A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  Ida had taken her WVS uniform with her to work and come straight to the hall when she’d finished at eleven. Stella was off work with a sore throat so, as she didn’t need to collect Patrick, she’d told Queenie that she would go straight to the rest centre to help sort a consignment of clothing from the American Red Cross, which was true. However, the real reason for not going home first was that she didn’t want to see Jerimiah; she still couldn’t bring herself to say yes to him.

  ‘It’s a bit big, isn’t it?’ said Vera Mullins.

  Vera and her three children lived in one of the old cottages in Elm Row near to the Children’s Hospital by Shadwell Basin. That’s to say, they’d lived there until this morning when they had returned from the shelter at first light and found the home they’d left ten hours before had been turned into a pile of charred beams and rubble with all their worldly possessions crushed beneath.

  ‘Well, she’ll get plenty of wear out of it and, to be honest,’ Ida glanced along the rail of clothing beside her and the rows of shoes beneath, ‘I don’t think we’ve got anything smaller. It’s come all the way from America.’

  Vera studied her daughter for a few seconds more then nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll save some coupons if it sees her through a couple of winters. I don’t know, my kids seem to sprout up overnight.’

  ‘I know just what you mean,’ said Ida, helping Daisy out of her oversized coat and adding it to the bundle of clothes Vera had already selected for herself and her two boys. ‘My Billy’s grown at least two inches since the summer and the cuffs of his school blazer are halfway up his elbows. I’m going to have to take him along before Christmas to get him some extra clothing coupons.’

  ‘Well, I ’ope you have better luck than the woman opposite me,’ said Vera, as Ida secured her bundle with a length of twine. ‘Her ten-year-old was one of those early blooming girls and could barely button her school blouse across her but the ruddy pen-pushers at the Town Hall still refused her the coupons for a new one.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Ida, handing the clothes to the young mother. ‘If you’d just sign for them at the registration table and as soon as the council have found you somewhere come back and get some kitchen equipment.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Brogan,’ said Vera, taking her daughter’s hand.

  Hooking her arm through the improvised handle Ida had tied round the clothes, she headed off towards the two truckle beds at the far end of the hall which had been allocated for her and her children until the welfare could find her a place to rent.

  Pulling up the chair next to the lines of shoes against the wall, Ida had just opened the next canvas bag to be unpacked when Cathy appeared around the corner of the men’s rail, dressed, like Ida, in the forest-green dress of the WVS with the enamel brooch pinned on the collar. She had been helping with the teas all afternoon and had just collected Peter from the nursery.

  ‘Hello, Mum, you still here?’ she said, shifting her son into a more comfortable position on her hip.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ said Ida. ‘Yes. I need to get this lot on the rails before the next batch arrives tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought there were three of you on the clothes,’ said Cathy.

  ‘There should be, but Madge West’s sister is in hospital after being trapped in her cellar, so she’s minding her kids,’ said Ida. ‘And Peg’s got a stinking cold.’

  ‘Do you want me to stay and give you a hand?’ said Cathy.

  ‘No, I’ve only got this bag and I’ll be done,’ said Ida. ‘Are you coming to tea on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes. Stan’s mother won’t like it,’ said Cathy, ‘but I need a break from her constant carping.’ Peter started to grizzle.

  ‘Peter!’ said Ida in a sing-song voice, making a happy face at the baby.

  He looked at her solemnly for a moment then started niggling again.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure you’re all right, Mum,’ said Cathy, rocking back and forth to soothe her unhappy son, ‘I’ll leave you to it and take this young man home for his tea.’

  She bent down and gave Ida a peck on the cheek and Ida took her grandson’s hand.

  ‘Bye-bye, Peter, see you Sunday,’ she said.

  Her grandson stuck his thumb in his mouth and curled into his mother’s shoulder by way of reply.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Bye, luv. And don’t take no notice of Stan’s mother,’ she called after her daughter.

  Cathy walked out of the hall just as Mrs Hardwick, the wife of the Rector of St George’s, marched in. As the district organiser for Stepney, Wapping and Shadwell, Mrs Hardwick had originally commandeered the crypt under her husband’s church as the central meeting point for the local clothing exchange, knitting circle and packing of parcels for the troops, but after St George’s was gutted by an incendiary bomb she had shifted operations to St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s Catholic Club.

