A Ration Book Christmas Read online

  The door to the parlour opened and Queenie came in.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, on her way to the stove. ‘I thought you’d got lost on the way home, Ida.’

  ‘I ran into Madge Bingly,’ Ida replied, ‘who says she’s heard that Cohen’s fishmonger in Ben Johnson Road is getting some stock in tomorrow. I’ll take a stroll up there when I’ve been to confession. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Sure anything that swims will be grand by me,’ said Queenie, lighting the gas ring under the kettle. ‘It’s been such an age since I’ve had a bit of fish I’ve almost forgotten what it tastes like. While you’re there, Ida, will you see if you can get a bit of something for Father Mahon?’ Queenie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know how Mrs Dunn has the nerve to call herself a housekeeper when she’s not feeding the poor man enough to keep the spirit from fleeing his body.’

  ‘Isn’t Jerry back from the yard yet?’ asked Ida, hooking her coat behind the door.

  ‘Been in and gone out again,’ said Queenie. ‘The home guard’s platoon has been called back on patrol cos someone spied a couple of iffy characters lurking around by the Shadwell Basin.’

  The kettle whistled and Queenie reached for the tea caddy while Mattie went back out into the yard to fetch the milk from their cold keep.

  The cold keep was in fact a marble butler sink, double the size of the laundry sinks at St George’s Baths where the women did their weekly wash. As the lid was half of someone called Sven Kristiansen’s gravestone, it was too heavy to lift so had to be slid back in order to take anything in or out. The whole thing sat against the wall of the yard that never got the sun and even in the height of summer it could keep milk fresh for two days.

  Shoving the flat stone back a little, Mattie reached in, took out a pint and returned to the kitchen.

  Her mother had already gone through to the back parlour while Queenie poured the tea.

  ‘Where on earth did that come from?’ said Mattie, eyeing the large rib of beef almost spilling over the dinner plate on the kitchen table.

  Her gran tapped her nose with a gnarled forefinger. ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’

  ‘I bet Mum was pleased when she saw it,’ said Mattie.

  ‘She was,’ said Queenie. ‘Although it nigh broke her front teeth to say as much. But she could say no other when I only parted with hers and your father’s meat coupons to fetch it. And I’ll be sure you and your babby has a good thick slice or two. How’s my great-granddaughter today?’

  ‘Lively,’ Mattie replied. ‘But, Gran, you do know it might be a boy?’

  Queenie’s lined face lifted in a soft smile.

  ‘Of course,’ she said in a tone that said otherwise.

  Queenie went to the dresser. ‘I noticed a letter to yourself from our Charlie in the midday post, is he all right?’

  As she set the mugs, spoons, sugar bowl and biscuit barrel on the tray Mattie told her gran what she’d told Francesca but this time included the section about Stella.

  ‘Men!’ said her gran when she’d finished. ‘Will they never stop letting their jocks do the thinking for them?’

  Mattie laughed. ‘Oh, Gran!’

  ‘Well, tis true!’ said Gran. ‘If your brother could see past his balls he’d see full well she’s a floozy. It’s a shame, too, when that lovely friend of yours would be such a better wife to him.’

  Mattie looked surprised. ‘But how . . .?’

  Queenie chuckled. ‘Sure, haven’t I seen enough men and women in love in my time to know the signs? Tis as plain as the nose on your face she’s in love with Charlie.’

  Mattie sighed. ‘Well, it’s a pity he can’t see it.’ She reached for the tray but Queenie got there first. ‘Not in your condition.’ Grasping the tray at either side, she picked it up. She gave Mattie a gummy grin. ‘And don’t worry about your friend. Charlie will have his eyes opened soon enough.’

  Her mother was already dozing by the fire by the time she and Queenie joined her in the parlour. Her worn-heeled shoes were where she’d stepped out of them and she now lounged back with her feet on the old pouffe, her lisle stockings rolled around her ankles, enjoying a well-earned five minutes to herself.

  Putting her mother’s cup on the table beside her, Mattie took her own and went to the domed Bush radio on the sideboard. Switching it on, she stepped out of her shoes and tucked herself into the corner of the sofa, savouring the peace of the familiar front room.

