A grin threatened to break out but Tommy held it back.
‘Yes, there is something I wanted to say to you, Mr Brogan,’ he said. ‘I love your daughter Jo and would ask that you give your permission for me to marry her.’
Jerimiah regarded him levelly. ‘You may, but she’s only just out of school so you can get engaged now but you’ll not have my blessing to marry until she’s twenty.’
Tommy let out a long breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Thank you, Mr Brogan.’
He thrust out his hand and Jerimiah took it.
‘And I promise you,’ he continued, shaking it vigorously, ‘I will love and take care of her for the rest of my life.’
‘You’d better.’ A hint of a smile lifted the corners of the older man’s mouth. ‘Or you’ll have her gran after you, lad, that’s for sure.’
Tommy laughed.
‘And now I suppose as you’re family,’ said Jerimiah, letting go of his hand, ‘there are certain duties you’ll have to undertake.’
‘Indeed,’ said Tommy, putting on a serious expression. ‘I’m not much of a church goer but I want you to know I’m willing to take instruction at St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s.’
‘I’m sure her mother and mine will be pleased you are but I was thinking of something a little closer to a man’s heart: food,’ said Jerimiah. ‘Although between the soaring prices and rationing, God himself only knows what we’ll have laid before us, I’d like you to join us for Christmas dinner.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tommy. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘And if you’d care to join me and the family’s menfolk beforehand at the bar in the Catholic Club at midday that would be grand, too,’ Jerimiah went on.
‘I’ll be there,’ Tommy said.
‘Mind you are, son,’ said Jerimiah. ‘Because you’re in the frame for the first round.’
Tommy grinned. ‘My pleasure. And thank you again, Mr Brogan. I’m very grateful.’
Jo’s father regarded him thoughtfully for a moment then he offered his hand.
‘It’s Jerry,’ he said as Tommy took it. ‘And tis I who am grateful to you, Mr Sweete.’
By the time Francesca, wrapped up in a woolly scarf, hat and gloves against the chilly evening air, turned into Mafeking Terrace at two thirty on Christmas Eve, the houses in the street already had their curtains closed ready for the blackout. Mrs Frazer who was the fabric and haberdashery supervisor at Boardman’s department store where Francesca worked had told them the store would be closing at one thirty as it usually did on Christmas Eve. So, after cashing up her till and making sure the stock was tidy before she left, Francesca and her fellow shop assistants walked out of the staff entrance into the freezing winter afternoon three-quarters of an hour later.
The stalls along Stratford Market were selling off the last of their wares as the shops on the Broadway were already putting up their shutters in readiness for the two-day Christmas holiday. Unlike last year, when shoppers had been out in force spending lavishly on festive foods like dates and Newberry jellied fruits so they could have a blow-out Christmas before rationing was introduced, things had been much quieter. All luxury items such as bath salts and men’s cologne had vanished from the shelves and even simple tin toys were in short supply as manufacturers switched from making children’s fripperies to building fighter planes.
The staff at Boardman’s had done their best to bring a bit of festive cheer to their customers by decorating the store with paper chains and having a Father Christmas in residence, but this seemed doubly artificial given that many of the children sitting on his knee would be hanging up their stockings in corrugated Anderson shelters in the back garden or next to their allocated bunk in overcrowded public refuges.
However, Francesca wouldn’t be singing ‘Silent Night’ deep underground while bombs exploded above because, like everyone else in the Auxiliary Fire Service, she would be reporting for duty as usual. Christmas or not, the Luftwaffe were sure to pay a visit, as they had done nightly for the past four months.
Francesca had volunteered to do the night shifts all over Christmas so that members of the Axillary Fire Service with young children could be at home on those special nights. So instead of attending midnight Mass as she usually did on Christmas Eve, Francesca would either be huddled around the brazier at Bow Road fire station or dousing an incendiary bomb. She didn’t mind. In fact, she wanted to be busy as it stopped her dwelling on the fact that her father and brother were still interned as enemy aliens in a camp somewhere.
