A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  The back door banged shut and Ida took a sudden step back.

  ‘Well, praise all the saints, the fecking Germans have buggered off early for once,’ said Queenie, marching in from the kitchen. She spotted her son’s back. ‘What in the name of all that’s holy happened to you?’

  Rising to his feet, Jerimiah took up his shirt. ‘It’s a lengthy tale but . . .’ He briefly told her about Billy.

  ‘It’s of no matter and mind, and perhaps we should have told him sooner, but he knows,’ Jerimiah concluded wearily. ‘Now, as by your own admission, Mother, the Germans have buggered off, I have a mind to do the same. I’ve a full day ahead of me and I’ll be all the happier for doing it after a full night’s sleep in my own bed.’

  He looked at Ida. ‘Ida?’ he asked, the softness in his gaze threatening to dissolve her anger and hurt.

  Although he’d shrugged on his shirt he hadn’t bothered to fasten it and Ida’s eyes flickered over the mass of curls on his chest.

  ‘I’ll be up in a moment,’ she said, wondering if Ellen had raked her fingers through those curls as she had countless times. ‘I’ve to put the porridge to soak first.’

  He stood motionless for a second or two and then with a sigh walked out of the room, his heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs to the floor above.

  Feeling her mother-in-law’s eyes on her, and her pulse racing, Ida headed for the kitchen but as she passed Queenie the old woman spoke again.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you this and tell you no more, Ida,’ she said. ‘For the sake of your soul and your children’s happiness, you and Jerimiah must find yourselves some peace about the lad because he’ll forever be Jerimiah’s son.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘THAT’S THE LAST of it, Mrs Jessup,’ said Jerimiah, setting the fruit crate containing a variety of crockery on the kitchen table.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the young woman, her breath visible as she spoke. ‘I didn’t realise I had so much.’

  ‘No one does,’ Jerimiah replied, ‘until they have to pack it all up.’

  It was just after midday on the morning after he and Ida had dashed after Billy.

  Perhaps he was imagining it but Ida seemed to be a little warmer towards him after his brush with the masonry. He’d hoped, in the privacy of their bedroom, he might have had a chance to talk to her further but, unfortunately, the combination of having been awake since five that morning and two generous measures of Jameson’s meant he was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t even heard Ida come to bed and she’d already left for work by the time the alarm went off at six.

  Now he was now standing in the very small kitchen of Mrs Jessup’s new home. She and her five children had spent the last three hours huddled together amongst all her worldly goods on the back of his wagon while Samson plodded the fifteen or so miles from Bow to Waltham Abbey.

  Of course, as the bombed-out houses and factories they passed along their route testified, nowhere was completely safe but with the Germans concentrating their nightly raids on cities and military targets, the small town clustered around the ruins of the ancient abbey was safer than most. It was also nearer to her husband who was one of the ground crew at RAF Dunmow.

  While he’d unloaded the last of her crates and boxes, the young mother had already lit a fire and put a kettle on to boil. The youngest of her children, a baby of about a year, was strapped into a highchair by the fire drinking his lunchtime bottle while his siblings, who ranged from about six to twelve, were upstairs squabbling about who was sleeping where.

  She was the third family he’d moved in as many weeks and he had two more booked before the end of the month, one to Leyton, another to Brentwood, which was about as far as he could manage in a day, which was a pity as he’d had to turn down a couple who were moving just outside Bishop’s Stortford the week before. While Samson still had a few years left in him yet, a full day pulling a loaded wagon, rather than just plodding stop-start around the neighbourhood, took its toll on the horse so perhaps it was as well he was only moving Pat Cotton’s family to Stratford next week.

  The door opened and the woman’s oldest boy burst into the room.

  ‘Guess what, Mum?’ he said, his face red with the cold. ‘They’ve got chickens next door. Can we get some?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ his mother replied. ‘But before we think of anything else we need to keep this fire going.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Brogan,’ said the young woman, opening her handbag. Taking the money from her purse, she handed him three green pound notes and a brown ten-shilling note.

