‘I hope there’s tea in that pot, Ma,’ he said, closing the door behind him.
‘There is,’ said Queenie, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘You just take the weight off your feet and I’ll fetch you a cup.’
While she poured her son’s tea, Jerimiah shrugged off his coat and settled into his chair at the head of the table.
‘Strong and sweet, just like you,’ she said, setting his drink before him. ‘Good morning?’
‘Fair,’ he replied, picking up his cup and cradling it in his massive hands. He blew across the top. ‘Was that Tommy Sweete I saw leaving our house just now?’
‘It was,’ said Queenie.
Her son raised his eyes and smiled.
‘Coming up before the magistrate for taking bets for Fat Tony is one thing, Ma,’ he said in a soft tone, ‘but getting yourself tangled up with those Sweete brothers is not something I’d recommend.’
‘Well then, you put your mind at ease about that,’ said Queenie, ruffling her son’s hair that was so like Patrick Mahon’s used to be. ‘He was here enquiring after Jo. Apparently, she was knocked over the other day and he was just checking that she’s fine and dandy.’
Although his expression remained pleasant, her son’s eyes took on a sharp glint.
‘That’s mighty civil of him,’ he said in the same easy tone.
Jerimiah took a mouthful of tea.
‘Ah,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘Second only to a nip of poteen to warm to a man’s bones.’
‘Well, you sit and take your leisure with it while I finish off these few bits.’ Back at the sink, Queenie picked up the next shirt and plunged it into the soapy water.
‘I’m wondering has Tommy Sweete been here before, Ma?’ Jerimiah said.
‘Not to my knowledge, son,’ Queenie answered, rubbing one of Mattie’s underslips over the bevelled surface of the washboard.
The moments ticked by and then the clock in the parlour chimed the half past and Jerimiah stood up.
‘Well, Ma, no rest for the wicked.’ He drained his cup, set it on the table and walked across the room. ‘Tell Ida I’ll be in at the usual time.’
Queenie nodded.
Jerimiah shrugged on his coat but as he opened the door he turned back and looked at her.
‘I’d be grateful, Ma, if you’d let me know if the Sweete lad comes asking after me darling Jo again.’
Resting her hands on the edge of the sink, Queenie smiled. ‘That I will and you have a good afternoon.’
He left.
Queenie dropped the garment she was holding into the pail at her feet. Perhaps, for everyone’s sake, she wouldn’t mention to Jo that Tommy had dropped by.
‘How’s your pie?’ asked Gillian, pointing at Jo’s plate with her fork.
‘Not bad,’ Jo replied. ‘What about your stew?’
It was now just after one thirty and they were celebrating passing their first-aid test by treating themselves to a full dinner in the Town Hall restaurant instead of making do with a sandwich as they usually did when they were on duty at Post 7.
The canteen at the back of the Town Hall was a rather grand affair, with a large serving hatch at one end and a couple of dozen six-seater tables arranged in two rows. The walls were tiled to shoulder height with glossy green squares and the walls above were painted in cream emulsion. Not that you could see much of the walls as all available space had been covered with information posters. Some told you to ‘Save Coal’ or ‘Dig for Victory’, others had instructions on what to do during a gas attack.
The eating area was bursting at the seams because, in addition to the Town Hall workers it had been designed to accommodate, it now had to serve the ARP headquarters personnel who had taken up residence in the basement. Jo and Gillian were perched on the very end of one of the middle tables. They had been very fortunate to secure a space because even though extra chairs had been provided, all around them people were eating standing up, balancing trays on window sills and atop of radiators.
‘It tastes right enough,’ Gillian replied, ‘but it’s a bit like hunt the meat.’
‘I reckon it’ll be the same with the pudding,’ said Jo, indicating the bowls sitting between them. ‘It’s supposed to be spotted dick but I can’t see any currants.’
‘Me neither, but at least there’s plenty of custard,’ said Gillian.
