A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  She tickled his tummy with her finger but young Peter’s solemn expression remained.

  Cathy planted a kiss on her infant son’s downy head. ‘Isn’t he just like his dad?’

  ‘The image of him,’ said Jo.

  He certainly was. Stan never understood a joke either.

  ‘Can I have cuddle?’ she asked.

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Cathy, handing him to Jo. ‘Do you want a cuppa, Mrs Wheeler?’ she called to her mother-in-law who was sitting in her chair by the fire in the front room.

  ‘If you’re making one,’ came the reply.

  The whistle started to rattle and splutter so Cathy lifted the kettle off the heat and filled the teapot.

  Jo tucked Peter on to her hip and cuddled him to her. He sat there staring at her for a moment then his chin began to wobble. He twisted in Jo’s arms to look at his mother who was making the tea and then started grizzling.

  ‘Now, now, Master Wheeler, we can’t have that, can we?’ said Jo, rocking back and forth.

  ‘He’s tired,’ said Cathy, popping the lid on the teapot to brew. ‘Give him here and if you pour the tea and bring it through I’ll go and tuck him in his pram.’

  She took Peter back. Finding his thumb, he rested his head on his mother’s shoulder.

  ‘There’s some biscuits in the tin if you want a couple,’ Cathy called over her shoulder as she carried her son through to the front room.

  Jo quickly set out the crockery and the tin with flowers painted on the lid on a tray then after giving the pot a quick stir she carried the whole lot through to the front lounge where the sounds of the BBC band playing ‘Pennies from Heaven’ filled the room.

  Mrs Wheeler was sitting huddled in several shawls by the fire with her slippered feet up on a low stool and her knitting on her lap.

  Violet Wheeler was probably a decade older than Jo’s mother, and favoured the sombre colours and corseted shape of the pre-Great War fashions. Today was no exception as she was wearing an ankle-length brown dress with a high collar and tight cuffs.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Jo as she set the tray on the coffee table in front of the fire. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Never without pain, but I mustn’t grumble,’ Stan’s mother replied. ‘I was just telling her,’ she glanced over at Cathy leaning over the pram in the corner, ‘that she ought to put him out in the yard so he can get some air in his lungs.’

  ‘Fog don’t you mean,’ Cathy replied. ‘It’s almost a peasouper out there and it’s damp.’

  Mrs Wheeler tutted and was about to speak but Jo stepped in.

  ‘Sugar, Mrs Wheeler?’ she asked, standing poised with a spoon.

  ‘Two, if I may,’ the old woman replied.

  ‘None for me,’ said Cathy, rocking the pram. ‘I’m saving my sugar rations for Christmas.’

  Mrs Wheeler tutted again. ‘How many times must I tell you? All this stupid rationing will be over once the Germans get here.’

  Cathy gave her mother-in-law a sharp look, which the older woman completely ignored.

  ‘And then,’ she continued, jabbing a crooked finger at Cathy, ‘it’ll be your sister and that Jew-loving husband of hers who will be in jail and not my Stan—’

  She was cut off mid-sentence by her grandson’s scream.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ shouted Mrs Wheeler, ‘can’t you keep that child quiet, girl? All he does day and night is cry.’

  ‘He’s a baby!’ said Cathy, picking Peter up again and rocking him in her arms. ‘I’m sure your precious son cried just as much when he was this age.’

  ‘I can assure you he never.’

  Grasping the arms of her chair, Mrs Wheeler heaved herself to her feet and, taking her walking stick from its resting place in the hearth, hobbled to the door.

  She paused and glared across the room at Cathy as she opened it. ‘Because I was a much better mother!’

  With her stick tapping on the hall lino she swept out, slamming the door behind her.

  Peter, who had just started to drift off in his mother’s arms, jumped and started crying again. Tears welled up in Cathy’s eyes.

  ‘Right, give him to me, Cath,’ said Jo, walking over to her sister. ‘I’ll get him settled while you drink your tea.’

  Cathy handed her son over and taking her mug from the tray slumped in the sofa under the window.

