A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Who is it, Tommy?’ called a woman’s voice from the lounge.

  Before he could answer a slender young woman wearing only a nylon underslip and with her hair piled up in an untidy blonde bird’s nest slinked into the room.

  Her mascara-smudged eyes gave Jo the once-over and then she wound her arm possessively around Tommy’s.

  Pain gripped Jo’s chest and she only just stopped herself from letting out a gasp.

  She stared wordlessly at Tommy for several heartbeats and then, with tears distorting her vision, she dashed past him and out of the kitchen.

  ‘Wait, Jo,’ Tommy called after her.

  But Jo didn’t. She just fled the house.

  Somehow, once his brain had caught up with his eyes, Tommy managed to have his shoes on and tied within two minutes of Jo dashing past him but even so, when he tore out of the front door, struggling into his shirt, she was already at the bottom of the street.

  ‘Jo! Wait!’ he shouted, but she didn’t look back as she disappeared around the corner.

  Heedless of the amused stares of his neighbours, and with his open shirt streaming behind him, Tommy raced after her. With hooters honking, wheels screeching and drivers cursing him through their open windows, Tommy dodged between the vehicles and pelted after her.

  She veered left to take the short cut down King David Walk, clearly heading towards the Catholic Club at the back of St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s. He had to catch her before she got there.

  She was halfway down the passageway when he entered the cool dampness of the alley.

  ‘Jo! Stop, please!’ he shouted, his voice echoing after her.

  She didn’t.

  Cursing, Tommy stretched his legs and ran after her. As he emerged from the other end of the alley, he saw that Jo had dropped her handbag. She turned to retrieve it, and saw him close on her heels. Snatching it up, she bolted towards her destination on the other side of the road but the delay put Tommy only a few paces behind her so, within a few yards of the Catholic Club’s front door, Tommy caught up with her and blocked her path.

  ‘Jo, wait,’ he said, breathing hard.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ she screamed, her lovely brown eyes swimming with tears.

  ‘Let me explain—’

  ‘You’re there half-dressed and so was she, so I don’t need it explaining,’ she spat out, the hurt in her voice cutting him to the core.

  ‘Sweetheart.’ He took her arm but she snatched it back.

  ‘Don’t you sweetheart me, Tommy Sweete. I’m not a bloody fool so don’t treat me like one.’

  ‘All right.’ He raised his hands in surrender. ‘I know what it looked like but honestly, I—’

  ‘Honest!’ She gave a hard laugh. ‘That’s a bloody joke coming from a Sweete. You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  Tommy frowned. ‘I know you’re upset but—’

  ‘Upset. I’m not upset, I’m bloody furious. Furious with myself for ever believing you.’ Her mouth pulled into an ugly shape. ‘My sister Mattie told me what you were like but I wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘If you’d just let me get a word in sideways—’

  ‘“I love you, Jo, I miss you, Jo, I can’t wait to see you again, Jo,”’ she mimicked in a falsetto voice. ‘That’s what you wrote and all the while you were carrying on with someone else.’

  Taking a long breath to hold back his rising anger, Tommy looked down at her.

  ‘So you won’t hear me out, then?’ he asked, in as controlled a tone as he could muster.

  ‘I know what I saw,’ she replied.

  They stared at each other for several heartbeats then Tommy grabbed the front of his flapping shirt.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, fastening the bottom button, ‘there’s nothing more to say, is there?’

  Gazing up at him with those lovely brown eyes of hers, Jo folded her arms tightly across her by way of reply.

  ‘In that case,’ he continued, hastily tucking his shirt in his waist band, ‘I’d better get back to Lou.’

  Pain shot across Jo’s pretty face but she held his gaze. ‘Yes, you had, Tommy.’

  They glared at each other for a heartbeat them Tommy turned and strode away, wondering just how Jo managed to look so furiously angry and yet so furiously beautiful at the same time.

  Chapter Nine

  REGGIE HAD JUST sunk his second pint when the Admiral’s main door crashed back and Tommy strode into the public house. The handful of men lounging against the bar or perched on stools looked over and, seeing the look of thunder on the younger brother’s face, knew their quiet lunchtime drink was over.

