A Ration Book Christmas

by Jean Fullerton

  Pushing the ever-present fear in her chest aside, Mattie reached over to the table and picked up a pair of scissors and a newspaper that she started cutting into strips.

  ‘Mrs McCarthy.’

  She looked around to find George Granger, the controller from HQ at St George’s Town Hall, standing behind her. A year ago, he’d been the council’s senior clerk responsible for the roads, housing and schools, and now he was the senior Civil Defence officer charged with defending them.

  ‘Mr Granger,’ she said, setting her task aside and swinging her feet off the box. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘And you, Mrs McCarthy,’ he replied.

  Grabbing the arms of the chair, Mattie shifted forward but he raised his hand. ‘No, you stay put.’ He glanced at the strips of newspaper. ‘I’m a bit surprised you still have windows that need paper strips pasted on them.’

  ‘No, they’re not for the windows, they’re paper chains for Post 7’s Christmas party,’ said Mattie. ‘The children around here have had a rough time of it so some of us have donated our sugar rations and we’re putting on a spread for them a week before Christmas. Mr Potter wasn’t too keen but me and a couple of the girls talked him around.’

  Mr Granger’s rounded features grew serious. As always, he was dressed in a navy military-style jacket with a wide white stripe on the left upper arm that denoted his Civil Defence rank.

  Pulling a chair over so it was next to Mattie, he sat down. ‘It’s your chief warden that’s brought me down here at this time. I’m afraid, Mrs McCarthy, Cyril’s been found under a collapsed building in Dock Street.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Mattie, shocked at the news. ‘Does his wife know?’

  Mr Granger nodded. ‘I sent someone around when I heard.’

  Mattie frowned. ‘I wonder what he was doing there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Granger.

  ‘Not that it matters, I suppose,’ Mattie replied, ‘but he was on Turner Street patrol last night and Dock Street is at least a mile away.’

  ‘Giving a hand, probably,’ Mr Granger replied. ‘He was discovered by Leman Street heavy crew about an hour ago and they sent a messenger to Central.’

  ‘Poor old Cyril,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Mr Granger. ‘But it leaves us on a bit of a sticky wicket, which I’m hoping you might be able to help us out with. I know you’re supposed to be leaving next week but would you consider staying on for an extra week until we can sort out his replacement? Truthfully, it ought to be you as you know as much as anyone about the running of the post but . . .’

  ‘I’d like to help,’ said Mattie, ‘but the Tilbury Shelter is—’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to do warden duties,’ Mr Granger cut in. ‘Please. You can sit with your feet up and give orders – all night, if you like.’

  ‘Fat chance,’ laughed Mattie.

  He gave half a smile. ‘I only ask that you oversee things here for a week, two at the most. That’s all.’

  Placing her hand on the pinned-together waistband of her uniform trousers, Mattie gave a wry smile. ‘I suppose there is a war on.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ he said, looking visibly relieved.

  ‘But only until the second week in December,’ said Mattie, as the baby inside her shifted position under her fingers. ‘Because I’m planning to have this baby in the East London Lying-in Hospital, Mr Granger, not while I’m on duty in Post 7.’

  As they turned the corner of Schoolhouse Lane, in sight of Post 7, Tommy drew Jo into the shadow of the corner shop’s doorway and gathered her into his arms.

  ‘Just one more,’ he murmured, his lips closing over hers again.

  Winding her arms around his neck, Jo closed her eyes and let the magic of his kiss wash over her once more.

  The all-clear had gone at five , just after she and Tommy had made love for the third time, and so they’d dozed in each other’s arms until the first streaks of red morning light were visible over the Blackwall oil refinery an hour ago. It was now just after six thirty and although she’d had no more than three hours’ sleep all night she didn’t feel at all tired. Quite the opposite, in fact, as it was all she could do to stop herself skipping down the darkened street whooping and laughing.

  After a long blissful moment in Tommy’s embrace, Jo tore her lips free.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said.

  ‘Do you?’ he replied, planting feathery kisses across her cheek.

  ‘You know I do,’ Jo replied.

