A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Queenie Brogan,’ he said as his dark-haired friend grabbed her arm firmly with both hands, ‘I am arresting you for—’

  ‘Get your hands off me, you great lummox,’ Queenie screamed, trying to snatch her arm back.

  ‘In contravention of the—’

  ‘Me heart,’ said Queenie, clutching at her chest and coughing.

  ‘Street Betting Act of 1906. You are not obliged to—’

  ‘I’m going,’ croaked Queenie, keeping half an eye on them as she swayed.

  ‘Say anything,’ the blond officer continued, giving her a cool look. ‘But anything you do say—’

  ‘Tell me dear son,’ Queenie staggered back and braced herself against the church railings, ‘and my darling grandchildren—’

  ‘May be given in evidence,’ concluded the fairer officer of the two.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the dark-haired officer. ‘Who’s the eejit now, you old cow?’

  The two plain-clothed officers sniggered.

  Queenie’s toothless mouth pulled into a hard line and she straightened up. ‘Evidence, is it?’ she shouted, as she struggled against the officer holding her. ‘I’ll give you evidence to put in your little book. You fecking pair of gobshites tricked me. Led me astray, you did.’ She raised her hand to the sky. ‘The very saints in heaven must be weeping at the way you brace of savages have led a feeble old woman, who was doing no harm to no one, down a path of iniquity.’

  She placed her hand dramatically over her face and her shoulders shook. She stood like that for a moment or two then peered through her fingers at the two officers. They were both regarding her impassively with an expression of boredom on their faces.

  Queenie lowered her hand.

  ‘Have you finished?’ asked the fair police officer.

  Queenie glared at him by way of an answer.

  ‘Good,’ he continued. ‘Now are you going to walk to the station or should I call the hurry-up wagon?’

  ‘With nothing on at all!’ said Francesca, looking across the table at Mattie with disbelief in her large dark eyes.

  ‘Not a stitch,’ said Mattie, handing Alicia, who was sitting on her lap, half a biscuit. ‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.’

  It was just after three and she and Francesca were having their weekly get-together in the Dunstan Tearooms on Stepney High Street.

  Although they’d met in Rose’s Café in Watney Street for as long as Francesca could remember, Mattie had suggested they meet here for a change a couple of weeks ago.

  The café was much like any other in the area, with a counter at the back and a dozen tables with flowery tablecloths dotted around. The eating house, like everywhere else, was doing its bit for the war, and the walls were covered with posters urging people not to waste food or encouraging women to come into the factories.

  It was just around the corner from Mattie’s house and she’d suggested the change in venue not only because of her condition but also because it was further from the area where her parents lived, which meant she didn’t have to put up with people’s sideways glances and overhear her parents’ and Ellen Gilbert’s names being whispered.

  The Brogan family had always provided their neighbours with a sprinkling of juicy gossip over the years but her mum taking in not only Michael but also the woman who’d had a fling with her husband had had tongues wagging nineteen to the dozen.

  They’d been there for a full half an hour already so had exchanged their day-to-day news – how Jo was settling into Mattie’s and how Francesca’s dad’s café was faring and how difficult it was to find presents for everyone with hardly anything in the shops. Having got all the run-of-the-mill family news out of the way, Mattie had just told her friend about coming face to face with a poster of her stark-naked sister-in-law in a Soho strip club.

  ‘How could she?’ asked Francesca. ‘How could she take her clothes off in front of a load of men on a stage?’

  ‘It beggars belief, I know,’ said Mattie. ‘But there it was, for all to see.’ Spreading her hand out, she waved her fingers across her from left to right. ‘Salome from the Mysterious East; although it didn’t say if that was East Ham or East Tilbury.’

  Unhappiness replaced disbelief on her friend’s face. ‘Poor Charlie. Whatever will he say when he hears?’

  ‘We’re not going to tell him,’ said Mattie. ‘Not while he’s facing God only knows what in North Africa. He’ll find out soon enough, but we don’t want him upset when he needs his wits about him to give the Germans a good hiding.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Francesca. ‘Making sure Charlie comes back in one piece is all that matters.’ She sighed. ‘It’s so unfair.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mattie. ‘Everyone knows what she’s like and he might be my own brother, but Charlie hasn’t got the brains of a rocking horse if he can’t see you’re a thousand times better in every way than blooming slack-knickers Stella.’