  With his mouth pulled into a hard line, Tommy strode across the floor to where Reggie was sitting surrounded by a handful of his usual crew.

  ‘I suppose you thought that was funny, did you, Reggie?’ he bellowed.

  ‘Come on, Tommy, it was only a bit of a laugh.’

  ‘Well, I’m not bloody laughing, am I?’ Tommy yelled, smashing his fist onto the table and making the glasses rattle.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Reggie spotted drinkers hastily downing their pints and sloping out of the bar.

  Mindful his men were within earshot, Reggie rose to his feet and grabbed his brother’s upper arm.

  ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said, dragging Tommy to the bar.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Reggie.

  ‘Half a bitter shandy,’ said Tommy.

  Resisting the urge to mock him about having a poof ’s drink, Reggie beckoned the elderly potman.

  ‘Same again for me, Sam,’ said Reggie, flourishing a ten-bob note. ‘And half a bitter shandy for Casanova.’

  Tommy’s eyes narrowed and he loomed over Reggie.

  ‘I tell you, Reggie, I’m this close,’ he pinched his thumb and index finger together and shoved it in his face, ‘this close, to landing you one, so you crack one more bloody joke and I swear I’ll deck you.’

  His brother’s fury hit Reggie like a right hook to the jaw and he only just stopped himself from stepping back.

  The bar fell silent as the two brothers, their noses inches apart, squared up to each other.

  Although Reggie and Tommy had fought like dogs in a pit ever since they were small, in a funny sort of way it had solidified their relationship and seen them through their terrible childhood. Tommy had often left Reggie with a bloody nose or a black eye but, being seven years his brother’s senior, Reggie had always been the victor. However, Tommy wasn’t a stick-thin lad any more, he was all muscle and bone.

  Standing toe to toe, Tommy’s eyes bore down into him and for the first time in a very long time Reggie felt himself panic.

  He held his brother’s angry gaze for as long as he could then lowered his eyes.

  ‘Come on, Tommy, don’t take on,’ he said, putting a brotherly arm around his brother’s broad shoulders. ‘Don’t get all Doris and Ruby on me, and it’s only natural for a lad to sow his wild oats but, do yourself a favour, if you don’t want to feel the weight of Jerry Brogan’s fist in your moosh, I wouldn’t try to have it away with his daughter.’

  Tommy cut in as Sam returned with their drinks. ‘I’m not trying to “have it away” with Jo. Firstly, because she’s not that sort of girl and secondly, because I’m hoping to marry her.’

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, Tommy,’ said Reggie, ‘that silly bugger Stan Wheeler got involved with the Brogans by marrying their middle girl and now he’s behind bars.’

  ‘He didn’t get arrested because he married Cathy Brogan, Reggie,’ Tommy said, giving his brother an exasperated look. ‘He was arrested for trying to smuggle German spies into London.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Reggie slurped the froth off his pint. ‘But having a bunch of Micks as relatives wouldn’t have done him any favours with the magistrate, would it? Especially as Jerry Brogan’s batty old mother is a bookie’s runner for Fat Tony and must spend more time in Arbour Square police station than the desk sergeant.’

  ‘Well
, it doesn’t matter now, does it?’ snapped Tommy. ‘Not after your bloody prank.’

  A despondent expression turned the corners of Tommy’s mouth down. ‘I tried to explain to Jo but she wouldn’t even listen.’

  He took a mouthful of drink.

  Thank Gawd for that, thought Reggie as an image of the dozen or so letters the postman had slipped him flashed through his mind.

  ‘Look, Tommy,’ said Reggie, forcing a sympathetic expression onto his face, ‘I know you’re heartbroken and all that but if you ask me I think you’ve got this all arse about face.’

  Tommy raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Well, you and her were getting serious, like you say,’ Reggie said. ‘You’ve got to ask yourself why did she stop writing?’

  Tommy frowned. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, did you ever think perhaps she stopped writing because she’d taken up with some yokel?’

