A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  Charlie took her hand and rose to his feet. ‘She’s right, Mum, I don’t want to blot my copybook by missing the troop train.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ida, dashing away her gathering tears.

  Charlie retrieved his fiancée’s coat from the hall stand and held it while she slipped it on. Hugging it around her, Stella took out her cigarettes and stood there gazing out of the window while Charlie dried his mother’s tears and hugged Jo and Mattie.

  Finally, he turned to Francesca.

  She gazed up at him but just as he was about to move towards her, Stella caught his arm.

  ‘Bye for now,’ she called over her shoulder as she dragged him to the door.

  The front door banged shut and he was gone.

  ‘Give us a hand, Jo,’ said her mother as she gathered up the used crockery.

  Jo stooped down to pick up Charlie and Stella’s cups but as she stood up she saw tears shimmering in Francesca’s eyes as she stared after Charlie.

  Pain shot through Jo’s chest. She must have had that selfsame stricken look on her face when she found Tommy with that blonde.

  *

  Taking a sip from his pint, Tommy replaced the glass on the table in front of him and turned the page of his newspaper.

  It was just after midday on Sunday and two days since his heart-to-heart with David Grossman at the library. Although Sam had only just taken the shutters off the Admiral’s windows, West Ham were kicking off at three so the main bar was already awash with claret and blue.

  Reggie had still been snoring like a bear in a cave when Tommy woke an hour ago, so leaving his brother to fester in his pit, he’d trotted down to St George’s public baths for a soak. Well, not so much a soak as a paddle as the bathing superintendent strictly enforced the five inches of water rule. Still, even though it had taken him a bit of shifting about, and using the enamel jug provided to wash his hair, Tommy felt free of grit and soot for the first time in a week. He’d finished off his ablutions with a visit to the Jewish barber in Hessle Street. As the only gentile in the minute shop, he’d had a couple of funny looks but they were worth it to rid his chin of three days’ worth of itchy bristles.

  Having changed into a fresh set of clothes and feeling if not a new man then at least a restored one, Tommy had strolled along to the seaman’s café and polished off three slices of fried bread, bacon and tomatoes. He’d have liked to have had an egg too, but since the start of rationing they had become like the dodo: extinct.

  Tommy turned back to his paper but as he scanned down the report about the RAF’s bombing raid on Berlin, a shadow fell across the page.

  ‘Hello, Tommy,’ said a familiar voice.

  He looked up. ‘Hello, Lou, how you doing?’

  She was dressed in a navy, figure-hugging polka-dot dress with a scooped neckline and white collar. Her hair was swept up as usual but with one long tendril snaking down over her shoulder.

  ‘All the better for seeing you, Tommy,’ she replied, her blood-red lips lifting in an inviting smile. ‘I thought perhaps you’d forgotten the way to the Admiral.’

  He smiled politely. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘So I heard from Ronnie,’ she replied. ‘He said you and him were right in the thick of it.’

  ‘The same as the rest,’ Tommy told her.

  ‘Don’t you be so modest, Tommy,’ she said, giving him a smouldering look.

  Bending forward to give him the benefit of her cleavage, she arched her neck to look at the newspaper he was holding.

  ‘That’s a queer-looking paper,’ she said, a puzzled look creasing her powdered brow.

  ‘It’s the Telegraph,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh, you’re so brainy.’ She gave him another smouldering look that caught his interest in an instant. ‘I always did have a terrible weakness for brainy men like you.’ Stepping closer she pressed her leg against his thigh. ‘And I can show you how much if you like, Tommy.’

  With his crotch urging him on, Tommy’s gaze ran slowly over her.

  Credit where credit’s due, Lou was a good three steps up from most of the barmaids in the area. She was classy but with a dollop of sensuality that promised a man a very saucy encounter. He only had to reach out his hand and run it up her leg and, to be honest, as it had been a while and Jo had already judged him guilty of sleeping with Lou, why not?