  He pressed his lips on hers briefly. ‘I don’t know anything except I love you.’

  ‘And I love you,’ Jo replied. ‘But if I don’t go now I’ll get a dressing-down from Cyril Potter and—’

  Tommy’s mouth stopped her words as he held her to him. Jo curled into him and gave herself over to the pleasure of his embrace again but hearing hoof beats accompanied by the chink of milk bottles in their crates, Jo broke free.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘As soon as I clock off,’ she replied.

  ‘Won’t your family be expecting you for tea?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll tell them I’ll be late,’ Jo replied. ‘Then I’ll head off home when you go on duty. I should be at your place by five as long as the sirens don’t go off.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope this fog lingers for a few days,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes, we might even get a full night’s sleep if it does,’ Jo said.

  His hand clasped her bottom and held her against him. ‘Or something.’

  Excitement shot through Jo as images of the night before flashed through her mind.

  ‘Oh, Jo,’ Tommy murmured as his arms tightened around her again.

  He lowered his head to capture her mouth again but reluctantly Jo placed her hands on his chest.

  ‘Tommy . . .’

  He pressed his lips onto hers for a moment again and then released her from his embrace. ‘Until later.’

  Holding his hands until her arms could stretch no more, her gaze ran over him for one last time then she turned and hurried across the road.

  Stopping by the Post’s entrance she turned and waved. Tommy waved back and then walked away.

  Jo waited until he’d disappeared into the fog then walked through the double gates and into the yard.

  The mobile ambulances were both still out, as were Blue and White heavy rescue teams’ lorries, but unusually there was a police car parked amongst the handful of fire, decontamination and ambulance vehicles in the playground.

  Adjusting her bag across her shoulder and hoping no one would be able to tell by the smile she couldn’t keep from her face that she’d been cavorting about naked in Tommy’s bed for the past twelve hours, she pushed open the door and strolled in.

  As ever, after a busy night, her sister Mattie was up on the stage, her rounded stomach protruding between her unbuttoned warden’s jacket. However, instead of updating the incident board as she usually did at the end of the shift, she was sitting alongside a young police officer who appeared to be making notes as she spoke. There were three or four other officers dotted about the place, talking to members of the various ARP squads.

  Seeing Gillian over by the serving hatch, Jo wandered over.

  ‘Morning, Jo,’ yawned her friend, as she stopped in front of her.

  ‘Morning, Gill,’ she said, handing over a tuppence and picking up a mug of tea. ‘What are the police doing here?’

  ‘Cyril Potter copped it last night,’ said Gillian.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The usual way,’ Gill replied. ‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They found him buried under the rubble in Dock Street.’

  ‘Poor old Cyril,’ said Jo, crossing herself. ‘He and his wife lived opposite us in Mafeking Terrace for years.’

  ‘Yeah, poor old sod,’ echoed her friend. ‘Mr Granger came down to break the news—’

  A two-tone whistle shrieked between them
as Reggie Sweete strutted into the hall like a returning hero with the men of Blue heavy who were pratting about behind him. Making a cuppa signal to the WVS women making the tea, he swaggered around, slapping backs and shadow boxing a couple of cronies. He spotted an officer talking to one of the fire auxiliaries and spoke to one of his card-playing partners standing close by.

  His expression went from puzzled to shocked and then sad as he heard what had happened. He quickly imparted the news to the rest of his team who all looked equally shocked.

  ‘Bloody hypocrite,’ murmured Gillian, as Reggie hugged one of the WVS women who looked a little red-eyed. ‘He didn’t have a good word to say about Mr Potter while he was alive and now he’s acting as if he’s lost an old pal.’

  The police officer put his notebook away and took his leave of Mattie. As the officer left the stage, Reggie bounded up the steps at the side and took his place.

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Jo, watching Reggie deep in conversation with Mattie. ‘But I wonder why he’s talking to my sister.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ said Gillian with a harsh laugh. ‘Cos Mr Granger put her in temporary charge and Reggie Sweete always knows what side his bread is buttered.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  WITH HIS FEET resting on the pile of unpaid bills on his desk, Reggie flicked through a couple of pages of his magazine until he reached the centre fold of Stripperama and turned it side-on. Thinking that was an unfortunate place to have a staple, he flicked his ash-laden cigarette on the floor.