  Just short of fifty, with tightly permed mousy-coloured hair, fierce eyebrows and a top lip that a walrus would have been proud of, Mrs Hardwick was all fur wraps, sharp eyes and long-nosed looks.

  Not feeling in the mood to be talked down to by the area organiser, and seeing her heading towards the registration table on the other side of the rails of clothing, Ida ducked back behind them.

  The record of who had been in and what they’d been given each day was logged by Mrs Crowther, the dentist’s wife, and Miss Archer, who looked after her elderly mother. Mrs Hardwick’s steel-tipped heels came to a halt and she started quizzing the WVS record keepers about the comings and goings that day.

  Ida opened the last sack of donated clothing and started sifting through it. Her mind was half on her task while the other half was running through what she needed in the market the next day, but as she pulled out a pair of blue denim dungarees the conversation of the three women on the other side of the clothes rails caught her full attention.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Mrs Hardwick, when the two women had finished speaking.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Well, speak up,’ barked the rector’s wife. ‘If it’s something that will undermine our efforts here I need to know.’

  ‘It not really to do with the rest centre or any of our activities,’ said Mrs Crowther, ‘but—’

  ‘But what?’ asked Mrs Hardwick.

  ‘Well, you know us, Freda,’ said Mrs Crowther in a hushed voice. ‘We’re not ones to gossip but it’s one of our members. Well, her husband, actually, and . . .’

  ‘And some woman in Juniper Street . . .’

  Ida’s mouth went dry.

  ‘We’re talking about Ida Brogan’s husband,’ said Miss Archer. ‘You know the rag-and-bone man with the piebald cart horse.’

  ‘Do you mean the Irishman who has that junk yard under the arches in Chapman Street?’ asked Mrs Hardwick.

  Ida’s mouth pulled into a hard line.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Miss Archer.

  ‘It’s just a rumour, Mrs Hardwick,’ added Mrs Crowther, ‘but people are saying that he and this woman in Juniper Street are carrying on.’

  ‘Yes,’ chipped in Miss Archer. ‘And . . .’

  ‘And?’ asked Mrs Hardwick.

  There was another pause as the blood pounded through Ida’s ears.

  ‘Well, people are saying this woman’s boy looks too like him to be a coincidence,’ said Miss Archer.

  ‘The face off him, in fact,’ added Mrs Crowther. ‘And everyone says it.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ said Mrs Hardwick. ‘When all they get for transgressing God’s holy ordinance is a couple of Hail Marys and some Latin mumbo-jumbo said over them. They’re almost as bad as those greasy Maltese in Wellclose Square. Is it any wonder half of the children around here aren’t sure who their fathers are?’

  ‘I can’t say I’m surprised,’ said Miss Archer. ‘Jerimiah Brogan always looked very flash with his collar unbuttoned showing his chest and that red neckerchief of his tied at his throat.’

  ‘And not
only that . . .’ said Mrs Crowther. ‘Have you seen the way he—’

  ‘Mrs Hardwick, ladies,’ a man’s voice called from the other side of the hall, ‘could you spare me a moment of your time?’

  ‘Of course, Doctor,’ Mrs Hardwick called back.

  There was a shuffling and scraping of chairs then three pairs of high heels clip-clopped away.

  With her heart thumping in her chest and tears distorting her vision, Ida stared blindly ahead while the images of Jerimiah and Ellen swirled around in her head once more.

  Why was she surprised? Jerimiah and his bit of slap-andtickle with Ellen must be the talk on every street corner by now. They’d be laughing at her for being such a blind fool not to have realised sooner. And the gossips wouldn’t forget it, either. How could they when they only had to look at Michael to be reminded of the scandal?

  She stood up, grabbed her coat from the end of the rail and her bag from the floor, and fled the hall.

  Twenty minutes later Ida stumbled through the back door of Mafeking Terrace and threw her bag on the table. Resting her hands next to it, she hung her head and allowed the cloud of misery that had been hovering over her since the moment she’d realised who Michael was to engulf her.

  Blindly, she dashed through the house and upstairs. She stumbled into her bedroom, slamming the door, and stood staring at the double bed with the patchwork cover she’d made from scraps left over from making her children’s clothes. The children she’d conceived and delivered in that bed.

