Keep the Home Fires Burning

by Anne Bennett

  Tony was silent. He was feeling incredibly miserable. His bottom felt as if it was on fire and his stomach yawned emptily, for he had been sent to bed without anything to eat. It hadn’t seemed stupid when Jack suggested it. It had seemed daring, and that’s what he tried to tell his sister. Sarah looked at his brick-red face and his eyes still so full of tears that his voice was broken and husky but she felt no sympathy for him.

  ‘Well, that one daring act might have cost you your life,’ she cried, and added witheringly, ‘Oh, you must be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘I ain’t,’ Tony sniffed. ‘I never said I was proud of it. I just thought it would be a bit of fun.’

  ‘Fun!’ Sarah repeated as if she couldn’t believe she had heard right. ‘Well, do you realise that you have probably cost that van driver his job? He more than likely has a wife and children dependent on him and, according to what the policeman told Mom, he might never be able to drive again. So you think on that, Tony Whittaker.’

  Tony did think about it, though he couldn’t help wondering what Jack felt about it all now. He knew that his family would probably not be half as harsh with him. Uncle Pat might even laugh at his antics. He often did. That was always a great puzzle to Tony.

  The thin porridge the next morning didn’t even go part way to assuaging his appetite but he did feel ashamed when he noticed lines of strain on his mother’s face that he had never seen before.

  ‘I have enough to worry about as it is, with your dad away and us barely having enough to live on,’ Marion said to him as she cleared away his bowl. ‘You can at least try to be good and listen more to me and less to Jack Reilly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mom,’ Tony said sincerely. ‘It was just a lark but I won’t do it again.’

  ‘See you don’t then,’ Marion said grimly. ‘You could have been killed.’

  ‘I know. I really am sorry.’

  ‘All right then,’ Marian said, mollified a little. ‘We’ll say no more about it.’

  Jack and Tony gave trams a wide berth after that little episode. It had given them quite a scare, not that either of them ever admitted that.

  Marion opened the door the following Saturday morning to see the priest, Father McIntyre, on the doorstep. She was a little flustered because she hadn’t been expecting him, but she smiled and said, ‘This is a surprise, Father. Come away in and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, Marion,’ the priest said stiffly. ‘This isn’t a social call.’

  ‘Oh?’ Marion felt her stomach sink as she looked at the priest’s disgruntled face and suddenly she knew that her younger son had something to do with Father McIntyre’s ill humour. Jack and Tony, like most Catholic boys of their age, had been trained to serve at Mass, and they should both have been serving at early Mass that morning. ‘Did the boys not turn up, Father?’ Marion asked anxiously.

  ‘Oh, they were there, all right,’ the priest said. ‘And afterwards showed total disrespect for the Church and the sacrament they had just taken part in.’

  ‘What did they do, Father?’ Marion asked fearfully.

  ‘They each had a water pistol and I caught them filling them up from the holy water font.’

  ‘Oh, Father!’ cried Marion, shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your place to be sorry,’ the priest said. ‘It’s up to your son to be sorry and mend his ways. Jack Reilly admitted that both pistols were his and that he had given one to Tony.’

  ‘Somehow Tony seems to lose all sense of right and wrong when he’s with that boy,’ Marion said. ‘I will deal with him, Father never fear. Where is he?’

  ‘Knowing that your husband is away, I have taken them both to Pat Reilly’s house to let him deal with the pair of them.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Marion said. ‘I will be away now to fetch Tony home.’

  And she did fetch him and berated him every step of the way. That night she wrote to tell Bill all about his recalcitrant son.

  Not surprisingly, Pat didn’t take it at all seriously. Do you know, he even asked the boys if they had chosen holy water because it improved their aim …

  Bill smiled when he read that because he could well imagine Pat saying it, and knew he himself would have taken the same line and viewed it for what it was, a boyhood prank. He also knew that Marion would never see it like that. She was really upset over it.