  ‘Can I offer you a cup of tea before you head back?’ she asked, as he pocketed the money.

  ‘It’s kind of you but no,’ he said. ‘I want to have meself home and me horse tucked up in his stable before the blackout starts.’

  Leaving Mrs Jessop, Jerimiah re-buttoned his overcoat and left the house.

  Samson, who he’d left munching his way through a nosebag of oats, shook his head as he saw Jerimiah emerge.

  ‘Right, me old lad,’ said Jerimiah, unwinding the reins from the lamp-post in front of the house. ‘Let’s get ourselves home.’

  Holding on to the front seat and stepping on the wheel hub, Jerimiah leapt up on to the front board of the wagon and winced as pain shot across his shoulder again. The biting wind caught his hair as he settled himself on to the seat. Taking his cap from his pocket he flipped it on, turned his collar up and they set off.

  He had decided to take a different route home as on their way to Waltham Abbey the A10 had been clogged with army trucks and wagons heading towards various military bases in East Anglia. However, he’d only gone a few miles when he was stopped by an army roadblock.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ the fresh-faced corporal manning the barrier shouted as Jerimiah pulled Samson to a halt. ‘We had a big ’un land in the road last night.’ He pointed towards a pile of earth down the road. ‘The sappers ’ave been at it all morning and should have the temporary road open soon. You might as well get yourself a cuppa while you wait.’

  He indicated the café nestled in amongst some old farmers’ cottages.

  Jerimiah nodded and guided Samson on to the verge. Removing the horse’s nosebag so he could graze the winter grass, Jerimiah tied the reins loosely to the hedge and, with his stomach starting to rumble, strolled across to the small eating place.

  As you’d expect in the middle of the working day, the café was full. Squeezing his way between the tables of auxiliary firemen and ARP personnel, Jerimiah headed for the counter at the far end.

  The woman behind it, a motherly sort with her blonde hair swept back into two rolls on either side of her face, looked up from buttering bread as he approached.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asked, licking butter off her thumb and taking the next slice from the pile beside the bread board.

  Jerimiah scanned the blackboard on the wall behind her then gave her his order.

  Sticking the knife in the block of butter, the woman turned and called his order through the serving hatch then plonked a mug of tea in front of him. Jeremiah handed over his money and, spotting a table with just one occupant in the far corner, he made his way across.

  ‘Would you be minding a bit of company?’ he asked, pulling out the empty chair.

  The young man, with a smattering of shaving rash and a Brylcreem quiff, looked up. ‘No, mate,’ he said. ‘Be my guest.’

  Jerimiah unbuttoned his coat and sat down while his lunch companion returned to contemplating the bottom of his mug.

  Before Jerimiah could unwind his scarf the woman behind the counter had waddled over and set a steaming bowl in front of him. Jerimiah thanked her then glanced at the young man opposite him.

  ‘I guess you’ll be waiting for the road to clear, like me,’ said Jerimiah, picking up the sugar shaker with its label reminding customers that there was a war on and that they should have only two spoonfuls
per person.

  The young man nodded glumly. ‘I’ve got a van full of stuff I should have delivered to my mate in Spitalfields at first light.’

  ‘When you say stuff, what exactly are you referring to?’ asked Jerimiah.

  ‘Potatoes mostly, six sacks, but I’ve another two of onions and one of green beans,’ the young man replied.

  ‘Have you now?’ said Jerimiah, jabbing his fork into a piece of meat.

  ‘Yeah, plus three crates of cabbage and two of spinach,’ the young man added.

  ‘You’ve quite a crop there, haven’t you?’ said Jerimiah. ‘Would you mind if I ask you how you find yourself in possession of such treasures?’

  The young man’s face lit up. ‘From my smallholding,’ he replied. ‘My father died two years back and I’ve been building it up ever since.’

  ‘Well, all credit to you.’ Jerimiah took a slurp of tea. ‘But arriving a few hours late to market won’t harm them, and sure they’ll sell as well tomorrow as today.’

