The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  Rationing was now part of life and the ration of bacon and ham per person per week was 4oz in total; other meat was rationed by price, a shilling’s worth per week, so Carrie appreciated the elderly man’s kindness. She had made a christening gown for his granddaughter some years before, and had refused to accept any payment when the daughter’s husband had been killed while unloading crates at the dock days before the service. It seemed Harry didn’t forget such things.

  It took a bit of thinking to make 2oz of butter and cheese, 4oz of margarine and cooking fat, 3 pints of milk, 8oz of sugar and one egg a week - when available - plus 11b of jam every two months stretch to provide filling meals for David and Matthew. But with Harry making sure that any sausage and offal - not rationed but scarce - came their way, and vegetables from old Amos’s allotment, which Terry had passed over to David and Walter and was now tended by Matthew and Veronica, things weren’t so bad. And David had made a long window box which he’d fixed along one side of the shelter, in which Carrie grew tomatoes. They hadn’t gone to bed hungry yet. With stomach ache, certainly - there was a glut of plums at present and at twopence a quarter they ate them at every meal.

  It was with this in mind that David now said, a twinkle in his eye, ‘What’s for afters, lass? No, let me guess. Fresh plums, stewed plums, baked plums or perhaps even plum crumble if I’m lucky.’

  Carrie wrinkled her nose at him. ‘Stewed plums,’ she admitted.

  ‘Just what I fancy.’

  ‘Oh, you.’

  ‘I’m not complaining, lass.’ He pulled her to him. ‘Just so long as you don’t try any of these government recipes they’re pushing. Carrot fudge and All-Clear sandwiches, who do they think they’re kidding? And this so called Woolton Pie! One of the lads was saying his missus dished it up the other night and he asked her why she’d given him steak and kidney pie without the steak and kidney. Even the dog wouldn’t touch it, according to John.’

  Carrie tilted her head to smile up at him. If that had been David he would have eaten the potato, parsnip and oatmeal pie - named after Lord Woolton, the Minister for Food - without a word of complaint. She had served up the odd disaster in her time and on at least one occasion had been unable to eat the meal herself, but David would insist she was a ‘grand cook’ regardless. ‘I’ve used our points this month on two pound of dried fruit,’ she said softly, ‘so there’s sly cake for supper.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ David released her as they heard Matthew’s footsteps coming down the stairs. ‘You know the way to a man’s heart, Carrie Sutton, and no mistake.’

  Oh, David. As Carrie walked across to the hob and began to dish up the rich rabbit stew, crammed with chunks of potato, turnips, onion, parsnips and other vegetables, she told herself for the hundredth time that everything was all right. It didn’t matter that Matthew insisted on writing long letters to Alec all the time or that her lad had become - her mind balked at the word selfish and substituted difficult. Not really. She and Matthew and David were all alive and well and in these times that was all that counted.

  ‘Sit down, it’s nearly ready,’ she said to Matthew and a pair of bright, heavily lashed eyes in a face that was becoming more handsome with every month that passed smiled back at her.

  ‘I’ve finished that book.’ Matthew sat down at the table without acknowledging David beyond a quick nod and reached for a piece of stottie cake made with the coarse flour which was all that was available these days.

  ‘Already?’ Carrie’s voice was cheerful even as she thought, he’s so clever, it’s a crime he’ll be down the pit come September. She couldn’t bear to think of it, her lad in that place. But he was a miner’s son, and with the talk of ex-miners being brought back from the front to work down the mines, there was no way Matthew was going to escape his lot, not with the country’s need for coal so critical.

  ‘What book is that?’ David asked pleasantly, making an effort to communicate with Matthew, as he always did. Sometimes Carrie found herself wanting to say, it’s no use, not with Alec brainwashing him drip by drip. Can’t you see that? But she never did.

  Matthew turned his head in the manner that was so like Alec’s. ‘A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway,’ he said coolly. ‘Have you read it?’

  Carrie stiffened. Why did Matthew do it? she asked herself silently. He knew full well David hadn’t read the book so why throw it in his face like that?

  ‘No, I haven’t read it, Matthew.’ David’s voice was just as cool now. ‘Would you recommend it?’

  As David held the boy’s eyes, Matthew’s gaze shifted, dropping to the piece of bread in his hand. He shrugged bony shoulders. ‘I think it’s good,’ he said, a little shamefaced now. ‘Uncle Alec thought I’d like it.’

  Carrie pressed her lips together and shut her eyes for a moment. She had hoped that with Alec overseas his hold on Matthew would lessen but it seemed the indoctrination had been thorough. With some effort she said evenly, ‘Is that what made you get that particular book out of the library?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Matthew raised his head, looking her full in the face as, with a touch of defiance, he said, ‘Uncle Alec gave it to me as a present the night before he went to fight.’

  Carrie blinked. Matthew had kept that quiet, as no doubt he did lots of things where Alec was concerned. Why was it that the more she tried to steer Matthew away from Alec, the more the boy gravitated to his natural father? Was it a blood tie? A recognition that went beyond the normal senses? Child for parent and parent for child.