The Aliens’ Department at the Home Office had assured her that their case would be heard before Christmas but although the first thing she did each day when she got back from work was to look in the post, there had been no news.
However, the one bright spot in what was an otherwise bleak Christmas was that Charlie would be there. As his forty-eight-hour pass had started at midday and as it was only a forty-minute journey on the tram from Hackney Marshes where he was billeted, he should be sitting with his feet up by the fire when she got home.
Watching where she stepped on the uneven pavement and with her heart fluttering, Francesca walked down the narrow alley at the side of the Brogans’ house. She crossed the back yard, already shimmering with frost, and entered via the rear door as family and friends did.
‘Only me,’ she called, as she plonked her shopping basket on the table and shrugged off her coat.
‘We’re in here,’ called Ida from the other room. ‘There’s tea in the pot if you want a cup.’
Shoving her hat and gloves in the pocket, Francesca hooked her coat on a free nail on the back of the door and looped her scarf over it.
As always, the kitchen was warm, snug and homely, particularly tonight with the appetising smell of tomorrow’s dinner roasting on a low light in the oven and half a dozen pots of peeled and chopped vegetables soaking in salt water ready for tomorrow on gas rings above.
After pouring herself a cuppa, and with her heart pounding in her chest, Francesca walked through to the parlour but instead of Charlie sitting by the fireside with his feet up and the family crowded around him, there was only Mattie and her mother in the room.
‘Hello, luv,’ said Ida, giving her a motherly smile. ‘Had a good day?’
‘Busy,’ said Francesca. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Dad’s at the yard bedding Samson down for the night, Jo doesn’t finish duty until six and Daniel went to meet some bods at Whitehall at lunchtime but should be home anytime now,’ said Mattie, who was sitting opposite her mother by the fire.
‘And Billy’s upstairs sulking because I wouldn’t let him open his present from Pearl,’ Ida added, nodding at the enormous box wrapped in Father Christmas paper under the artificial tree.
‘And Charlie, is he home?’ Francesca asked in as casual a tone as her pent-up emotion would allow.
Ida’s mouth pulled into a tight bud.
‘He was but just to drop his kitbag off before muttering about having to see that floozy about something.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Perhaps someone’s told him what that so-called fiancée of his has been up to while he’s been serving King and Country.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mattie, giving Francesca a sympathetic look.
So did Francesca.
The front door rattled as the postman shoved the last afternoon post for two days through the door.
‘I’ll get it,’ she said.
Placing her drink on one of the cork coasters on the sideboard, Francesca went through to the hallway. There were a handful of Christmas cards and a couple of dull, oblong envelopes containing bills, but it was the large buffcoloured one with a crown and the Home Office insignia stamped across the top that grabbed Francesca’s attention.
With trembling hands, she picked it up. Taking a deep breath, she slipped her finger under the flap and tore it open.
With the letter visibly shaking as she held it and the blood rushing through her ears, Francesca drew out the si
ngle sheet and unfolded it.
The words danced on the page as she scanned down the brief couple of paragraphs.
She read it again then burst back into the parlour.
‘They’re being released,’ she cried, holding the letter aloft. ‘Dad and Giovanni are coming home.’
‘When?’ asked Mattie.
‘It doesn’t say,’ said Francesca. ‘Just that the appeal board found in their favour and. . .’ She peered at the letter again but the words danced in front of her eyes. ‘And . . .’
‘It’s all right, Fran,’ said her friend.
Standing up, Mattie came over and put her arm around her. ‘Take a deep breath.’
Francesca nodded and did as she was bid.
‘It says,’ continued Francesca after a moment, ‘I’ll get further details in a day or two. There’s a telephone number I can ring tomorrow if I want to speak to them on Christmas Day.’
‘Oh, Fran,’ said Mattie, taking her in her arms.
As the cloud of sorrow that had surrounded her for six months evaporated, Francesca closed her eyes and hugged her friend back.
Alicia gave a little cry and Mattie released her to check on her daughter who had been sleeping in the pram in the corner.
