A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ snapped Jo, lifting her head and gazing defiantly across at her sister.

  ‘It’s just that you look a bit red-eyed,’ said Mattie.

  ‘There was a lot of dust floating about where the council’s clearing the road,’ said Jo. ‘And I got grit in my eyes, that’s all.’

  ‘Where was that? In Patterson Street?’ asked Mattie.

  Narrowing her eyes, Jo glared at her sister and Mattie glared back.

  ‘I suppose you just tore up the letters I sent you,’ she said.

  Jo didn’t deny it.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said Mattie. ‘If you’d bothered to read them you’d know why you were evacuated—’

  ‘I know why,’ Jo cut in. ‘You saw me and Tommy Sweete together so you went running to Mum and told her. Two days later I’m shipped off to some godforsaken dump in Essex and now Tommy’s got someone else.’

  Mattie gave her a pitying look. ‘So it was Tommy not Daisy you went to see and you found him with another woman.’

  Again, Jo didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to find out that way, Jo.’ Mattie sighed. ‘But at least now you know the truth and you’re not the first woman who’s ended up crying into your pillows because of Tommy Swe—’

  ‘I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t snitched to Mum,’ said Jo as tears distorted her vision. ‘I trusted you, Mattie, but after what you’ve done I’ll never speak to you again.’

  Leaping to her feet, Jo grabbed her handbag and with pain tearing through her like a wide-toothed saw she dashed blindly for the bar door and straight into the rough fabric of a khaki greatcoat.

  Jo looked up into a pair of brown eyes so very like her own, and recognised her brother Charlie.

  In full battledress, with his field service cap set at an impossibly rakish angle on his clipped black curls, her older brother was a good two inches taller than his father’s five-footten but he shared with Jerimiah his square jaw and ready smile.

  ‘Hello, Squirt,’ he said in a deep voice, grinning down at her.

  She opened her mouth to reply but the words got stuck on the lump in her throat and as his strong arms closed around her, Jo burst into tears.

  *

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re actually here,’ said Mattie, as her brother Charlie scraped the last of his fried bread from the plate.

  He grinned. ‘Me neiver.’

  She was sitting at the kitchen table with her feet up on the chair opposite and a cup of tea in her hand while he, with his tie off and shirt unbuttoned, finished off the plate of scrambled egg their mother had insisted he have before doing anything else.

  The four o’clock pips had just sounded from the wireless in the next room where the rest of the family were gathered to hear the early-evening news.

  It was now three hours after he’d walked into the bar in the Catholic Club and Charlie and the rest of the family were finally home. Mattie’s hope of getting a few hours’ kip before going on duty at seven had gone but she didn’t care. It was good to have her brother home, if only for their mother’s sake. It had taken Ida a full twenty minutes before Charlie was able to convince her that he was whole and hearty and that although he missed her home cooking he had, in fact, put on rather than lost weight in the six months since she’d last seen him. Mattie wasn’t surprised.

  Working on the wagon alongside their father since he was just fourteen had developed Charlie’s strength but after six months being part of a six-man gun crew he had added muscle too.

  ‘You’re looking well, sis,’ he said, his eyes flickering to her swollen stomach and back to her face. ‘How far gone are you now?’

  ‘Five months,’ she replied.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you’re still running around as an ARP warden.’

  ‘I might as well,’ said Mattie. ‘I’d be stuck down in the shelter each night anyway so I might as well get two quid a week for it.’

  ‘Surely you don’t need the money, not with your husband’s pay?’ he said, placing his knife and fork together on the empty plate. ‘In fact, given that his captain’s pay is twice what a poor old gunner like me gets, I’m surprised you’re working at all. And why are you still squashed into the front bedroom with Jo instead of living in a nice house in Leyton or Woodford?’

  ‘Because I want my family close by when my time comes,’ said Mattie. ‘And as far as working goes, I’ll have to live on Daniel’s money after I have the baby but until then I’ll stand on my own two feet, thank you very much.’

  Charlie pulled a face. ‘You’re so like Dad.’

  Mattie smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Any news on Daniel?’ he asked, picking up his mug of tea.

