A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Well, sad as I am to give you the news, Ethel, but Clark Gable’s not coming to sweep you off your feet.’

  ‘Well, thank the Lord for that,’ chuckled Ethel, flashing her few remaining teeth at them in the process. ‘I’ve all but forgotten what to do with a man.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want him send him my way,’ said Vi. ‘But tell him to bring his ration book.’

  The old ladies at the table laughed and Queenie smiled.

  ‘Do mine,’ said Vi, thrusting her cup towards Queenie.

  ‘And how are we this fine afternoon, ladies?’ said a deep voice from behind her.

  Queenie turned to find Father Mahon, in his black cassock and dog collar, standing behind her. He was but a few years older than her and had been the parish priest at St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s for over forty years.

  When Queenie had walked into the church for the first time carrying six-month-old Jerimiah, Father Mahon had had a full head of wavy black hair, but time and worry had stripped that away, leaving an almost baby-fine layer of wispy white hair.

  Although never robust, the skin on his face was so tightly drawn across his nose and cheeks it was a wonder the bones beneath didn’t slice through. However, although the years of caring for his parishioners through good times and bad had taken their toll on the rest of him, his coal-black eyes still danced with merriment when they looked at a baby and filled with compassion for those gripped by grief.

  His gaze flickered on to the grouts from Ethel’s cup sitting in the saucer and back to Queenie.

  ‘Mrs Brogan, I wonder if I could drag you away for a moment or two,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, Father,’ said Queenie. Picking up her expansive carpet bag at her feet she stood up and followed the parish priest out of the hall.

  ‘I thought as the Civil Defence are in possession of the main hall and the WVS committee are in the parish room we might avail ourselves of the peace and quiet of the church,’ he said as the door swung shut behind them.

  As he led the way down the side of the church, Queenie brought the priest up to date on Mattie’s daughter’s latest tooth, Jo’s long hours and Cathy’s recent clash with her dragon of a mother-in-law and by the time they walked through into the cool quietness of the stone-built mock-medieval Victorian church, she was filling him in on her parrot’s recent antics.

  ‘But how are you yourself, Patrick?’ she asked as they slipped into the back pew.

  ‘Aching a bit with the cold, as always this time of year,’ said Father Mahon.

  ‘Well, make sure you have your scarf before venturing out,’ said Queenie. ‘For if there’s but a trace of damp in the air it’ll go straight to your chest.’

  ‘So, you’re forever telling me, Queenie,’ he said, the sunlight shining through the stained-glass window, throwing muted colours across his face. ‘And Mrs Dunn looks after me well enough for you not to worry.’

  At the mention of the rectory’s housekeeper Queenie’s mouth pulled in to a hard line but then she noticed the weariness on Father Mahon’s face and her expression softened.

  ‘Well, I’m sure she tries,’ Queenie said, ‘but she doesn’t know like I do that your mother and sister Colleen were martyrs to the damp.’

  Father Mahon smiled fondly. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear the family news but I can’t help but notice you haven’t told me how things are with Jerimiah or Ida.’

  Queenie forced herself to hold the priest’s penetrating gaze for a moment longer then let out a long sigh.

  ‘Why wouldn’t you have heard?’ she said, throwing up her hands. ‘Mustn’t we be the talk on every street corner? Sure, haven’t I heard as much meself these past three weeks?’

  ‘So, it’s true,’ he said. ‘Ellen Gilbert’s child is his.’

  Queenie nodded and told him about Ellen’s condition and her desire that Jerimiah care for Michael after she died.

  ‘And what does Ida say to all this?’ Father Mahon asked when she’d finished.

  ‘Well, she’s fair spitting mad,’ said Queenie. ‘But as yet she’s not said yes to taking care of the lad.’

  The elderly priest’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘It’s not a thing every woman could do, that’s for sure.’

  ‘As you know full well, Patrick, me and Ida don’t always see eye to eye,’ said Queenie. ‘But it would be a surprise to me if Ida could stand by and see a child suffer if she could prevent it.’

  A grave expression settled on the old priest’s face. ‘I hope you’re right, Queenie, and if she does I hope Jerimiah is suitably humbled by his wife’s understanding and compassion.’