  But no, that didn’t follow through. Look at Renee and their da, or Alec and his da for that matter. They couldn’t stand each other. Whatever, all she knew was that in the weeks since Alec had been gone, Matthew had been like a bear with a sore head. She had even found herself encouraging him at one point to go and see his Aunt Margaret, thinking that the familiarity of the house that he had frequently taken himself off to in recent years, despite hot protest from her, might comfort him a little. That well-meant suggestion had caused the biggest row yet between herself and her son.

  ‘I don’t want to see her,’ Matthew had said with youthful contempt. ‘What on earth makes you think I would want to see Aunt Margaret? She’s forever crying and going on about Uncle Alec not loving her. She drives him round the bend.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’ Carrie’s voice had been sharp and she’d held Matthew by his arms and shaken him slightly. ‘Did he say that?’

  ‘No, no.’ The expression on her face had prompted the denial; Carrie knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Matthew was fourteen years old at the end of the month and he would be starting work come September, but in spite of his outward appearance which could have led a stranger to think he was at least two years older, he was still just a young lad. Alec, however, had begun addressing Matthew as an equal, she had witnessed it on a number of occasions; he was appealing to the burgeoning man inside the boy, which made Matthew feel important and grown up, and what young lad wouldn’t respond to that?

  Carrie turned back to the stew, ladling out another bowlful. She brought two bowls to the table, placing them in front of David and a defiant-faced Matthew, and then fetched her own. When she was seated they all began to eat, Matthew with gusto, David quietly with the closed look on his face she hated. Carrie had to force every mouthful down.

  When she couldn’t stand the silence a moment longer, she said, ‘Lillian’s thinking of sending the bairns back to that couple they were evacuated to last year. She was round here in floods of tears this morning, not knowing what to do for the best but I’d still be surprised if she does send them.’

  David sat back in his chair. ‘Is she sure they’d have them back?’

  Carrie nodded. ‘She’s kept in touch. With it being a farm the bairns would eat well enough, that’s for sure, and Lillian said they were kindness itself to them all. Luke still talks about his Aunt Ivy and Uncle Peter and all the animals, especially the farm cats. He had sorted out one of the kittens for his own a
pparently, before Lillian decided they were coming home. She said she made it clear to the couple at the time that she and the bairns were only leaving because we hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the Germans here, not because they weren’t happy or grateful to be with them.’

  ‘I thought Lillian had jumped the gun in coming home herself,’ said David soberly.

  ‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe, but when it was quiet here she wanted to get back to Isaac. She admitted today it’s shown her she can’t be in one place and him in another, even if it means she won’t have Luke and Katie with her. You know what she’s like. Anyway, this Ivy said she’s prepared to take on the bairns without Lillian if that is what she wants.’

  ‘If it’s what she wants, but she had better be sure before she puts the bairns through leaving again,’ said David quietly. He had not forgotten the sight which had met his eyes when he and Carrie had gone to see Lillian and the children off the previous September. Isaac had been unable to change his shift and was at work.

  The platform was full of children from all over Sunderland, each one carefully labelled and clutching a bundle of belongings or a small suitcase, along with the square box which enclosed their gas mask. It had affected him deeply. It was something of an adventure at the time for those like Luke and Katie who were fortunate enough to have their mother with them, but most of the children had been pathetically alone, bewildered but trying to put a brave face on their confusion.

  ‘Aunt Lillian said you could go along with Luke and Katie if you want. She’s checked with the farmer’s wife and it would be all right.’

  Even as she spoke, Carrie knew what Matthew’s response would be. When the idea of evacuation had first been raised, her son had been adamant he was not budging from Sunderland, and nothing she and David said had persuaded him otherwise.

  Now Matthew said, in tones of deep scorn, ‘I am not a bairn, Mam, and I’m not looking after Luke and Katie.’

  Matthew found three-year-old Luke and two-year-old Katie annoying most of the time when Lillian called by, besides which he and a bunch of his pals had decided it would be boring out in the country with no cinemas or League football. When half of the evacuees who had left the town were home again in the first couple of months of the year, everything they said seemed to confirm Matthew’s suspicions and he had been even more determined he was not going to leave.

  ‘All right.’ Carrie nodded. ‘But the offer is there if you change your mind any time, Matt.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Matthew continued with his meal without looking at his mother, but inwardly he was fuming. His mam and da still treated him as if he was Luke’s age half the time, and even now he’d left school and was due to start work with his da down the pit come September it didn’t make any difference.

  The thought of the pit brought a familiar sickly feeling rising in his stomach, but he told himself, as he had a hundred times before, it might not be as bad as he was expecting. Albert Burgham and Brian Wilson would be going down with him and if they could stand it, he could. His Granda McDarmount said it was the best time to be going down the pit; men were no longer being sacked for no reason or being put on short time. Suddenly the country had realised the importance of miners for the first time in years. His granda had also said that being down a mine was a darn sight better than being mowed down by Germans at the front, and Matthew agreed with him although he wouldn’t have admitted it to a living soul. They might have thought he was one of these gutless conscientious objectors, like Edwin Cristelow’s da. He knew a crowd of the lads from school had waited for Mr Cristelow one night when it was dark and had thrown rotten vegetables and stinking manure at him before running off. Edwin had never said a word about it. But then he wouldn’t. Matthew reached for his cup of weak tea. The ration was 2oz per week and although he’d told his mam he’d rather have one good strong cup and then drink water, she never listened. The only person who ever listened to him was his Uncle Alec. He was a grand man. And he was fighting for his country.

