A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘See, I told you,’ Stan barked. ‘My own son doesn’t know me from Adam.’ An ugly expression contorted his face. ‘And do you know why?’

  Cathy did but she didn’t answer.

  ‘Your poxy sister,’ Stan continued. ‘If she’d had any regard for you, she would have tipped me the wink before the bloody police and MI5 arrived instead of helping them spring their bloody trap.’

  ‘Perhaps if you hadn’t got involved with those Naz . . . those people then you wouldn’t have been arrested in the first place,’ said Cathy.

  ‘That’s right,’ Stan shouted, ‘blame me.’

  The officer, who was tapping his baton on his leg, moved to stand behind Stan. A sullen expression dragged down the corners of Stan’s mouth and he slumped back in the chair.

  ‘Look, Stan, I’ve come all this way in the freezing cold to see you and all you’ve done is sit there with a face like thunder and have a go at me. If you’re going to carry on like this I won’t bother in future.’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ said Stan, ‘because I’m being let out.’

  ‘But you’ve only served eighteen months,’ said Cathy, feeling a flutter of anxiety in her chest.

  Stan gave her a sour look. ‘Well, you don’t sound too pleased. ’

  ‘Of course I’m pleased,’ said Cathy, in a hollow tone. ‘It’s just a bit of a surprise given you were sent down for a five-year stretch.’

  ‘Well, it’s thanks to this new call-up act,’ said Stan. ‘If we’re between eighteen and fifty, passed fit and the governor signs the chit, we can transfer to the army.’

  ‘That’s good then, isn’t it?’ said Cathy.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Stan grudgingly. ‘But I’d rather be walking out of here a free man than to fight for that bloody warmonger Churchill.’

  ‘And us,’ said Cathy, pulling her coat a little tighter around her to keep out the chill. ‘You’ll be fighting for me and Peter, too.’

  Stan shot her another belligerent look. ‘Well, I wouldn’t need to, would I, if your bloody sister hadn’t interfered,’ he snapped. ‘There would have been none of this death and destruction if people had listened to Mosley and joined with Hitler but no. That Jew-loving Churchill and his cronies wanted a war so now . . .’

  As he rabbited on, Cathy hoped that once the prison governor had heard Stan’s views on the Jewish conspiracy to control world finance and the importance of keeping the Aryan blood pure, he might think twice about signing his release chit.

  ‘Right then.’ Jo took a mouthful of tea. ‘Shall I show you what I’ve got so far?’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Cathy, who was sitting opposite her feeding bitesize chunks of bun to Peter who was sitting in his pushchair next to her.

  It was the Saturday after Cathy’s visit to her husband in prison and the two sisters were sitting at a table at the back of Boardman’s restaurant. They were surrounded by shoppers all on the same quest as Jo and Cathy: to find something, anything, to give their loved ones at Christmas. And it was a quest. Toys were in short supply because all the metal had gone to build aeroplanes. Books were as plentiful as hen’s teeth because the wood was needed to construct army camps and – something never mentioned by the Ministry of Information – coffins. There were hardly any cigars because the troops had priority. There was a shortage of beer as the hop fields had been given over to growing vegetables and there were no toiletries, china ornaments or any other fripperies as all the factories that used to make them were now making shells and bullets. If by some miracle you did manage to buy or even make something to give to your nearest and dearest for the festive season, you had to wrap it in old newspaper because there was no wrapping paper either.

  And the cafés and restaurants weren’t faring much better as food was in such short supply, but because it didn’t require coupons and the fixed price for a basic meal was a shilling, Boardman’s cafeteria was doing a roaring trade.

  Therefore, after a bit of standing around holding their trays, she and Cathy had nabbed a table at the back and now their empty lunch plates had been stacked to one side and they had cups of tea cooling in front of them.

  It was Jo’s first day off for over two weeks and she was enjoying wearing civvies for a change – tartan slacks with an Aran double-knit jumper under her winter coat, to be precise. Although they hadn’t had a bombing raid for most of her last tour of duty, the ambulance station had been busy helping with the evacuation of casualties to country hospitals so the local ones were ready for the next wave of injuries that were sure to arrive once the Luftwaffe returned. And they would, any day now, especially now the Germans had been pushed back by the Russians. After all, Hitler had to make sure someone was punished for his failure and more than likely it would be London again.

