A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  She held him towards his mother who, blowing a steam of cigarette smoke out of the side of her mouth, kissed the air next to her baby’s cheek. Patrick reached for his mother’s cigarette, but Ida caught his hand. Taking Patrick’s white crochet blanket that was draped across the back of the sofa she wrapped it around the baby and laid him in the pram tucked in the corner of the room.

  ‘And he might need changing,’ said Stella, turning back to the mirror.

  Ida kicked off the brake and manoeuvred the pram’s front wheels between the furniture.

  Pushing the pram into the dimly lit hallway, Ida stopped.

  ‘There you are, my little sweetheart,’ she said in a low voice as she tucked one of her own blankets around him to keep out the chill. Realising he was about to set out on his nightly jaunt with his gran, Patrick kicked his legs and smiled at her.

  Pain cut through Ida’s chest as the image of Ellen’s son Michael flashed through her mind. Raising her eyes to stop the threatening tears from forming, she opened the front door and pushed the pram out into the cold night air.

  As the low boom of the ack-ack guns on Tower Hill shook the ground in the Tilbury Shelter, dislodging specks of dust from the high roof over her, Ida pulled the hood of the Silver Cross pram a little further over the baby sleeping peacefully beneath.

  The Braithwaites, Rose on the tambourine and her husband Eric on the accordion, had just finished leading the evening’s communal singing, and all around mothers were calling the younger children back from their games to bed them down for the night. The older children, Billy included, were amusing themselves under one of the arches at the back, playing board games or shove ha’penny until the main light went out.

  Tilbury Shelter, under the warehouse of the same name, on Cable Street had been taken over by the council to shelter the population of Stepney. Unfortunately, whoever’s job it was to get the shelter in order had forgotten to clear out the stock of rancid margarine left in the basement. What with that and the stink from the shelter’s three over-flowing toilets – planks of wood over buckets that the council deemed sufficient for six thousand men, women and children – the smell in the shelter had left them all gagging. How anyone had managed to eat the ‘Shelter Picnic’ that the Ministry of Information had advised people to take with them when they heard the siren was beyond Ida.

  However, after a year and a half of nightly bombing raids, life in the shelters had taken on a much more civilised existence for a number of reasons. For a start, there were fewer people using them each night. Even as houses were destroyed around them, many people just stayed at home. What’s more, while it was considered the duty of women to ensure children and babies were safe in shelters each night, people tended to regard any working men who cowered underground as cowards who should be up top helping to defend the city.

  These days, the women who spent each night in the shelter had got themselves organised, too. Along with the official ARP wardens there were section marshals like Ida, who made sure people kept to their designated area. This allowed people to leave items like deckchairs or camping chairs in the shelter instead of carrying them to and fro. So now, although spaces were still supposed to be allocated on a first come, first served basis, many families, like Ida’s, had their regular spots. And although the walls were still rough brick, people had pinned up family photos, giving the place a homely feel.

  The upshot of all this was that the Tilbury, which had been so notorious that toffs and nobs from up West had taken sightseeing trips to see its squalid conditions, now had a permanent WVS canteen and a designated washing area so people could do their morning ablutions before going to work. The chief librarian at St George’s library had even set up a lending library there so, along with the nightly singsongs and parlour games, there were plenty of ways to help people while away the idle hours.

  To be honest, though, despite the relative comfort and the good-natured camaraderie of the shelter, Ida would have rather taken her chances, like thousands of others, in her own bed. However, Billy and Patrick were another matter so, unless London was blanketed in thick fog, every evening just after six, she made her way to the shelter to bed herself, Billy and Patrick down for the night.

  ‘Is that your Charlie’s boy?’

  Ida raised her head and found herself looking into the very familiar face of Mary Unwin. Her erstwhile neighbour was about a year or two older than Ida and the mother of three strapping lads, all of whom had joined up the same time as Charlie.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Ida, gazing down adoringly at her grandson. ‘This is little Patrick.’