  ‘Thanks, luv,’ he said, moving his leg aside. ‘That’s kind of you to offer.’ He drained the last of his beer and handed her the glass. ‘I will have another.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘AS TIME IS pressing on, I’ll just give you a quick rundown of how the station works then I’ll take you out to meet your teams,’ said Captain Fletcher, the controller of St Katherine’s Ancillary Ambulance Station, his handlebar moustache twitching back and forth as he spoke.

  ‘About time,’ whispered Gillian West, the girl Jo had met at the ambulance crew interview and who was standing beside her. ‘We’ve been stood here for over an hour already.’

  It was just before two thirty in the afternoon on Monday and she, Gillian and half a dozen new recruits were squashed into the controller’s small office.

  She’d reported for duty as instructed at ten o’clock that morning at area headquarters in Homerton, where she’d been interviewed. She and the new trainees were then subjected to a long lecture by London’s senior officer who’d impressed upon them the vital job they were doing. After a quick mid-morning cuppa in the canteen they’d had another long lecture from the Civil Defence coordinator about the ARP structure and then they’d finally been taken to collect their uniform, which consisted of a buff-coloured overcoat, a tin hat and a rubberised mac. They were then bused to their respective ambulance stations, which is where Jo was standing now.

  The station controller was a portly gentleman and, although he must have been close to sixty, still had a remarkably full head of steely grey hair. He’d introduced himself as a veteran of the last war with Germany, although he was a bit vague as to where and in what capacity he’d served.

  ‘Now, firstly,’ he continued, fixing the half a dozen raw recruits with a hard stare, ‘these are desperate times and in desperate times we have to adopt desperate measures. Ideally before you start as ambulance crew you would have completed and passed your St John certificate. However, the-powers-that-be have decided that, as all of you have had some first-aid training, you are safe to be sent out as drivers’ assistants and are fit to undertake such emergency first aid as deemed necessary to ensure that your casualty arrives at the hospital still alive.’

  There were titters from a couple of young lads standing behind in the ranks. Captain Fletcher fixed the miscreants with a furious stare and the merriment subsided.

  ‘Now, lastly, as you’re no doubt aware,’ continued Captain Fletcher, ‘unlike the air raid wardens and heavy rescue crews who are under the control of the Civil Defence wallahs at the Town Hall, we in the London Ambulance Service answer only to our superior officers in the LCC. Remember, while I expect you to work with the ARP services, if any of those jobsworths in tin hats start bossing you about, you come straight to me or my deputy Mr Biggins, and believe me, we’ll soon put them in their place. Now, if you follow me, I’ll introduce you to your ambulance drivers.’

  Picking up the clipboard he’d signed them in with, Captain Fletcher marched out of the office. Jo and those around her trooped out after him and into the tarmacked school playground where a line of assorted vehicles painted white with red crosses on the side stood. Although they were clearly ready to speed off to tend to the injured, the most amazing thing about the St Katherine’s fleet of ambulances was that none of them was actually an ambulance. However, the most bizarre vehicles parked in the yard were the two horseboxes with their wooden sides also painted white with a red cross.

  Walking past the empty alcoves where sculptures of a boy and a girl dressed in old-fashioned school uniform used to be, they entered the single-storey red-brick school where the crews of the
vehicles were lounging about in old armchairs, smoking and playing cards or, in the case of the female members of the team, knitting and flicking through magazines. They looked around as their new colleagues walked in.

  The controller stepped forward and cleared his throat. ‘Oh Gawd, not another speech,’ whispered Gillian under her breath.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ said Jo. ‘Or the war will be over before we get into an ambulance.’

  ‘Right, pay attention, everyone, while I tell you who is going where.’ Taking a pair of pince-nez from his top pocket he jammed them on his nose then peered at the clipboard. ‘Adams!’

  A young chap with the shadow of his first moustache on his upper lip stepped forward.

  Captain Fletcher ran through the list of names and each new recruit went off to join their new team.

  ‘West,’ barked Captain Fletcher.

  Gillian stepped forward smartly. ‘All present and correct!’ she said, saluting.

  ‘Charlie’s team will look after you,’ the captain said, indicating the group relaxing in the armchairs.

  ‘Now then, that leaves just you two,’ he said, peering through the lenses on the end of his nose. ‘Which of you is Brogan?’