  ‘I’m sure he will be but don’t judge him too harshly,’ said Queenie. ‘For couldn’t he have given Job a run for his money in regard to the trials and sorrows he suffered after James died?’

  ‘Ha, well now,’ said Father Mahon, sadness softening the deep lines of his face, ‘’twas a terrible time and no mistake.’

  ‘There were many who said he should have had Ida put away like Ken O’Farrell did when his wife went barmy after she lost a babby,’ said Queenie. ‘But my boy wouldn’t hear of it. “For better or worse, Ma,” he said to me. “And I’m a man of me word.”’

  ‘Well, he’s to be praised for that, I’m sure,’ said the priest. ‘But even so—’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ cut in Queenie, matching his sharp gaze with her own. ‘But don’t you know yourself how easy it is to give in to the flesh, Patrick?’

  Father Mahon held her meaningful stare for a moment then swallowed. ‘Indeed,’ he said, looking down and making a play of adjusting the folds of his cassock over his knee.

  ‘Well,’ said Queenie, picking up her handbag and rising to her feet, ‘I’m sure you’ve a cart load of things you should be doing and I shouldn’t be keeping you from them.’

  ‘I have too; God’s work is never done.’ Grasping the back of the pew in front to lever himself up, Father Mahon stood up. ‘Will I see you tomorrow at confession?’

  ‘For sure,’ said Queenie. ‘But mind my words, Patrick, and be sure you guard your chest against the damp.’

  ‘That I will, but you know you’re not really supposed to be calling me by my baptised name,’ he said.

  ‘I know, and sure haven’t you reminded me of the same a hundred times or more.’ She placed her hand on his arm and smiled fondly up at him. ‘But it’s the name I called you when we ran barefoot amongst the low meadows of Kinsale so it’s a habit I find hard to break.’

  Father Mahon covered her bony hand with his gnarled one and smiled briefly then turned and strolled away.

  As Queenie watched his stooped frame shuffle down the aisle, his cassock collecting dust from the tiles as he progressed towards the sanctuary, she smiled fondly. Truthfully, time had taken its toll on both of them, but she didn’t need to plumb the depths of her memories to recall the tall youth with a full head of springy black hair that Patrick had once been. All she had to do was look across the room at her son Jerimiah.

  Chapter Six

  LIFTING THE LATCH of the back door, Jo Brogan stepped inside her sister Mattie’s home. The sounds and smells of a late Saturday afternoon, of supper in the oven and fresh washing drying above the stove, enveloped her in a comfortable domestic fug, while Variety Bandbox played softly out of the Bush wireless propped up on the window sill. Of course, there was just the faint smell of nappies soaking in the enamel bucket under the sink ready for the Monday wash day but that was to be expected with a baby in the house.

  ‘Only me,’ she called, shutting the door behind her before moving the blackout curtain aside.

  ‘I’m just changing Alicia,’ her sister called back from her front room. ‘Put the kettle on and I’ll be with you in a moment.’

  Collecting the kettle from the cooker Jo filled it under the tap then returned it to the hob. She struck a match and, turning the knob, held it to the gas, which popped a couple of times then settled down as the blue flame ignited.

  Mattie�
�s house was on Jo’s route home from the ambulance post in Trafalgar Gardens so she dropped in a couple of times a week for tea and a chat. It was situated in Belgrave Street just a stone’s throw from St Dunstan’s Church in Stepney, a mile or so from Mafeking Terrace.

  Unlike the old workman’s cottage which was the family home, her sister’s house, although the same age as the one in Mafeking Terrace, was a bit more up-market. With three good-size bedrooms and a separate lounge and dining room, it also had a modern kitchen with a closed-in sink, an air-cooled larder and a gas ascot, which provided hot water on tap, something her mother would give her front teeth for. More usefully in these troubled times, it also had a basement in which Mattie’s husband had installed one of the cage-like Morrison shelters so that the family could spend their nights in there rather than in an overcrowded shelter or underground station. But the thing Jo coveted most about her sister’s house was the bathroom, with its immersion heater for the bath water and an inside toilet. Unlike when the three sisters had shared a bed as children, Mattie didn’t have to use a gazunder at night, instead she just had to walk a couple of steps along the landing.