  Patrick’s almost transparent eyelids fluttered for a second, squeezing at Ida’s heart. His lips sucked on air for a moment or two then he gave a little sigh and settled back to sleep.

  ‘He looks just like your Charlie,’ Mary said, the strip light above shining on the lenses of her spectacles.

  ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ said Ida.

  ‘How old?’ asked Mary.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Aw, God bless him and keep him. And such a beautiful pram,’ said Mary, casting an admiring gaze over the coach-built body of the stroller. ‘It’s a Silver Cross, isn’t it?’

  Mary was right. It was a real beauty, with a grey body and blue interior, chrome swirls on each side, C-sprung wheels and mock-ivory handle. Ida wondered, not for the first time, how in the midst of rationing and shortages, her daughter-in-law had managed to get her hands on it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ida tightly. ‘So when did you get back?’

  ‘Last week,’ said Mary. ‘My Reg said now the bombing’s eased up a bit we should be safe enough but to be honest I think it’s cos he got sick of living at the back of beyond with my sister and her screaming kids.’

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Ida, as distant booms indicated a German bomb had landed close to the Shadwell Basin half a mile away.

  ‘Somewhere near Billericay but you had to walk half a mile to fetch a loaf of bread,’ continued Mary. ‘And the locals all looked down their blooming noses at us and called us common, ruddy cheek. I tell you, I couldn’t wait to get back. As soon as Reg said we were off I had my bags packed and by the door. We tried to get our old house back but the bloke at the Chapman estate office said some young family has moved in.’

  ‘Yes, the Pierces,’ said Ida. ‘Nice couple with three little ’uns. He works on the railways and she always says hello.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got a couple of rooms in Perth Street, but we’re top of the list if one comes up in Mafeking.’ Mary glanced around the vaulted ceiling. ‘This old place has changed a bit since I was last here.’

  ‘We’ve got proper toilets, for a start,’ said Ida, indicating the tall cubicles tucked away in an alcove at the back of the shelter.

  The guns on Tower Hill let off another round as a bomb found its target close by and the floor trembled.

  ‘So did your Charlie marry that nice Italian girl whose family had the fish bar on Commercial Road?’ asked Mary when the ground stopped shaking.

  ‘You mean Mattie’s friend Francesca?’ asked Ida, somewhat surprised at the question.

  Mary nodded.

  ‘I wish he had.’ Ida’s mouth pulled into a hard line. ‘He married Stella Miggles.’

  ‘Stella Miggles from Castle Street?’ asked Mary, her eyes wide with horror.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Mary brightly, forcing a smile, ‘people change.’ She gave a light laugh but Ida didn’t join in. Mary blinked a couple of times then glanced at the pile of blankets. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘No,’ Ida replied. ‘She got a job up West, so I bring Patrick with me and Billy.’

  ‘Jerimiah’s not with you, then?’ said Mary.

  Pain ripped through Ida. ‘No,’ she said, over the lump in her throat. ‘He’s out with the Home Guard.’ She looked away and started fiddling with the blankets. ‘I ought to get things—’

  ‘Course,’ said Mary. ‘I better get b
ack, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ida. Her eyes felt suddenly tight. ‘Mind how you go.’

  Mary gave her a quick smile and then made her way back to her own space.

  Stretching her eyes and telling herself not to be so soft, Ida shook out the blankets and folded them ready for later. Patrick gave a little cry and Ida glanced at her watch. It was almost time for his night bottle, so Ida rested her hand on the side of the pram and stared down at the sleeping baby. Bringing his little fist up, Patrick arched his back and yawned. Tears sprang again into Ida’s eyes but this time she couldn’t hold them back. Staring down at her sleeping grandson she wiped them away with the heel of her hand.

  As another blast rocked the earth, a bitter-sweet smile spread across Ida’s lips. Mary was right. Patrick did look exactly like his father but heartbreakingly also very like little James, the baby she’d lost eleven years ago.

