A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking down at her incredulously.

  She wasn’t but . . . Forcing herself to keep her eyes on her husband’s face, Ida nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she hurried on. ‘And I know I should have asked you first but . . .’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Early next week,’ Ida replied. ‘Jo can move in with Mattie. With Daniel going soon it will help her cope and it won’t be . . .’ She forced a smile. ‘When all’s said and done, Jerimiah, I can’t stand by and let Michael be separated from his dying mother.’

  Jerimiah raked his fingers through his hair. ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I am,’ said Ida, as firmly as she could.

  A tender look crept into his dark eyes and he smiled. Ida’s heart started to melt and she was tempted to return it but instead, taking a deep breath, she spoke again.

  ‘Before we bring Ellen home from hospital there’s something else you have to do.’

  Although it was only just three o’clock in the afternoon, the pale December light was already failing when the Greencoat school bell rang.

  Jerimiah, who had been parked up opposite the main entrance on Dalgleish Street for about ten minutes, fixed his eyes on the wrought-iron gate as the first few pupils streamed through them.

  After a minute or two of watching gangs of boys and girls heading home, he spotted Michael in the middle of a small group of lads making their way towards him.

  Taking his feet down from the running board, Jerimiah jumped off the wagon and gave a loud, two-tone whistle.

  Michael looked across and after saying something to his companions he hurried over. ‘Dad,’ he said, looking the image of Charlie at the same age. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you,’ said Jerimiah. ‘Your mum asked me to fetch you.’

  Fear flashed across the boy’s face. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘In fact, Auntie Ida popped in to see her this afternoon and she had a long chat with your mum about how well you’re doing at school but also . . . also about your mum coming home from hospital.’

  ‘Is she coming out soon?’

  ‘Next week,’ said Jerimiah.

  Michael’s face lit up. ‘She’s going to be out for Christmas?’

  ‘She is,’ said Jerimiah. ‘But I tell you what, instead of standing here, as Auntie Ida is doing her bit at the rest centre and you don’t have to be at the shelter until six, why don’t we take a ride on the wagon and have a little chat? I’ll even let you drive the horse?’

  Michael’s eyes stretched wide. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Jerimiah. ‘Climb up.’

  Putting his foot on the wheel hub and grabbing the rails, the lad scrambled up on to the front seat. Jerimiah bounded up after him and sat beside him on the plank of wood.

  Sensing the shifting weight behind him, Samson pricked up his ears and shook his head.

  Jerimiah unwound the reins and handed them to the lad. ‘Shake them so they touch his rump,’ he said, pulling the brake lever back. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

  The horse took up the strain and the wagon rolled forward over the cobbles, towards the Seamen’s Mission and Commercial Road at the bottom of the street.

  As they navigated their way between the dock lorries and carts, Michael told him about how he’d scored twenty out of twenty in the test to identify enemy aircraft and then gave a blow-by-blow account of how he had bested one of the bullies in a playground fight. However, as they passed under the railway bridge into the relative quiet of Maize Row, Jerimiah took his courage in his hands and shifted the conversation to what he really had to tell the lad.

  ‘About your mum . . .’ said Jerimiah.

  Michael looked up.

  ‘Because she’s still not well, when she comes home from hospital, she won’t be going back to the rooms in Juniper Street but coming to our house instead,’ said Jerimiah, reaching out and pulling the right-hand rein to avoid the wheels rolling into a hole.

  ‘Does that mean we’ll be spending Christmas with your family?’ said Michael.

  ‘Yes, it does, and don’t worry,’ Jerimiah ruffled the boy’s hair, ‘we’ll make sure Father Christmas knows where you are.’

  Michael grinned.

  ‘In fact,’ continued Jerimiah, ‘Auntie Ida wants you and your mum to stay with us from now on so she can help you look after her.’

  ‘Will me and Billy still share a room?’ asked Michael.

  ‘For now,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘And you’ll still get to go to the Tilbury Shelter as you’ve been doing and you’ll be able to see your mum every morning when you get back. You could help Gran with the chickens, too. Would you like that?’

