A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  Jo sat up and started to get to her feet.

  ‘Let me help,’ he said, taking hold of her elbow.

  ‘I can do it,’ she replied, pulling away from him and dusting herself down. But just as she stood up another explosion deafened them as the builder’s yard on the corner of the street crashed to the ground in a whoosh of sparks and flame.

  As the shockwave powered towards them, Tommy gathered Jo to him and dived into the shelter of the Temperance Hall’s doorway a split second before it pulsed by. As it did, Jo’s knees buckled but before she reached the floor, Tommy had her in his arms.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ he said, feeling her hair against his cheek. ‘I’ve got you.’

  Pushing against his chest, Jo raised her head.

  ‘And I’d prefer it if you didn’t,’ she snapped. ‘So, if you don’t mind, Tommy Sweete, I’d thank you to put me down.’

  She glared at him in the amber glow of the burning buildings for a moment then Tommy set her back on her feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, snatching her haversack from the rubble and hooking it across her. ‘Now, I have casualties to attend to.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you go back to the wagon and get checked out,’ he said, thinking she still looked a little pale for his liking.

  ‘Look, I was a bit shaken, that’s all,’ she replied, in a tone you might use on a five-year-old.

  She started to move away but Tommy blocked her path. ‘What are you doing?’ he said.

  ‘Going back to work.’

  ‘But you can’t.’

  Jo looked baffled. ‘Can’t I?’

  ‘No, you can’t. I mean,’ Tommy raked his fingers through his hair, ‘you could be injured and not know. You could collapse and no one would know where to find you. Perhaps you should go home and rest.’

  An explosion burst behind them and instinctively they ducked as plumes of smoke and fire flew skyward.

  Picking up her first-aid bag, Jo stood up again.

  A fire-engine bell clanged a few streets over from them and Jo raised her eyes.

  They were standing just a few inches apart and all Tommy had to do was reach out and she would be in his arms.

  Her eyes roamed slowly over his face, sending a fizzle of excitement through him.

  ‘Tommy . . .’ she said softly, her eyes glowing large and dark in the light of the burning buildings.

  ‘Yes, Jo,’ he said, imagining the softness of her lips under his.

  ‘I’m sure Reggie is wondering what’s keeping you,’ she said, giving him the sweetest smile. ‘So perhaps you ought to go and rejoin your squad.’

  Gripping his shovel in his left hand, Reggie grasped what was left of the banister in number 3 Shadwell Walk and heaved himself over the pile of masonry and onto the stairs.

  Although the high-explosive bomb had completely obliterated the three houses at the southern end of the street, the remaining six in the terrace were still standing, albeit without a sheet of glass or a roof tile on them. He and the rest of the crew were now checking them for any casualties and to work out what internal or external timber props would be needed to make them safe.

  As always, brick dust hung in the air as did the smell of freshly splintered wood and the acidy aroma of burnt explosive released by the armaments that had wrought the devastation around him.

  He’d sent the rest of the crew to search through the worst affected houses while he, Fred and Jimmy took the dwelling that was only lightly damaged. He could already hear his two men searching the upstairs rooms so, keeping hold of the moulded handrail in case the staircase collapsed under his weight, Reggie trudged upstairs.

  Flicking on his torch, Reggie crunched over a picture lying face down on the landing and went into the first room.

  It had been a bedroom but now the small space looked like a junkyard that someone had tipped half a hundredweight of dust over. The china dressing set lay in pieces on the floor and what had once been a brightly coloured patchwork counterpane was now a uniform grey hue.

  Fred was on the other side of the room, rummaging through the single wardrobe.

  ‘All right, Fred,’ he said, strolling over.

  ‘Not bad,’ Fred replied. ‘I’ve found a nice watch in one of the suit pockets and a pair of gold cufflinks in the top drawer of the tall boy.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Reggie.

  ‘Well, there was a bit of loose change in the pockets,’ said Fred. ‘But it looks like whoever lived here grabbed their stuff as they left. These suits are nearly new.’ He dragged a hanger from the wardrobe with a double-breasted suit on it.