  Jo had arrived at Cathy’s house at nine and found her sister having a row with her mother-in-law who clearly expected Cathy to be scrubbing the already spotless house from top to bottom instead of gadding off in search of Christmas presents.

  They’d walked up White Horse Lane and arrived at Stepney Station just as a number 25 pulled up. After half an hour of bumping over debris, winding around shell craters and rattling over the wrought iron of Bow Bridge, they’d arrived at Stratford Broadway.

  Having had a quick cuppa and given Peter his mid-morning rusk in the Co-op’s café, they’d decided to split up to search for bargains and meet up at one for lunch. Now they were comparing their purchases.

  Jo delved in her shopping basket and pulled out a roll of handkerchiefs tied with a narrow pink ribbon.

  ‘I’ve got these for Mum,’ she said, laying them on the table. ‘I was after something a bit fancier but that’s all they had. If I embroider IMB in the corner and a different flower on each, Mum will love them.’

  ‘I’m sure she will,’ said Cathy. ‘I managed to get her this on the market.’ She pulled a pack of six bath cubes from her shopping bag and laid them on the table. ‘They’re Lily of the Valley.’

  ‘Just right for when she’s having a soak in the tub at St George’s baths,’ said Jo. ‘You were lucky to get them; I was looking for something like that for Mattie.’

  ‘Well, they were on the stall opposite the pie and mash shop,’ said Cathy. ‘What are you giving Tommy?’

  ‘Something to make his eyes pop but he won’t be able to unwrap it in front of the family, that’s for sure,’ giggled Jo.

  Cathy’s eyes stretched wide. ‘You’re so naughty.’

  ‘I know but we are getting married soon, so who cares.’ She frowned. ‘At least, we will be if I can wheedle Dad into giving his consent.’

  ‘Well, if you take my advice, don’t rush into it,’ said Cathy. ‘Because marriage isn’t what you imagined it might be.’

  Jo gave her sister a sympathetic look. ‘I take it the visit to Stan didn’t go too well.’

  ‘No, it didn’t,’ Cathy replied. ‘He spent the whole time with a face like a smacked arse and moaning about everything. Well, what Mattie and that hero bloody husband of hers did, mostly. Now I don’t say he’s altogether wrong on that score, but you think he could have just given it a rest, for once.’

  Actually, Jo thought Cathy was completely in the wrong about Mattie and her husband, Daniel, who’d nearly died stopping a bunch of Nazis landing in London Docks. But as Cathy already had a pig of a life living with Stan’s whingeing mother there was no point adding to her woes by pointing out that Stan was lucky to be in prison and not dangling on the end of a rope.

  ‘And to top it all,’ her sister continued, ‘the train back was delayed by an hour so after fighting my way through St Pancras with the pram and Peter screaming for his dinner I had to wait another half an hour for a bus to Liverpool Street before squeezing on to a number fifteen for the final leg of the journey. It was six thirty by the time I walked through the back door. I tell you, I know he’s my husband and all that, but if he’s going to be like that every time I visit him I don’t know that I’ll bother again.’

&nbs
p; ‘Well, you won’t have to if they parole him into the army and ship him off to North Africa,’ said Jo.

  ‘No, I won’t, will I?’ said Cathy, looking positively jolly at the prospect of her husband being sent to face the enemy a thousand miles away in the desert.

  ‘Mum mum,’ said Peter, stretching his chubby hands towards the currant bun just out of his reach.

  Cathy broke off another chunk and handed it to him. ‘Anyway, let’s not talk about my miserable husband. What are you getting Gran?’

  ‘The same as you, probably,’ said Jo.

  ‘Gin,’ they said in unison and laughed.

  ‘Afternoon, girls. Having fun, are we?’

  Jo looked up to see her sister-in-law Stella standing there.

  Like them, Stella was wrapped up against the damp November weather but rather than a three-year-old coat and utility trousers like Jo’s, her brother’s wife was dressed in a sleek, mid-calf-length bright blue coat with an astrakhan collar and matching cuffs, which if she hadn’t got from some black market spiv, then Jo was the Queen of Ireland. Although Jo and Cathy were wearing a little powder and lipstick, Stella was made up as if she was about to paint the town, with heavily made-up eyes and crimson lips.

