A Ration Book Christmas Page 4

  Although supper with the Garfields was something Jo never looked forward to, the meal this evening had been particularly gruelling. Apart from Mrs Garfield’s usual unappetising offering of boiled pig’s heart, onion and lumpy mash potatoes being thrown rather than placed in front of them, they’d eaten their almost indigestible meal under the shopkeeper’s hateful stare. The only mercy was that Norman, the Garfields’ son and heir, had been held up so was not at the table.

  Having forced the tasteless meal down, Jo had changed into her navy St John’s uniform and gathered her emergency manual from under the bed. She’d set Billy to do his homework at the kitchen table before heading off for the usual St John’s weekly meeting.

  Except tonight it wasn’t a usual meeting as Miss Prendergast, the Area Superintendent, and her team were in attendance to examine Jo and half a dozen other recruits for their intermediate first-aid certificate.

  Jo had joined St John’s almost as soon as she arrived three months ago as a way of escaping Mrs Garfield’s critical gaze in the evening. After just a couple of meetings, however, she was hooked. So much so that her allocated non-fiction library tickets were used each week to take out first-aid and nursing books.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jo, trying to hold back the feeling of despondency hovering over her.

  ‘Perhaps he’s signed up like you said he was going to and your letters are sitting on his mantelpiece,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I suppose that’s possible.’ Jo chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘But he wouldn’t have left for camp without letting me know.’

  ‘Well, maybe his letter went astray,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jo, in a tone that said the opposite. ‘But everyone else’s seemed to get through.’ A lump formed in her throat. ‘He wrote such lovely things about missing me and wanting us to be together. In his last letter, he even hinted at us walking out together seriously and him coming to meet my family.’

  ‘So how long have you known him?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘Forever,’ said Jo. ‘We were at infants’ school together.’ She laughed. ‘That is, when he turned up. He’s three years older than me so he didn’t even notice I existed even though I’ve had a crush on him since I was five.’

  An image of Tommy, dressed in a ragged shirt and short trousers, standing half a head above all the other boys in the playground, flashed through her mind.

  ‘He was handsome even then,’ she continued, wrapping the crêpe strip around the back of her friend’s knee, ‘with his unruly black hair and a cheeky smile that got him out of trouble more than once. He was the boy that everyone wanted in their gang. Me and all the other girls in our street spent hours hanging around waiting for him and his mates to appear. He always had a different girl on his arm and they all wanted to dance with him at the Palais. In fact, I’d almost given up on him ever noticing me when I was walking home one night and the strap went on my satchel and all my school books fell out. I was just gathering them together on the pavement when he walked around the corner.’

  The memory of the light of desire in Tommy’s eyes as he looked down at her that late spring afternoon four months ago sent a fizz of excitement through her.

  ‘He noticed one of my history textbooks was about the Romans,’ she continued, ‘and he asked me if I knew that Whitechapel Road was an old Roman road and I said I did and that it went to Colchester. He said he’d always been interested in history and I said I was too, but I like the Tudors. Then he said we had a lot in common and then he asked me if I’d like to go out for a drink and I said yes. We went out a couple of more times and really got on well and were just getting to know each other when my sister found out and she told my mum.’

  ‘Perhaps you should open your sister’s letter to see what she has to say,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I know what she’s going to say,’ said Jo. ‘She’ll say she told mum about me and Tommy for my own good because the Sweete brothers are trouble.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Tommy’s older brother Reggie certainly is,’ said Jo. ‘He’s got a record as long as your arm for everything from burglary to GBH.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Lucy, as Jo looped the bandage back on itself.

  ‘Grievous bodily harm. It’s what you’re charged with when you bash someone with a weapon and put them in hospital,’ Jo explained. ‘And you can bet your bottom dollar if it’s not nailed down Reggie will pinch it, but Tommy’s not like that.’

  Taking the open safety pin she had stuck in her uniform sleeve for safekeeping, Jo carefully passed it through the layers of bandage and clipped it together. Sitting back on her heels, she surveyed Lucy’s lower leg.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, checking to make sure the chevron formation of the binding was evenly spaced. ‘Will Miss Prendergast pass it?’

