over to his bed.

  Putting her hand on his shoulder she shook him. ‘Billy!’

  He groaned and grabbing a handful of the candlewick counterpane and blankets dragged them over his head.

  ‘Billy,’ Jo repeated, pulling the covers back down. ‘Wake up.’

  Her brother opened his eyes. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘About five,’ she replied. Going to the window she ripped open the curtains to let the sunlight, just peeking over the distant hills, into the room.

  Billy groaned again and rolled back into the dishevelled mess of his bedclothes.

  Jo stripped them back.

  ‘Get up, Billy. We’re going home.’ Stretching up, she took his suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe. ‘Unless of course you’d rather stay.’

  ‘Not on your blooming nelly,’ said Billy. Flinging back the sheet and blankets, he scrambled out of bed.

  She plonked the half-size suitcase on the bed he’d just vacated. ‘Get dressed and pack your stuff while I sort myself out.’

  Billy nodded, and thumping across the bare boards, he dragged the top drawer of the dresser out so quickly it shot straight out. Lurching forward, Jo caught it just before it crashed to the floor.

  ‘And do it quietly,’ she said, giving him a meaningful look. ‘We don’t want to wake the house, do we?’

  Leaving Billy throwing his clothes into his case, Jo returned to her own room. Without bothering to fetch warm water from below, she poured what remained of yesterday’s water from the jug into her wash bowl. She washed and dressed, choosing a light-weight blue skirt, white blouse and navy cardigan. Dragging her brush through her hair she secured it in a ponytail then taking a fresh pair of ankle socks from the top drawer she put them on before lacing her shoes up tight.

  Having got herself ready she reached under the bed and dragged out her tan weekend case. Dumping it on the counterpane she flipped the catch and flung the lid open. Pulling open the top drawer she scooped up her underwear and dumped it in the case then did the same with her handful of skirts, dresses and tops, then she closed the case and snapped the locks. Taking her Bible and Tommy’s precious letters from under her pillow she shoved them and her purse in her handbag.

  A quarter of an hour later, taking everything with her, Jo went back into Billy’s room.

  He’d dragged on his school uniform, including his tie, and his suitcase was set beside the bed.

  ‘Ready?’ she asked.

  Billy nodded.

  ‘Well, let’s go,’ said Jo.

  Picking up his suitcase, Billy followed his sister as she crept down the stairs to the shop’s back parlour. Without turning on the light, Jo went over to the sideboard and took the ration books from behind the tea caddy. Shuffling through them she found hers and Billy’s and put the other three back.

  Opening her handbag, she slipped them in. She was just about to unlock the back door when the kitchen door opened and Mrs Garfield, wearing her quilted dressing gown and with curlers in her hair, stepped into the kitchen.

  She looked from Jo to Billy and back again.

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ she asked, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

  ‘Home,’ said Jo.

  ‘You can go, and good riddance to you,’ said Mrs Garfield. ‘But the boy stays. He can’t be removed without the placement officer’s say-so.’

  ‘Can’t he?’ said Jo.

  ‘No, he can’t,’ Mrs Garfield replied, giving her the smuggest of looks.

  Jo held the shopkeeper’s belligerent gaze for a moment then she smiled. ‘Billy’s coming with me, Mrs Garfield, and I’ll tell you why. Because while you were at the WI meeting last week I borrowed a quarter of a pound weight from Wilf Tanner across the road for a little experiment and do you know what? When I put it on the scales with yours, Mr Tanner’s four-ounce weight was much heavier,’ continued Jo pleasantly. ‘In fact, I had to add the one-ounce weight to yours before they would balance.’

  All the colour drained from Mrs Garfield’s pinched face.

  ‘I’m sure all your customers would be interested to know that when you weigh out their weekly four ounces of bacon and marge or their two-weekly ration of tea and cheese they are, in fact, getting only three-quarters of their entitlement. I didn’t have time to test your eight- or two-ounce weights but . . .’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You see, Mrs Garfield, one of the advantages of being brought up somewhere where “crime is a way of life” is that you can spot a fiddle a mile off.’