  ‘We were.’ Jo looked at her watch. ‘Patrick not with you?’

  ‘No, I left him with the woman opposite,’ Stella replied. ‘She’ll get him ready for when your mother picks him up for the shelter later as I’ve got to be in work early.’ She glanced at the box of bath cubes on the table. ‘I suppose you’re out doing a bit of Christmas shopping.’

  ‘We are,’ said Cathy. ‘I suppose you’re out doing the same.’

  ‘I might pick up a few bits if I see something,’ Stella replied. ‘But I buy most of my presents up West, at Selfridges, Derry and Toms and Harrods, if I want something really special.’

  ‘Is that where you got Charlie’s present, then?’ asked Cathy, giving her sister-in-law an innocent look.

  Stella blinked. ‘Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, Charlie,’ said Jo, ‘your husband, surely you remember him.’

  ‘Of course I remember him, you cheeky cow,’ snapped Stella, a pink flush creeping up her throat.

  ‘Well then, you’ll know that the closing date for getting presents to servicemen before Christmas was last Wednesday,’ said Jo, giving her hateful sister-in-law the sweetest of smiles.

  ‘Yes, of course I did. I sent mine the day before.’ Stella flicked a speck of something from her sleeve. ‘But what I really came over to ask was, how’s your dear little brother?’

  ‘Billy’s fine,’ said Cathy.

  Matching Jo’s syrupy expression, Stella smiled. ‘No not Billy, the other one,’ she clicked her fingers. ‘Oh, what’s his name?’ She clicked them again.

  ‘Michael,’ said Jo.

  Stella beamed at her. ‘That’s it, Michael. How could I forget with everyone talking about him?’ She gave a tinny laugh. ‘Well, him and your father.’

  Cathy’s lips pulled into a hard line. ‘Michael’s fine, thank you for asking.’

  ‘I bet it was a bit of a shock finding out you’ve got another brother,’ Stella continued.

  ‘More a surprise, I’d say,’ Jo replied, holding her smile. ‘But we’re all looking forward to getting to know him.’

  ‘That’s nice. All one big happy family,’ said Stella. ‘Although I’m sure your mother’s not too impressed to find her husband got her best friend up the duff. From what people have been telling me, Ellen what’s-her-name had always been after your dad so you can’t really blame him if she was offered on a plate, I suppose.’

  Cathy’s face darkened, but as she opened her mouth to reply, Jo kicked her under the table.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Stella,’ said Jo, her sugary smile turning to sickly syrup. ‘After all, everyone knows you’re the expert about offering it on a plate.’

  The pink flush colouring her sister-in-law’s throat turned to puce.

  ‘Well, it’s been grand to see you, Stella,’ said Jo, not bothering to suppress her amusement, ‘but don’t let us keep you.’

  ‘No, don’t let us keep you,’ repeated Cathy.

  Jo picked up her cup and Cathy did the same then both sisters looked away.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jo saw Stella hover next to them for a second or two before spinning on her heels and stomping away.

  ‘Tart,’ said Cathy, when their sister-in-law was out of earshot.

  ‘First-class bitch, don’t you mean?’ said Jo.

  ‘Yes, best in show,’ agreed Cathy. ‘Do you think she really did send Charlie a present?’

  ‘Course she didn’t,’ said Jo. ‘The last day to post to servicemen wasn’t last Wednesday but the Monday before, and I know Mattie and Mum sent off Charlie’s Christmas box at least a week before that. Charlie’ll be lucky if his dear wife gave him a second thought, let alone a present.’

  ‘Poor Charlie, being tied to the likes of her,’ said Cathy. ‘I don’t know why she ever married him.’

  ‘Because Francesca wanted him,’ said Jo.

  Cathy looked surprised and Jo laughed.

  ‘Surely you knew.’ Her sister shook her head. ‘Well, you must be the only one who doesn’t. Well, you and that daft brother of ours anyway, great big lummox that he is. Poor Francesca’s been mad for Charlie since school and when Stella saw it, she set her sights on him just to spite her.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because, as we’ve already established, our sister-in-law is a bitch,’ said Jo.

  Having finished his last piece of bun, Peter stretched up for another.

  Jo broke off a bit and offered it to him. His small hand closed around it.