  How is Jack to grow up with any sort of moral fibre with a father like that one as an example? And whatever mischief he is at, Tony is right behind him. I cannot seem to keep any sort of check on him and never know what he might be up to next.

  A week after the last upset with Tony, Marion pawned the silver locket Bill had bought her the year after they were married and the delicate chiming carriage clock that had been Lady Amelia’s present to her when she’d left service to marry Bill. It had pride of place on the mantelpiece in the parlour for it was easily the most beautiful thing the family owned. Marion shed bitter tears when she was alone for she hated having to part with such treasured items.

  Sarah missed the clock almost straight away, but she said nothing because she could see from her mother’s sad face and woebegone eyes that she was heart sore that she’d had to take it to the pawnbroker. When her grandparents had been coming to tea every Sunday, one of the jobs that Sarah did on a Saturday was to dust the parlour. She used to dust that clock with very great care indeed, always afraid that she might drop it or damage it in some other way. Now she thought the mantelpiece looked terribly bare without it.

  And so it did, but Marion needed the money. She was a week behind with the rent again, badly needed coal, and she would liked to have her leaky boots resoled. Also she wanted to pick up a trinket for the children for Christmas, which was only two weeks away. She knew that it would be a poor one for the family this year, with no presents and nothing in the way of festive food either. She made a bit of an effort, though, and brought the little Christmas tree down from the loft, and hung around the garlands the children had made over the years.

  Sarah knew the twins still firmly believed in Santa Claus, though she wasn’t sure about Tony, and she thought she had better warn them about the lack of presents. ‘Santa won’t be visiting us this year,’ she told them one evening.

  They all looked at her in amazement. Tony wasn’t sure that he believed in Santa any more. Jack said it was eyewash and it was just your parents filled your stockings and that, but though he usually accepted everything Jack said as gospel truth, Tony had held on to the belief that this time he was wrong and that his bulging stockings of the past had been filled by a genial man in a red suit and sporting a long white beard.

  At Sarah’s words he saw at once that that wasn’t so. Jack had been right all along and that the hunting knife that he had coveted for so long would not be in his possession by Boxing Day, this year anyway.

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked Magda.

  ‘It’s because of the war,’ Sarah said.

  Magda and Missie looked at one another. They knew all about the war, but that surely had nothing to do with Santa. ‘What about the war?’

  ‘Well, if he set off with a sleigh full of toys the Germans could capture him,’ Sarah said.

  The twins’ mouths dropped agape at that terribly shocking news. They knew how horrid the Germans were because the adults were always talking about it and what they got up to, and the girls often saw the headlines of newspapers on their way to school. So Santa in German hands didn’t bear thinking about. What if they hurt him, killed him, even? Magda thought she wouldn’t put it past them. They were as bad as it was possible to be.

  So when Sarah said, ‘He thought this year he is safer staying where he is at the North Pole,’ the twins nodded solemnly. They were disappointed, but keeping Santa safe was paramount in their minds.

  SEVEN

  Marion had in the end taken the five shillings that Polly had pressed upon her so that the children could eat well on Christmas Day. To give the twins at least something to o
pen Christmas morning she also got the two girls a couple of wind-up toys from a man in the Bull Ring selling them from a tray round his neck, but she could find nothing for Tony, and neither could Sarah and Richard. They all felt bad about that.

  Then after breakfast on Christmas Day, Richard dropped a cloth bag into his young brother’s hands. ‘Happy Christmas, Tony.’

  Tony’s mouth dropped open with astonishment. ‘Your marble collection,’ he said with awe, his voice choked with emotion, because it was the one thing that he had coveted for ages, which Richard would never let him touch.

  Richard knew better than to comment on Tony’s reaction and instead he said almost nonchalantly, ‘You may as well have them. I never play with them any more.’

  Tony tipped them out onto the table and examined them. He knew he’d be the envy of his friends when he hit the streets with those. Not even Jack had so many, or such fine ones.

  ‘Thanks, Richard,’ he said. ‘I’ll take real good care of them.’