  Jerimiah had always maintained that being an only child, like him, was a lonely existence so he’d been keen to have a large family. Ida, who had always thought half a dozen was a nice round number, had been more than happy to oblige. She’d expected to become pregnant again after weaning Jo but after six years she and Jerimiah had given up hope of more children when to both their delights they discovered Ida was carrying again. They thought their joy complete when after a long labour James came, feet first, into the world. But sadly, despite theirs and the family’s fervent prayers, James stayed with them for just six short days.

  Oddly, at the same time as they were weeping over James’s small white coffin, her sister Pearl had dumped a baby boy that no one knew she’d been carrying at the old workhouse. Ida, deep in grief, went and fetched him out. Nursing Billy with James’s milk helped Ida come back from the hell of her loss and come to terms with the fact she and Jerimiah would have only four children. Except, of course, now it seemed that while she was the mother of four of Jerimiah’s children, Ellen Gilbert was the mother of his fifth.

  Chapter Four

  HOLDING THE BOARD against one of the yard’s gates with one hand, Jerimiah took one of the four nails he held between his lips with the other.

  Using his elbow to anchor the board firmly against the wood, he positioned the nail into the right-hand corner then, taking the hammer from his back pocket, he whacked it into place. Repeating this action with the other three nails he fixed the sign Jo had painted into place.

  ‘Oi, oi, that looks a bit fancy for an old Paddy like you, Jerry,’ someone called behind him.

  It was Wednesday and just after four thirty in the afternoon and the October light was already fading. Last night, when the air raid siren went off at seven followed by at least a dozen waves of enemy bombers, they’d thought they were in for a full night’s action. However, for some unfathomable reason by three in the morning they’d stopped, allowing Jerimiah and the rest of the Home Guard platoon to grab an hour or so of kip on the Methodist Hall floor between patrols.

  It was a double blessing as today was when he’d agreed to move Brian O’Connor’s sister into new accommodation in Chigwell; he’d got back from the job half an hour ago. Having settled Samson in for the evening he’d just had time – and enough light – to put up the advertisement board.

  Jerimiah turned and smiled. ‘No so much of the “old” now, Murphy, for I’ve still a year or two before I catch up with you.’

  Keith Murphy, the foreman at the packing factory and Jerimiah’s longstanding friend, laughed.

  ‘You’re right there,’ he said. ‘You walking my way home?’

  ‘In a while,’ Jerimiah called back. ‘I’ve some things to take care of first.’

  Keith waved and continued on his way.

  Jerimiah stood back and read the freshly painted board he’d just fixed in place:

  J. B. Brogan & Sons Removals

  Friendly Service at a Reasonable Price

  Enquire at: 25 Mafeking Terrace or leave a note under the gate or with the barman at the Catholic Club

  No job too small

  Keith was right, it was a bit posh for a Paddy’s rag-andbone yard, but Jo had done a grand job and hopefully it would attract trade as well as attention, which was, after all, the whole reason for him fixing it there.

  Swinging his hammer in his hand, Jerimiah went back into the yard. In his stall Samson was already munching away at his oats so, grabbing the tarpaulin as he passed, Jerimiah headed for the stack of furniture he’d bought at the bomb sale at Bermondsey the day before.

  He’d just had wind of another sale over Haggerston way on the following Tuesday. It was a bit early but if he headed across the marches as soon as he finished Home Guard duty he should get first pickings.

  Putting the hammer back in his tool box and snapping closed the lid, Jerimiah cast his eye around again. Leaving the dim lamps casting a pale light over the horse resting in the stall he took the padlock from the nail in the wall and left the yard, locking the double gates securely behind him.

  As he turned to walk away he caught sight of the sign again and his eyes fixed on the word ‘sons’. Just two short days ago, that would have meant Charlie and Billy but now . . .

  Flipping his collar up against the biting wind whipping up off the river, Jerimiah turned in the direction of Shadwell Basin. Within half an hour or so, he was in sight of the Edward’s Memorial Gardens, which was all that remained of Shadwell’s fish market. A mountain of rubble that had once been a row of terraced houses was swarming with soldiers from the Pioneer Corps trying to clear the road, while a team from the water company were trying to stem the water gushing from the bomb crater.