  ‘Spot on.’ Lucy sighed. ‘I wish I could get mine to sit as neat as that.’

  ‘Finish off, cadets, if you please,’ said Mrs Dutton, the wife of the postmaster who had been a nurse in the previous war and now ran the village’s St John’s troop.

  Jo rose to her feet and stood at ease with her hands behind her back beside her casualty.

  After a moment or two Mrs Dutton blew the whistle.

  Miss Prendergast, a hefty woman in her late fifties with steely grey hair cut in a straight line just below her ears and whiskers to rival the milkman’s horse, started down the line on her inspection.

  Having poked and prodded the other cadets to check the bandaging techniques, the organisation’s senior officer in East Anglia reached Jo and Lucy.

  ‘Who have we got here?’ she asked, gazing down her clipboard at the list of candidates to be examined.

  ‘Miss Tomlinson and Miss Brogan,’ said Mrs Dutton. ‘With a toe-to-knee bandaged.’

  Both girls stood to attention.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Miss Brogan,’ said the superintendent, peering over her half-rimmed glasses at Jo’s handiwork.

  Jo stood up a little straighter. ‘No, Superintendent. Me and my brother were evacuated three months ago after Dunkirk.’

  Miss Prendergast’s considerable eyebrows rose in surprise.

  ‘But it says here,’ she jabbed the clipboard with her index finger, ‘you’re doing your intermediate certificate. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Dutton. ‘Miss Brogan took her novice certificate six weeks ago with merit at the Marks Tey troop.’

  Miss Prendergast sniffed and glanced over Lucy’s bandaged leg. ‘It looks neat enough.’

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ said Jo.

  ‘Spacing’s right,’ Miss Prendergast went on, reaching out and measuring the spacing between the overlaying bandage with her thumb. ‘But the heel is the tricky bit.’

  Grabbing Lucy’s foot, the superintendent raised it high, forcing Lucy to grasp the sides of the chair to keep herself upright.

  Miss Prendergast’s deep-set eyes flickered over the series of angled turns Jo had painstakingly wound to accommodate the awkward shape.

  She sniffed and dropped Lucy’s foot.

  ‘Miss Brogan seems to have made a reasonable job, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Get up and walk to the door and back,’ Miss Prendergast barked.

  Lucy did as she was told.

  The superintendent looked down hopefully at the bandage but it hadn’t budged.

  ‘I think it’s safe to say Miss Brogan has passed, Superintendent,’ said Mrs Dutton.

  Miss Prendergast’s mouth pulled into a tight bud and without glancing at Jo she scribbled on the clipboard. ‘Fall the troop in, if you please, Staff.’

  ‘Attention,’ shouted Mrs Dutton.

  Jo and the rest of the troop formed three equal lines in front of the regional officer and stood to attention.

  Miss Prendergast’s heavy features formed themselves into what Jo guessed was a smile.

  ‘I’m very pleased to tell you
that all of you who were tested tonight have passed your intermediate St John’s certificate in First Aid.’ The superintendent checked the clipboard. ‘The scores are as follows . . .’

  She read out the scores in ascending order.

  ‘And finally,’ she smiled benevolently over them, ‘the top score goes to . . .’ She paused and reread the entry: ‘To Miss Brogan whose score of ninety-two out of a possible hundred means she has passed with merit.’

  There was a round of applause and murmurs of congratulations and well-done, which Jo acknowledged with a smile.

  Mrs Dutton dismissed the troop and while the leaders were bidding each other farewell, Jo and Lucy helped the rest of the troop clear away.

  After accepting Lucy’s offer of Sunday tea for Billy and herself, Jo waved her goodbye, and retrieved her coat from the pegs at the end of the hall.

  The big hand of the church clock ticked right on the hour at nine o’clock as Jo walked out of the hall into the cold Essex night.