  The worried expression returned to the young man’s face. ‘It’s not that. It’s my wife. According to the midwife she’s overdue and she is terrified of going into labour at night in case there’s an air raid. I promised I’d be back before the blackout started. After sitting here for half the day I’ll never get back in time.’

  Well, tell me, Mr . . .?’

  ‘Duggan, Ted Duggan.’

  ‘Tell me, Ted, how much were you hoping to be paid for your van of vegetables?’ Jerimiah asked, scooping up the last morsel of stew with his fork.

  The man on the other side of the table gave him a wily look. ‘Nine, perhaps ten pounds.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, Ted,’ said Jerimiah, leaning back to rummage around in his trouser pocket. ‘I have six quid here.’ He laid a crumpled selection of pound and ten-shilling notes on the table. ‘How about I give you that for what you’ve got on the van and you can be on your way home to warm yourself in front of the fire with your darling wife. What do you say?’

  He offered his hand.

  Ted’s eyes flickered on to the money and back to Jerimiah’s face. ‘I’d have got at least eight in the market,’ he said.

  Jerimiah’s hand went back into his pocket. ‘Let’s call it six and a quarter.’ He threw two half-crowns on to the paper money.

  Ted’s eyes went back to the money.

  ‘And you’ll be saving yourself a few petrol ration stamps besides,’ added Jerimiah.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Ted. ‘If you can dig out an extra quid and a half from somewhere you can have the lot plus the four hens I have in a crate.’

  Looking up from the family’s ration books that were spread across the kitchen table, Ida glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Queenie, who was sitting opposite her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be home soon.’

  Ida tried to look confused. ‘Who?’

  ‘Jerimiah, of course,’ said her mother-in-law. ‘Your wedded husband; isn’t that why you’re checking the blessed clock every five minutes?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Ida, forcing herself to hold the old woman’s gaze. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to add up the family’s rations ready for the weekly shopping on Friday.’

  Queenie raised an invisible eyebrow and then returned to reading the evening paper.

  It was a lie, of course. With her mother-in-law’s attention on the racing results, Ida glanced back at the clock. Twenty past five. Only another hour and she would have to start out for the shelter.

  Although she was trying to figure out their weekly rations she was also worried as to where Jerimiah was. Usually by now he’d be getting ready to report for duty with the rest of the Stepney Home Guard. As he wasn’t in when she, Queenie and Billy sat down for their tea at half four, she’d plated up his supper of liver and mash and left it above a pan of simmering water, but if he didn’t return soon, it would be ruined.

  A flutter of anxiety started in her chest.

  What if something had happened to him . . .?

  Ida shoved the thought aside. After what he’d done she shouldn’t care?

  Putting aside the thought he could have been caught in a raid, blown up by a UXB or crushed under a collapsing building, Ida turned back to the family ration books.

  She’d just finished calculating how many points she would need to make a lamb stew and was now trying to work out if she had enough in her fat ration for a fruit crumble when the back gate banged.

  She waited for Jerimiah to come through the door, but when five minutes ticked by and he still hadn’t appeared, Queenie gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Perhaps he’s in the bog,’ said Ida.

  ‘Elsie Mascall thought that when her old man got up in the middle of the night, only to find him lying face down and stone dead in the yard the following morning.’

  Ida rolled her eyes. ‘It’s being so cheerful that keeps you going, isn’t it, Queenie?’

  Rising from the table, Ida took her coat from the back door. Slipping it on, she took the torch from the pocket and, switching off the kitchen light first, opened the back door.

  Directing the beam on the floor she stepped out into the cold yard with Queenie just a pace behind her. Jerimiah wasn’t anywhere to be seen but there were a couple of sacks on the flagstones outside the shed and a light and movement within. With Queenie dogging her steps, Ida walked across and opened the door.

  Jerimiah had lit the hurricane lamp and hung it on the beam and was in the process of shoving the ancient pushchair that his mother sometimes used, with its mismatched wheels and squeaky axle, behind his gardening tools.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Making a space for our new guests,’ he replied, nodding towards the crate at his feet as he dusted off his hands.