  Michael nodded and forced a smile. ‘Yes.’ He offered Jerimiah the reins. ‘Could you drive?’

  Jerimiah took them back and Michael stared at the horse’s rump as they ambled along the narrow path by the waterway, which was littered with fallen masonry and twisted shrapnel from the German planes’ nightly visits.

  Leaving the lad to his thoughts, Jerimiah guided Samson between the debris and they plodded on. The pungent mixture of salt and sewage wafted into Jerimiah’s nose as they emerged from the dankness of the Minories and Blackwell Railway arch and the Regent Canal lock gates came into view.

  They reached the first of the three locks and Samson, sensing his stable was only half an hour away, picked up his speed. The evening fog was now swirling up from the river as the pale winter sun sank behind the warehouses that lined Shadwell Basin. The wagon rolled into Narrow Street and Michael spoke again.

  ‘Mum’s not going to get better, is she, Dad?’ he said softly, looking up at Jerimiah.

  ‘No, she’s not, son,’ Jerimiah replied, pulling the horse to a halt and letting the brake lever go.

  As the wagon creaked beneath them, Michael’s dark eyes, a reflection of his own, held Jerimiah’s for a heartbeat before the lad threw himself into his arms. Jerimiah hugged him tight as his heartbroken son sobbed against his chest.

  ‘That’s why your mum came back to Stepney,’ said Jerimiah, smoothing Michael’s springy black curls. ‘So me and Auntie Ida could look after you and so you could get to know your brothers and sisters and be part of the fam—’

  A screech cut through Jerimiah’s words and set his ears vibrating as a squadron of Stukas hurtled earthwards from the clouds. A bomb crashed to the ground somewhere close to Horseferry Road on the other side of the cut, sending flame and debris shooting high into the air. Another plane, flying so low it looked as if it would hit the water, screamed towards them.

  Hugging Michael tightly and shielding the boy with his body, Jerimiah flung himself from the cart and landed on the cobbles as a shell whizzed past, leaving a smell of sulphur behind it. Blinding light and fire exploded around them. Samson screamed and reared in his shafts and something bit into Jerimiah’s leg. There was an ear-splitting crash as a pulse of air sucked the breath from him. Samson shrieked again, then with sparks flying from his wildly thrashing hooves, he sank to the floor in a tangle of legs, tail and mane as something hot and sticky splashed Jerimiah.

  ‘Dad!’ A muffled voice broke through the clanging noise in Jerimiah’s head.

  He tried to raise himself up, but a pain shot up his leg. Tasting bile at the back of his throat, blackness engulfed him.

  ‘You look like you’ve got in a bit of a tangle there, sweetheart,’ said Ida, pausing the trolley filled with dirty mugs. ‘Would you like me to give you a hand?’

  The little girl, a pretty thing of about eight or nine, was sitting at the end of the camp bed. She looked up from her knitting.

  ‘Yes please,’ she replied, offering Ida her tangled wool.

  Ida was in the main hall of the Catholic Club and had just finished doing a round of tea. Although it wasn’t much past four in the afternoon, the women and children who’d arrived at the rest centre that morning after last night’s bombing were already bedd
ing themselves down for the night. She didn’t blame them because with a third-quarter moon and a clear frosty sky, it was only a matter of time before the Germans arrived.

  She’d asked Cathy to collect Billy and Patrick and meet her in the Tilbury at six. By which time, Jerimiah would have told Michael, bless his poor little heart, everything about his mother’s condition, and brought him to the shelter to join them.

  Some would think them unfeeling to tell the poor lad, but the truth of it was Ellen had only a few weeks, perhaps less, on this earth so better he be prepared than wake up one morning and find her gone.

  Tucking her skirts under her, Ida sat down next to the child. ‘You’re Ivy Roberts’ oldest girl, Wendy, aren’t you?’

  The little girl nodded.

  ‘What are you making?’ asked Ida, taking the needles with grey wool hanging from them.

  ‘A scarf for me dad,’ Wendy replied. ‘He’s in the navy. I wanted to make him socks but Mum said to start with something simple first. Mum’s upstairs with my sister seeing if the women from the council can find us somewhere.’

