A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘I’m sorry to come to the yard and give people something new to talk about,’ she said, twisting her fingers together.

  ‘Sure, don’t you worry about that,’ he replied lightly. ‘It’s been my aim for some time to give the gossips something fresh each day.’ Lowering his eyes and taking up a brush, Jerimiah started brushing the horse’s flanks. ‘Ida told me she’d seen you and about the boy—’

  ‘Michael,’ Ellen cut in.

  ‘Michael.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘Is he mine?’

  She smiled, and Jerimiah caught a fleeting glimpse of the woman he’d once known so well.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘You only have to look at him to see that and you know yourself Paul was not a well man, so I’d not been a wife to him for a year before we—’

  She lowered her eyes, then, after studying his steel-toecapped boots for a moment, she raised her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her deep-set eyes holding his. ‘I didn’t mean you to find out like this.’

  ‘You mean by me having my wife tell me I’ve a son by the woman who was her best friend,’ he said.

  Ellen flinched.

  Shame washed over Jerimiah. ‘No, ’tis I who should be sorry, Ellen,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘This is a storm of my own making.’

  ‘You didn’t force me, Jerimiah,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m as much to blame as you, and it can’t be easy for you to find out you have another son.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘But it’s a whole lot harder for Ida.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Ellen. ‘I suppose she was furious.’

  Jerimiah didn’t reply. He didn’t have to as they both knew Ida well. They stared at each other for a moment then Jerimiah moved to Samson’s shaggy head and unfastening the horse’s blinkers. For a long moment only the sound of the horse’s teeth munching on the hay punctuated the silence and then Jerimiah spoke again.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, stepping out from behind the horse, ‘after keeping Michael a secret from me for all this time I’m wondering why you feel the need to tell me about him now?’

  Yawning, and with her arms aching from the two heavy shopping bags hanging from them, Ida turned into Mafeking Terrace just after twelve thirty.

  The sky was iron grey and she’d hoped to be home from work before the weather broke. She had only popped to the market on her way home to pick up something for tea but when she got there the Home and Colonial had just had a consignment of tinned peaches and corned beef, so Ida had bought three of each to stash alongside the rest of the tins and packets she was putting by for Christmas. What’s more, Feltons had just found some Christmas wrapping paper from somewhere. It was dull stuff, really – you could hardly distinguish the robins from the holly leaves and it had probably been tucked away in their storeroom for years. Although she had barely anything to wrap in it as yet, she spent her last few coppers on half a dozen sheets.

  The Luftwaffe had decided to make up for lost time the night before, sending wave after wave of bombers throughout the night until they ran out of either bombs or fuel and disappeared back to France. The all-clear had sounded just before dawn. She’d arrived home with Billy and baby Patrick twenty minutes later to find Queenie had already been out and about getting the family bread from the Jewish baker around the corner.

  Stella finished work sometime after midnight so wouldn’t be around to collect Patrick until at least ten, so while Ida went to work Queenie tended him. It wasn’t ideal, given that Queenie was completely potty, but there was a war on. Leaving Billy having breakfast and Patrick asleep in his pram, Ida had downed a quick cup of tea and hurried off to work.

  She yawned again, weariness washing over her. Of course, everyone was tired after a full night of bombing. In fact, they’d been exhausted from lack of sleep since the Germans started their nightly bombing raids last September, but Ida was bone weary for a very different reason. Michael, with the dark grey eyes of his father, had ripped her life and heart apart.

  How could he? How could Jerimiah have done this to her? And with Ellen, of all ruddy people, and their James not yet cold in his grave.

  Feeling tears pressing the back of her eyes again she hurried on and turned into the alleyway between the houses just as the first spot of rain hit the pavement.

  Dragging her feet, Ida went through the back gate, across the yard and in through the back door, heaving the two canvas shopping bags on to the kitchen table with a heavy sigh. Unwinding her scarf, she shoved it in the pocket of her coat which she hung on a free peg.