  Marion was glad that for Tony and the twins, a little magic of the day was retained.

  After dinner Polly came around with a bundle of clothes for them all. She had a warm coat for Tony that she said was an old one of Jack’s, but Marion had never seen Jack wearing anything like it and it was rather big for Tony. However, before she was able to say anything at all, Tony exclaimed in delight and put it on, very glad to have it because the only coat that fitted him was very thin and did nothing to keep the cold out.

  ‘This is great,’ he said, and Marion saw his eyes were shining so, though her eyes met her sister’s over Tony’s head, she said nothing.

  There were also scarves, gloves and smart berets for the twins, and a smart cap with ear flaps, the same brown as the coat, for Tony. Polly even had a couple of dresses and a cardigan for Marion she said she had no use for. Marion was moved to tears by her sister’s kindness and generosity. When she tried to say this, however, Polly waved her thanks away almost impatiently.

  ‘Think nothing of it. How many times did you help me out?’

  ‘That was nothing,’ Marion said. ‘It was just a bit and, anyway, I didn’t do it so you would feel you had to pay it back.’

  ‘And I didn’t do it for that, like a kind of duty,’ Polly said. ‘You made life much more comfortable for me and mine for years and years.’ She put her hand over Marion’s. ‘Now, through no fault of yours or mine, the positions have reversed a bit. It pleases me to be able to help you. Let me do it while I have the means to do so.’

  Marion couldn’t speak, the lump in her throat was too large, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Polly stood up, jerked Marion to her feet and put her arms around her. ‘Come here, you silly sod,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be crying on Christmas Day.’

  Marion made a valiant effort and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but it’s made me feel … I don’t really know … Anyway, Happy Christmas, Polly.’

  ‘And to you,’ Polly said, and her smile seemed to light up her whole face.

  Marion thought that although that Christmas was one of the poorest she had ever spent, because of Polly and her kindness she felt suddenly filled with warmth and happiness.

  The year turned, though Marion had no great hope that 1940 would be any better than 1939. All they had to look forward to was rationing starting on 8 January.

  ‘We’ll have to register with a grocer and a butcher,’ Marion told Polly. ‘Everyone gets a ration book, even the nippers.’

  ‘Well, that’s not that surprising, is it?’ Polly said. ‘I mean, the smallest has to eat.’

  ‘Well, they won’t get much on the ration,’ Marion said. ‘It’s only bacon, butter and sugar that are rationed so far, but they reckon there’ll soon be plenty more.’

  ‘Yeah, I think every damned thing will be rationed in the end,’ Polly said. ‘They’re just breaking us in gently. Shall we go down this afternoon and get ourselves sorted?’

  ‘If you like, but I’ve got to do something first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got to pawn Bill’s watch,’ Marion said. ‘I hung on to that till the last minute, but I’ve fallen behind with the rent and need more coal.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’

  Marion shook her head. ‘I must do this on my own,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep relying on you holding my hand all the time.’

  ‘Well, don’t let yourself get fleeced,’ Polly cautioned. ‘Don’t accept the first offer.’

  Marion, though, was too saddened at having to pawn all the things she had treasured so much to argue overly about the value of the watch. She knew the money raised would buy food and coal and pay off her rent, but she was very much aware that she had pawned the last item of value that she possessed apart from her wedding ring. She knew that would be the next thing to disappear and she was filled with depression at the thought of losing that golden band that she had never taken from her finger since Bill had put it there in 1922.

  Just a day or so after this, Tony and Jack were once more serving at early morning Mass. Tony felt very miserable because the previous evening meal hadn’t really filled him up and he had gone to bed with his stomach grumbling. And then he had to get up early in the coal black of a winter’s day and go out into the frost-rimed streets with nothing to eat or drink at all because he would be taking Communion. By the time he got to the church, despite his good thick coat, he was cold all through and feeling very sorry for himself.

  Jack was already in the vestry when he got there and he took one look at Tony’s glum face and said, ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Tony growled out. ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘God, are you really?’ Jack said ironically. His dark eyes sparkled with humour. ‘Hate to see you when you’re not all right, that’s all I can say. You have a face on you that would turn the milk sour.’