  Ida shifted her torch beam on to it and some low cackles started.

  ‘Chickens!’ Ida and Queenie said in unison.

  Jerimiah grinned. ‘I’ve bedded them down with some straw and some of Samson’s oats, so they should be fine until I can knock together a coop tomorrow.’

  ‘But where on earth did you get them?’ asked Ida, staring incredulously at the rough wooden crate.

  Jerimiah told her about a young farmer with his van load of vegetables and his pregnant wife.

  ‘I don’t know if they’ll lay but we’ll give them a few days to show us their intention, and if not, you can fatten them up,’ he concluded.

  Ida stared at him and he gave her a nervous smile.

  ‘Well, either way they will certainly help put a decent spread on for Christmas,’ said Ida.

  ‘Never a truer word spoken,’ added Queenie. ‘But look at you, lad,’ she said, addressing her strapping six-foot son as if he were five. ‘You’re all but frozen. I’ll sort the girls out while you go and have your supper. Stir yourself, Ida, and get something warm inside your wedded husband before he ends up like Ollie Mascall.’

  Giving her mother-in-law another exasperated look Ida stepped out into the frosty air. The sky above was clear with stars twinkling around a bright full moon, a bomber’s moon, heralding a German raid for certain.

  Jerimiah followed her out of the shed and scooped up the jute sacks as he passed. They walked in silence back to the house.

  Hanging up her coat, Ida crossed the kitchen and relit the gas under the kettle. Shaking off his coat too, Jerimiah hooked it on the back door.

  Winding the tea towel around her hand, Ida lifted the plate with his dinner off the simmering pot.

  ‘It’s liver and potato,’ she said, placing it before him. ‘And I hope it’s not too dry.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ He smiled. ‘And I’m glad I got home before you left for the shelter, Ida,’ he added in that melting voice of his.

  Looking down into his twinkling eyes, Ida’s heart thawed a little. She broke his gaze and went back to the stove.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home before I set off too,’ s
he said as she poured their tea. ‘I want to talk to you.’ She turned and found him looking at her expectantly.

  ‘About Jo and Tommy,’ said Ida. ‘They want to bring the wedding forward.’

  Although his friendly smile didn’t falter, Jerimiah’s shoulders drooped a fraction.

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘Yes, to Whitsun next year,’ said Ida, placing two mugs of tea on the table and sitting down. ‘I said I’d mention it to you if I got a chance. For what it’s worth, I think you should let them. Despite his brother’s being on the wrong side of the law, Tommy’s as straight as they come and he’s really making something of himself in the army. Jo says he’s got another promotion coming his way soon but, more important than all that, he really loves Jo.’

  Ida took a sip of her tea and lowered her eyes.

  ‘And that’s what really matters, isn’t it?’ said Jerimiah.

  Keeping her gaze fixed on the rim of his plate, Ida didn’t answer.

  ‘Maybe I will agree,’ said Jerimiah. ‘But I have a lot on my mind at the moment.’

  Ida’s heart thumped in her chest a couple of times and then she raised her head. ‘I also want to talk to you about . . .’ Taking a deep breath she looked her husband square in the eye. ‘About Michael. He can come to live with us after Ellen’s gone.’

  Jerimiah stared open-mouthed at her for a moment, then let out a long breath.

  ‘Thank you, Ida,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘I’m not doing it for you,’ she snapped. ‘I’m doing it for that poor little boy. And at the end of the day, he is your blood and we’ve always said family is family.’ Tears pinched the corner of her eyes. ‘I’ll have a word with Billy but now he knows you’re Michael’s father and half the WVS are talking about it, it’s only a matter of time before the girls find out, so we’d better tell them about Michael too and then write to Charlie.’

  ‘Would you like me to drop in on Ellen—’

  ‘No,’ Ida said, cutting across her husband. ‘I’ll call in on her tomorrow. The girls are here for tea on Sunday, so we can tell them then. Goodness only knows what they’ll say.’