  ‘What do you say?’ asked Jo, pulling a smiley face at her nephew.

  ‘Ta,’ said Peter.

  Jo released it.

  ‘You’re not really going to be there tomorrow when Dad brings Michael home, are you?’ asked Cathy as Jo wiped her fingers on her handkerchief.

  ‘Of course, I am,’ said Jo. ‘So is Mattie. And you ought to be there too, Cathy, for Mum’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t know how she can even bear to look at Dad after what he’s done,’ said Cathy, ‘let alone welcome his . . . his . . .’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Jo. ‘If it were Tommy I’d, well, actually I don’t know what I’d do, but as Mattie said, if Mum can forgive Dad and accept Michael then we should too. After all, whether we like it or not, Cathy, Michael’s not going away.’

  Ida glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf for the second time in five minutes and noted that it now said ten to three. Mattie, who was sitting across from her on the sofa, caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile. Ida tried to return it but only managed a nervous twitch of the lips.

  There was a thump in the room above and Ida looked up.

  ‘Do you want me to give Billy a shout?’ asked Mattie.

  Ida shook her head. ‘Let him play in his room until they get here. He’ll only fidget if he has to wait.’

  ‘You know Cathy would have been here, Mum, if Mrs Wheeler didn’t have one of her rattily chests again,’ said Jo, who was sitting next to her sister with her niece Alicia on her lap.

  ‘Of course,’ said Ida, hoping she sounded convinced.

  The truth was, Cathy didn’t want to be here and, to be honest, neither did she. She didn’t want to be sitting here waiting for her husband to arrive, with the best china all laid out on the table, fish paste and liver sausage sandwiches cut into triangles on her oval serving plate and a ginger cake on her mother’s glass stand.

  In fact, she’d go further than that and say she didn’t want Michael, she didn’t want Ellen, she didn’t want people looking sideways at her in the market or when she walked into church. In fact, in moments when everything pressed down on her so hard she felt she was about to be crushed by it, despite her resolve of only a few days after visiting Ellen to try to recapture what she and Jerimiah had, just at this moment Ida
didn’t want him either. But then you can’t always get what you want, can you? So here she was, on the last day of November, sitting in her own back parlour waiting to greet Jerimiah’s son by another woman.

  ‘Fecking rattily chest, my cods,’ said Queenie, who was sitting in her son’s chair next to the fire. ‘The woman’s no more than a hippo . . . hipto . . . hapocontitics or whatever the bejesus word is.’

  ‘Hypochondriac,’ laughed Mattie.

  ‘That’s yer man,’ said Queenie, her dentures clicking softly as she spoke. ‘Fecking bog crazy the woman is.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to start swearing when the boy gets here,’ said Ida.

  Queenie glared at her. ‘’Tis no more than he’ll hear walking around the dock and I’m at liberty to swear in my own house, am I not?’

  Ida could have pointed out it was her house Queenie was swearing in but she didn’t because although the old woman would tear her own lung out rather than admit it, she was anxious, too.

  Ida knew this because, contrary to her usual practice of putting them back into the jar on her window sill after church, her mother-in-law still had her false teeth in, and she’d forgone her lunchtime Guinness and a double gin chaser and opted for a small port and orange instead.

  The back door opened, and Ida’s heart thumped painfully in her chest.

  ‘Anyone at home?’ Jerimiah called from the kitchen.

  Ida opened her mouth to speak but her tongue didn’t seem to be working so no words came out.

  ‘In here,’ called Mattie, giving her another sympathetic look.

  Ida stood up and turned to face Jerimiah as he ushered Michael into the room.

  Jerimiah smiled. ‘Hello, luv,’ he said quietly, his eyes soft and brimming with gratitude.

  Ida forced a brittle smile. ‘Hello.’

  Stepping behind the lad, Jerimiah laid his large hands on the boy’s slender shoulders. ‘Ida, you’ll remember Michael.’

  Feeling a band of steel gripping her chest, Ida’s gaze shifted down. Credit where credit’s due, dressed in his Greencoat school uniform with a dazzling white shirt, properly knotted tie and polished black lace-up shoes, Ellen had kitted her son out perfectly for a Sunday-afternoon visit. However, what cut Ida to the quick was just how closely the boy resembled his father.