  Feeling like a five-year-old, Jo raised her hand.

  ‘Well, because you and Naylor here,’ he pointed at the slim young man standing next to her, ‘have passed your St John’s Intermediate certificates you’ve been allocated to our two mobile dressing stations. You, Naylor, are with A MDS and you, Brogan, are attached to B MDS. Your driver’s over there, Naylor.’ He indicated a middle-aged man in a tweed suit, smoking a pipe and sitting under the window reading. ‘But your driver, Brogan, doesn’t appear to be here. I expect you’ll find her in the ambulance. It’s got a sign in the front window so you can’t miss it.’

  Leaving her standing in the middle of the recreation area, the ambulance station controller marched off towards the tea trolley.

  Jo looked around for a moment then, looping her gas mask more securely on her shoulder, she retraced her steps and headed back out to the yard. The wind had picked up and the fog that had hung around last night was beginning to disperse. It was obvious that the only vehicles that could be used as mobile dressing stations were the horseboxes, so with the gravel crunching under her leather soles, Jo marched across the playground and found the one with a sign reading ‘B MDS’ propped up on the dashboard.

  As there was no one sitting in the front cab, Jo went around to the back and, as one of the doors was ajar, poked her head in.

  Inside, the vehicle had been adapted to treat casualties so now one of the stalls had been fitted out with stainless-steel cupboards, which Jo presumed was where the dressings were stored. The far end, the area where the second horse would have been secured, was hidden by a floor-to-ceiling curtain. In front of this section was an examination couch, which had been welded to the floor, with a stainless-steel dressing trolley next to it.

  ‘Hello,’ called Jo. ‘Is there anyone there?’

  The curtain rustled and then the sound of metal hitting metal pinged around the interior space.

  ‘Drat and botheration!’ barked a woman’s voice, as an enamel kidney bowl flew out under the curtain. It skidded across the floor and Jo stooped and caught it just before it shot through the door.

  She stood up as a woman with a scrubbed, ruddy-pink face and pale eyes emerged from behind the curtain.

  She was about Ida’s age but that was the only thing her mother and the woman standing in front of her had in common. Jo’s mother’s girth may have spread over the years but the woman standing before her was roughly the shape of a whipping top. She had such an abundance of wild grey hair that even though it was pinned in a massive bun on the top of her head, it still surrounded her face like a foggy halo. She was dressed in a tweed hacking jacket, with worn velvet collar and cuffs, and a dark cream blouse beneath. A pair of buff-coloured jodhpurs encased her massive hips and rear while knee-length riding boots completed the tally-ho look.

  ‘You must be Josephine,’ she said, rocking the vehicle’s chassis as she bounced towards her.

  ‘Yes, but call me Jo. Everyone does.’

  ‘Eddie Frobisher.’ The woman thrust out a beefy hand. ‘I drive this old boneshaker.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jo, as her fingers were crushed in the driver’s grip. ‘Although, I’ve never met a woman called Eddie before.’

  ‘It’s short for Edwina,’ Eddie replied. ‘Actually, it’s Edwina Christobelle Diana Wake-Frobisher if you want the whole bally mouthful but, if I might paraphrase the blessed St Matthew, as the German sendeth the bombs on the rich and the poor alike we’ve all got to pull together, don’t you agree?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said Jo.

  ‘Right then,’ said Eddie, rubbing her hands together. ‘Store your gear and follow me through.’

  Jo stowed her coat and bag in the locker tucked alongside one of the cupboards and then followed Eddie through into the front cab.

  Eddie was already sitting behind the wheel and Jo slipped into the passenger’s seat.

  Pumping the clutch, Eddie turned the key and the engine rumbled into life.

  ‘Don’t we have to wait for a call from HQ?’ asked Jo, as the woman beside her fought with the gearstick to find a gear.

  ‘The ordinary ambulances do,’ said Edwina. ‘But us mobiles are attached to an ARP depot so we’re on the spot when needed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jo. ‘Which one are we heading off to, then?’

  ‘Post 7.’ Releasing the handbrake, Eddie grasped the steering wheel. ‘It’s in Shadwell School, I don’t know if you know it at all.’