  As the first few wisps of steam started curling from the spout, Mattie walked through from the hall passage, carrying her ten-month-old daughter on her hip.

  Like Jo, she had abundant brunette hair, green-brown eyes and a curvy figure. People often remarked how much she looked like her oldest sister, which Jo didn’t mind a bit as Mattie was absolutely gorgeous.

  Jo crossed the room and after giving Mattie a peck on the cheek, turned her attention to her niece.

  ‘How’s my best girl today?’ Jo asked, pulling a happy face at the baby.

  ‘Teething,’ her mother replied. ‘Can you take her while I put this in to soak?’

  She held up a damp nappy in her other hand.

  ‘Try and stop me,’ said Jo, taking Alicia from her sister.

  Sitting down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table, Jo bounced the baby on her knee to make her laugh.

  Alicia obliged and started giggling.

  ‘The gas seems low,’ said Jo as her sister went to check the kettle’s progress.

  ‘It’s been like that all day,’ said Mattie. ‘I expect the gas station is conserving coal stocks. Have you only just finished?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo with a sigh. ‘The ARP wardens and the heavy rescue were still mopping up after last night’s raid when I got to the station this morning.’

  ‘Yes, it was a bad one last night,’ said Mattie. ‘The ground didn’t stop shaking all night. At one point I thought we’d been hit but I found out this morning they had a high explosive bomb land in Grosvenor Street.’

  ‘There were two like that landed in Mile End New Town and we spent all morning ferrying the last few with broken bones and glass injuries to hospital then we got a message that one of the West Ferry Road ambulances had shredded their tyres on some debris, so we went over to give a hand fetching people home from St Andrew’s. What about you?’

  ‘The usual exhilarating day of a housewife,’ said Mattie, taking the kettle off the hob as it started whistling. ‘Queuing at the butcher’s, queueing at the baker’s, queueing at—’

  ‘The candlestick maker’s?’ suggested Jo.

  ‘Lipton, actually,’ said Mattie, with a raised eyebrow. ‘And then they were only giving out half tea rations because they were low on stock. And when I got back I found Alicia’s dirty nappy has soaked right through to her clothes, which means another lot of washing.’ She set a cup of tea in front of Jo. ‘I tell you, Jo, some days I wish I was still the coordinator at CD Post 7. At least then I’d only have stroppy ARP personnel to sort out rather than running a house and feeding a family on rations.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Jo. ‘I take my hat off to you, though, Mattie, because despite all that you’ve managed to get another one of your Needles and Pins tips printed in the local. I showed it to the chaps at the ambulance station.’

  ‘Well, it’s only a few patterns for children to sew tree decorations out of scrap,’ said Mattie. ‘I might as well put all those years making garments for Gold and Sons to good use.’

  ‘It’s clever of you to think of it, even so,’ Jo replied.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Her sister smiled. ‘But with Daniel working all hours I’m still going stark-staring mad stuck in the house all day.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jo. ‘I know I’d be bonkers by now.’

  ‘I am,’ said Mattie. ‘Which is why after Christmas I’m going to have a word with Mr Granger, the area coordinator, about helping out in the ARP control at the Town Hall.’

  ‘What about Alicia?’ asked Jo.

  ‘She’ll be a year old, so she’ll be able to go into the WVS nursery in the Temperance Hall opposite,’ said Mattie. ‘It would only be for a few hours each day.’

  ‘Won’t Daniel object?’ asked Jo.

  Mattie raised an eyebrow. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  Jo grinned.

  Her sister turned her attention to making the tea, leaving Jo to bounce her niece on her knee and play pattercake.

  Putting the kettle on the back hob, Mattie moved the saucepan of potatoes over the gas. She opened the oven and peered in.

  ‘That smells nice,’ said Jo, as the meaty aroma of her sister’s supper wafted across.

  ‘It’s baked hearts,’ said Mattie, putting a cup of tea in front of her. ‘The butcher put a fresh plate out as I arrived.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ said Jo, pulling a blissful expression.

  ‘Would you like to stay for supper?’ asked Mattie.