  ‘I got a postcard from his colonel last week,’ said Mattie. ‘So at least I know he’s still alive.’

  Charlie gave her a sympathetic look. ‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon.’

  Mattie forced a smile. ‘From your lips to God’s ears, as they say around here.’

  The door opened and her mother stormed in to the kitchen closely followed by Jo. Ida was wearing her rough hopping clothes under her oldest coat and had her hair tucked under a scarf turban. Jo was also wearing her old clothes but, in her case, it was a pair of serge trousers and a chunky jumper under last year’s coat topped with a red beret. Both were carrying rolls of bedding. Ida also carried the battered briefcase with the family’s bank books, photo albums and certificates while Jo had a novel and a couple of magazines tucked under her arm.

  ‘You off to the shelter already?’ said Mattie.

  ‘We are,’ her mother replied. ‘I want to make sure that bloody Mrs Hennessey and her snotty kids don’t nick our pitch like they did last night,’ Ida said. ‘You want me to save you a spot, Charlie?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I’ll take my chances here with Gran.’

  ‘You’ll be as safe as ’ouses then, boy,’ said Ida, throwing a sour look over her shoulder. ‘Only the good die young.’

  Mattie and Charlie exchanged amused looks.

  ‘Right, Jo, get the sandwiches and flask,’ said Ida, ‘while I load up the pram.’

  Their mother strode out of the back door and Jo went into the pantry. She lifted out the scruffy hopping box. Leaning back to balance the weight, she headed after her mother.

  ‘See you later, Jo,’ Mattie said.

  Jo gave her a narrow-eyed look and left.

  Charlie shrugged on his shirt. ‘I can understand why you and Cathy are at odds after all that business with Stan and the Nazis, but what’s with you and Jo?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m sure,’ he said, fastening the first button. ‘And I’m betting there’s a bloke involved.’

  Mattie smiled. ‘I wouldn’t get involved if I were you.’

  ‘I blooming well won’t,’ he replied. ‘I learned to stay out of your, Cathy and Jo’s fights years ago, but I hope you sort it out soon.’

  ‘So do I, Charlie,’ said Mattie.

  The back door opened and Francesca walked in dressed in her navy WAFS uniform. After finishing work at Boardman’s at three thirty, when the blackout had come into force, she had gone to the Town Hall for extra fire training.

  Her jaw dropped as she saw Charlie.

  ‘Hello, Fran,’ he said, grinning at her as he rebuttoned the collar of his shirt tie.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said, breathlessly devouring him with her eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He stood up.

  ‘Is that any way to greet a returning hero?’ He stretched his arms wide. ‘Come on, give us a hug.’

  Gazing up at him, Francesca walked into Charlie’s embrace and his arms closed round her. Resting her head on his upper arm and with a look of pure joy on her face, Francesca closed her eyes.

  They held each other for a moment then Charlie released her.

  ‘So,’ she said, making a play of patting her hair into place, ‘what ar
e you doing here?’

  ‘I came up from the south coast with the ack-ack guns,’ he replied. ‘We were stationed up by Beachy Head outside Eastbourne but now our boys in blue have given the Luftwaffe a pasting and they’ve turned their attention to the capital, we’ve been posted to Hackney Marshes. We arrived two weeks ago but what with setting up the guns and all the action each night, I’ve only just managed to wangle a pass. The top brass has taken over a school as their headquarters and we’ve been billeted all over Hackney, so it should be easy enough for me to pop down and see you all when I’m not on duty.’

  Francesca’s eyes shone.

  ‘That will be so nice,’ she said, a flush spreading across her cheeks. ‘For . . . for your mum, I mean. How long are you home for now?’

  ‘I’ve got a forty-eight-hour pass,’ he replied, tightening the Windsor knot at his throat. ‘But don’t worry, Fran, I’ll bed down on the sofa so you don’t have to shift. I have to say, now Jo and Billy are back the old house is almost splitting at the seams so goodness only knows what you’re going to do when Mattie’s baby arrives.’