  ‘When were you bombed out?’ said Ida, holding the needles towards the light to see better.

  ‘Two nights ago,’ Wendy replied. ‘The whole street was flattened and the rescue men had to dig us out of our shelter in the garden. Tina wouldn’t stop screaming so me and Mummy had to keeping singing nursery rhymes to stop her.’ The little girl’s shoulders sagged, and her lower lip started to tremble. ‘I wish Dad had been there.’

  ‘Last year two of my daughters were trapped after a bombing raid,’ said Ida, holding the wool taut while she picked up a dropped stitch.

  The little girl looked up. ‘Were they?’

  ‘Yes, and they said they were really scared.’ Reaching across, Ida smoothed a stray lock from the child’s forehead. ‘I’m sure your dad will be very proud of you when he realises how brave you were and how you helped your sister not be afraid.’

  Wendy gave her an achingly plucky little smile and Ida smiled back.

  ‘You’d dropped a couple of stitches a few rows back and knitted where you should have purled but I’ve got it all back as it should be,’ she said, finishing off the purl row.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs . . .’ said Wendy as Ida returned her needles.

  ‘You can call me Auntie Ida.’ She stood up. ‘And I ought to get these cups washed ready for our cocoa later.’

  Taking hold of the trolley handle again, Ida pushed it back towards the kitchen area, but she’d only gone a few yards when someone called her name.

  She looked up and saw Flo Tatler standing on the bottom step scanning the room.

  ‘Over here,’ shouted Ida, waving across the heads of people sitting on the camp beds.

  Looking relieved, Flo hurried over.

  ‘Thank goodness; I thought I’d missed you,’ she said, her hand on her substantial bosom as she caught her breath. ‘The ARP information officer at Shadwell has just sent a runner across with the news.’

  ‘What news?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Your husband’s been shot. He’s been taken to the London.’

  With her mind showing her images of Jerimiah’s body riddled with a dozen bullet holes, lying dead on a marble slab, Ida couldn’t remember running up Sutton Street or dashing across Commercial Road. She only just registered an air raid siren going off as she tore up Jamaica Street towards the old hospital on Mile End Road, but when she burst through the door and into the casualty area, her senses screamed back to life as the noise of women crying and children screaming hit her like a blast of hot air.

  What had once been the waiting area had long been turned into a field hospital. Trolleys with people swathed in bandages or clutching damaged limbs had replaced the rows of chairs and now, in the wake of an air raid, there were people on the floor too.

  The nurses and doctors, in their white helmets with a red cross painted on the front, moved between the injured. Sadly, the trolleys with screens closed around them showed that the doctors hadn’t been able to help everyone.

  With the smell of surgical spirit clogging her nose, Ida’s gaze scoured the faces but couldn’t see the one she sought.

  A young woman with pale hair and blue eyes, wearing a ward orderly’s overall, went to hurry past, but Ida caught her arm.

  ‘I’m looking for Jerimiah Brogan,’ she said.

  ‘Check the board,’ the young woman said, nodding towards the blackboard propped up on a chair.

  Her heart hammering in her chest, Ida skimmed down the long list of names and all but wept when she found Jerimiah’s third from the bottom.

  It had ‘PR’ next to it. Ida looked around and spotted a door at the far end with the words ‘Plaster Room’ painted on it; she made her way over.

  A nurse rushed out and Ida caught the door before it closed and went in.

  There were a dozen couches with people resting on them, but Ida’s eyes and very soul fixed on Jerimiah: he lay at the far end of the room, his eyes closed and covered in blood.

  With her knees threatening to buckle beneath her, Ida made her way over. As she came within a few feet of him, Jerimiah opened his eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, me darling,’ he said, getting up on his elbows.

  Her gaze ran over him and she spread her hands. ‘But . . .’

  ‘The blood’s Samson’s,’ he said, looking bleakly at her. ‘A lump of shrapnel from the bomb passed right through him; killed him stone dead, which I count as a blessing.’

  He looked away but not before Ida saw tears shining in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know you were very fond of him.’