‘Oh, luv, I’m so happy for you,’ said Ida, taking her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes. ‘But if you ask me, they shouldn’t have been locked up in the first place.’
Although she had tears in her eyes, Francesca laughed. ‘It’s a pity you’re not in charge of the Aliens’ Department.’
‘You’re right there, luv,’ agreed Ida. ‘In fact, if the blooming bods in the government put women in charge of ministries we’d get more done.’
Mattie laughed. ‘Well, they couldn’t do any worse. I bagsy the Ministry of Home Security to sort out the poor old ARP’s equipment problem.’
‘Well, I’ll take the Ministry of Food,’ said Ida. ‘I’d bang that lot of idiot heads together to knock some sense into them.’
Francesca laughed. ‘I bet you would.’
‘What about you, Fran?’ asked Mattie, lifting Alicia from her pram. ‘What do you want to sort out?’
Still laughing, Francesca shrugged. ‘I hadn’t thought. Perhaps I could shake up the so-called Ministry of Information so it actually tells us what’s happening.’
Mattie and her mother laughed and Francesca joined in, as merriment bubbled up inside.
‘Blimey, it sounds like everyone’s been sitting on feathers.’
Francesca turned to see Charlie, his dark hair tousled in the winter breeze and his lovely blue-grey eyes sparkling with amusement, standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘Oh, Charlie,’ she said, her heart aching at the sight of him in his uniform. ‘I didn’t—’
Her words dried up as Stella’s sharp, over-powdered face appeared just behind him.
‘Francesca’s just heard that her dad and brother are being released,’ said Mattie, stepping forward to stand beside her.
‘That’s great news,’ said Charlie, smiling down at her.
Francesca smiled as their eyes met for a second then Stella’s harsh voice sliced between them.
‘We’ve got a bit of good news, too,’ she said, winding her arm possessively through Charlie’s. ‘Haven’t we, darling?’
He took a breath. ‘Mum, Stella and me are—’
‘Getting married,’ she cut in, smirking at Francesca.
Fran felt a rush of dizziness as the Brogans’ colourful rug beneath her feet rose up to meet her.
‘But I thought your dad said you had to wait until you were twenty-one, Stella,’ said Ida, the colour gone from her cheeks.
‘He did,’ said Stella. ‘But . . .’
She looked up at Charlie.
Desolation flitted across his face for a split second but then he patted her hand and smiled. ‘He’s changed his mind because, you see, Stella’s in the family way.’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘WHERE ARE THOSE blasted men?’ Jo’s mother said, wrapping the tea towel around her hands and opening the oven door. ‘They’d better be home soon or they’ll be having burnt meat and cold potatoes for their Christmas dinner.’
The last of the one o’clock pips had just sounded out from the wireless in the parlour and Jo and her mother were in the kitchen and had been since they’d got back from church two hours before. They weren’t alone as Mattie was also bustling in and out to make sure everything was ready for the family’s Christmas dinner. Queenie had gone to fetch some extra bread for sandwiches later and Billy had been sent upstairs to play to keep him from getting under everyone’s feet. As Mrs Wheeler didn’t want to join the family Christmas, Cathy had said she would spend the day at home with her mother-in-law and Peter. Ida had tried to persuade her otherwise but with no luck. Of course, the real reason she wasn’t coming was because she refused to sit down for Christmas dinner with Daniel, whom she blamed for sending Stan to prison. As Gran said, only the Blessed Virgin herself knew how that conflict could be resolved.
After Mass, the men had continued celebrating the Lord’s birth in the Catholic Club, a short walk from the church door, leaving the womenfolk to prepare the family feast. And it was, despite the rationing and shortages, a feast.
The butcher had made good his promise and after queuing for almost an hour, Ida had borne home a massive ox heart in triumph, which had only just fitted into the roasting pan. It had taken the breadcrumbs from a whole loaf, a box of sage and two chopped onions that Queenie had ‘found’ on her travels to stuff the thing.