  ‘Sod off !’ said Reggie. ‘Who do you think we are, the bleeding WVS picking up rags?’

  Fred’s thick face took on an offended expression. ‘I only asked.’

  ‘I know, and ordinarily I might consider them as that Polish Jew boy in Hessle Street will always give me a good price for a decent bit of schmutter,’ said Reggie. ‘But it’s too bulky to load on the wagon and with old Potter poking his nose in, we daren’t chance it. Course, if you find any furs, that’s a different matter.’

  Taking a packet of Rothmans from his jacket pocket he offered one to Fred and then took one himself.

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to your Tommy,’ said Fred as he held a match to the end of Reggie’s cigarette.

  ‘I’m buggered if I know what he’s up to these days,’ said Reggie, blowing a stream of smoke towards the open rafters. ‘But to be honest, it’s easier with him not here, ain’t it?’

  ‘Well, I know he’s your brother and all, but me and the boys have said the same for a while,’ Fred agreed. ‘Although I thought you would have made him see sense by now.’

  ‘So did I, but he don’t listen to me any more,’ said Reggie. ‘Spent weeks figuring out some poxy newspaper puzzle but when I asked him if he’d sit behind me at Bald Ollie’s poker game next week he refused, saying he wouldn’t help me cheat. Well, I frigging wouldn’t have to, would I, if he behaved like a brother should by doing that numbers trick of his and giving me the nod.’

  ‘Do you think it’s because that Brogan girl’s back?’ asked Fred.

  Reggie shook his head. ‘No, from what I see, she don’t give him the time of day.’

  Fred laughed. ‘I’m not surprised after catching him with his trousers down with Lou.’

  Reggie grinned. ‘Yeah, I couldn’t have planned that better if I’d tried. Still, until Tommy gets his head screwed back on the right way we’ll just have to do what the Sally Army do and live in hope.’ He took another long drag of his cigarette. ‘Anyway, Fred, keep looking and take the boards up if you have to but see what else you can find.’

  Fred nodded and yanked out one of the dressing-table drawers, scattering the contents in the dust and grit at his feet.

  Pinching out his fag, Reggie stowed it behind his ear and trudged out of the room. In the back bedroom he found an expensive-looking double brass bed with a bedspread that matched the tattered curtains at the window. There was also a three-door walnut-veneer wardrobe with a matching dresser and a kidney-shaped dressing table complete with a velvet-upholstered stool.

  After scanning the room quickly for anything of value that he could slip in his pocket, Reggie stomped over to the wardrobe and opened the door. The dresses and jackets smelt of mothballs and although of good quality there was nothing worth taking. He pulled open the second door and found much the same with the addition of a few winter coats. The third door only revealed a set of internal shelves with some folded jumpers and a couple of handbags. Reggie crossed to the dresser and yanked out the bottom drawer. He tipped the contents onto the carpet. An array of underwear and a few rolled-up pairs of stockings tumbled out onto the floor. He pulled out the second drawer and found more of the same, plus a few cardigans and scarfs. The two drawers above it yielded nothing of any interest either. Leaving the drawers dangling, Reggie pocketed a posh-looking bottle of scent to give to Rita and then rummaged around in the trinkets
on the china tray. Stowing a pair of earrings alongside the perfume, he looked around. His gaze rested on the neatly made bed for a moment then he dropped to his knees to check underneath. There was the usual dust and flowery china gazunder beneath it but Reggie ignored them, running his eyes over the mesh base of the bed until he spotted what he was searching for.

  He grinned and stretching his hand took hold of the leather wallet wedged in the springs, but as he reached it a pair of familiar size-ten boots hoved into view on the other side.

  Scrambling out, he stood up.

  ‘Cor blimey, Tommy, I was beginning to think you’d been taken away by the gypsies,’ he said, grinning at his brother.

  Tommy’s face took on a stony expression. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Checking for casualties,’ snapped Reggie. ‘What the bloody hell do you think I’m doing?’

  Tommy’s gaze flickered to the wallet in his brother’s hand and then back to Reggie’s face.