  The shopkeeper gripped the edge of the table to steady herself as, presumably, her life as an upstanding member of the village community flashed before her eyes.

  Jo took her brother’s hand. ‘Come on, Billy, we’ve got a train to catch.’

  ‘Are we there yet?’ whined Billy, as they turned left off Halt Road towards the branch line that served Chappel and Wakes Colne villages.

  ‘Yes, look, there’s the station,’ she said, pointing at the square red-brick building with two staircases leading up to the entrance. ‘And there’s loads of people waiting so there must be a Colchester train soon. Come on.’

  ‘Good, cos my belly thinks my throat’s been cut,’ said Billy.

  It had been almost two hours since they left Mrs Garfield’s shop and they’d walked five miles without breakfast.

  ‘Me too,’ said Jo, as they reached the foot of the brick and concrete steps. ‘But look, there’s a station tea room so we can get a cuppa and a sandwich while we wait.’

  Changing her suitcase into the other hand to relieve her burning palm, Jo trudged up to the entrance hall with Billy on her heels just as a Sudbury train arrived on the up line.

  Opening her handbag, Jo took out her purse and counted her money.

  ‘Blast,’ she said.

  ‘What’s a matter, sis?’ asked Billy.

  ‘I should have remembered it was Saturday. Mrs Garfield owes me this week’s wages but I stupidly forgot to ask for them,’ said Jo. ‘And now I’m wondering how much the train fare will be.’

  ‘Haven’t you got enough?’ her brother asked.

  ‘Just about,’ said Jo. ‘But I don’t know if I can run to breakfast and we’ll have to walk from Liverpool Street instead of catching the bus.’

  Billy studied her in the bright sunlight streaming in through the station’s windows for a moment then tugged at his tie.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Jo.

  He didn’t reply. Removing the tie, he turned back the broad end and poked his fingers in. With his tongue sticking out one side of his mouth he fished about for a bit then smiled.

  ‘There you go, sis,’ he said, handing her a brown, ten-shilling note. ‘And can I have a sticky bun as well as a sandwich?’

  Chapter Four

  ‘ONE CUP OF Rosie Lee, Mattie,’ said Francesca, placing a mug of tea and a slice of cake in front of her.

  Mattie and Francesca Fabrino had been best friends since they were sat together in Miss Gordon’s class at Shadwell Mixed Infant school.

  Francesca had enviably flawless olive skin, almond-shaped ebony eyes and black hair so long she could sit on it, but this afternoon it was wound up in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Thanks, Fran,’ Mattie said, giving the slab of brown on the plate a dubious look. ‘That looks a bit solid.’

  It was Saturday 7 September and Mattie was sitting on the window seat in Lil and Harry’s pie and mash shop in Watney Street.

  As usual on a Saturday the shop was filled to the gunnels with women who’d scoured the market for the freshest vegetables and a decent joint for the family’s Sunday dinner
and, shopping done, were now catching up on the gossip over loaded plates of pie and mash or bowls of stewed eels with an accompanying chunk of bread to soak up the juice.

  Mattie had been on duty at ARP Post 7 since six that morning and, as Francesca was due on duty at Bethnal Green Fire Station at three, the girls had decided to meet for lunch at one.

  Although she worked as a full-time sales assistant in Boardman’s in Stratford all week, like almost everyone else, Francesca had volunteered for war work and was now part of the Auxiliary Fire Service. She was dressed ready for duty in her navy combat jacket but instead of the standard-issue skirt, Mattie had altered a pair of men’s trousers to fit Francesca’s curves, which made jumping on and off fire engines much easier. Francesca also had her red helmet with AFS stencilled in white on the front and her kitbag filled, no doubt, with a sardine or fish-paste sandwich and the flask of tea Mattie’s mother would have insisted she take on duty with her to ‘keep body and soul together’.

  Her best friend had been staying with them since her father and brother were burnt out of the fish and chip shop and interned with hundreds of other Italians in the days after Italy entered the war.