  ‘Everyone tells me I should try to find someone else but . . .’

  ‘I know, because I couldn’t.’

  Daniel had left two days ago and although she’d managed to wave him off with a cheerful smile, she had sobbed for three hours straight as soon as the door closed.

  Francesca gave her a sympathetic look.

  ‘I wonder if she ever loved him like I . . .’ She turned and gazed out of the window.

  Stretching across, Mattie closed her hand over her friend’s. Then Francesca frowned.

  ‘Mattie,’ she said, her focus on some commotion in the street, ‘isn’t that your grandma?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘FOURTEEN DAYS AND a five-pound fine,’ said the magistrate, scrubbing a line across the name of the fourteenth miscreant he’d administered justice to in the past hour. ‘Next!’

  The man, who’d been caught selling a stolen ration book, shuffled out of the dock and into the clutches of the waiting prison warden.

  Jerimiah glanced at the clock above the door behind him, which was now showing almost twelve. He wasn’t surprised he had the devil of all headaches because by rights, after pushing a cart for twelve hours and being on patrol with the Home Guard all night, he should be in bed not sitting in the visitors’ gallery of Thames Magistrate Court.

  The court had been built a quarter of a century ago out of the same solid red brick as Arbour Square Police Station, which adjoined it. However, unlike the police station, and with its high-ceilinged, oak-panelled interior and marble floors, the court did its best to make the magistrates, solicitors and barristers feel at home by mimicking a well-to-do town house or country residence.

  Jerimiah pressed his lips tightly together. He took a long even breath to settle his mounting fury and his pounding head. His attention shifted to the Thames Court’s magistrate, Sir Randolph Ewing JP, complete with black robes and horsehair wig, sitting beneath the gilded, lion, unicorn and quartered shield of the Crown.

  As old as Methuselah, Sir Randolph was one of the old-time magistrates who, Jerimiah suspected, would have sentenced the midwife who’d slapped him at his birth to five years’ hard labour had he been able. Sir Randolph had no time for the new-fangled notion of evidence and preferred to think that anyone brought before him was guilty, and he sentenced accordingly.

  The door to the cells below opened and a prison officer marched back in with the next law-breaker: Jerimiah’s mother.

  Queenie shuffled across the space between the prisoners’ door and the dock as if she was about to depart from this life: every step brought forth a contorted expression of agony. Gripping the wrought-iron railing, she climbed the three steps to the dock as if scaling Everest then swayed a little before grabbing the front edge as if her life depended on it. With her head hung low, she turned slightly. Her eyes skimmed the gallery above until she saw Jerimiah.

  The clerk of the court in front of the magistrate’s bench rose to his feet with the charge sheet in his hand.

  ‘Philomena Ursula Brogan?’ he
said, looking at Queenie.

  Queenie gave a little nod but didn’t raise her head.

  ‘You are charged that at three thirty on the eighteenth day of December in . . .’

  She stood with her shoulders sagging as he read out the charge.

  ‘How do you plead?’ he concluded.

  ‘Guilty,’ she whispered then gripped her chest and coughed.

  Sir Randolph regarded her coolly over his half-rimmed spectacles. ‘Mrs Brogan.’

  She looked up.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you’re still alive,’ he said, resting his elbows on the bench and weaving his fingers together in front of him. ‘Because when last we met, just a few months ago, you seemed convinced you weren’t long for this world.’

  ‘Well now, sir,’ said Queenie, giving Sir Randolph a sweet smile, ‘who of us can fathom the ways of the Almighty? But I’m sure St Peter will be greeting me at the gates of heaven very soon, especially’ – clutching her chest, she coughed again – ‘after a night in a cold, damp cell.’

  She sent another accusing look at the two young officers waiting near the witness box to give evidence.

  The magistrate looked at his clerk. ‘Wasn’t Mrs Brogan given bail?’