  Popping Peter back in his pram, Jo tucked his blue crochet blanket tightly around him. She grasped the pram’s handlebar and rolled it back and forth. The baby found his thumb almost immediately and, within a few rocks, his delicate eyelids fluttered down.

  Jo sat down on the opposite end of the sofa from her sister and blew across the top of her cup.

  ‘Now that the old bag’s gone,’ said Cathy, ‘let’s talk about something else. How did you get on?’

  Putting on a mockingly superior expression, Jo dusted her shoulders with her fingertips. ‘You are looking at the London Ambulance’s latest recruit.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Cathy. ‘Although I knew they’d take you, what with your grammar school certificate and everything.’

  ‘They won’t let me drive yet but . . .’

  As they drank their tea, Jo told her sister about her interview.

  ‘Oh, I do envy you,’ said Cathy when she’d done. ‘I wish I was out there doing something for the war effort night after night rather than stuck in that smelly hole out the back with old misery guts wailing in the bunk above me.’

  ‘Well, you can,’ said Jo. ‘There are dozens of adverts for volunteers needed in the WVS canteens and rest centres. Mum’s just joined.’

  ‘Mum?’ said Cathy, unable to hide her surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘I think she took the Queen’s words about everyone doing their bit as a royal command and has signed for the housewife service. She is now Mafeking Terrace’s official WVS person. She’s even got a badge and an armband and is talking about getting a uniform too.’

  ‘What does she have to do?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Make tea and look after people after an air raid,’ Jo replied. ‘And generally, keep an eye on what’s going on in the street.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘So what she does anyway.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ agreed Jo.

  Her sister pulled a face. ‘I’d rather do something that would get me away from Stan’s mother.’

  ‘Well, the WVS have free nursery places where you could leave Peter for a few hours while you give a hand,’ Jo suggested.

  Cathy glanced at the pram. ‘Stan’s mother would probably have something to say about me leaving him.’

  ‘To be honest, Cathy,’ said Jo, ‘from what I can tell, she’s going to have something to say whatever you do or don’t do, so you might as well do what you please.’

  Her sister’s sad expression lifted a little. ‘You’re right, Jo. Peter will be well over seven months after Christmas so I’ll pop down and see if there’s something I could do for a couple of hours to help out.’ She laughed. ‘Who knows, we might even end up working together.’

  Jo pulled a face. ‘As long as we don’t get posted with old bossy boots, Mattie. It’s bad enough having to put up with her at home without having to see her at work, too.’

  ‘It won’t matter if we are,’ said Cathy. ‘She’s town hall ARP while you’re LCC ambulance so she can’t tell you what to do and, with a bit of luck, what with her marshalling the crowds down in the shelters and you dashing around the streets picking up casualties, I doubt you’ll run into each other very often. And don’t forget she’s five months’ gone so will have to stop work in a month anyhow.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jo. ‘I bet I don’t even notice she’s there.’

  Cathy took a sip of tea. ‘Jo, I didn’t like to ask in front of Mum, but what have you fallen out with her for, anyway?’

  ‘It was her fault Mum sent me off to live with the yokels in Essex,’ said Jo.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘
She caught me and Tommy Sweete in Glasshouse Street shelter an—’

  ‘You were knocking about with Tommy Sweete!’ gasped Cathy, her eyes wide with horror.

  ‘Yes,’ she squeaked. ‘I’m surprised Mum didn’t tell you.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Cathy. ‘Having your daughter become one of the Sweete brothers’ conquests isn’t something you want to talk about even to your family.’

  Jo felt her cheeks grow warm.

  ‘She caught us having a kiss and a cuddle, Cathy, not having it off,’ said Jo. ‘But even so, she shouldn’t have dobbed me in it with Mum. You wouldn’t have, would you?’

  ‘Er, no,’ said Cathy. ‘No, course I wouldn’t have, Jo, I would never do such a thing, and Mattie shouldn’t have done either. I don’t blame you for not speaking to her but even so . . .’ The look of horror returned to her sister’s face. ‘You’re not still—’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ cut in Jo, hoping Cathy wouldn’t ask about the details.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ sighed Cathy, placing her hand on her chest in relief. ‘Those Sweete brothers are nothing but bad news.’