  ‘Could I?’ said Jo, putting her cup on the table and making sure it was out of her niece’s grasp. ‘I mean, as long as Daniel won’t mind.’

  ‘I’m not sure what time he’ll be in,’ said Mattie. ‘But he won’t mind.’

  ‘And I’m not getting in the way of your canoodling,’ said Jo, shifting Alicia into a more comfortable position on her lap.

  ’We’re sleeping in a cage in the basement with a baby,’ said Mattie, raising an arched eyebrow. ‘There’s not much canoodling going on, I can tell you.’

  Jo held her sister’s gaze for a second or two then Mattie laughed. ‘Well, not as much as I’d like.’

  ‘How is Captain McCarthy?’

  Mattie’s husband, Daniel, worked for MI5. It was something the whole family knew but never spoke about even amongst themselves.

  ‘Busy as always,’ said Mattie. ‘In fact, he hasn’t been in before midnight all week. What about Lance Corporal Sweete?’

  ‘Tommy’s unit are practically working around the clock at whatever it is they’re doing in Bletchley,’ Jo replied. ‘And, in his own words, he’s “counting the seconds” until he sees me again.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Mattie. ‘I’m guessing you had a nice time last weekend.’

  ‘Blissful,’ said Jo, with a sigh.

  ‘Was it a nice hotel?’ asked Mattie.

  ‘It was,’ said Jo. ‘At least what I saw of it was.’

  Mattie raised her eyebrows again.

  ‘Well,’ said Jo, as images of her and Tommy flashed through her mind, ‘we only had two days.’

  ‘Is Tommy coming back before Christmas?’ asked Mattie.

  ‘He’s going to try because . . .’ She told Mattie about her fiancé’s transfer to London and cornering her mother in the market a couple of days ago.

  ‘I don’t see why Dad won’t relent,’ said her sister when she’d finished, ‘especially if Mum’s on your side.’

  ‘He might if they were actually talking,’ said Jo.

  Mattie looked aghast. ‘Don’t tell me they’re still fighting!’

  ‘No, I wish they were,’ said Jo. ‘At least if they had one big row like they usually do then it would be over, but all this silence is worse and me and Gran are stuck in the middle.’

  ‘Have you managed to find out what it’s about yet?’ asked Mattie.

  Jo shook her head. ‘But I
overheard Mum say something about an Ellen somebody or other who’s moved back into the area.’

  Mattie looked puzzled. ‘She must mean Ellen Gilbert.’

  ‘That’s her,’ said Jo. ‘Do you remember her?’

  ‘I do, Auntie Ellen we used to call her,’ said her sister.

  ‘I remember her, although not much more than the name,’ said Jo. ‘And that she was forever making a fuss of us because she didn’t have any kids of her own.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Mattie. ‘But she was good after baby James died and Mum wasn’t well.’

  ‘I can’t say I remember James,’ said Jo. ‘Or Mum being poorly.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so, you were only seven when it all happened,’ said Mattie. ‘But I do. I remember Mum sitting in the chair crying and poor Dad trying to look after us kids after being out on the wagon all day and Auntie Ellen cooking our tea. Looking back, I reckon if it hadn’t been for Ellen we would have all ended up in the workhouse, Mum included, so I can’t understand how her coming back can have caused Mum and Dad to fall out.’

  *

  ‘Three, three, any advance on three?’ ask the auctioneer, his eyes skimming over the small crowd as he balanced on the wooden beer crate.

  Jerimiah raised his hand. ‘And a tanner, if you will.’

  It was three thirty in the afternoon on the second Tuesday in November and he was in the playground of Fairclough Street School at the west end of Cable Street.

  The old Victorian building, which had been the local schoolhouse for almost a hundred years, had been taken over by the council when the school children were evacuated out of London en masse. It now served as a supply depot for the council’s road and buildings department, as the huge support joists and metal girders stacked at the far end of the playground testified.

  However, this afternoon, the open space that once had boys kicking balls across it and girls turning skipping ropes was hosting a more sombre event: a bomb salvage sale.

  A year ago, at this time of day, he’d have been setting out for a last trundle around the streets on his final collection before his well-earned end-of-the-day pint in the Catholic Club when it opened at four.