Jo nodded. ‘As my Gran’s always saying, “be thankful for small mercies”.’ She speared a potato and wiped it around in the gravy. ‘How’s Martin?’
‘Worn out like the rest of us but well enough,’ Gillian replied. ‘Although he had a lucky escape two nights ago when a big one landed on the North London Line.’
Martin Hopgood, Gillian’s long-standing boyfriend, was an engineer on the Great Eastern Railway based at Stratford.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Jo. ‘Is he all right?’
‘A few scratches from flying debris but a gear wheel missed his head by inches,’ said Gillian. ‘He said, “So much for reserved occupations being a cushy number; I’d be safer in the army.”’
‘Do you think he will volunteer?’ asked Jo.
Gillian nodded. ‘He won’t admit it but I think he feels he’s not doing his bit.’
‘That’s daft,’ said Jo. ‘If it wasn’t for the railways the war effort would grind to a halt.’
‘I know that and you know that.’ Gillian pulled an exasperated face. ‘But you know what blooming numbskulls men can be. Plus, I think he’s envious of all his mates in khaki who seem to be having a whale of a time.’
‘I’m sure they are,’ said Jo. ‘My brother’s certainly enjoying himself in the army; he seems to spend all his time either in the privates’ mess or in the local pub.’
‘Anyway, forget about my idiot boyfriend; how’s your love life going?’ asked Gillian. Scraping the bottom of her bowl, she popped the last drop of stew in her mouth.
Jo rolled her eyes. ‘What love life?’
‘I thought you said you were going to the flicks with some Auxiliary Fire Service fella,’ said Gillian.
‘I did,’ said Jo, shoving her plate aside and sliding the dessert bowl into its place.
Moving her crockery around too, Gillian picked up her spoon. ‘Well?’
Jo swallowed a mouthful of suet pudding and custard. ‘Well, what?’
‘Is he handsome?’ her friend asked.
‘Not bad,’ said Jo.
‘Did you have to fight him off in the dark?’ asked Gillian.
‘No, Larry was a perfect gentleman,’ Jo replied.
‘So are you going out with him again?’ Gillian asked as she finished her pudding.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jo.
‘Why? What’s wrong with him?’ asked Gillian.
Jo shrugged. Lowering her eyes she made a play of scraping the last of her dessert onto her spoon.
‘Right, enough of this shilly-shallying! You, my girl,’ said Gillian, jabbing her spoon at her, ‘need a bit of fun that only a big strong man can give you.’
Despite the cloud of unhappiness hovering over her, the corners of Jo’s mouth lifted. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes, you do,’ her friend replied. ‘So I’m going to fix you up. And don’t give me any of that old “Good Catholic Girl” rubbish neither. My brother went out with a convent school girl and she was no nun, I can tell you. Now what about him?’ She indicated a dark-haired auxiliary police officer sitting on the table opposite.
Jo laughed. ‘He’s not bad, I suppose.’
‘All right,’ said Gillian. ‘What about him in the dungarees on the second table?’
Jo turned. ‘Which one? They’re all dressed the same.’
Gillian pulled a face. ‘Well, not the three granddads, obviously, the chap at the far end with the brown hair who looks a bit like Clark Gable.’
Jo glanced across the central aisle at the young man who, to her way of thinking, had only a thin moustache in common with the Hollywood heart-throb.
‘I’ve
seen better,’ she said.
Gillian rolled her eyes again. ‘You know your trouble? You’re too fussy by halves that . . .’ She tailed off as something at the other end of the room caught her attention. ‘Well hello, handsome,’ she said, an appreciative glint sparking in her grey eyes.
Jo turned.
Tommy was standing just inside the door and gazing around. He was dressed in a navy boiler suit with his donkey jacket hanging from his broad shoulders and his cap set at its usual jaunty angle on his dark curls.
‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be interested in him?’ said Gillian.
Jo didn’t answer.
She couldn’t because her attention was entirely fixed on the strong planes of Tommy’s face and it robbed her of all other thoughts.