  ‘So everyone says,’ said Jo, trying to sound as though she agreed.

  ‘That Reggie’s been in and out of prison more times than you’ve had hot dinners,’ her sister continued. ‘And no one would be surprised if Tommy followed in his footsteps.’

  Lowering her gaze, Jo took a mouthful of tea.

  ‘So, Cathy,’ she said, putting her cup back precisely in the middle of its saucer, ‘your turn now. Where is Stan if he’s not in the army?’

  Cathy took a deep breath. ‘In prison—’

  ‘Prison!’

  ‘Yes,’ said her sister. ‘For treason. But it’s all Mattie’s fault. It’s her fault my poor Stan hasn’t even seen his son yet and I had to spend my first wedding anniversary all alone.’

  ‘No,’ gasped Jo. ‘I knew Stan had been in some sort of trouble, Cath,’ said Jo, ‘but I didn’t realise . . .’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t have, would you, as you and Billy were away when it all blew up, but it all happened the same weekend I got taken in to have young Peter,’ Cathy replied. ‘And having your other half marched away in handcuffs isn’t something you broadcast. Thankfully, the judge saw that Stan didn’t really understand what he was getting into so let him off but, as Stan was technically guilty of treason, the court couldn’t very well just let him go. Instead, the judge gave him the option of being sent to prison for three years or serving his sentence in the services, so he chose the army. He won’t be allowed leave but I can visit twice a year. I’m hoping to take Peter with me for a Christmas visit. If it wasn’t for Mattie’s ruddy husband my poor Stan wouldn’t be—’

  She stopped and pressed her lips together.

  ‘What’s this husband of Mattie’s got to do with it all?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I can’t say,’ her sister replied.

  ‘At least tell me who he is,’ said Jo.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Cathy, taking a sip of tea. ‘Because Gran dragged me down to St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s and made me swear on the cross I wouldn’t breathe a word about what happened to anyone.’

  Jo pulled a face. ‘It all sounds very mysterious, but I have to say, Cathy, when I got Mum’s letter telling me Mattie’d married some chap called McCarthy and she was in the family way, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Especially as the last bloke she was walking out with was that nice Christopher who worked in the bank.’

  ‘Nice! Christopher! I—’ Cathy clamped her mouth shut and pressed her lips together.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ said Cathy. ‘Although I’ll never forgive Mattie for what she’s done, I wouldn’t want the murder of innocent people on my conscience. You know: “Careless Talk Costs Lives”.’

  Chapter Twelve

  SLINGING HIS CANVAS kitbag across him, Tommy picked up his keys and the loose change from his mantelshelf and, closing his bedroom door behind him, trotted down the stairs and out of the front door.

  It was just after 3 p.m. on Friday and he was heading off for his end-of-week pie and mash, but before then he had another errand to run.

  Turning towards the river, Tommy stretched his legs and within a few minutes found himself in Commercial Road. Dodging between the lorries, he continued down Cannon Street Road until he reached Cable Street. Turning East, Tommy headed for the double-fronted Town Hall.

  The building housing Stepney’s municipal government was a square, Victorian four-storey structure with a grand staircase leading up to a pair of solid front doors. However, now a year after war had been declared, its imperial grandeur was tempered by the criss-crossed tapes on its long stately windows and the sandbags stacked against the basement window, where the area Civil Defence headquarters were housed. In addition, to save it from the attention of the Luftwaffe, it had silver barrage balloons anchored by tensile cables floating overhead. However, it wasn’t the nerve centre of the public services that Tommy was heading for but the more unassuming building next to it, St George’s public library.

  Taking the steps two at a time, Tommy pushed open the door and strolled into the echoing hall. Striding past the reference room to his left, where half a dozen roughly dressed men pored over the late editions of the national newspapers, he headed straight up the grey mottled staircase to the floor above. Through the open door to the children’s library, Friday-evening story time was in full swing, with Miss Green perched on a chair amidst a sea of enraptured young faces. Tommy smiled, remembering himself, bare-foot and dressed in rags sitting at the feet of the children’s old librarian, Miss Farthing, when he was seven.