  The clerk of the court cleared his throat. ‘I believe it slipped the minds of the arresting officers.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Sir Randolph replied, in an uncharacteristically pleasant tone, ‘as I don’t want you to expire in the dock and clog up the wheels of justice, we’d better get you dealt with and on your way.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Queenie, in her little-old-lady voice. ‘May the Lord and all his saints above bless your generous nature.’

  The magistrate gave a tight smile and then, turning to the clerk sitting in front of him, raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Mrs Brogan has been up on the same charges three times this year and four times last year and was given a fine on each occasion, your worship,’ the clerk explained.

  ‘How much on each occasion this year?’ asked the magistrate.

  ‘Five pounds the first, rising to eight the second and ten on the last occasion. Mrs Brogan was convicted of the same offence in October,’ the clerk replied.

  ‘Thank you, Turner.’ Sir Randolph looked at Queenie again. ‘Well, Mrs Brogan, it seems the penalties I’ve imposed thus far have had little effect on your lawless ways.’

  ‘There is the option of a custodial sentence, Your Worship,’ the clerk pointed out.

  Queenie blanched.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the magistrate. ‘And perhaps it would make Mrs Brogan think twice the next time she’s tempted to flout the law of the land, but I’m not sure someone in Mrs Brogan’s poor health would survive the journey.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, sir,’ Queenie said hastily. ‘I have learned me lesson, good and proper this time, honest.’

  Sir Randolph smiled. ‘I’m sure you have but just in case you haven’t, this should remind you.’ His congenial expression disappeared in an instant as his acerbic one returned. ‘Thirty pounds and a suspended sentence of twenty-eight days bound over for a year. Seven days to pay. Next!’

  Thirty pounds! The blood pounded through Jerimiah’s ears. Rising from the hard, wooden bench, his mouth pulled into a hard line as he made his way downstairs to the cashier’s office.

  ‘There you are, Mr Brogan,’ said the court cashier, handing Jerimiah the receipt for the payment of his mother’s fine. ‘And I’ll wish you a merry Christmas.’

  It was half an hour since his mother had been sentenced and Jerimiah had been waiting in the queue in the cashier’s office, which was on the right side of the main entrance.

  Forcing a smile, Jerimiah tucked the slip of paper in his wallet, which he then returned to the pocket of his work trousers. Stepping aside, the person behind him in the queue took his place.

  Squeezing past those still waiting, he walked back into the court’s entrance hall.

  It was now midday or thereabouts, so those who had been dealt with that morning had mostly left, which was just as well as the waiting area was already packed with smartly dressed but anxious-looking locals who were on the afternoon list. Sprinkled amongst them were a handful of wide-boys and spivs dressed in wide-lapelled Americanstyle jackets and well-heeled solicitors and barristers in dark tailored suits.

  Scanning the crowd and not finding his mother, Jerimiah’s temples started to throb again but thankfully, as the black blobs at the edge of his vision began to gather, the door leading from the cells opened and Queenie walked out with her carpet bag hooked over her arm.

  She looked around and, spotting Jerimiah, trundled across the space between them.

  ‘Forgot me, my arse,’ she said as she reached him. ‘Those bloody wet-behind-the-ear coppers didn’t bail me on purpose.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, putting her hand in the small of her back. ‘And it’s done for my old bones, I can tell you.’ Her gaze flickered up to the painted sign above Jerimiah’s head. ‘You’ve not paid the fine already, have you?’

  ‘And why would I not?’ he replied, as an image of the thirty hard-earned pounds he’d just handed to the court clerk flashed through his mind. ‘I’ll no more be able to pay it in seven days as I am now.’

  ‘Well, I’ve no more liking than you for giving my money to the law but they caught me unawares,’ she said.

  Jerimiah gave his mother a mocking look. ‘Well, that’s a surprise, isn’t it, considering you’re forever boasting you can spot a copper, in uniform or out, a mile off?’

  ‘I can,’ Queenie replied. ‘But they weren’t rozzers from around here and I didn’t cop on to them as—’

  ‘Well, you “not copping on” has cost me thirty quid,’ he cut in, as his temples pounded again. ‘Thirty fecking quid! That will take me half a year to put back in the savings jar.’