  Her children! Hers and Jerimiah’s.

  She stared at it as memories of warm embraces and private nights swirled around in her head. Then she crossed to the dresser under the window. Pulling out one of the two smaller drawers at the top, she rummaged around under the handkerchiefs and stockings until she felt what she was seeking.

  Sliding out the small parcel, she unwrapped the tissue paper and took out the length of scarlet ribbon it contained. Hooking it around her finger, Ida held it aloft.

  She’d had it for over a quarter of a century but it had lost none of its vibrant colour. Twisting it back and forth, Ida studied it for a moment then screwed it up in her hand. Holding it in her fist she marched back downstairs to the parlour.

  Crossing to the fire, Ida stood for a moment then threw the ribbon on to the glowing coals. The fabric started to curl and shrivel immediately.

  She’d saved her pennies for almost a month before she could buy the luxurious satin trim to weave through her hair. She’d been wearing it the night she met Jerimiah at the St Patrick’s Day dance and had kept it tucked away ever since.

  A faint whiff of hair drifted up as the flames consumed the silk, but Ida couldn’t distinguish the red of the ribbon from the red of the flames any longer as her vision was obscured by her tears.

  ‘So that’s me booked for next Wednesday, the twenty-sixth, to take you and yours from Assembly Place to Windmill Lane in Stratford,’ said Jerimiah, scratching a line under the entry in his work ledger and shoving the pencil back behind his ear.

  It was close to five o’clock and he was standing in the area that served as an office at the back of his yard. Although Samson had finished his day’s work over two hours ago, Jerimiah had only just finished unloading the pile of furniture he’d bought for a few pounds that afternoon.

  ‘I’m obliged to you, Mr Brogan,’ said Pat Cotton, a wiry chap with a mass of red hair, offering Jerimiah his hand. Pat, who had lived just off Caroline Street until his house and ten others had been flattened two weeks before, worked as a fireman on the Great Eastern Railway and had been on a run to Colchester that night. Thankfully, his wife and three kids had been tucked up safe beneath the ground in Bethnal Green Station. However, unlike many others who’d had to bed down with relatives, as an employee of the Great Eastern Pat had been allocated a railway cottage at the back of the Stratford Depot in Maryland.

  ‘’Tis my pleasure to transport you and your lovely family to your new home,’ said Jerimiah, taking his hand.

  They shook, then, repositioning his knapsack on his shoulder, Pat left.

  Locking his record book in the top drawer of his desk, Jerimiah turned off the shaded light and left the office. He checked that the horse had enough hay and water to last until the morning then walked out of the yard, bolting and chaining the gates behind him. Buttoning up his overcoat against the chilly November air, he took his torch from his pocket and shone it on the paving stone beneath his feet.

  As always at this time in the evening, the street was full of men and women coming home from work, but as the fog from earlier in the day had lifted, leaving clear skies above, there was an equal number of mothers, children and elderly people making their way to the shelters, carrying their supplies for the night.

  Hoping that Ida hadn’t already set off for the Tilbury, Jerimiah crossed Chapman Street and, sidestepping a couple of dockers going into the Old House at Home on the corner, headed for Mafeking Terrace.

  Since he’d told her about Ellen’s condition she’d hardly spoken a word to him. To be honest, he didn’t blame her, especially given what he was now asking of her. Most women would have told him straight out where to go but his Ida wasn’t most women. He prayed to God she might be able to rescue them both from the hell he’d plunged them into.

  Within a few moments of turning into his road, Jerimiah was striding past the empty cold frames and barrel of spuds to his back door. Pushing it open he expected to find the light on and his wife in the kitchen but instead the room was in darkness and the house beyond silent. Letting the blackout curtains fall back into place, Jerimiah flicked the switch and skimmed his eyes over the scene.

  The crockery was upturned on the draining board and the kettle looked cold, which suggested no one was home. However, the shopping bag Ida took to the shelter each night was on the table and the Thermos flask beside it had yet to be filled.

  ‘Ida,’ he called.

  There was a noise from the parlour beyond but there was no answer. Puzzled, he walked through to the other room and switched on the light to find his wife, with her shoulders hunched, feet drawn up beneath her and her face covered by her hands, sitting in the chair.