As Ida had only ever cooked an ox’s tail before she’d erred on the side of caution and had put the meat in the oven on a low light the night before. This seemed to have done the trick because when she’d tested it an hour ago the carving knife had slipped in with ease.
This, along with two cabbages, four pounds of carrots and ten pounds of potatoes, would be what the Brogan family would be sitting down to enjoy. There was also Christmas pudding, which Ida had been saving ration coupons since September to make. In addition to the food Jo’s mother had hunted and gathered for the occasion, they’d had an unexpected delivery of a Christmas cake from Daniel’s commanding officer and that, complete with its Fortnum & Mason packaging, sat in pride of place on the sideboard in the other room, ready for when they had a cup of tea and listened to the King’s speech later.
‘I’m sure they’re on their way now,’ said Jo.
She wanted the men of the family to come home too and not because the Christmas dinner would be ruined if they didn’t but because Tommy would be with them.
She hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning when he’d turned up unexpectedly as she finished a night shift, dirty and exhausted, to tell her about her father’s visit and their conversation.
So, standing in the yard of St Katherine’s ambulance station, she and Tommy, both wearing their ARP uniforms and bleary eyed with weariness, with hardly two ha’pennies to rub together, had officially become engaged to be married.
‘Give us the serving plate, Jo,’ said her mother. Grasping the roasting tray from the bottom of the oven, Ida heaved it out.
Dragging her mind away from Tommy, Jo took the oval carving platter from the rack above the hob and placed it beside the roasting tin then helped her mother lift the huge lump of meat out of the pan and onto the plate.
‘Right now, get those potatoes into the fat and back in the oven to brown,’ Ida said, throwing a clean tea towel over the meat to let it rest.
The parlour door opened and Billy, dressed in his school uniform, popped his head around the corner. ‘How long till dinner?’
‘Dinner’s ready now,’ said Ida, furiously stirring the gravy. ‘It’s your father who’s keeping us from it.’
‘Can I go and fetch him?’ he asked.
‘No, you can’t,’ said his mother. ‘I’m not having you getting all dirty on Christmas Day so you’ll have to wait like the rest of us.’
‘But I�
�m starving,’ wailed Billy.
‘There’s a bit of bread pudding in the larder that’ll keep you going,’ said Jo as she drained the water from the boiled potatoes.
Sliding them into the pan that the heart had been cooked in, the fat sizzled as it merged with the water.
‘Ta, sis,’ Billy said, barging past her to get to the pantry door.
Perching on the stool in the corner, he stuffed the bread pudding in mouth.
‘Can I open Aunt Pearl’s present then instead?’ Billy asked, spraying crumbs as he spoke.
‘You know we always open them after lunch,’ said his mother as she drained the cabbage water into the gravy pan.
‘Pleeeeease,’ begged Billy, giving her a doe-eyed pleading look.
‘Oh, let him, Mum,’ said Jo, sliding the tin of potatoes back in the oven. ‘It’ll keep him out of the way until we serve the dinner.’
Ida sighed. ‘All right then—’
Billy jumped off the stool.
‘But do it upstairs,’ she shouted after him as he disappeared into the parlour.
The back door opened and Francesca walked in.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long,’ she said, shaking off her overcoat and hooking it on the back of the door.
‘That’s all right, love,’ said Ida, taking the lid off the carrots and giving them a poke. ‘Did you get through?’
‘Yes, eventually,’ said Francesca. ‘Giovanni says he and Dad have been given a travel pass for next Monday so they’ll be back for the New Year.’
‘Pity they couldn’t get home for Christmas,’ said Jo.
‘I know,’ said Francesca. ‘But at least it’ll give me a chance to see if I can find us a place to rent.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve got a bit put by,’ said Ida. ‘With all the families who’ve been bombed out looking for lodgings, the rents have gone through the roof.’
‘Dad’s got some savings we can use until we get back on our feet,’ said Francesca. ‘I thought I might see if there’s something going near to where Mattie and Daniel have rented by St Dunstan’s Church.’
A Ration Book Christmas Page 35