  ‘I’m done, lass, and I’d better get going.’ David rose to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was on duty and only had time to eat a quick meal when he was home from the colliery.

  ‘Be careful.’

  It was Carrie’s stock warning every time he left the house and David smiled, ruffling her hair. ‘It’s me middle name,’ he said, and turned to Matthew. ‘Look after your mam till I’m back.’

  Matthew gave a grunt which could have meant anything, and Carrie said quickly, ‘He’s going to the allotment with Veronica, aren’t you, Matthew? There’s some veg needs pulling and I could do with some runner beans.’

  ‘Don’t stay up there too late then.’ David was never sure exactly how much work Matthew did. Young Veronica was her mother all over and built like a horse, and she always came back exhausted, but Matthew never seemed tired. The fact that Veronica worshipped the ground Matthew walked on made David suspect the work was not shared equally, even if the odd spot of profit was.

  Matthew left the house soon after David, and as he bicycled towards the allotment he was humming to himself. The August evening was still warm after the heat of the day, the sky a blue expanse with just the tiniest cloud here and there.

  Veronica was watching for him. As he dismounted and entered the side gate, she immediately threw down her hoe and ran along one of the narrow grass paths which separated the plots. She was breathless when she reached him. ‘I’ve been here ages, Matt,’ she said reproachfully.

  ‘Got plenty of work done then I hope.’ He grinned at her, ruffling her mass of short blonde curls in much the same way David had ruffled Carrie’s earlier.

  Matthew at fourteen was a head taller than his cousin, having shot up a good few inches in as many months, but Veronica, too, looked older than her age, her well-developed figure and general bulk suggesting she was sixteen if a day. Her face was not exactly pretty but it held a certain wholesome charm. ‘It’s a good job one of us does some work,’ she said tartly. Then, when Matthew’s expression changed, she added appeasingly, ‘I brought some treacle toffee and fudge with me. Come on. Gran’s friend gave me her whole sweet ration for the month when I dropped that box of vegetables off last night.’

  ‘I thought we said we were going to start charging everyone except family.’

  ‘Not Mrs Symcox, she’s like family. Anyway, twelve ounces of sweets is more than we could have asked for in money.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Matthew let himself be persuaded. It was easier than arguing; besides, he could see that Veronica had already accomplished half the work they’d intended to do this evening.

  At the small ramshackle hut he flopped down on one of the two orange boxes sitting outside and stretched out his long legs. ‘I can’t wait till I’m earning real money. A paper round is nowt.’

  ‘Better than nothing though.’ Veronica put a paper bag full of fudge in his lap. ‘It’s chocolate fudge, your favourite. And there’s some tea in that flask but it’s not very strong, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It can’t be worse than me mam’s.’ Matthew smiled at her, his good temper restored. Veronica was a canny lass.

  Veronica smiled back, glad Matthew couldn’t read her thoughts because she was thinking how wonderful he was. He was so handsome, she didn’t know anyone as handsome as him unless, perhaps, their Uncle Alec. But Matthew’s colouring was softer than their uncle’s, warmer, and his face wasn’t hard and square but more like his mam’s, Aunt Carrie’s. But it was a funny thing, and likely because Matt had spent so much time with their Uncle Alec, but sometimes she thought she could almost see Uncle Alec in the way Matt was. Not in his looks, not that, but how he was somehow. But then his da was Uncle Alec’s brother and blood will out, as her mam often said.

  The thought of her mother brought Veronica’s face straightening. She didn’t know what had got into her lately, she really didn’t. She knew her mam laid great store by her job and she could understand that, with her not getting on
with Da, but anyone would think it was Da’s fault she had been put on short time at the factory. Perhaps it was because she didn’t get the manager’s position when Mr Fleming went off to the war. Poor Mr Fleming. Who would have thought he’d die of pneumonia just a month after going away, leaving his poor wife with all those bairns?

  ‘What’re these?’

  Matthew’s voice brought Veronica back to herself, and she grinned at him. ‘I picked them up in the Old Market when I was doing me mam’s shopping,’ and she waved a casual hand at the pile of Wizard, Hotspur and Rover comics. ‘There’re lots of war stories in them.’

  ‘Great.’ If Matthew had been with any of his pals he would have curbed his enthusiasm. He and all his friends avidly read every comic they could get their hands on but it didn’t do to admit to the fact, not at fourteen years old. ‘Thanks, Vee.’ He didn’t offer to pay. Veronica was always buying him something or other, that’s the way she was. He settled himself more comfortably, popped a piece of chocolate fudge in his mouth and opened the comic on top of the heap.