  ‘It’s just pickings and ain’t we entitled to the odd perk or two?’ said Reggie, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the sweet jar.

  ‘Put it back,’ said Tommy.

  Reggie glared at his brother but Tommy’s challenging gaze didn’t waver. Reggie held his brother’s stare for a long moment then flung the wallet on the bed.

  All right,’ he said, ‘have it your own way. Now perhaps we can—’

  ‘And the rest.’

  Reggie turfed out his pockets and dropped the half a dozen items next to the wallet.

  Tommy glanced at the small pile he’d just discarded and then back at Reggie. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  Reggie opened his mouth to argue but saw the loathing in his brother’s eyes and thought better of it.

  ‘There’s an oil bomb landed by the water works,’ said Tommy in a flat voice. ‘It’s blown half the street away. Control needs all hands on site or no one this side of Whitechapel Station will have any water in the morning. So let’s go.’

  He turned to leave but Reggie caught his arm and Tommy turned.

  ‘You’re becoming a right poxy Boy Scout,’ said Reggie.

  ‘And you’re becoming a bloody irritating brainless idiot,’ Tommy replied. ‘But for all that, I don’t want the last time I ever see your ugly mug to be through a set of prison bars so grab your shovel and let’s go.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  SETTING THE CUP of tea she’d just made herself on the table to cool, Queenie took the green block of carbolic soap from the draining board and then grabbed the next piece of clothing from the bucket at her feet.

  ‘This has seen better days,’ she said, holding up her son’s shirt so her companion could see.

  Prince Albert was perched on the back of a chair. He lifted a claw and scratched behind his ear by way of reply.

  It was mid-morning on the first Tuesday in November, Guy Fawkes Day in fact, although after the last few nights of having the fires of hell dropped on them no one wanted any more fireworks. Not that kids could get them if they did because fireworks, like unshielded car lights and workmen’s braziers, had been banned to prevent enemy bombers finding their targets.

  ‘Fecking Hun,’ muttered Queenie.

  Prince Albert whistled and side shuffled along his improvised perch.

  Of course, after the unfortunate occurrence when he’d decided to decorate the cake Ida had left to cool for Sunday tea in his own particular way, Ida had banned him from the kitchen. But she was at work so Queenie figured what her daughter-in-law didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her and, after all, she liked a bit of company when she was doing the washing.

  Turning back to her task, Queenie plunged the soap into the warm water, ran it over the faded shirt and then rubbed the garment over the ridges of the washboard.

  She repeated the process twice more before throwing the scrubbed shirt into the sink with the other clothes waiting to be rinsed. She was just about to take another one of her son’s shirts from the bucket when there was a knock at the door.

  She gave the parrot a querying look. ‘Well now, who the devil can that be?’

  Prince Albert stretched his neck and whistled again.

  ‘It can’t be the rent man cos we paid him this week,’ she went on, taking the tea towel from the nail at the end of the draining board. ‘And Cathy would have come around the back.’

  Wiping her hands as she went, Queenie walked through the house to the front door and opened it.

  Standing on the step, dressed in a donkey jacket over a reasonably clean navy boiler suit and with a cap set at a roguish angle on his curly brown hair, was a very tall young man.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Mrs Brogan, isn’t it?’

  Queenie looked him up and down. ‘That it is.’

  ‘Well, I’m Tommy Sw—’

  ‘I know who you are, boy,’ Queenie cut in. ‘Sure, haven’t I given you a clip around the ear for cheek?’

  ‘On more than one occasion,’ he replied.

  Her eyes strayed to the top of his head. ‘Although, I’d need the wings of St Gabriel to reach you now.’

  His eyes twinkled in a way that must have sent the lassies’ hearts beating.

  ‘If you’re after my son,’ said Queenie, ‘you’ll find him at the yard.’

  ‘No, I’ve come to see Jo,’ Tommy said.

  ‘And what, may I ask, Tommy Sweete, would you be wanting with my granddaughter?’ asked Queenie.

  ‘To make sure she’s all right,’ Tommy answered.

  ‘And why wouldn’t she be?’