  By rights, the family’s main living room should have been the one at the front of the house, but Queenie and her moth-eaten parrot, Prince Albert, had taken up residence there. Since her mother-in-law’s arrival, the rest of the family had had to squash into the back parlour for everything, including entertaining Father Mahon when he called for his twice-amonth visit. However, the back parlour had the door to the kitchen opening into it so was a great deal warmer than the front room, even before she lit the fire in the morning.

  Wondering if Billy’s school trousers would last him until Christmas or if she’d have to apply to the council for extra coupons and get him a new pair, Ida walked into the back room to find Jerimiah sprawled out in his chair asleep.

  He was dressed in his version of the Home Guard uniform, which consisted of full battle dress but with his blue paisley waistcoat beneath and the sheepskin jerkin he wore on the wagon over the top. His combat trousers, secured with a wide brown leather belt with a stylised buckle, were tucked into his hobnail boots, while around his neck was a red neckerchief, tied in a dapper knot at his throat.

  He was lying with his head back and his hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  There was a hint of silver amongst the bluey grey of his afternoon bristles and the lines around his mouth were deeper than usual; his hair, still abundantly curly and a little longer than most men wore it, was dishevelled.

  It had clearly been a hard night for those working to keep the capital and the people dwelling there safe, and he’d gone straight from that on to the yard to start his morning’s work.

  The familiar feelings of compassion for the man who’d shared her life and bed for a quarter of a century started to rise within her, but she cut them short.

  With imagined pictures of her husband entwined with Ellen playing in her head, Ida’s eyes returned to Jerimiah’s hands. She studied those strong, square fingers that had caressed and pleased Ellen Gilbert.

  He opened his eyes. ‘Hello, luv.’

  ‘I thought you were going over to Bethnal Green this afternoon,’ she said, the corners of her mouth downturned.

  ‘I am,’ he said, stretching his face to wake himself up. ‘But the council sale isn’t until three.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got you any dinner,’ Ida replied.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll get something on the way. I wanted to see you, though, before I headed off.’

  He stood up and crossed the space between them in two strides.

  Despite her pounding heart, Ida gave him a chilly look. ‘I suppose you want a cup of tea.’

  ‘Only if you’re making one.’

  He gave her a tentative smile, which Ida answered with a glacial stare.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said flatly, indicating that she wanted him to move out of her way.

  He stared down at her for a second then stepped aside. Ida brushed past him into the kitchen and he followed her.

  Painfully aware of him standing behind her, Ida took the kettle to the tap to fill it then returned it to the stove and lit the gas beneath it.

  As the gas popped and spluttered, and feeling his eyes boring into her back, she started to unpack her shopping.

  ‘Ellen was waiting when I got back to the yard,’ he said, as she pulled a tin of corned beef out of the bag.

  She slammed it on the table, feeling something akin to a
double-edged saw cut through her heart. Then she hung her head and stared at a whirled knot on the table’s surface, images of Jerimiah holding Ellen, kissing Ellen, flaring up once more in her mind.

  ‘Ida,’ he said softly.

  Straightening up, she turned and faced him. ‘What did she want?’ she said finally.

  ‘To talk,’ he replied.

  Ida raised an eyebrow. ‘Just talk? Not for a quick one in the office for old times’ sakes, then?’ she said, twisting the knife buried in her heart.

  ‘Ida.’

  ‘I hope she ain’t after money,’ she snapped, thumping another tin next to the first.

  ‘She’s not,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Cos we’ve got precious little of that,’ Ida continued.

  Jerimiah sighed. ‘She’s not after money.’

  ‘Well, what’s she after then, you?’ said Ida. ‘Maybe widowhood don’t suit her, and she’s after a bit of the other. It wouldn’t surprise me. She always did have a hankering after you.’ With tears shimmering on her lower lids, Ida gave him a brittle smile. ‘And now it would seem you had a bit of a hankering for her, too.’

  He frowned. ‘That’s not true. From the moment I saw you with that red ribbon in your hair at the St Patrick’s Day dance there’s been no one else.’