  Flicking on her torch and shining the light on the pavement just in front of her feet, she started back up the High Street to the Garfields’ shop. However, as she reached the village’s only telephone box, she hesitated for a moment then pulled the heavy metal door open and stepped in.

  The women from Melton Winchet’s WI mopped out the bright red cubicle and polished its Bakelite fitments on a weekly basis so unlike those in and around London Docks this phone box smelt of Windolene and disinfectant rather than urine and cigarettes.

  Rummaging around in her handbag she found her purse and pulled out a handful of coppers. Setting them on the shelf, she paused for a second then picked up the handset.

  ‘What number please, caller?’ asked the tinny voice at the other end.

  ‘Wapping 712, please,’ said Jo.

  ‘Thank you, caller, please wait.’

  The line clicked as the girl at the other end dialled the number.

  There was a pause and then the receiver was picked up at the other end.

  ‘The Admiral—’

  The pips went.

  Taking a threepenny bit from the pile, Jo pressed it into the slot and pressed the A button.

  The coins fell into the box and the line connected.

  ‘Is that the Admiral pub in Brewhouse Lane?’ Jo asked, clutching the mouthpiece with both hands.

  ‘I just said that, didn’t I?’ said the woman on the other end.

  Jo’s heart sank as she recognised the flat nasal tones of the Admiral’s resident barmaid, Rita Tugman.

  ‘Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the pips,’ Jo replied. ‘Is Tommy Sweete there?’

  ‘What’s it to you if he is?’

  Jo’s heart thumped in her chest. ‘I’d like to speak to him, please.’

  ‘Would you now?’ Rita replied.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ Jo replied.

  ‘And who are you, when you’re at home?’

  ‘Is he there?’ Jo persisted.

  Rita chuckled down the phone. ‘You’re the Brogan girl, aren’t you?’

  ‘For the last time, Rita, let me talk to Tommy.’

  ‘No, cos he ain’t here.’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Search me,’ Rita replied. ‘I ain’t seen him. I could ask Lou when she gets in. She’s our new barmaid. She and Tommy were getting on like a house on fire when him and Reggie were in last week. Perhaps she knows.’

  A heavy lump settled on Jo’s heart.

  ‘Well, when you do see him, will you tell him I phoned?’ she asked, as tears pressed at the back of her eyes.

  ‘If I remember,’ Rita replied.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jo croaked.

  The pips went again and she put the phone down.

  With tears distorting her vision, Jo pushed button B and retrieved her unused coins. Pushing the door of the telephone box door open, she stepped outside.

  *

  Thankfully, when Jo got back to the shop, Mr Garfield was in the upstairs parlour at his nightly task of totting up the day’s accounts while through in the shop Jo could hear his wife stocking up the shop for the next day’s trading.

  Above her in the Garfields’ best room the muffled strains of ‘Ain’t Misbehaving’ drifted down as Norman listened to the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra on the wireless.

  Going through to the scullery, Jo lit the gas under the kettle, took a cup from the dresser and spooned in two heaped helpings of Ovaltine. Having made herself a hot drink, Jo carried it upstairs to her room. Setting her mug on the bedside table she sat on the bed and took the two letters Billy had given her earlier from her pocket.

  Dropping her sister’s one on the faded candlewick counterpane, she opened her mother’s.

  In the dim light from the table lamp’s 30-watt bulb Jo’s gaze skimmed down the scribbly handwriting and she smiled.

  Despite the daily threat of death raining down from the sky, life for the Brogans and their neighbours in Mafeking Terrace seemed to be continuing much as before.

  Prince Albert, Gran’s moth-eaten parrot, had escaped his cage and evaded capture for three days by roosting in the outside lavatory. Samson, the horse that pulled her father’s rag and bone wagon, had shed three shoes in as many weeks. The police had taken Gran in for questioning about taking bets for Fat Tony but didn’t have enough evidence to hold her, and her mother had had a set-to with Nelly Flannigan after finding her old man dead drunk on her doorstep last Saturday morning. Of course, some things had changed. Her older brother Charlie, who was one of the last to be plucked from the beach at Dunkirk, had been reassigned to a new artillery regiment and no one had seen an orange or a banana for months. The letter concluded as always with her mother urging them to eat all their greens, for Jo to look after Billy and for Billy to keep out of trouble. There was assurance that the whole family sent their love and an ‘X’ for each of them under her mother’s signature.