  Having just polished off a beef pie and potato smothered in liquor sauce, Fran had gone to fetch them a cuppa and a slice of cake each.

  ‘It’s date and walnut,’ explained Francesca. ‘But without the nuts, chopped damsons instead of dates and made with powdered eggs. I know,’ her friend continued, as Mattie pulled a face, ‘but you’re eating for two now so you can’t be finicky.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ laughed Mattie.

  ‘How did you get on at the clinic?’ asked Fran, as she stirred in her sugar.

  ‘Fine,’ said Mattie. ‘The midwife says I’m the right size for my dates and as it’s a first baby I should book into the East London Maternity Lying- in Hospital to be on the safe side, especially as it’s due over Christmas and some of the midwives at Munroe Clinic will be off.’

  ‘Can you afford that?’ asked Francesca.

  Mattie nodded. ‘I’ve got all of Daniel’s army pay in the bank still.’

  ‘Of course.’ Francesca took a sip of tea. ‘I keep forgetting you’re an old married woman.’

  ‘So do I!’ Mattie replied, twisting a still-shiny wedding ring on her finger.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising given you were only married for eight days before he shipped out,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Ten,’ said Mattie. ‘Ten days and eleven nights. Still,’ she said, patting her middle, ‘at least he left me something to do while he’s away. Anything in the post from the Home Office?’

  ‘Just this.’ Francesca pulled a rectangular manila envelope from her pocket with ‘His Majesty’s Service’ stamped in large across the top. ‘It says my father and brother’s cases are being reviewed and I’ll be informed by the Department for the Internment of Foreign Nationals in due course.’ Pressing her lips together she fixed her eyes on the black speckled fly-paper suspended from the light fitting for a moment then her gaze returned to Mattie. ‘I know Papa was born in Italy but he came here when he was three, he’s even got a cockney accent, and me and Giovanni were born here so surely those in charge can’t really think we’re spying for Mussolini.’

  Francesca had lived with her father and brother above the Empress Fish Bar until Italy had declared war on England three months ago and an angry mob had ransacked and set fire to the chip shop. Now the family-run business that had stood opposite the Troxi on Commercial Road for almost seventy years was a boarded-up charred shell and Francesca’s fifty-three-year-old father and twenty-five-year-old brother were in an intern camp.

  ‘Have you heard from your brother? Did he say where they were?’

  ‘I had a letter from him last week, a few days after the one from the ministry arrived. He said they were driven north for about three hours so he thinks it’s somewhere near Birmingham or Leicester but he’s not sure,’ said Francesca. ‘He said that Dad’s perked up a bit since the move but they still don’t know when their appeal will be heard.’

  ‘I’m sure they will both be back home soon,’ said Mattie, trying to sound convincing.

  ‘I hope it is soon as it won’t do Dad’s chest any good if he’s living in a damp hut when the winter comes,’ Francesca replied.

  With the nerves of the whole country on a knife edge and everyone on the lookout for German paratroopers falling from the sky, signalling the start of the long-expected invasion, those in Whitehall’s corridors of power probably had other things on their minds.

  Francesca gave her a sad look. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing from Jo.’

  Mattie forced a smile. ‘I only posted my letter the day before yesterday.’

  Her friend’s coal-black eyes softened. ‘I’m sure she’ll reply this time.’

  ‘I really hope so,’ said Mattie, ‘otherwise I’ll have both my sisters not speaking to me: Jo because she blames me for being evacuated and Cathy for helping put her husband in prison.’

  Reaching across the table, Francesca placed her hand over Mattie’s. ‘Well, at least you’ve heard from Aunt Fanny.’

  Mattie smiled. ‘Thank God, yes.’

  ‘And,’ her friend fished in her pocket, ‘this came from Charlie. I recognised the handwriting.’

  ‘The scrawl, you mean,’ said Mattie, taking the letter from her friend.

  She opened it and scanned the single page covered by her brother’s squiggly letters.

  ‘Is he all right?’ asked Francesca.

