A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘His lorry?’ said Mattie. ‘I didn’t know he had one.’

  ‘Well, it’s his brother’s really,’ said Jo. ‘But he won’t need it where he is so Tommy’s got it. The Civil Defence at the Town Hall had been using it but they don’t need it now, so he asked me to take it to his mate’s garage at Bow Common to store it until he gets back at Christmas in two weeks two days’ time.’

  Mattie laughed. ‘Missing him, are you?’

  ‘More than I can say.’ Jo sighed.

  ‘Young love,’ said Mattie. She took a sip of her tea. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable in here.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ Jo replied, looking around.

  Although this was the smallest bedroom, her sister’s spare room was at least as large as her room at home. It was furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe and a dressing table, but there was still plenty of space for Jo to move around. The small two-bar electric fire glowing in the old cast-iron grate was also very welcome as the weather had recently turned decidedly wintry.

  ‘And I won’t have to put up with Billy’s constant back chat,’ Jo added. ‘He’s turning into a right terror.’

  ‘Well, he’s had a lot to cope with, what with finding out where he really came from and having Michael move in,’ said Mattie.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Jo said, as her sister sat beside her. ‘I still think it’s a blooming cheek to have her come home to us, though, don’t you?’

  ‘A bit,’ Mattie agreed. ‘But where else could Mum and Dad put her?’

  ‘But why do they have to put Ellen Gilbert anywhere?’ Jo said, blowing across the top of her cup. ‘After what she’s done to poor Mum . . . If it had been me, I’d have left her in hospital. It’s bad enough having Michael living there without having Dad’s floozy moving in too.’

  ‘You make it sound like Dad’s been carrying on with Ellen for years,’ said Mattie.

  ‘How do we know he hasn’t?’

  ‘Jo!’ Mattie gave her a big-sister don’t-be-silly look.

  ‘All right.’ Jo sighed. ‘I know he hasn’t but I still don’t see why Mum agreed to look after her.’

  ‘For Michael’s sake,’ said Mattie. ‘Poor little lad.’

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ said Jo. ‘I don’t know how Mum can agree to take him on after Ellen goes.’

  ‘She’s doing it for Dad, I suppose,’ said Mattie. ‘And when have you ever known her not help a child?’

  ‘Mum’s too soft-hearted,’ said Jo. ‘Especially after what Dad’s done. I can barely speak to him, I’m so angry.’

  Her sister raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure that’s not because he hasn’t given you an answer about bringing the wedding forward yet?’

  Jo took a sip of tea. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s still here,’ said Mattie, giving her a pointed look.

  Jo’s anger vanished in an instant as she imagined her father lying white and cold in his coffin.

  ‘Yes, he is, thank God.’ Jo crossed herself and her sister did the same.

  ‘I’m sad about old Samson, though,’ said Mattie. ‘What’s Dad going to do without him?’

  ‘He says he’ll use the hand cart for local deliveries and he’s hoping to hire one of the Truman Brewery horses for a few days next week so he can move the people he’s already got booked in but he’s still waiting to hear if there’s one he can have,’ said Jo.

  Mattie took a mouthful of tea. ‘Well, as Mum said: Dad’s always provided for his family.’

  The image of the coffin flashed through Jo’s mind again. ‘I suppose that’s why she’s offered to care for Michael and nurse Ellen,’ she said. ‘If you love someone then you have to forgive them because you couldn’t live without them.’

  ‘No,’ whispered Mattie. ‘You couldn’t—’

  Jo looked at her sister and saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Mattie,’ she said, slipping her arm through her sister’s, ‘I’m sure Daniel will be back before you know it.’

  Mattie placed her hand on her rounding stomach and gave Jo a brave little smile. ‘Hopefully, before—’

  ‘Did someone say my name?’

  Jo looked around to see her brother-in-law, dressed casually in flannel slacks, open-necked shirt and cardigan, stroll through the door.

  Mattie blinked away her tears and smiled at her husband.

  ‘Yes, I was just saying to Jo that it will be nice to have someone to talk to about knitting and cooking instead of football and cricket,’ she said.

  Mattie and Daniel exchanged a loving look.