  Jo forced a smile. ‘I do. My sister Mattie is an ARP warden there.’

  ‘You want in, Tommy?’ asked Reggie, holding up the reshuffled pack of cards.

  Without taking his eyes from the newspaper clipping resting on the book he had balanced on his knee, Tommy shook his head.

  It was Monday afternoon and he and the rest of Blue Squad were on duty at Post 7 and had been since midday. The afternoon session of Music While You Work was blaring out from the radio, which meant it must be just after half past three.

  ‘Fank God for that,’ said Willy Arkwright, a member of Red Squad, as he flicked ash in the overloaded ashtray at his elbow. ‘I never bloody win when ’e plays.’

  ‘Me neiver,’ added Brian Kelly, the ARP warden for Limehouse. ‘But I ain’t figured out ’ow.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how,’ said Reggie, as he dealt out the card. ‘Cos my little brother’s a bloody genius, that’s how. In fact, he’s such a brainbox that he could be a professor at one of those poncy universities ’ad he a mind to.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grinned Fred, who was the other player, ‘if he’d ever turned up at school.’

  ‘He didn’t need to,’ laughed Reggie, spreading out his hand of cards and setting it face down. ‘Cos I taught him everything he needed to know. Ain’t I right, Tommy?’

  Tommy looked up and smiled across at his brother. ‘Course you are.’

  Reggie threw in a couple of pennies and the other three gathered around the upturned fruit box that was serving as a card table did the same.

  ‘What’s that you’re doing then, Tommy?’ asked Fred, resorting his cards.

  ‘It’s this quiz from the Telegraph,’ Tommy replied.

  ‘Whooo hoo!’ sang out the four card players in unison.

  ‘The Telegraph, don’t you know,’ Brian said, in a sing-song falsetto voice.

  ‘What, what, old bean,’ said Fred, in the same tone.

  ‘Tell the butler to saddle the carriage,’ said Reggie.

  ‘You saddle the horses not the carriage, you silly bugger,’ said Tommy, giving his brother a pitying look. ‘And you’ll all be laughing on the other side of your faces when I win the hundred-nicker prize money.’ They looked impressed. ‘Now, you get back to your cards and let me concentrate, and if I win, I might stand you all a drink in the Admiral.’
r />   Reggie gave him two fingers then threw in another couple of pennies from the pile in front of him.

  Tommy returned to his task. The competition Mr Grossman had saved from the up-market newspaper was in two parts and on the face of it looked straightforward enough. He’d polished off the word puzzle over breakfast that morning in the Post’s WVS canteen but the arithmetic section, while looking simple at first glance, was actually quite difficult. It had to be, of course, otherwise this lord what’s-his-name would have to give away thousands of pounds. Although he’d had to resort to pencil and paper, after a couple of false starts, Tommy had worked out the first three sequences of numbers. Now he just had to figure out the last two blocks of numbers.

  Actually, making sense of the jumble of numbers was easy in comparison to the other task he’d set himself: winning Jo back. But as the future he was striving to build for himself, with a comfortable home and a handful of children, would not be complete if it didn’t have Jo at its centre, he had no choice. He didn’t know why she hadn’t written or tried to get a message to him that she was coming home but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was home and he wouldn’t rest until she was in his arms again.

  That’s why, even if he had to camp outside her house for a week, he wouldn’t budge until she heard him out.

  ‘My game I think, gentlemen,’ said Reggie, cutting across Tommy’s thoughts as he slapped the queen of hearts on the table.

  Muttering obscenities and their doubts about Reggie’s paternity, the other players threw in their cards. Lighting a fresh cigarette from his spent one, Reggie flicked the butt on the floor and then scooped up the coppers on the box.

  ‘Double or quits?’

  The other players nodded and Tommy returned to his task.

  Twiddling the pencil back and forth in his fingers, he mentally ran through the groups of four numbers again, searching for the correct configurations.

  ‘You do know gambling is prohibited in this ARP post, Sweete,’ said a voice to Tommy’s left.

  He looked up to see Cyril Potter, in his black ARP uniform, standing at his brother’s shoulder.