  For her sins, Francesca had been hopelessly in love with Mattie’s brother Charlie for years. Hopelessly, because for some unfathomable reason he couldn’t see the pearl of great worth under his nose and had become engaged to Stella Miggles, the girl with the slackest knicker elastic west of Bow Bridge.

  Looking up into her friend’s anxious face, Mattie smiled.

  ‘He seems to be,’ she said. ‘He can’t tell us where he is but he says the sea air is bracing and he’s seen lots of ugly grey birds flying overhead each day. He also can’t say what he’s doing but he says he’ll be thrashing everyone at darts in the Catholic Club when he gets home.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s on the ack-ack guns somewhere on the south coast,’ said Francesca. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Mattie, omitting the bit about her brother’s fiancée visiting camp to save her friend further heartache. ‘Just that the food’s awful, that his gun crew are agreed that the drill sergeant doesn’t have a father and that Charlie’s keeping his fingers crossed for a few days’ leave over Christmas, which will please Mum no end.’

  Francesca glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

  Popping the last piece of cake in her mouth and swallowing her last gulp of tea, she stood up. ‘I’d better be off. See yar!’

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ Mattie replied.

  The two friends exchanged a fond look and Francesca left.

  Mattie took the postcard from her pocket and gazed at the jolly seaside image of Brighton Pier. She turned the card over and, resting her hand lightly on her swelling stomach, she reread the message.

  My dearest Mattie,

  Just a quick note to let you know that we are all well. We also heard from Cousin Danny yesterday. He has been busy but is in fine health and asked us to pass on his best wishes to you.

  Will be in touch when we are in town so we can meet for tea.

  Love

  Aunt Fanny & Uncle John

  Under her fingertips she felt a little flutter and Mattie smiled.

  Aunt Fanny was, in fact, Brigadier Francis Lennox, who had been her husband’s commanding officer during his time in Spain as part of the British Battalion of the International Brigade. He was now MI5’s head of operations in Europe and the ‘Cousin Danny’ referred to in the chatty greeting was actually her husband, Captain Daniel McCarthy.

  However, unlike the rest of the British army that was holed up in England waiting for the Germans�
�� next move, Daniel was already doing battle with the enemy in France with the Resistance.

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Determined not to shed them, Mattie looked up and saw, through the rivulets of condensation trickling down the window, her mother, shopping basket in the crook of her arm, talking to Breda O’Conner as they waited in a queue.

  Tucking the postcard back in her pocket and feeling her back ache as she rose from the chair, Mattie took her used crockery to the counter and left the shop.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ she called across the crowded street as the door closed behind her. ‘Wait for me.’

  ‘Only us,’ shouted her mother, kneeing open the back door.

  Ida Brogan was just over forty and at an inch or two over five foot could look all three of her daughters more or less in the eye. She’d been a slip of a girl with a waistband that her future husband could span with his outstretched hands but now after twenty-four years and five pregnancies she was a little more rounded.

  As it was Saturday and she was likely to meet any number of acquaintances as she roamed the market, Mattie’s mother had left her wrap-around hooked behind the kitchen door and was wearing the navy suit she’d had for at least a decade. Perched on top of her short brown hair was her close-fitting navy weekend hat, which was decorated with a brooch in the shape of a thistle.

  Despite the Ministry of Home Defence posters and the BBC public service broadcasts urging the population to keep their gas masks with them at all times, Ida, like nearly everyone else, no longer carried the cardboard box when she left the house, something Mattie had already nagged her about twice.

  It had taken Mattie and her mother just over half an hour to walk home. This was something of a record as Ida had only stopped to speak to two people on what should have been a ten-minute stroll from Watney Street to Mafeking Terrace.

  Lumbering over to the kitchen table, her mother deposited her shopping bag of vegetables on the table. Mattie followed her in and, closing the door behind her, unburdened herself of her kitbag and tin helmet, hooking them and her heavy seaman’s greatcoat on the back of the door over the rest of the family’s outer clothing.