  It was the first Tuesday in December and, as the Admiral didn’t open for another hour, he’d decided to while away the time until it did catching up on some paperwork.

  It was also five days since pinching Upington & Sons’ safe and he was feeling pretty good, mainly because for the first time since the incident with Potter he hadn’t woken up in a cold sweat imagining he had a hemp rope tightening around his throat. And it was hardly surprising, given that the police were already sniffing around when he’d arrived back at Post 7 that morning. However, the officer taking the statements, a wet-behind-the-ears auxiliary, was clearly going through the motions as his superiors had already decided that old Cyril had died when the building collapsed.

  So now, with the engineering company’s safe delivered to Vic Bostock’s boys and the hundred quid for his troubles securely stashed away in his hidey-hole at the back of the fire grate, he was feeling pretty chipper and once he’d off loaded the silver he was sure things would settle down again.

  He frowned.

  He had thought two-finger Ivor would take it off his hands without a murmur but the old Yid who lived in Spitalfields had been done for receiving stolen goods and was doing time in Holloway. Whitechapel’s other main fence, Mick Flannigan, wasn’t available either, on account of his missis finding out that he had another wife plus three kids in Fulham, causing him to have to lay low for a bit. This meant he’d have to seek out a dealer on someone else’s patch, which would cost him money because he’d be in no position to haggle or call in favours.

  Stubbing his cigarette out in the overloaded ashtray, Reggie flipped the page and was just admiring the imaginative use of feather dusters by the French maids in the feature when the door burst open and Inspector Tovey and his lapdog Flowers strolled in, with Fred and Jimmy, who’d been mooching about in the yard, close on their heels.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jimmy, as he followed them in. ‘I said you were busy but—’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Reggie, tossing the magazine on the table. ‘I’ve always got time for a chat with my old friends Inspector Tovey and Sergeant Flowers.’ Swinging his legs off the desk he leaned back in his chair. Weaving his fingers together, he smiled at the two policemen. ‘Now, what can I do for you two gentlemen?’

  ‘Know anything about silver, Reggie?’ asked Flowers.

  Reggie forced a puzzled expression onto his face. ‘You dig it out of the ground and it’s shiny.’

  ‘To be more specific,’ said Tovey, his beady eyes boring into him, ‘silver trophies that were nicked along with Upington & Sons’ safe during the air raid last Thursday night.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Reggie said, looking blankly at the two officers. ‘Not a thing. Although I’m surprised you’re concerning yourself with trinkets when a safe stuffed with wages has gone, too.’

  ‘How do you know about the wages?’ snapped Flowers, glowering at him.

  ‘Cos no thief worth his salt would have swiped the bugger if it hadn’t been,’ his senior officer said. ‘Ain’t that right, Reggie?’

  ‘If you say so,’ he replied, smiling across the desk at him.

  Tovey chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment then spoke again. ‘Do you know what I think, Reggie?’

  ‘No, Inspector Tovey,’ Reggie replied.

  ‘I think that safe was half-inched by some local villains for someone like Billy Hill, Wally Thompson or Vic Bostock,’ the inspector said. ‘And that the safe’s been cleaned out and is sitting at the bottom of some canal by now. But I think that when this local tea leaf spotted all that silver, just there for the taking, he got greedy.’

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Reggie saw Jimmy and Fred exchange worried looks but Reggie’s innocent expression didn’t waver.

  Planting his chubby hands on top of Reggie’s girly magazine, Inspector Tovey loomed over him. ‘So, I’m thinking those wages are long gone but when I find who has that silver I’ll have enough evidence to have them for both jobs and then I can get them banged up for a least a fifteen-year stretch. Which would make someone who was, say, your age, Reggie, close on forty-four when he got out.’

  An image of himself stooped and grey, tottering out of the front of Parkhurst Prison in 1955, flashed though Reggie’s mind.

  Tovey fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘Are you sure you know nothing about Upington’s safe or missing silverware,

  Reggie?’