  Tommy’s shoulders sagged. ‘It did cross my mind.’

  ‘Perhaps she came by to give you the heave-ho,’ said Reggie.

  Tommy shook his head. ‘That makes no sense because if that were the case why would she run crying out of the house when Lou appeared and then give me a full roasting about being a liar when I caught up with her?’

  ‘For Gawd’s sake, Tommy, a bird’s brain is a jumble of odd ideas at the best of times so who knows what they think and why,’ said Reggie.

  Tommy gave a heavy sigh and stared into his glass.

  ‘I hate to see you like this, Tommy, especially when there are plenty of pretty little fish swimming around in the sea. There’s Lou, for a start,’ Reggie continued, hoping to remind him that only a complete tosser turns down a bit of free ’ow’s your father. ‘She’ll take your mind off this Jo girl and ease your balls at the same time.’ He grinned. ‘I bet you wish you hadn’t spent the night on the sofa now, Tommy boy.’

  Tommy looked up in horror.

  ‘No, I’m bloody glad I did,’ his brother said. ‘At least if I do get Jo to listen to me eventually I’ll be able to tell her truthfully that I didn’t two-time her with Lou.’ He glanced up at the Guinness clock behind the bar. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Go where?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere. Somewhere so I can figure out what to do.’

  Downing his drink in one, Tommy put his glass on the bar. With his head hung low and his broad shoulders hunched, he retraced his steps to the door.

  Watching his brother as he walked across the bar, Reggie felt an odd mix of relief and frustration. Relief because, although he only knew Jo by sight, it was a fact that all Micks had a fiery temper so she was unlikely to give Tommy the time of day and he would never find out about her missing letters.

  He didn’t like to see Tommy boy so down in the mouth, though, and if truth be told, he did have a rarely felt niggle of guilt about the whole thing but he’d only stepped in because he wanted to see Tommy get back to being his old roguish self. Truth be told, Sweete Independent Trading, as Reggie liked to think of his little side-lines and schemes, wasn’t running as well as it should have been because Tommy wasn’t there totting up the orders and payments.

  And besides, even though he was a bit lovelorn now, Tommy would get over her, if not with Lou then between some other willing pair of legs, but what really broke Reggie’s heart was that after everything he’d taught Tommy about the way of the world, his brother still clung to the stupid notion that being honest was a good thing to be.

  Pressing her wet handkerchief to her eyes, Jo waited a moment then took it away and looked back at her red-eyed reflection in the toilet mirror.

  Sweet Mary, her eyes still looked like a pair of marshmallows.

  It was ten minutes since her argument with Tommy outside the Catholic Club and she was now in the ladies’ toilets trying to restore her complexion.

  She surveyed her blotchy face again. She dunked the handkerchief under the cold tap and repeated the process once more then opened her handbag.

  Taking out her compact she dabbed a bit of powder under her eyes and applied fresh lipstick before returning them and the damp handkerchief to her bag.

  Taking a deep breath and hoping the dim light cast by the newly installed regulation 40-watt bulbs would help to disguise her blotchy face, Jo left the toilet and headed for the club’s main bar.

  Pausing briefly at the door she took another deep breath then, pushing it open, walked in.

  From family weddings to the Shamrock League’s children’s Christmas party, Jo had been in and out of the Catholic Club for as long as she could remember.

  Situated around the corner from the church, it had been built fifty years ago and was a square, functional building typical of the Victorian period. Its high windows let in light despite the fine mesh that had been fitted over them to protect the glass from the threat of stray footballs and poorly aimed catapults. Of course, now the windows had the extra protection of gummed tape criss-crossing them to stop shards of broken glass littering the room in the event of an explosion. The faded photos of past club presidents and other notable members that had lined the walls had been put away for safekeeping and in their stead were government posters warning people to carry their gas masks and urging them to dig for victory.