  ‘Ida,’ he repeated.

  She didn’t answer.

  Jerimiah walked over to her.

  ‘Ida, what’s happened?’ He laid his hand on her hunched shoulder. ‘It’s not one of the kids—’

  ‘It’s not one of our children,’ she snapped at him through red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s you and your son.’

  Staring up at Jerimiah, with his tousled black curls, collar unbuttoned and cuffs turned back revealing the soft hair of his brawny arms, rage tore through Ida. Unwinding her legs, she stood up and faced him.

  ‘Everyone’s talking about you and Ellen,’ she said.

  ‘And who might everyone be?’

  ‘That stuck-up Mrs Hardwick, for one,’ Ida replied, as the voice of the rector’s wife’s replayed in her head. ‘I heard her today talking to her cronies, Miss Archer and Mrs Crowther, who couldn’t keep their mouths shut if their lives depended on it. We’ll be the talk of every WVS canteen and rest centre by this time tomorrow.’

  Jerimiah pulled a face. ‘People talk. That’s the plain truth of it.’

  The anger simmering in Ida’s chest boiled over.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ she shouted, balling her fists together and flaying them at him. ‘When this gets out, all your mates down the Catholic Club will be slapping you on the back and winking: calling you a sly dog and then buying you a Guinness. Whereas I’ll have to stand in the Sainsbury’s queue while people look sideways at me and whisper about my husband and his fancy woman.’

  ‘I haven’t got a fancy woman,’ he replied in a level tone. ‘The truth is, from the moment I saw you, Ida, I’ve never had or wanted any other woman but you.’

  ‘Except Ellen,’ shouted Ida, giving him a scalding look. ‘My best friend. Who you went to bed with while I was mourning James.’
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br />   Jerimiah’s mouth pulled into a hard line. ‘He was my child, too, Ida. You weren’t the only one who was heartbroken.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why you slept with Ellen, was it?’ snapped Ida, as the images of him holding her best friend started to play again in her mind. ‘Because you were heartbroken.’

  A rarely seen thunderous expression hardened her husband’s face. ‘Can you recall, Ida, what you were about while I was standing in the rain at the City of London Cemetery and laying our baby son in the cold earth?’

  Ida bit her lower lip but didn’t reply.

  ‘It was two full days before I could persuade you to give me James’s body after he died.’ Images of tiny fingers and a miniature nose replaced those of Jerimiah and Ellen in Ida’s mind. ‘You then took to your bed for three weeks, leaving me to care for Charlie and the girls,’ he added. ‘I spent the days trawling the street for trade to keep a roof over their heads and feed them, fearing all the while I’d come home one day to find the police there to tell me you’d been found floating in London Docks. I was barely sleeping and eating but I was keeping my head above water, just. And it was these arms,’ he bellowed, thrusting his hands forward, ‘that laid his small white coffin before the altar in St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s for his requiem mass.’

  The image of her baby son lying limp and cold in her arms flashed through Ida’s mind, sending pain ripping through her like a raw-toothed saw. Memories and emotions burst up in her. In her mind’s eyes she saw her six-day-old son lying in his cot like a beautiful wax doll, his eyes closed and his chest still.

  She remembered Jerimiah and Father Mahon coaxing her to relinquish James’s motionless body while she clutched him to her milk-filled breasts. She remembered the faces of her children, unsure and fearful as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  ‘Don’t think you were the only one to have your heart ripped in two when James died, Ida,’ Jerimiah continued, as she remembered the black fog of despair that had enveloped her for countless days. ‘I didn’t understand but I accepted that the only way you could deal with the pain was to disappear into your own mind. But can you imagine how I felt, Ida? In here?’ He punched his chest. ‘I wanted to hold you, so we could grieve for our son, our precious son, together. But you shut me out, as if it were my fault James died. As if I should have done something to . . .’ Moisture shone in her husband’s eyes, but he blinked it away and they fixed on her again. ‘Yes, I slept with Ellen; and only once. In a moment of weakness, which I regretted the moment I came back to reason. I’m sorry, truly I am, and if I could change it, I would. But Michael is my son. I won’t deny it or him. I know what I’m asking of you, Ida, but will you treat him as your own, like I have all these years with Billy?’