  He’d discovered Friday-evening story time when, as a small lad, he’d ducked into the library as a way of evading the police who were after him for swiping a hot bagel from Mosher’s market stall and he’d been a regular visitor to St George’s ever since.

  Now, placing his palm on the brass plate worn smooth by countless hands, he pushed open the half-glazed door to the main collection and walked in. There were a handful of people browsing the shelves and a couple glanced over briefly as the door swung closed behind him but then their attention returned to their reading matter.

  As you’d expect, the main area of Stepney’s central library was lined with tall wooden cases stacked with books. The multitude of closely packed paper and cardboard housed in orderly, alphabetical rows absorbed sound and gave the room a muted tone. The calm atmosphere was further enhanced by the shades being pulled down over the top sections of the criss-crossed taped window to stop the sunlight fading the colours of the dust jackets.

  Two clerks stood on either side of the polished mahogany U-shaped desk in the middle of the room, one checking books in and the other stamping them out. Ranged behind them were four light-wood cabinets with rows of small drawers that housed the index cards of the library books, which were sorted by author and subject.

  Tommy scanned the room until he spotted the person he wanted to see in the far corner.

  Opening his bag, Tommy delved in and pulled out the three books he’d taken out the month before and put them on the counter. The assistant, a pretty-looking young girl with dark hair, red lips and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her nose, opened the front cover and found its corresponding buff marker.

  ‘They’re a week overdue,’ she said, handing him his tickets.

  ‘What’s the damage?’ he asked.

  ‘Threepence,’ she replied.

  Tommy dropped the coins in the box on the counter then slipping his tickets in his trouser pocket, strolled over to where St George’s senior librarian was stacking books into their allotted places on the shelves.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he said, stopping just behind him.

  Tapping a book into place, Mr Grossman turned around.

  Slightly built with hunched shoulders and thinning colourless hair, and dressed as always in a single-breasted grey suit with leather elbow patches, David Grossman
didn’t look any different from the first time Tommy had seen him a little over twelve years ago.

  Then, he and his wife were newly arrived from Austria, both with accents so thick that the locals struggled to understand. This didn’t stop the elderly couple from setting to work. Mrs Grossman was now the local coordinator placing newly arrived Jewish children in families while Mr Grossman was a senior librarian and also the local councillor for the East Smithfield ward.

  Some said he was a professor from Vienna while others swore he was a scientist from Munich, but whoever he was, having secured the post of librarian, David Grossman then set up a number of evening clubs in the library for the local children. These included nature, science and reading clubs and pretty soon the junior library was filled each evening with boys and girls of all ages. Hard-pressed parents, who up until then had to leave children to fend for themselves after school closed, loved the clubs as it stopped their offspring from getting into mischief and coming to the attention of the police. But it was four years ago, when Mr Grossman stopped one of Mosley’s thugs from throwing a young Jewish girl through a shop window during the Battle of Cable Street, that the locals really took him to their hearts.

  Now, although his accent had mellowed, his all-encompassing passion for his fellow man had not, and his latest initiative was making a selection of library books available in the public air raid shelters.

  ‘Tommy,’ he said, his long face lighting up with pleasure. ‘I was hoping you’d stop by. I’ve been saving something for you. Come.’

  Putting the books he was holding in his arms on the shelf, the elderly librarian shuffled off towards his office at the far end of the room.

  Tommy followed and soon found himself in the ten-byten room containing a small desk and two decrepit chairs, all three of which were surrounded by books stacked to waist-height and topped off with newspapers.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ Mr Grossman said, waving towards the nearest chair.

  Dropping his kitbag on the floor, Tommy lowered his frame into the old seat, which creaked worryingly.

  ‘I’m sure I have it here somewhere,’ Mr Grossman said, rummaging around amongst the papers strewn across his desk. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He flourished a newspaper cutting. ‘It was in the Telegraph. It’s a crossword and mathematical competition set by some lord or another to boost morale and I thought of you straight away. It’s open to anyone and—’