  ‘Did Mattie tell you she’s had another article accepted?’ asked Daniel, shifting his gaze to Jo.

  ‘No,’ said Jo, looking admiringly at her sister.

  ‘Yes, Woman at Home this time,’ he continued. ‘Something about chopping up men’s clothes.’

  Mattie gave her husband a make-believe exasperated look. ‘It’s about how to make a child’s dress out of a man’s shirt.’

  ‘And she drew the diagrams herself,’ her-brother-in-law concluded, looking at his wife with undisguised pride.

  Jo looked even more impressed.

  ‘As I said before, I might as well put my six years slaving over a sewing machine in Gold and Sons to good use,’ said Mattie.

  The phone downstairs rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Daniel.

  Mattie’s eyes followed him as he left the room, then she turned back to Jo and gave a too-cheery smile.

  ‘Well, that’s another good thing about living here with me and Alicia,’ said Mattie. ‘You and Tommy can phone each other any time you like.’

  Jo matched her sister’s cheery expression. ‘We certainly can.’

  With her gaze on her sister’s lovely face, Jo sent up a small prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mary and all the saints in heaven. Even if she and Tommy had to wait to get married, at least he was serving King and country in Buckinghamshire and not behind enemy lines in France.

  Glancing around the quiet yard one last time, Jerimiah switched off the light. He opened the door cut into the left-hand gate and, ducking, stepped through into Chapman Street. Locking it behind him, he turned westwards and strolled towards the solidly built Victorian hall situated halfway down Gravel Lane. Pushing open one of the hall’s half-glassed doors, he walked in.

  As one of the few halls in the area with a sprung dance floor, it had been the place where bridal celebrations, wedding anniversaries and lively wakes had been held before the outbreak of hostilities. It was still a busy place full of people but now it hosted first-aid classes and an ARP post. It was also the headquarters of Jerimiah’s Home Defence platoon, which is why he was stopping off there on his way back home.

  At the far end of the hall, nurses from Munroe House ran a baby clinic on a Friday afternoon. They were just finishing off so their patients could get home safely before the light went and the Luftwaffe arrived.

  In the opposite corner, a handful of ARP wardens were gathered around the blackboard where their shifts were chalked up, while in the serving hatch a couple of motherly WVS women were handing out tea and jam tarts to anyone in need of them.

  With Christmas just under two weeks away the hall had a decidedly festive appearance, mainly due to the fact that someone had clearly sneaked off with an axe to Epping Forest as there was a six-foot Christmas tree in the far corner with homemade papier-mâché baubles dangling from its branches and a grubby-looking one-eyed fairy on the top.

  Sidestepping out of the way of a toddler dragging a stuffed dog on a length of string behind him, Jerimiah headed for the small committee room next to the stage. He stopped in front of the door, knocked and on hearing the command to enter he turned the handle and went in.

  Marching smartly past the oval committee table laden with maps and books, he came to a halt next to the man wearing full battle dress and a major’s crown on his epaulettes.

  Jerimiah did a quick stand-to and saluted.

  Major Algernon Hitching-We
lls looked up from his paperwork.

  Like Jerimiah, the man in charge of the Wapping Home Guard had fought in the last war. However, while Jerimiah was wallowing in the mud at the bottom of a trench in the Somme, Captain Hitching-Wells, as he was then, was slumming it in a chateau outside Albert as a member of Field Command.

  Perhaps it was just as well, as the major was well over six foot tall and would have been a gift to a German sniper. Although he was nearer to seventy than sixty, Hitching-Wells still had sparse grey hair and an impressive moustache. The younger son of a middle-ranking aristocrat with no real prospects, he’d signed on as a wet-behind-the-ears lad of sixteen and had been fighting the foes of the Empire ever since. He’d fought Boer settlers across Natal and Swaziland, the tribal rebels in the Punjab and Bengal and, for a brief stint, the Boxers in Peking. He’d even been in one of the regiments involved in the Easter Rising in Dublin but as three-quarters of the men under his command in the Home Defence were of Irish descent he and they felt it better for morale if that wasn’t mentioned.

  ‘Stand easy,’ said Wapping’s commanding officer. He glanced at his watch. ‘I didn’t expect to see you, Brogan. I wasn’t expecting you back on duty for another week.’