  Despite having a fickle income and five children to feed, Mattie’s father Jerimiah had done his best to furnish the family home to some degree of comfort. This had mainly been achieved by spotting the odd gem amongst the junk and scraps harvested from his daily rounds. The three easy chairs were a mismatch of styles, ranging from her Gran’s chair with its elaborately carved wooden arms and padded seat, through to her father’s button-back leather porter’s chair with a wobbly arm. The mantelshelf too was cluttered with objets d’art including a Staffordshire dog with an ear chipped off, a Wedgwood bowl without a lid, a pair of silver-plated candlesticks with most of the top coat rubbed away and a Punch toby jug with no handle. But in pride of place, and dominating the whole room, was a tall mahogany bookcase which contained her father’s prize acquisition: a set of eleventh-edition Encyclopaedia Britannica that had been printed in 1913.

  There was a buzz as the wireless valves warmed up.

  ‘With only a quarter of an hour to go,’ the excited football commentator shouted out of the hemp mesh at the front of the set, ‘Woodgate is tearing down the wing towards Tottenham’s goal and—’

  ‘Can you find us some music, Mat,’ said her mother, with a heavy sigh.

  Mattie stood up.

  ‘She ought to be resting not waiting on you hand and foot,’ said Queenie.

  ‘It’s all right, Gran,’ said Mattie, as she twiddled the station knob. ‘Mum’s been on her feet all morning whereas I spent most of the shift sitting at the Post 7 control desk doing next week’s rota.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said her mother, giving her a sweet smile. ‘It’s nice to know someone notices what I do for this family.’

  She gave her mother-in-law a caustic look and got the same in return.

  The melodious strains of Saturday Bandstand filled the room as Mattie resumed her seat.

  Cradling her mug in her hand, she rested back into the soft upholstery and closed her eyes as the orchestra played its rendition of ‘Blue Moon’ before seamlessly moving into ‘Night and Day’.

  A lump formed in Mattie’s throat.

  The memory of Daniel’s arm encircling her and the vibrant tone of his voice singing softly in her ear as they swirled around the Lyceum’s dance floor shot through her. It had been just two days before he left for France and before the handful of brave pilots flew up to meet the Luftwaffe’s challenge in the skies above Sussex and Kent in the desperate battle to defend Britain. Her mind had just drifted on to when they’d returned to the hotel later that night when the back door slammed.

  ‘If that’s you, Jerry,’ shouted her mother, ‘there’s tea in the—’

  The room fell still and Mattie opened her eyes to see her sister Jo and brother Billy, who should have been in Essex, standing in the doorway. Both were carrying a suitcase and both looked utterly exhausted.

  Jo stared at her mother, gran and eldest sister in silence for a moment then put her case on the floor.

  ‘We’ve come home,’ she said, keeping her eyes on her mother but sensing Mattie’s unwavering gaze.

  ‘Yeah, because we hated it there,’ Billy added, gripping Jo’s hand a little tighter.

  Ida stood motionless for a few moments then flung her arms wide.

  ‘Billy! Jo!’ she cried, rushing over to them.

  Billy dropped his case as their mother enveloped them in her arms.

  ‘My luvs, my luvs,’ she sobbed, planting noisy kisses on Jo and Billy in turn.

  Mattie and Queenie rose to their feet as, clutching them to her sof
t bosom, Ida sobbed uncontrollably for a full minute before Billy wriggled out from her smothering embrace.

  ‘You’re making me all wet, Mum,’ he said, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

  ‘Sorry, luv,’ laughed Ida, ruffling his head.

  Mattie hugged him tight then returned him to Ida who fussed over him and then, despite his protests, smothered him with another round of kisses.

  Jo looked across the affectionate melee at Mattie.

  Her sister held her gaze for a couple of seconds then came forward.

  ‘Hello, Jo,’ said Mattie, giving her a warm smile.

  Jo answered it with a cool look. ‘Hello, Mattie.’

  ‘You’re looking well,’ said Mattie.

  Jo didn’t reply.

  ‘And . . . and . . . you look parched,’ said Mattie. ‘There’s tea in the pot so I’ll fetch a couple more cups.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ida.