  ‘Except Ellen,’ Ida snapped back. ‘Anyway.’ She turned back to her shopping and pulled out the rolls of wrapping paper. ‘If it’s not you or money then—’

  ‘She’s dying,’ said Jerimiah softly.

  Feeling as if she’d just had ice water tipped over her, Ida turned and stared at him.

  ‘Some tumour in her lung,’ he continued. ‘She’s got a few months, if she’s lucky. That’s why she came back. To find me, to tell me about Michael and . . .’ His dark grey eyes that sent her heart fluttering held hers. ‘To ask me to look after him when she dies.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  His gaze didn’t falter. ‘I said I’d have to speak to you.’

  Fury gripped Ida. ‘Well, that’s good of you.’

  He held his calloused hands out in supplication. ‘What could I say, Ida? It’s us or some orphanage somewhere and I wouldn’t want to condemn any child to that.’

  Neither would Ida, usually, but at the moment she’d happily tie a lead weight to the boy, Ellen and Jerimiah too and pitch them off Southend pier.

  She stared wordlessly at him for a moment then the kettle whistle started. Turning her back on him, Ida went to the cooker and turned off the gas.

  Painfully aware of her husband standing just behind her, she spoke again. ‘You’d better be off to your sale, then.’

  After what seemed like a lifetime, a gust of cold air shot across the room before the back door slammed shut as Jerimiah crashed out of the kitchen.

  Forcing her gaze to remain on the kettle, out of the corner of her eye, Ida watched her husband stride across the yard but as he banged the gate behind him Ida staggered back. Falling on to the chair, she rested her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.

  ‘Can I, Mum, pleeeeeease?’ Billy whined, his voice cutting through the fog in Ida’s head.

  ‘Can you what?’ she asked, forcing herself to concentrate on her son, who was bouncing along beside her.

  ‘Go and knock for Keith?’ asked Billy.

  ‘All right, as long as you’re in the shelter by the time I get there,’ Ida replied, adjusting her grip on the picnic basket.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ Billy shouted as he dashed off.

  It was just gone six o’clock and more than three hours since Jerimiah had told her why Ellen had returned. It was also ten minutes since she’d closed her back door, but it might as well have been ten hours or ten days. In fact, in the short walk from her house to her son’s house two streets over, Ida had seriously considered just lying down in the road and to hell with the Luftwaffe and their bombs.

  Forcing the images of Ellen and Jerimiah in each other’s arms out of her head, Ida turned the corner of Ladysmith Terrace where her daughter-in-law lived.

  Charlie himself had joined up as soon as war was declared and was currently with the 8th Army in North Africa, but his wife of nine months, Stella, and his six-month-old son, Patrick, lived halfway down on the east side of the two-up two-down terraced cottages.

  As the light was now all but gone, Ida took the torch from her pocket and switched it on. Pointing it downwards as the blackout regulations demanded, she continued until she found herself outside the red-painted door of number 43.

  Grasping the knocker, she banged on it twice and stood back, noting that, as always, every housewife in the street had scrubbed a half circle on the pavement outside their front door that day. Every housewife, that is, except her daughter-in-law.

  The lock rattled, and Stella stood illuminated by the low-wattage hall light in the door frame.

  The only average thing about Stella was her height, everything else was greatly exaggerated. The bright auburn victory rolls at her temples were larger, her pencilled eyebrows were higher and her lipstick redder. Even the cigarettes she smoked were cork tipped whereas most people made do with rough cut. Despite having had a baby only six months before, her corseted waist was drawn in an inch or two tighter, thereby emphasising the most prominent feature she possessed: her breasts.

  Tonight, like a pair of pink torpedoes, these were pushed up beneath the tight, sweetheart neckline of her figure-hugging dress as if ready to fire at someone. Someone, that is, wearing trousers.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Stella said, regarding her mother-in-law from beneath heavily mascaraed eyelashes. ‘I’ve not got Patrick ready yet.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll wait,’ said Ida. ‘You’d better let me in before you have the warden after you for showing a light.’