  ‘I’m not reporting for duty, sir.’ Jerimiah clasped his hands together behind him and stepped his feet apart. Before he could stop himself, he winced.

  ‘Leg playing you up?’ asked Hitching-Wells.

  ‘Now and again,’ Jerimiah replied.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s to be expected; after all, it’s less than a week since you copped it.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘But I’m hoping it will be as good as new in a week or two.’

  ‘Good, good. I suppose you’ve come to tell me when you’re coming back, then,’ said Hitching-Wells, laying his fountain pen down on the table.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘I’ve come to tell you I’m resigning to—’

  ‘Resigning!’ spluttered Hitching-Wells, his plentiful moustache waggling back and forth rapidly. ‘What sort of lily-livered, namby-pamby talk is this then, Brogan? Good God, man, you’ve only been nicked by a bit of flying metal not lost a leg.’

  ‘I know that, sir,’ said Jerimiah, acutely aware of the throbbing in his thigh. ‘I’ve been shot before – twice, in fact – and survived, but it’s the National Service Act.’

  ‘I don’t see what that’s got to bally-well do with anything,’ snapped his commanding officer.

  ‘Well, for one, I’m now counted in the numbers of those eligible to be called up for the services and as such I have to register like every other man under sixty, which I did three weeks back,’ said Jerimiah. ‘Most men of my age are sent off to serve in supply depots and in the transport division so as to release younger fighting men from non-combative duties and, although I’m more than happy to do my bit, I’ve got a family who rely on me so I can’t take the chance of being posted miles away.’

  ‘Well, just tell the pen-pushers at the conscription office you’re a reserved occupation,’ said Hitching-Wells.

  Jerimiah raised an eyebrow. ‘I can’t see the mandarins at the Ministry of War accepting that being a second-hand furniture dealer and a one-man delivery service is a reserved occupation, can you, sir? Especially as the act scraps nearly all the categories for exemption.’

  Leaning back, Hitching-Wells regarded him down his long nose and smiled. ‘Well now, Brogan, I still have a couple of old army chums in Whitehall so—’

  ‘Thank you, sir, very kind indeed,’ cut in Jerimiah. ‘But I’ve made up my mind to join the National Fire Service as an auxiliary.’

  Hitching-Wells’ moustache started waggling again. ‘Have you, by Jove?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Jerimiah replied, keeping his eyes fixed on his commanding officer’s flushed face and bulging eyes. ‘In fact, I’ve already sent in my application. I’ll be glad to fulfil me duties over the next few weeks, as you’ve men away visiting family, but as soon as I’ve got a start date for the Fire Service I’ll be handing in my corporal’s stripes.’

  Hitching-Wells glared while Jerimiah maintained his pleasant expression for a long moment.

  ‘Very well,’ said the major, looking down and picking up his pen again. ‘Dismissed.’

  Jerimiah did a quick salute at the bald patch on top of his commanding officer’s head then, turning on his heels, he marched out of the room.

  When he emerged from the hall and back into the street, he found that the light had all but gone so turning up his collar he headed for home. Even though the Fire Service’s three pounds ten shillings a week covered only the rent and half of Ida’s housekeeping, it would keep the wolf from the door until he’d figured out some other way to support his soon to be expanding family.

  Holding the edges of chicken wire together, Ida threaded the two-inch length of thick fuse wire around the adjoining sections. She picked up Jerimiah’s pliers and twisted the wire together. Satisfied it was firmly in place, she repeated the process until the two-foot-tall structure stood unaided in the middle of the kitchen table.

  It was Monday afternoon, just after four, and the house was quiet. Jo had moved to Mattie’s and Queenie was at the pensioners’ matinee at the Troxy so Ida had the house to herself, which was just as well because, what with one thing and another, her nerves were stretched to breaking point.

  Ellen was being sent home tomorrow and despite what she’d told Jerimiah and everyone else, she really wasn’t sure about the whole thing. The other thing worrying her was Jerimiah. Well, not so much him, all six foot of himself, as much as her feelings towards him once Ellen was under their roof.