  Mattie went into the kitchen as their mother took Jo’s and Billy’s hands again.

  ‘Let me look at you both,’ said Ida, holding them at arm’s length. ‘You’ve shot up, Billy,’ she said, eyeing him approvingly. ‘And you!’ she said, turning her attention on Jo. ‘Well, you’re all grown up, too. Quite the young lady.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ laughed Jo. ‘I am almost eighteen.’

  ‘Not until March, you’re not,’ Queenie replied. ‘And you could have asked how your sister was keeping.’

  Jo felt her cheeks grow warm under her gran’s penetrating gaze.

  ‘Leave her be,’ said Ida, waving her mother-in-law’s words aside. ‘She and Mattie will have plenty of time to talk later.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Queenie, meaningfully.

  Mattie came in carrying two more cups and a plate with slices of cake stacked on it.

  ‘I thought they might be hungry, Mum, so I’ve cut into Sunday’s cake,’ she said, putting the cups on the sideboard.

  ‘Course,’ said her mother with a fond smile at her younger two. ‘Tuck in.’

  Breaking free from his mother, Billy pounced on the cake, grabbing a slice and cramming it in his mouth.

  ‘Thanks, Mat,’ he said, spraying cake on the carpet.

  Ida resumed her seat in her fireside chair.

  ‘Now, Billy, come and sit with me.’ She patted her lap. ‘And you and Jo can tell us all about it.’

  Jo perched on the upright chair by the sideboard.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said her mother. ‘There’s plenty of room next to Mattie.’

  Forcing a blasé smile, Jo walked across the room to the sofa and, tucking her skirt under her, sat down next to her sister.

  As her mother, gran and Mattie listened, Jo, between Billy’s interruptions, told her family about the tough time they’d had with the Garfields.

  ‘And so I suppose them falsely accusing poor innocent Billy of stealing was the last straw,’ said Ida.

  An image of Tommy with his arms around some unknown barmaid flitted through Jo’s mind.

  ‘Among other things,’ she said, again feeling the weight of her gran’s eyes on her.

  ‘It’s a disgrace the way those people treated you,’ continued her mother. ‘They ought to be reported to the government or someone, they should.’

  Wriggling on her lap, Billy turned to face his mother.

  ‘I told all of them I hadn’t taken the money, Mum,’ he said, gazing up with his butter-wouldn’t-melt face. ‘But no one believed me.’ His chin started to wobble. ‘Please don’t send me back.’

  ‘Don’t worry, luv.’ Ida gave her son a sympathetic pat on the knee. ‘In fact, if it weren’t for Aunt Pearl—’

  The sound of the air raid siren cut Ida short.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ shouted Ida crossly, ‘don’t the bosh have a day off?’

  Billy hopped off his mother’s knee.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Ida.

  ‘I didn’t see one German plane while we were away,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he dashed to the front door. ‘So I don’t want to miss them.’

  ‘You won’t now,’ Ida replied. ‘It’s probably just another false alarm.’

  ‘You’d better go to the shelter, though,’ said Mattie, dragging herself wearily to her feet. ‘I’ll make the flask if you fetch dad’s suitcase from under the bed, Mum.’

  She went into the kitchen.

  ‘What shall I do?’ asked Jo, shouting to hear herself over the incessant two-tone wail.

  ‘Get the pram in the yard and then load the hopping box into it,’ said Ida. ‘There’s no rush. Most of the time the all-clear sounds before we can get halfway to the shelter.’

  Jo turned and headed into the kitchen.

  Mattie was standing by the sink pouring tea into their father’s Thermos flask. She looked around as Jo walked through but didn’t say anything.

  Jo found the old pram in the lean-to with a tarpaulin covering it. Like everything else her family owned, the ancient contraption that the Brogan children had been transported in as tots had been acquired by her father on his rounds. It was a deep-bodied design and made of brown leather. Unlike the coach-built prams on sale in the baby department of Wickhams, it had no C spring to smooth the journey, just a small wheel at each corner. The wooden handle had been polished smooth by countless hands, and one of the brackets which moved the rain hood back and forth had been broken for as long as Jo could remember.