  ‘Not unless he wants another mouthful from me, he won’t.’ She stepped back from the door. ‘I suppose you’d better come in while I fetch Patrick. I was just getting him up when you knocked.’

  ‘I’ll come around the back next time if you like,’ said Ida.

  Stella threw her a sour look. ‘You know I prefer visitors to knock.’

  Of course she did: Stella thought friends and family letting themselves in around the back of the house was common.

  ‘Wait here and I’ll get him,’ she added.

  She left the room and her high-heeled footsteps could be heard going up the stairs. Ida looked around the small front room, which was about the same size as Ida’s back parlour. It was immaculately kept, thanks to the woman two doors down, who Stella paid to clean for her.

  Unlike the living room in Mafeking Terrace, which was crammed with an assortment of chairs, table and, of course, the oversized bookcase, Stella’s main room was furnished like one of those houses you saw in the dog-eared glossy magazines at the doctor’s surgery.

  A matching pair of sage-coloured roll-armed easy chairs sat either side of the fireplace with a matching sofa against the wall opposite. There was also a sideboard with a walnut veneer gramophone on it and a dozen or so records slotted upright in a rack beside it plus an oval mirror with bevelled edges above.

  The hearth was surrounded by tawny marbled tiles. Instead of the usual family portraits on the mantelshelf, Stella had a heavy onyx clock on a stout plinth with a scantily clad nymph pirouetting on top and two greyhounds either side watching her.

  There was a photo of her and Charlie on their wedding day on the wall in the alcove to the right of the chimney breast, with another of a very new-born Patrick alongside. On the wall of the opposite alcove, instead of an image of Charlie in his uniform, there was a photo of Stella perched on a bar stool; she was dressed in a skin-tight evening gown, leaning forward and showing cleavage down to her navel. She had jewels at the throat and ears and a wanton invitation spread across her face.

  Her daughter-in-law’s shoes clip-clopped down the stairs again and Stella walked back into the room holding Patrick.

  He was wrapped in the pale blue pr
am set, with the matching bonnet and bootees secured by pom-pom ties that Mattie had knitted for him.

  He rubbed his eyes and blinked a couple of times then, seeing Ida, he smiled and stretched out his arms.

  Ida did the same and his mother promptly handed him over.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Ida, settling him on to her hip.

  Delving into her handbag on the sideboard Stella took out a silver cigarette case and shrugged. ‘Same as ever: grizzly. Why?’

  ‘I just thought he had a bit of a snuffle last night, that’s all,’ said Ida, pressing her lips on to her grandson’s cheek and enjoying its softness.

  ‘Can’t say as I’d noticed,’ her daughter-in-law replied.

  ‘Have you heard from Charlie?’ Ida asked.

  Flicking a flame from her lighter Stella lit her cigarette and nodded. ‘I got one in the afternoon post yesterday.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Not much. Just army stuff,’ Stella replied, spreading her mouth wide as she checked her lipstick in the mirror. ‘I only skimmed it.’

  Ida studied her for a second or two and spoke again. ‘You’re a bit dressed up for a night shift in a factory canteen, aren’t you?’

  Pressing her lips together in the reflection, Stella turned. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ she said, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘I’ve got a new job.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ida. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Just a dining club up West,’ Stella replied. ‘It’s for officers and government top brass only. Very exclusive. I change when I get there but I can’t turn up looking like I’m there to scrub the floors.’ She turned back to the mirror and gave Ida a sweet smile. ‘Can I?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Ida replied.

  Annoyance flashed across Stella’s powdered face for a second then she gave Ida a sweet smile. ‘Fancy me yakking on about my new job hob-knobbing with the squadron leaders and generals and keeping you from your nice dry spot in the shelter.’

  ‘Give Mummy a kiss, Patrick,’ said Ida, giving her daughter-in-law a tight smile. ‘And we can go and have a nice time with our friends.’