  ‘Oh, shurrup, can’t you?’ Tony cried.

  ‘Now, boys,’ the priest said, coming in at that moment, ‘what’s all this? I hope you’re not arguing in God’s house.’

  ‘No, Father,’ the boys said in unison, and the priest, not believing them for an instant, said, ‘Good. Now I have to go out for a while. One of my parishioners is very ill and asking for me and I want you to wait here until my return.’

  ‘What about school, Father?’

  ‘You’ll be away in plenty of time to go to school, Jack, never fear.’

  But shall we be in time to eat some breakfast, such as it is, before school? Tony thought, but didn’t say anything. Father McIntyre had been a bit sharp with both of them since the business with the holy water font. So the boys waited as the minutes ticked by.

  Eventually Jack said, ‘I reckon he’s not coming back. Shall we just go home?’

  ‘We can’t do that,’ Tony answered. ‘If he comes back and we’re not here, I will get in one heap of trouble.’

  ‘We’ll get the strap if we’re late for school.’

  ‘And if I don’t have something to eat soon I’ll fall into a dead heap on the floor,’ Tony said. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘I could eat something too,’ Jack said as he began to prowl around the room.

  He opened a long cupboard and saw the priest’s vestments hanging there. They were very beautiful, in vibrant colours or stark white, according to the Church calendar, in satin or shiny silk and heavily embossed and decorated with intricate embroidery in gold or silver.

  ‘My dad said these cost a packet to make,’ Jack said, flicking his finger through them. ‘He said before the war, when people were starving ‘cos there weren’t no jobs or owt, it seemed all wrong to him to see the priests dressed up in these when they came to Mass on Sunday morning. Price of them, he reckoned, would feed ten families for a year.’

  Tony didn’t doubt it. ‘Don’t you think you’d better shut the door now, Jack? If Father McIntyre comes back—‘

  ‘Aren’t you one scaredy-cat, Tony Whittaker?’ J
ack said jeeringly. He shut the door, though, but opened the door on the other side. There was the bottle of Communion wine. The bottle had been opened ready to mix with water in the chalice at the Mass. ‘D’you suppose it’s real wine?’ he said, withdrawing it from the cupboard.

  ‘I don’t know, but put the flipping thing back, Jack, before the pair of us are killed.’

  ‘Like I said, you’re a scaredy-cat.’

  That jibe, issued for the second time in so many minutes, cut Tony to the quick. ‘I ain’t,’ he said, ‘but I just get punished much more than you if we do owt.’

  ‘Prove you ain’t scared then.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Let’s try some.’

  ‘You’re barmy.’

  ‘And you’re scared,’ Jack said. ‘I dare you. I’ll do it first, if you like. He won’t miss a few sips of wine, will he? He has a whole bottle.’

  Tony thought that he would show Jack what he was made of and he grabbed the bottle from Jack, put it to his mouth, took a couple of hefty swigs and began spluttering and gasping.

  ‘Don’t think you’re supposed to neck it like that,’ Jack said. ‘And you have taken an awful lot. He’s sure to notice.’

  ‘Now who’s scared,’ Tony said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

  ‘I ain’t scared,’ Jack declared, taking a hefty swig himself.

  ‘God, Jack, there ain’t that much left. What we going to do?’

  ‘S all right, we’ll fill it up with water,’ Jack said. ‘He mixes it with water, anyroad, so he won’t even notice.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘Not yet. We can have a bit more if we’re going to fill the bottle up anyway. Let’s have some more. It’s good stuff, this, ain’t it?’

  Tony had actually never tasted anything so foul, but no way was he going to admit that, and he nodded his head vigorously and put his hand out for the bottle.

  When Father McIntyre returned a little later he found two highly intoxicated altar boys in his vestry, and the bottle of Communion wine only a quarter full.

  That evening, Marion wrote to Bill.