‘And I tell you what,’ continued her friend, as Jo’s heart thumped painfully in her chest, ‘Martin or no Martin, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of fun with that one myself. I wonder who he’s looking for?’
Jo held her breath as Tommy’s dark eyes ran over the heaving refectory until he saw her. Her heart did a happy little double step before galloping off again.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Tommy walked between the tables towards her but when he got to within a couple of feet of them, Gillian’s fork shot off the table and skidded along the floor.
Tommy stopped it with his foot and then, in one fluid movement, stooped to pick it up. He placed it on the table in front of Gillian.
‘Thank you,’ she said, dimpling up and fluttering her eyelashes at him.
He gave her an absentminded half-smile and then turned to face Jo.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ Jo replied, feeling a little light-headed at his nearness. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Er, me? I’m . . . I’m picking something up. From stores,’ he said.
‘I’m doing first-aid training,’ said Jo, suddenly remembering the feel of his mouth pressed onto hers.
‘I know,’ said Tommy.
‘Do you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I dropped by your house to see if you were all right after what happened on Saturday and your granny told me.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine,’ said Jo, wondering what her gran would make of having Tommy Sweete standing on her doorstep.
‘Good.’
Tommy shifted his weight onto the other foot.
‘Well, I’d better go and fetch . . . the thing from stores,’ he said, making no move to do so.
He smiled.
A warm glow spread through Jo and she smiled back.
‘Well, I’ll see you on duty tomorrow night,’ said Tommy.
Mastering the urge to throw herself into his arms and kiss every inch of his face, Jo smiled back. ‘Yes, see you tomorrow.’
Something Jo couldn’t quite understand passed between them, then Tommy turned to go.
‘I think you’ll find the store is the other way,’ said Gillian, giving him an expressive look.
Tommy turned around and, giving Jo another smile as he passed, headed off in the opposite direction.
Jo’s eyes stayed with him until he went through the door then she shifted her attention back to her friend sitting opposite.
‘So,’ said Gillian, giving her a curious look, ‘what happened on Saturday?’
Jo told her about them being caught in the blast.
‘I was a bit shaken, obviously,’ concluded Jo. ‘But I’m fine now.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Gillian. ‘One of the depot drivers got caught by one last week and had both his eardrums blown out. Fancy another cuppa before we go back?’
‘Why not?’
Picking up both their mugs, Gillian stood up and walked to join the back of the tea queue.
Resting her right elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, Jo studied the door Tommy had just left by and sighed.
The truth of the matter was that what was wrong with Larry – wrong with any man, in fact – was that he wasn’t Tommy.
Putting her expansive shopping bag on the floor and unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front of her, Queenie Brogan dropped it on St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s flagstones and knelt down.
She took her mother’s rosary from her pocket and, pressing it between her hands, looked up at the tortured figure of Christ nailed to his cross.
‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum,’ she muttered, as she wondered in passing how many times she’d said the same in her sixty-three years.
In truth, she didn’t say them any longer, they said themselves, leaving her mind to ponder more important matters.
It was just before three and she was in her regular place for Thursday afternoon confession, halfway back on the left-hand side of her parish church. The church had been built a century before and the Victorian architect’s love of all things Gothic showed in every line and shard of stained glass. The wide central nave was flanked by the Virgin and the church’s patron saints. Each had its own chapel and separate elevated altar with gold embroidered table vestments, crucifixes and candles which stood against a decorated back screen.
The church was the heir of the Virginia Street Mission that had served the swathes of her fellow countrymen who had flooded to this part of London from the old country a century before. Queenie had first walked into the holy place as a bride of three months carrying six-week-old Jerimiah in her arms and had been part of the congregation ever since.
When she’d arrived half an hour before there had been a handful of elderly women like herself in the church, who’d come to cleanse themselves of their sin before fish day tomorrow. Although, looking around at the shrivelled widows with lace squares draped over their bowed heads, she couldn’t think for the love of all that was holy what sort of mortal sin they still had the strength to commit. As she did each time she went to confess to Father Mahon, Queenie held back until she was alone in the church.