  ‘I’m hoping Dad and Giovanni might be home by then so I’ll be moved out once I’ve found somewhere to rent,’ she replied.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘I had another letter last week from the officer in charge of the appeal panel saying there should be a decision before Christmas,’ she replied.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Charlie, looking at her. ‘That’s three months off.’

  Francesca’s shoulders slumped and she hung her head. ‘I know.’

  ‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘Chin up. No one in their right mind would think your dad and Giovanni are spies, even if he’s stupid enough to support Arsenal.’

  Francesca smiled.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Can’t have that pretty face of yours looking glum.’

  Francesca gazed up at him adoringly and Mattie’s heart ached for her.

  ‘Perhaps, Charlie, we should send Mum down to sort it out,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Or you, Mat,’ he replied with a broad grin. ‘You’d put the bejesus up those blooming pen-pushers in the ministry, and no mistake.’

  ‘Oi, watch it,’ said Mattie, scowling at him in mock annoyance.

  He laughed and Mattie and Francesca joined in.

  Charlie lifted his battle jacket from the back of the chair and put it on.

  ‘Where’re you off to then?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘Round to Stella’s,’ Charlie replied.

  Francesca’s happy smile vanished in an instant as pain cut across her face.

  ‘Does she know you’re back?’ asked Mattie.

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I’m going to surprise her.’ He shrugged on his jacket. ‘Have you seen her around?’

  Mattie and Francesca exchanged looks.

  ‘Not much,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Have you heard from her lately?’ asked Francesca, with a desolate look in her lovely brown eyes.

  ‘I’ve had a couple of letters,’ Charlie replied, working his way up the buttons. ‘But what with working double shifts in the tyre factory, I bet that fiancée of mine is asleep before her head hits the pillow.’

  Her brother was right. After drinking and dancing up West with every Tom, Dick and Harry all night, Stella probably did fall exhausted into her bed each night or, more accurately, each morning.

  Mattie looked across at her best friend who was gazing adoringly at Charlie.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said, spreading his arms wide, oblivious of Francesca’s feelings for him. ‘What do you think?’

  Francesca smiled at him with love and longing in her eyes.

  ‘Very handsome,’ she said, with a tremor in her voice. ‘I’m sure Stella will fall faint at your feet when she sees you.’

  He grinned, and then taking his field cap from his epaulette, Charlie set it at an angle on his black curls.

  He marched to the door but as he grasped the handle he turned back and looked at her.

  ‘By the way, Fran,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘you look a right treat in that WAFS uniform.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘RIGHT,’ SAID REGGIE, yanking on the Bedford’s handbrake. ‘Wake up, you horrible lot, we’re here.’

  It was just after dawn on the third Monday in September and he’d just pulled into Shadwell School, which he and Tommy had attended spasmodically as boys.

  The place of learning for riverside youngsters was a nondescript late-Victorian building. Like many other schools of that era, it was comprised of three floors with staircases in each corner of the building, and a half-tiled hall on each floor with classrooms running off it. In addition, surrounding the school, there was a high brick wall with wrought-iron spikes running along the top to keep pupils in, strangers out and the lead on the roof.

  However, when the pupils had been evacuated a year ago the Local Authority had commandeered the building and turned it into ARP Post 7, the Wapping and Shadwell subdivision of the Stepney Civil Defence.

  Jumping down from the cab, Reggie strode around to the back of the vehicle and knocked the bolts from the tailgate.

  ‘Come on, you buggers,’ he said, pulling it down. ‘I ain’t got all day.’

  Jimmy jumped down from the back. He was followed by Fred and then Lofty, the best cat burglar this side of the City, who could pick any lock known to man, and Ugly Smith, with a face so long it looked as if it were about to slip off. After Fred and Jimmy, Ugly was Reggie’s first choice for any job.

  Dusting themselves down after their half-mile drive from the yard, they passed each other cigarettes.

  Tommy, who had sat in the passenger seat for the entire journey without speaking a word, came around to the back of the van, wearing the same miserable expression that he’d had glued to his face for the past week.

  ‘Come on, lover boy, cheer up,’ said Reggie, raising his voice to include the rest of the crew in the conversation.

  The men milling about waiting laughed.

  Tommy gave his brother another blistering look but didn’t rise to the bait.