  Dragging it out into the middle of the yard, Jo tipped it almost upside down and shook it to empty out any stray leaves or mouse droppings and then she pushed it through the back door into the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s the hopping box?’ she asked.

  ‘Under the table. I’ll get it,’ said Mattie.

  The hopping box was in fact a battered workman’s chest with a solid handle at each end and a heavy lid. It was the place where all their old clothes, chipped plates, and battered pans were stored for the family’s annual trip to Kent to help pick the hops harvest.

  Pulling the chair out of the way, Mattie reached below the table and took hold of the handle but Jo grabbed her arm. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Mattie gave her a grateful smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, putting her hands into the small of her back and stretching. ‘It’s getting a bit of a struggle to bend.’

  Jo suppressed the urge to smile back.

  Mattie might have been the big sister who’d stopped Gladys Williams picking on her at school and given her a cuddle when she awoke from a nightmare, but she’d also been the one who told on her to their mother. If she hadn’t, she and Tommy would still be walking out.

  Forcing a detached expression on her face, Jo shrugged. ‘Don’t thank me. I just don’t want to have Gran on my back for weeks about letting you lift.’

  Heaving it up, she placed it in the body of the pram. She waited until Mattie had deposited the flask inside then wheeled it into the parlour. Her mother had returned from upstairs carrying a small attaché case containing her father’s post office savings book, all the family’s birth, marriage and insurance certificates plus an album of sepia photos Gran had brought with her from the ‘Old Country’. She was also carrying a large handbag which she handed to Mattie.

  ‘Thought I’d save you a trip, luv,’ she said, squeezing it into the pram.

  Gripping the handle, Ida headed for the door. Mattie and Jo followed but instead of falling in behind, Queenie sat back in her easy chair.

  ‘Gran?’ said Jo. ‘The Germans will be here any moment.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, me darling,’ said Queenie, picking up her knitting, ‘but I’m not fecking hiding in a hole when they do.’

  ‘But you can’t just sit there like that waiting,’ Jo persisted.

  Queenie chewed her gums. ‘You’re right.’

  Setting her needles aside, Queenie stood up and scuttled into her room at the front returning almost immediately carrying a glass with her false teeth floating in it.

  ‘I nearly fo
rgot.’ Jabbing a bony finger into the glass she hooked out her dentures and popped them in her mouth.

  ‘I can’t meet St Peter at the Pearly Gates without me gnashers, now can I?’ she said, snapping her jaw up and down a couple of times to make the point.

  Ida rolled her eyes.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ said Ida, shrugging on her coat. ‘With a bit of luck we’ll be back before ITMA starts at six.’

  Leaving Queenie with her feet up by the fire, Jo followed her mother out into the street. Billy had already met up with several playmates who were firing at imaginary planes overhead while dodging between the upended cannons dotted along the street.

  A handful of their neighbours were also pushing prams or carrying bundles of bedding and bags of food for their unplanned visit to the public shelter. However, it was also noticeable that there was a great number who weren’t bothering.

  ‘Billy,’ bellowed Ida, ‘get yourself over here.’

  Ignoring her, Billy dashed across the street to the lamppost, firing off an imaginary round as he ran.

  ‘Now! William Brian Brogan,’ she bellowed. ‘Or I’ll be putting you back on that train tomorrow.’

  With his shoulders slumped and dragging his feet, Billy sloped back to join them.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Ida, straightening her son’s cap. ‘I might have said you can stay but—’

  A throbbing drone that seemed to muffle Jo’s eardrums drowned out her mother’s voice.

  Shielding her eyes against the late-afternoon sun she looked up to see hundreds of planes flying in a V configuration high above their heads with shiny dots of something trailing in their wake.

  ‘German bombers!’ shouted Billy, hopping from one leg to the other in excitement.

  The whole street swung around to follow as they swooped down the Thames. The noise stopped for a second then a second smaller formation of fighters followed after.

  ‘There’re our boys,’ Mattie said. ‘Spitfires, I think.’

  A cheer went up from the residents of Mafeking Terrace.

  ‘Go on, boys, shoot the lot of them,’ someone shouted.