  ‘Sorry, Inspector,’ said Reggie.

  ‘Well then, you don’t mind if I get the boys to give the place the once-over, do you?’ said Tovey.

  ‘Of course not, Inspector,’ said Reggie, straining his ingenuous expression to its limit. ‘Be my guest.’

  An hour and ten po-faced, hairy-policemen emptying every barrel, box and sack into a heap in the middle of the yard later, Reggie was again facing Inspector Tovey across his desk.

  ‘As I told you, Inspector,’ he said, puffing a satisfying stream of cigarette smoke towards the tobacco-stained rafters, ‘I don’t know nuffink about no silver.’

  An angry flush spread across Tovey’s heavy jowls.

  ‘You might think you’re off the hook, Sweete,’ he said, jabbing his finger at Reggie, ‘but there’s another file on my desk that’s caught my eye recently.’

  ‘And what one is that, Inspector,’ said Reggie, jollily. ‘The one looking into Hitler’s missing bollock?’

  ‘No.’ An unnervingly pleasant smile lifted the inspector’s thin lips. ‘The one on Cyril Potter, the ARP warden in charge of Post 7 where you and your motley crew of villains are stationed. He was found under a building not three streets away from the robbery when he was supposed to be patrolling two miles away.’

  Somehow, despite the prickling sensation between his shoulder blades, Reggie managed to maintain the impassive expression on his face.

  ‘Poor old bugger, copping it like that as he was doing his civic duty,’ he said, hoping only he could hear the wavering in his voice. ‘We sent his missis a bunch of flowers, didn’t we, lads?’

  Fred and Jimmy nodded obediently.

  Frustration flickered briefly across the inspector’s face and then he spun on his heels and strode out, rattling the glass in the door as he slammed it behind him.

  Jimmy opened his mouth to speak but Reggie held up his hand.

  Swinging his feet off the table again he stood up and crossed to the window just in time to see Tovey and Flowers disappear through the yard gates.

  ‘Reggie, we were lucky thi
s time but if Tovey finds the silver and puts two and two together,’ said Fred, ‘well, then we’re looking at a long stretch. And I can’t do time, not with my boy the way he is—’

  ‘Will you fucking shut up about your poxy boy and let me think?’ cut in Reggie.

  Fred gave him a resentful look but clamped his mouth shut.

  ‘Especially if he finds . . .’

  Jimmy lowered his eyes.

  ‘Finds what?’ Reggie asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Potter’s goggles,’ mumbled Jimmy, not raising his eyes.

  Reggie racked his fingers through his hair. ‘I thought I told you to pick them up.’

  ‘I did but they must have fallen from my pocket somewhere,’ said Jimmy. ‘Don’t worry. If the cops find them they wouldn’t know they’re old Potter’s. Unless . . .’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling where the silver was concealed behind a false panel.

  Panic flashed across Fred’s face. ‘We’ve got to get rid of it, Reggie. Dump it in the river even—’

  ‘I ain’t dumping seventy nickers’ worth of silver in no bleeding river,’ snapped Reggie.

  ‘Well, we can’t leave it where it is,’ said Jimmy.

  Gnawing on his thumb, Reggie didn’t answer for a moment then he glanced at the Windmill Girls calendar hanging from a nail hammered into the wall.

  ‘It’s the fourth tomorrow, isn’t it?’ he said, as his eyes skimmed along the top row of the fresh month.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fred. ‘Three weeks to Christmas.’

  Reggie grinned. ‘And Santa’s just given me an early present, cos I’ve thought of the perfect place to hide our loot.’

  In the mute light of the moon hovering over the gin bottling plant in Three Colts Lane, Jo gripped Tommy’s shoulders and, letting out a long ecstatic breath, let her head fall forward. Her unbound hair cascaded over his bare chest as his hands held her hips firm for a second or two longer then relaxed. Lowering herself onto him, Jo rested her head in the now familiar spot between his neck and shoulder and tucked her body into his.

  ‘I love you,’ Tommy whispered, smoothing a damp lock from her forehead and planting a kiss in its place.