  Folding the pages together again, Jo rested her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

  From St Audrey’s Church at the north end of the village down to the medieval cattle bridge that spanned the brook at the other, Melton Winchet’s chocolate-box perfection was everything that Churchill said Britain was fighting for. But it wasn’t home.

  For Jo, home was streets of two-up two-down houses packed so tightly you could hear your neighbours arguing after chucking-out time on a Saturday night. Instead of the scent of summer flowers on the breeze, home was the sour smell of simmering hops from Charrington Brewery or, if the wind was blowing up the Thames, the smell of the sea. Home was where the rain glistened on the cobbled streets after a storm and each front door had a scrubbed white step denoting the diligence of the women of the house. That’s where she should be. Back in Wapping, back where she belonged. At home and with Tommy.

  Setting her mother’s letter aside she slipped her hand under her pillow and pulled out her communion Bible. Opening it on the page marked by the rosary her gran had given her, she picked up one of the letters she’d placed there for safekeeping.

  She ran her fingers lightly over her name written on the envelope in Tommy’s bold script then took the three pages of Basildon Bond paper from within.

  Although she knew what it said by heart, Jo reread Tommy’s letter.

  Skimming over the section telling her about how his probation officer had secured him work with a company reinforcing basements as air raid shelters, and the paragraphs telling her about the team of fellas with whom he did his nightly fire watch and the amateur boxing night at York Hall, Jo moved down to the last paragraph.

  With a lead weight pressing on her chest Jo read:

  But don’t you worry none, Jo, even though Reggie is forever trying to rope me into his schemes I’ve kept my nose clean. That stint in Borstal made me think about the sort of life I want. And it isn’t spending half my time behind bars at His Majesty’s pleasure like Reggie has but it is being with someone as lovely as you.

  I know we’ve only been walking out for a
couple of months so perhaps I’m being a bit too forward but I’m starting to think that maybe one day, when you get back, you’ll take me home to meet your family and we can start thinking about the future. Our future.

  I miss you, Jo, and think about you all the time, and hope you are thinking about me too.

  Love,

  Tommy

  XX

  Kissing the bottom of the page, Jo carefully folded it and slid it back in the envelope.

  Her gaze flickered on to the post mark: the 8th – a full month ago. She’d written him four letters since then so why hadn’t he replied?

  Placing Tommy’s letter back between the pages of her Bible, Jo picked up her sister Mattie’s letter.

  Although her older sister had got her out of scrapes and trouble for as long as Jo could remember, Mattie had overstepped herself when she told their mother about her and Tommy and got Jo evacuated with Billy.

  And it wasn’t as if Miss -Know-it-all was in any position to be calling Tommy a wrong ’un, not after getting herself up the duff and having to get married on the hush-hush to some chap so quickly that none of the family were invited, not even Jo.

  Not that she’d have gone, of course, because she wasn’t speaking to Mattie but even so . . .

  Jo studied Mattie’s bold handwriting for a moment then ripped the envelope in half.

  Billy was right. She hated being here. But in truth, Hitler wasn’t to blame for her being stuck in this rustic backwater. No, the real reason she was miles away from Tommy was because of her interfering elder sister.

  With the first hint of light creeping under the threadbare curtains hanging at her bedroom window the following morning, Jo lay, as she had for the past hour or more, staring at the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

  She didn’t know what time it was but guessed from the handful of birds that had started chirping a little while ago that it was close to five in the morning. A full hour before Mr Garfield got up to take delivery of the daily supply of milk, potatoes and greens from Top Acre Farm.

  The church clock chiming the hour at the other end of the village confirmed her guess and Jo swung her legs out of bed and stood up.