  ‘She’s not been at work for a few days,’ said Tommy, ‘and I was concerned—’

  The door to number 3 on the other side of the road opened and Peggy Pollock stepped out, thus ensuring that the whole neighbourhood would know by sunset that Tommy Sweete had been on the Brogans’ front step.

  ‘Well, I can tell you now she’s grand. Thank you for asking.’ Queenie went to close the door.

  ‘I was worried about her,’ said Tommy.

  Something in his tone stayed Queenie’s hand. ‘Have you time to spare for a cuppa, Tommy?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I suppose so.’

  Taking his cap off and shoving it in his pocket, Tommy stepped inside. Queenie shut the door behind him then led him through the house.

  ‘Such a lot of books,’ he said, glancing at the crammed bookcase that dominated the back parlour.

  ‘My son’s a one for the learning,’ said Queenie.

  ‘That’s where Jo must get it then,’ said Tommy, his eyes softening as they passed the photo of Jo and Mattie as bridesmaids at Cathy’s wedding, which was in pride of place on the mantelshelf.

  ‘Oh, a parrot,’ he laughed as they entered the kitchen. ‘Jo said . . .’ He shot Queenie a self-conscious look.

  ‘Sugar?’ Queenie asked, taking a mug from the dresser.

  ‘Two, but only if you have enough,’ he said.

  ‘You can have some of Ida’s ration,’ Queenie called over her shoulder as she went to the stove to pour his tea.

  As she turned back to face him, Tommy was just reaching out to Prince Albert, his hand dangerously close to the parrot’s sharp beak.

  ‘I’d have a care for your fingers, me lad—’ Queenie’s mouth dropped open as, unbelievably, instead of taking a nip out of the flesh on offer, Prince Albert began to rub his head against Tommy’s knuckles.

  Queenie put his tea on the table and shooed her pet away. He gave an indignant squawk and flew off to find another perch.

  Tommy sat down.

  ‘So,’ she said, taking the seat opposite, ‘why is it you’re fretting over Jo?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t she tell you about being blown off her feet the other night?’

  ‘I can’t recall her mentioning it,’ said Queenie.

  ‘I told her she ought to go home but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘She wouldn’t even go back to get checke
d over at her first-aid station, just stormed off to her next call. She insisted she was all right. I wasn’t too worried on Sunday because I knew she wasn’t on duty but then she didn’t turn up on Monday or Tuesday so I thought perhaps she was taken ill or something.’

  Queenie studied him for a couple of seconds over the rim of her cup. ‘You could have asked Mattie.’

  Although his eyes remained on her face, Tommy’s gaze shifted ever so slightly.

  ‘To be honest,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I haven’t really seen Mattie and as I was coming this way I thought it would be just as easy to knock.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased I can relieve you of your concern because Jo is as fine and dandy as ever she was,’ said Queenie. ‘And the reason you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of her, my boy, is because she’s been at the Town Hall doing her advance first-aid certificate.’

  Utter relief swept across his face. ‘Thank goodness.’

  Throwing back the last of his tea, Tommy stood up. ‘Well, thanks for the cuppa, Mrs Brogan, but I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. And don’t worry about seeing me out, I’ll go through the yard.’

  Crossing the small kitchen, Tommy opened the back door but as he did, Prince Albert let out a series of loud whistles.

  Tommy smiled.

  ‘My nan had a budgie,’ he said, gazing across at Prince Albert who had taken up residence on the clothes dryer suspended over the stove. ‘My father bought it down Club Row for her so she called it Harry after him.’ His gaze moved from the bird back to her. ‘Will you tell Jo I called?’

  Queenie studied Tommy’s young face and her heart softened.

  Although it was decades since she herself had felt the soaring heights or unplundered depths of it, she knew what love looked like and she was certainly looking at it now.

  ‘For sure I will,’ Queenie replied.

  He gave her a grateful smile and left.

  Queenie finished her drink, put her cup on the table and stood up. Picking up her son’s shirt again she leaned back over the zinc tub.

  She raked it back and forth a couple of times but as she dropped it in the rising bucket the back door opened and her son strolled in.