  Taking a packet of Senior Service from his pocket, Reggie lit one.

  ‘So,’ he said, striking the match, ‘what do you think of The Sweete Brigade?’

  ‘Where did you get the boiler suits and boots from?’ asked Tommy, casting a disinterested eye over the assembled men.

  ‘Some bloke up Watford way,’ Reggie replied, shaking the match out and blowing smoke skywards. ‘They’re military quality so good schmutter. I don’t know why you didn’t want one.’

  Tommy raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I got Olive to cut out all the labels so they can’t be traced,’ continued Reggie.

  ‘Reggie,’ said Tommy, giving him that don’t-be-afucking-idiot look of his, ‘the ARP-issue rescue uniform is grey. They’re Air Force blue!’

  ‘No one will notice,’ said Reggie. ‘And you’d look a bloody sight smarter in new overalls than you do in that washed-out bit of rag you’re wearing.’

  Tommy regarded him coolly. ‘We should report in.’

  Turning, he started to walk towards the school’s main door but Reggie caught his arm.

  ‘How long you going to carry on moping after this Brogan girl?’ Reggie asked as his brother turned back.

  ‘Until I figure out a way of getting her back,’ Tommy replied.

  ‘Bugger me, Tommy, why don’t you just forget about her?’ said Reggie. ‘After all, you’ve got Lou still as hot as mustard for you and, with your bloody looks, when you’ve done with her you can pull a dozen more.’

  ‘How to deal with women the Reginald Sweete way.’ Tommy gave a hard laugh. ‘Thanks for the brotherly advice but I’m big enough to make my own decision as far as Jo’s concerned. Now you and your bloody pretty boys can stay out here all morning if you like but I’m going in.’

  Pulling away, he continued towards the school.

  ‘You should take my advice, Tommy boy,’ Reggie shouted af
ter him. ‘Cos I ain’t the one who has to hold me own prick at night.’

  Fighting the urge to argue with his brother, Tommy continued towards the infants’ doorway, which was Post 7’s main entrance. The asphalt playground where he’d once kicked a football around was now a car park filled with a hotchpotch of lorries, vans and private vehicles marked with the ARP designation. Along with the various larger vehicles there were also half a dozen messengers’ bicycles in the rack, and parked next to them was an old GPO van and a 1930 Ford Model Y. Both had red crosses daubed on their sides to indicate that they were Post 7’s ambulances, while their mismatched wheels had been painted white to aid visibility in the blackout.

  At the far end of the yard were two decrepit-looking lorries: one a Scammell Mechanical Horse and the other a Morris 2 farm truck. Both were loaded with picks, shovels and brace beams, indicating that the lorries belonged to Post 7’s two heavy recovery teams.

  Walking through the brown-and-cream-tile-clad corridor into the hall, Tommy barely recognised the space he’d known as a youngster.

  The educational posters, with their images of British trees and flowers, and the colourful maps of the Empire had vanished and in their place were instructions on what to do in a gas attack, a print of enemy aircraft silhouettes and reminders to check the blackout and not to waste water. On the stage, where Tommy had once received his prize for being top of the class, was a massive desk with black, green and red telephones sitting on it. Behind the desk were half a dozen blackboards with the telephone numbers of all the local hospitals, fire stations and undertakers chalked on them. In addition, there was a waxed map of Wapping and Stepney pinned on the wall, with specific areas marked out by heavy black lines.

  In front of the stage, the teachers’ desks had been dragged out of the classrooms and now various members of the Civil Defence service were sitting around them. The air raid wardens were gathered around the large desk beneath the window, while a little way along from them the ambulance crew were checking through the first-aid boxes that had been laid out on a refectory table.

  Clustered around the school’s blackened pot-bellied boiler were an assortment of armchairs. There were a couple of coffee tables too with a variety of magazines and used coffee mugs on them. This area was occupied by men from the gas and electric companies. Dressed in their buff-coloured overalls and with their hobnail boots resting on a convenient coffee table, they were enjoying a quiet smoke before the next call-out. Dotted amongst them were a handful of spotty boys who were playing a noisy game of cards.