  His mother gave him a querying look. ‘Are you quite fair and fine, son?’

  ‘As good as any man would be who’s got a brutal head for being awake for thirty hours straight,’ he replied, glaring down at her.

  She looked contrite. ‘Well now, sorry I am for—’

  ‘Haven’t I got enough on my plate, Ma?’ he cut in. ‘With no horse, three daughters barely speaking to me, Billy causing havoc, plus a lad who I’m now looking out for and the woman I betrayed my darling Ida with dying in the front bedroom . . .’

  An image of Ida, lovely generous Ida, with her open heart, ready smile and welcoming arms, materialised in his mind. He’d lost her. He knew it. Perhaps not in body, as they’d vowed before God and his saints ‘till death do us part’, but he’d lost the twinkle in her eyes at a shared joke, lost the gentle caress of her hand as she passed the back of his chair, lost the warm body to curl into at night. But most of all, and what cut him to the very heart, was that he’d lost her love.

  The black cloud that had hovered over Jerimiah from the moment Ellen had walked into his yard all those weeks ago suddenly engulfed him. A band of steel tightened around his chest, clogging his breath and capturing his words.

  With his head pounding fit to rupture, Jerimiah covered his eyes with his hand.

  Queenie laid her hand on his arm. ‘Now then, son, don’t you fret yourself. I’ve a plan that will see us all rolling in clover and—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he shouted, shaking her off. ‘I’ve had enough of your schemes and plans and smart ideas because they always end up with you in the dock and me out of pocket.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jerimiah saw the people near to them take a step or two away.

  Queenie frowned, and her bottom lip jutted out. ‘So you’ll not hear me out, then?’

  Fixing his mother with a look that would give grown men the urge to empty their bladders, Jerimiah loomed over her.

  ‘No, Mother, I have no interesting in hearing whatever cock-eyed, hare-brained eejit idea you’ve cooked up in that barmy brain of yours,’ he yelled, his fists
balling tight as he matched her livid expression.

  She didn’t blink, and her angry expression deepened. ‘There’s no necessity for you to bellow at me like a loon, Jerimiah. I’m not deaf, you know.’

  ‘Good, so hear this,’ he replied. ‘If you cost me the price of a horse again, I’ll put you in the harness and have you pull me wagon around the town.’

  His mother glared furiously up at him for a couple of seconds then she looked away.

  ‘Well, now I know where I stand,’ she said, adjusting the bag on her arm.

  He gave her a tight smile. ‘Yes, you do, Mother.’

  ‘Then I’ll be about my business,’ she said.

  ‘As will I,’ Jerimiah replied.

  She glared at him for another moment then turned and marched through the crowd, which parted before her, across the black-and-white tiled entrance hall and out of the double front doors.

  Jerimiah waited for a few seconds. With his temper still simmering and his brain hammering in his skull, he straightened his leather cap and followed her out.

  After placing the last jam tart in the bottom of her battered Peek Freans biscuit tin, Ida pressed the lid on firmly. Taking it to the dresser, she placed it with the other tins containing the rest of her morning’s efforts.

  With Christmas Day only six days away she’d been chopping, mixing and rolling all morning in preparation for the big day. The last batch of mince pies were just finishing off in the oven, filling the kitchen with a fruity aroma.

  Well, in truth, a fruity and carroty aroma as she’d had to grate some of the vegetable in with the mixture to make it go further. In fact, the housewives of England should give daily thanks for carrots as, along with potatoes, they seemed to be the food substitute of choice in all the recipes printed in magazines and government information leaflets. Pretending one food was in fact something else had become a bit of a pastime. Ida reckoned that she had a ‘substitute’ something or a ‘mock’ something else every day. The mock duck was in fact moulded sausage meat and the mock cream for the mince pies was reconstituted dried milk, marge and sugar whipped together. The Christmas cake had mock marzipan, made from ground haricot beans and almond essence. However, given there would be eight adults in the house on Christmas Day and only one toilet, Ida drew the line at using liquid paraffin as a substitute fat in the pudding.