  The main hall below the bar was used to host everything from the Brownies, Guides, Cubs and Scouts to Irish dancing classes. The nurses at Munroe House also used the hall to run a baby clinic on Tuesdays. The clinic still ran but, with most of the local children evacuated, many of the children’s clubs had disbanded and now the large hall was lined with trestle beds as it had been taken over by the WVS for a relief centre for those bombed out of their houses. Thankfully, even though the flock wallpaper was getting a little tatty and most of the furniture had seen better days, the bar, where Jo was now standing, was much as it had ever been. It was packed, as it was most lunchtimes, with fellow communicants of St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s who were determined not to let the Luftwaffe interfere with their lunchtime Guinness. However, in addition to the rough-trousered dockers and labourers in donkey jackets, there were also a number of people dressed in various Civil Defence uniforms.

  Casting her aching eyes around the room, she spotted her mother sitting in her usual booth to the right of the small stage at the other end from the bar. Unfortunately, Mattie was sitting next to her.

  Anger surged up in Jo, setting her head pounding again. If it hadn’t been for her bloody sister interfering, Tommy wouldn’t have taken up with that trollop.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ said a familiar voice behind her.

  Blinking away the tears forming in her eyes, Jo turned and smiled up at her father.

  Although he’d been out on the wagon that morning collecting shrapnel, shell cases and busted bomb metal from the streets, he was now wearing his khaki Local Defence battle jacket, with his field service cap tucked in the epaulette, ready to go on duty after he’d finished his day’s work.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ said Jo.

  His soft eyes flickered over her face. ‘You all right?’

  Resisting the urge to throw herself into his arms and sob, Jo nodded. ‘Tired, that’s all.’

  He gave a hard laugh. ‘Aren’t we all? Bloody Jerry. What do you want? A lemonade or ginger beer?’

  ‘Gin and tonic?’ said Jo.

  ‘When you’re twenty-one you can have one but until then, as I’ll not be wanting Pete to lose his licence, it’ll be a ginger beer or lemonade, miss,’ he said.

  ‘Lemonade, please,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s better.’ He winked. ‘Now you go over and join your ma, and I’ll fetch it to you.’

  Jo nodded and wished she hadn’t as the pounding headache intensified. Weaving through those standing around the bar, Jo made her way across the room. As she reached her mother’s table, Ida looked up.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I was just saying to Mattie I wondered what was keeping you.’

  ‘Sor
ry, Mum, I lost track of the time,’ said Jo, feeling her sister’s eyes on her.

  ‘Hello, Jo,’ said Mattie.

  Jo ignored her and sat down.

  ‘There you go,’ said her father, placing the tumbler in front of her.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jo, taking her drink to her lips and burying her nose in it.

  ‘Can I get you another one, Mattie?’ her father asked.

  She put her hand over her glass. ‘Not for me, thanks, Dad. I’m going to finish this one and then get a bit of shut-eye before I go back to post.’

  ‘Brandy and orange,’ Ida replied, thrusting her empty glass at her husband. ‘And make it a double to save yourself a second trip.’

  Jerimiah picked up the glass and sauntered back to the bar.

  ‘How was Daisy?’ her mother said.

  ‘Daisy?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Your friend you popped in to see,’ said her mother. ‘And did you ask her about war work?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Daisy,’ said Jo, the image of Tommy and his floozy replaying again in her mind. ‘Yes, she said I should go to the Town Hall and enquire.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Ida, looking over Jo’s head towards the bar. ‘There’s Breda O’Conner. I can’t wait to see her face when I tell her about the Queen.’ She stood up. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She and Mattie sat in silence for a long moment then Jo lowered her gaze and took another sip of her drink.

  ‘Your friend Daisy,’ said Mattie.

  Jo looked up. ‘What about her?’

  ‘Is she the one who lives in Patterson Street?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Jo. ‘Number twelve, if you must know. Why?’

  Mattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, no reason except perhaps that a ten-tonner flattened the paint factory at the top end of Patterson Street last night and all the families were evacuated to the rest centre in Red Coat School.’

  The pain behind Jo’s eyes stabbed like needles as she held her sister’s searching gaze. Feeling tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, Jo buried her nose in her glass again.

  ‘Are you all right, Jo?’ asked Mattie softly.