The confessional door opened and the last penitent, Mrs Timpson, stepped out.
Kissing her worn crucifix, Queenie crossed herself, replaced her kneeler and, retrieving her bag, stood up. Adjusting her own net and lace scarf, she sidestepped out of the pew and walked towards the confessional. Opening the door, she stepped in and sat down.
Leaning her head against the fretted grille, she smiled.
‘So, Father Mahon,’ she said in a hushed tone, ‘how are you this fine day?’
‘My child, you’re supposed to say, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned”,’ came the equally hushed response.
‘Ah, don’t you think I know that after all these years?’ Queenie said. ‘But I worry about you and that chest of yours. You were coughing fit to burst your lungs all through Mass last week.’
‘My chest is fine,’ he replied.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Queenie. ‘But be sure, I’d advise you to get a good spread of mustard on a towel and fix it under your vest the next time. I remember your poor mother. She was just the same. At the first hint of damp from the river she was coughing for a week.’
There was a sigh from behind the screen. ‘The priest taking the confession is not supposed to know who they are speaking, too.’
‘Now, Patrick, you know full well who I am,’ said Queenie, ‘so don’t pretend otherwise. And that it was Mary Timpson before me. I hope she told you about that so-called lodger of hers who never creases the sheets in his own bed.’
The lattice barrier slid back and Father Mahon’s face appeared.
Patrick Mahon was only a few years older than Queenie but his sparse white hair cropped close to his head made him look completely bald and a decade older. The etched lines in his face spoke of a life dealing with the trouble and strife of humanity while his love of all and everyone showed in his compassionate gaze.
‘How are you, Bridget?’ he asked.
Queenie frowned. ‘Well enough, but you look pale. Is that so-called housekeeper of yours giving you your full rations?’
‘Mrs Dunn puts a full p
late in front of me three times a day,’ Father Mahon replied, ‘and is most kind in her care. Now, Bridget, have you something you’d like to be confessing?’
She shrugged. ‘Just the usual.’
‘You’ve been goading your daughter-in-law again?’ he asked.
‘I have but riled so I was,’ said Queenie, ‘after her telling me not to put my teeth to soak in her pudding basin.’
The corner of Father Mahon’s lips twitched.
‘Anything else?’
‘A bit of gossiping when I shouldn’t,’ said Queenie. ‘But sure doesn’t everyone to pass the time?’
‘What about taking bets for Fat Tony?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘You know you’re breaking the law?’ he said.
‘I do, Father, I do,’ she replied. ‘But if it wasn’t me it would be someone else.’
‘What about the other thing?’ he said.
‘You mean the tea leaves?’
‘And the muttering of heathen spells.’
Queenie nodded. ‘I confess I have read Charlie and the girls’ cups but only because I love them and want to know they’ll be fair and fine.’
Father Mahon gave her a disapproving look and she hung her head. ‘Forgive me, Father.’
Queenie studied the dark wooden panel between herself and the priest.
‘Bridget Brogan,’ he said after a pause, ‘you’re to say three Hail Marys and recite your rosary twice each morning until your next confession.’ There was a rustle of cloth as Father Mahon raised his hand. ‘Deus, Pater misericordiarum, qui per mortem et resurrectionem Filii sui mundum . . .’
As Father Mahon repeated the familiar blessing, memories of lying in soft Irish meadows next to icy mountain streams flashed through Queenie’s mind.
‘. . . in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he concluded.
Queenie crossed herself and so did Father Mahon, who then slid the screen back.
She opened the door but as she stepped back into the quiet church the priest’s door opened and Father Mahon emerged. Taking off his stole he kissed the embroidered cross at the back.
‘So, Bridget,’ he said, folding it into his cassock pocket, ‘how are things with you and yours? I heard Charlie was back.’
A Ration Book Christmas Page 21