  ‘He was a good horse,’ Jerimiah replied, still studying the wall, ‘with years left in him.’

  He swallowed and then turned back.

  ‘Two blessings, if the truth be told,’ he continued, ‘because if the shrapnel hadn’t hit Samson first it would have taken my right leg clean away rather than giving me a puncture wound that will ache like billy-o but will heal.’

  Ida’s gaze shifted from her husband’s blood-covered face to his leg to see it swathed in a thick bandage.

  ‘Why didn’t you take cover when the Moaning Minnie went off?’ she asked.

  ‘Because it didn’t,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘My guess is the Jerries kept themselves behind the clouds until they reached Barking Creek and then came at us. The metal went straight through the muscle, but the doc says I’ll be as right as rain in a week or so, which is more than can be said of me poor Samson.’

  A feeling like cold water washed over Ida as horror gripped her.

  ‘Where’s Michael?’ she gasped, looking frantically around at the other patients.

  Michael answered for himself.

  ‘Auntie Ida,’ he shouted, bursting through the door she’d just walked through.

  Letting go of the matronly WVS woman’s hand, the boy dashed over and hugged her.

  She’d have to sponge that blazer and get the shirt in to soak before they left for the shelter but other than that, considering what he’d been through, Michael looked quite cheerful.

  ‘There you are, Mr Brogan.’ The WVS woman handed Jerimiah a cup and saucer then smiled at Ida. ‘Your son wanted to get his dad a cup of tea and the nurses let him wash his hands and face in their sluice. I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything with his uniform but—’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ida cut in, resting her hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I’ll give it a good soak when I get home.’

  The WVS woman smiled and ran her gaze over Ida’s green uniform. ‘Well, you know how it is, Mrs Brogan, so if you’d excuse me.’

  Ida gave her a wan smile and her hospital colleague left.

  Ida turned her attention to the boy beside her.

  ‘Are you all right, Michael?’ she asked, looking him over.

  He nodded. ‘My knee’s a bit sore from where I landed but nothing else, but . . .’ Tears welled up in his eyes. ‘They got Samson.’ He sniffed and wiped h
is nose with the back of his hand. ‘I hate them.’

  Reaching out, Ida put her arm around the boy’s slender shoulder. ‘He didn’t suffer and he’s in heaven now.’

  ‘I know,’ Michael replied. ‘But I still hate the Germans.’ He sniffed again. Pulling her handkerchief from her pocket, Ida handed it to him and he blew his nose.

  ‘It was a Stuker,’ Michael said. ‘Came soaring down just like this.’ He swooped down with his hand. ‘And Dad grabbed me and . . .’

  For once, hearing the word ‘Dad’ on Michael’s lips didn’t twist Ida’s guts.

  In fact, the moment she’d heard Jeremiah say, ‘It’s all right, me darling’ in that soft Irish lilt of his, her mind cleared of all emotions except one: love. Love for the man she’d given her heart to the moment she’d set eyes on him. That love had been sorely tested these last weeks but it had not been broken.

  And it was a special once-in-a-lifetime love that had brought her and Jerimiah through good times and bad, the worst being the loss of their sweet darling James, but would it hold firm when Ellen was under their own roof?

  Chapter Seventeen

  JO HAD JUST closed the drawer that now contained her underwear when her sister Mattie walked into the bedroom carrying two cups of tea.

  ‘I’ve put Alicia down for a nap so I thought I’d come and give you a hand,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Mattie,’ Jo replied. ‘I’ve just about finished but I’m dying for a cuppa.’

  It was the second Thursday in December and Jo had finished work at midday. However, instead of catching up on some sleep at home, she had made herself a quick sandwich, which she’d eaten while packing her clothes and other bits and pieces. Then, with a suitcase in each hand, she’d walked the half-mile to her sister’s house at the back of St Dunstan’s Church.

  Taking the cup from her sister, Jo sat on the bed.

  ‘You know, I thought you were coming just after lunch,’ said Mattie, sitting beside her.

  ‘Yes, sorry,’ Jo replied. ‘I was intending to but Tommy phoned the ambulance station last night and asked me to move his lorry.’