  For weeks she’d raged and riled at him and many a day she’d felt that if she never set eyes on him again it would be a thousand days too soon. However, after nights of jolting awake with the image of Jerimiah lying on a hospital trolley, covered in blood, still in her mind, Ida decided she would have to suffer it somehow because a world without Jerimiah wasn’t a world she wanted to live in.

  Putting aside these fraught thoughts and emotions, Ida leaned back and admired her handiwork for a moment then picked up the spool of industrial fuse wire. She was just about to start snipping off another two-inch length when the door opened and Jerimiah stepped in, bringing a blast of cold air with him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, laying down the cutting tool and wire. ‘You look frozen. Would you like a cuppa?’

  ‘I most certainly would, luv,’ he said, unwinding his scarf and unbuttoning his coat.

  ‘How’s your leg?’ she asked, watching as he limped to the table.

  ‘Cold’s got into it a bit but not bad otherwise,’ he said, giving her a cheerful smile.

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard yet,’ said Ida, moving to the stove and relighting the gas.

  ‘I only did a couple of local deliveries,’ he replied. ‘Light ones, that’s all. Enough to pay the rent.’ His gaze ran over the wire structure standing in the middle of the table. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Ida, but what on earth are you making?’

  ‘A snowman,’ she replied. ‘To put the Christmas presents around instead of a tree. There was a thing on the news yesterday about wood being diverted to the war effort so there’s no wrapping paper or books, so it stands to reason there won’t be a Christmas tree in the market either. I thought I’d make a jolly snowman instead. I got the chicken wire and the fuse wires from the builders’ merchant this morning and a couple of rolls of cotton wool in the chemist. I’ll make the eyes and hat out of scraps and poke a couple of sticks through for arms. I’ve just got to squeeze it in for his shoulders and waist and then prop him up in the corner.’

  Jerimiah looked impressed. ‘What a grand idea.’

  ‘I thought so and if I’ve got any cotton wool left, I’ll stick it on the window frames like mock snow,’ she said. ‘With the newspaper chains strung across the room, and stars cut out of milk bottle tops pinned to the ceiling, it will be just a
s jolly as every other Christmas.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be.’

  ‘I’ve just got to hope Ray Harris comes good and finds me something to roast or we’ll all be sitting down to spuds and cabbage on Christmas Day,’ she said.

  ‘And if we are, then I’m sure it will be the grandest spuds and cabbage anyone ever tasted,’ he replied.

  Ida raised an eyebrow. ‘As I say: full of the blarney.’

  Jerimiah smiled, and Ida smiled back.

  They remained like that for a couple of heartbeats then the kettle started to whistle. Ida switched off the gas and went over to the kitchen dresser. Taking the tea caddy, she spooned tea into the pot but as she snapped the tin lid back in place, she stole a look at her husband, who was resting his head back with his eyes closed.

  He always looked tired and cold after a day out on the wagon at this time of year but today he was frozen raw and was positively grey with weariness. And despite all his denials, by the way his was rubbing his leg, he was in pain, too.

  ‘Perhaps you should ease up a bit, Jerry,’ she said, pouring water on to the leaves. ‘After all, it’s only a week since the accident and you don’t want to have the wound start bleeding again, do you?’

  ‘Honestly, Ida, I’m fine—’

  ‘If it’s the rent you’re worrying about, I could always go back to Naylor, Corbet and Kleinman’s,’ Ida continued. ‘I’ve heard the woman who replaced me has signed on for factory work after Christmas—’

  ‘No, Ida,’ he cut in. ‘You work hard enough running this house and feeding the family, on top of helping me with the business, without spending every morning scrubbing other people’s floors, plus when Ellen arrives tomorrow you’ll have all that on your plate too.’ He studied her closely. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ida said, hoping he couldn’t hear the quiver of doubt in her voice. ‘It wouldn’t be fair on Michael if she weren’t here with us.’

  Jerimiah nodded. ‘I won’t lie to you, Ida,’ he said with a sigh. ‘It’s going to be a bit tight until I can replace Samson but I’ve done something about that. I didn’t want to say anything to you until I knew that it was going to work out, but last week I applied to the Auxiliary Fire Service and I got their reply this morning. I’ve been invited for a fitness assessment and interview next Monday.’