  Skirting around the desk on the pavement where two ARP wardens were directing those whose homes had been obliterated to rest centres, Jerimiah continued on for a few yards before turning into Juniper Street.

  The cobbled street was lined on both sides by early-Victorian three-up three-down cottages, much like his own, with bay windows at the front and small yards at the back. Although the far end of the street looked as if it had escaped the blast, every window this end had blown out and glass lay shattered on the ground. Residents were out in the street with brooms and shovels, tackling the mess.

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for taking you from your task,’ Jerimiah said, as he reached a woman wearing a greatcoat and her hair in curlers, ‘but I’m looking for Mrs Gilbert who’s recently moved in to the street.’

  ‘Does she have a little lad?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said Jerimiah, an odd feeling passing through him at the thought.

  ‘Number seven. Fourth house before you reach Woodman’s on the corner,’ she said, nodding towards the shop at the far end of the street.

  ‘My thanks to you,’ Jerimiah replied, touching his cap as he strolled on.

  Crunching over shards and with neighbours giving him the once-over as he passed, Jerimiah was in front of the house he was seeking within a dozen strides.

  He hesitated for a second then grasped the knocker firmly and rapped on the door twice. There was a long pause but just as he was about to knock again the door was opened by a thin woman wearing a colourless apron and down-at-heel slippers. She had curlers in her hair and a roll-up dangled from the corner of her mouth.

  The hallway she was standing in matched her rundown appearance, with peeling wallpaper, filthy paintwork and the odd mouse dropping scattered across the bare boards.

  Her thin lips pulled into an unfriendly line. ‘Yes!’

  ‘I’m looking for Mrs Gilbert.’

  The woman looked him over then stood back.

  ‘Upstairs,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Jerimiah stepped inside, catching a whiff of tom cat as he brushed past her. Thinking it safer not to grasp the wood-wormy banister, he made his way up to the first-floor landing.

  If the décor downstairs was neglected, the condition of the walls and floor upstairs was disgusting. There was a turn in the staircase halfway up and the window there, which was suppo
sed to illuminate the stairs, was so grimy you could barely see the backyard through it.

  At the top of the stairs was a decrepit marble-top table with a two-ring primus stove on it. Jerimiah headed for the room at the end of the landing which overlooked the street.

  His heart beating wildly in his chest, he pushed open the door. The room he stepped into would have been the front bedroom but was now being used as a living space. It was sparsely furnished with a beaten-out old sofa he wouldn’t have given tuppence for, one easy chair with a few cushions on it and a rickety pair of straight-back chairs. The wallpaper was so faded it was devoid of colour; black mould dotted the top and corners. The curtains at the windows were chenille but so old the velvety pile had been rubbed away. On the mantel above the fireplace was a photograph of a baby and another of a wedding, while at either end of the shelf a pair of cheap porcelain dogs with Southend stamped across their hind quarters faced each other.

  Jerimiah noticed all these things in passing even though, from the moment he stepped over the threshold, his focus was on Ellen who was sitting in the tatty chair beside the unlit hearth.

  ‘Hello, Jerimiah,’ she said softly. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘Hello, Ellen,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come to meet your lad.’

  A ghost of a smile lifted her colourless lips.

  ‘He’s your lad too, Jerimiah,’ she replied, her gaze softening as it ran over him.

  Jerimiah forced a smile. ‘Is he—’

  The door behind Jerimiah opened and he turned as a boy with black curly hair and wearing a green school uniform walked into the room.

  ‘Sorry I took so long, Mum,’ he said, walking past Jerimiah and over to his mother’s chair. ‘There were a lot of people in the chemist and I had to wait for Mr Lachman to make it up.’ He handed her a paper bag. ‘He said one teaspoon every four hours should do the trick.’

  ‘Thank you, Michael.’ She took the boy’s hand. ‘Sweetheart, this is Mr Brogan. He’s an old friend of mine and he’s popped by to see us.’