A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  Michael looked up at him and Jerimiah looked into the face of his childhood self.

  ‘Hello,’ Michael said, giving Jerimiah a friendly smile.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ said Jerimiah, as fatherly emotion stirred in his chest. ‘I see you’re at Greencoat.’ He indicated the embroidered badge on the boy’s blazer pocket. ‘How do you like it?’

  ‘It’s all right now, after I thumped Ron Murphy,’ Michael replied.

  ‘Is it now?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the lad replied. ‘Sister Evangeline gave me six of the best for fighting but Ron don’t pick on me any more.’

  Jerimiah suppressed a smile.

  Michael turned to his mother. ‘Can I play out until supper?’

  Ellen nodded. ‘As long as you stay in the street. But put your duffel coat on and if the siren goes off you’re to come straight back.’

  Michael grinned. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  He snatched his coat from the back of the chair.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Brogan,’ he said, as he dashed past.

  ‘You too, lad,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Michael glanced fondly at his mother and then left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell as he went to join his friends.

  Jerimiah stared after him for a long moment then turned to face Ellen. ‘He’s a fine lad.’

  ‘He is,’ said Ellen, motherly pride shining in her eyes. ‘And there’s no doubting who his father is, is there?’

  Jerimiah held her gaze for a moment then sighed. ‘No, there’s not.’

  Feeling the world pressing down on his shoulders, Jerimiah strolled over to the mantelshelf and picked up one of the photo frames.

  The image was of a chubby baby lying on his tummy, naked, with a fur rug beneath him. There was one almost identical on the mantelshelf at Mafeking Terrace, of Charlie in the same pose.

  He gazed down at it for a long moment then, returning the photo to its place of pride, turned back to face Ellen.

  ‘I’ve told Ida about your condition,’ he said. ‘And what you’ve asked.’

  Anxiety showed in Ellen’s face. ‘Did she agree?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Tears sprang into Ellen’s eyes and she covered her mouth with her hands. ‘But if he—’

  ‘She needs time,’ he said.

  ‘But I haven’t got time,’ said Ellen, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘Can’t you just tell her? He’s your son, after all.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘And I understand your worry, Ellen, but you can’t just expect Ida to welcome Michael with open arms, especially given how he got here.’

  ‘But he’s your son,’ she repeated.

  ‘And Ida’s my wife,’ Jerimiah said firmly. ‘I let her down, let her down badly, and I’m asking a hell of a lot of her now so she has the final say in all this.’

  They stared at each other for a moment then Ellen nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Jerimiah, his grim expression lightening a little. ‘I think you know me well enough to know I’m not a man to shirk my responsibilities.’

  ‘No,’ Ellen replied with a heavy sigh. ‘No, you’re not.’ She gazed across the space at him for a long moment then adoration filled her eyes. ‘Oh, Jerimiah, if only you and I had—’

  ‘I’ll let you know what Ida decides,’ Jerimiah cut in.

  Pain flickered across her face but she gave him a sad smile. ‘Give her my regards.’

  ‘I will,’ he replied.

  He walked to the door but as he turned to wish her good day grief and pity swirled in his chest: grief because forty-two was just too young to die and pity because he never had and never could return Ellen’s love.

  The searchlights on the Isle of Dogs were already cutting across the clear sky hunting for enemy aircraft when Jerimiah turned into the alleyway that ran between his house and number 23.

  Feeling as if he could sleep for a thousand years he opened the rear gate and trudged the last few yards to his back door. Turning the handle, he walked in to the mellow sound of Ethel Waters singing ‘Stormy Weather’ on the wireless, which seemed very apt.

  With two pots simmering on the stove and the table set out for tea, the kitchen was as he’d expect to find it on his return from work, except it was his mother not his wife at the sink.

  ‘Where’s Ida?’ he asked, taking off his coat and hooking it up.

  ‘She’s already gone to the shelter,’ his mother replied.

  ‘But it’s not six yet,’ he said.

  His mother shrugged. ‘Said she wanted to make sure no one pinched her spot.’

  Jerimiah sighed and sank into the chair at the top end of the table. Letting his head rest back against the wall, he closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sound of his mother dishing up the evening meal.

  The music drew to a close and the plummy tones of the BBC presenter announced the six o’clock news. He gave them a rundown of Germany’s push into Russia and also news of a successful bombing raid carried out by the RAF over unspecified targets in Germany’s heartland. In addition, there was welcome news from the Ministry of Food: following America’s agreement to send vital supplies to Britain, the first consignments of food would be released to the shops at the end of the month, in time for Christmas. It concluded with a reminder that conserving coal would help build fighter planes.

  ‘There you are, boy,’ his mother said, as the Variety Bandbox signature tune started.

  Jerimiah opened his eyes.

  ‘It’s hotpot,’ she said, placing the bowl before him.

  ‘That looks grand, Ma.’ He gave her a weary smile. ‘Has Jo gone too?’

  ‘Just after Ida,’ said his mother, returning to the stove. ‘Said something about phoning Tommy on the way to work. I reckon, with a full moon and not a cloud in the sky, she and everyone else around here will be having a busy night.’ His mother crossed herself. ‘Mary bless and keep them.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Jerimiah, automatically doing the same as the faces of his children flickered through his mind.

  He speared a chunk of turnip with his fork and popped it in his mouth.

  Queenie spooned tea leaves into the pot then filled it from the kettle. Stirring it a few times she poured it into two mugs and brought them over.

  ‘Did you get on all right with moving that family?’ asked Queenie as she slid his tea across the table.

  ‘More or less,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘A high explosive bomb had hit the shops at Maryland Point so that held us up for half an hour but once we got past the Green Man at Leytonstone it was pretty straightforward and we were in Chigwell by midday and off-loaded by two.’

  ‘Did they have much?’ asked Queenie.

  Jerimiah shook his head. ‘They had a few bits from downstairs and the relief centre had given them some linen and some basic kitchenware but the blast that demolished their house blew off the roof, so all the wardrobes and beds were destroyed. Luckily, I’d bought a double bed and mattress plus a couple of kiddies’ beds in a bomb sale only the day before so I sold them those. Poor old Samson was puffing when I got back but a bellyful of oats should sort him out. It’s worth it, though – twice as much as I’d get a week from the government for scrap metal. I’m going to try and get more work like that.’

  ‘That explains the sign you had Jo paint,’ said Queenie.

  Jerimiah nodded and smiled at his mother. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a letter from Charlie, at all?’

  Charlie had volunteered a few weeks after war was declared and was part of a gun crew in the artillery. He’d been one of the last off the beaches at Dunkirk as his regiment had been trying to hold the Nazis back to allow as many men as possible to escape. He was now in the heat and dust of a different continent, getting ready to push the Germans and Italians back into the Mediterranean at Benghazi.

  ‘There was a letter this morning,’ his mother said.

  ‘At last,’ he said, spearing a slither of meat. ‘I was starting to think the boy had lost the use
of his hands.’

  ‘Sure, weren’t you the same at his age?’ His mother smiled. ‘I tell you, I counted myself lucky if I got a letter a month while you were away in France. Ida left it on the sideboard for you.’

  She took a sip of her tea and they sat in silence until he polished off the last few scraps.

  ‘Well, now,’ she said, regarding him over the rim of her mug, ‘are you going to tell me what’s had Ida glaring at you all the day long and why you’re walking around with your tail between your legs?’

  Jerimiah knew there was no point trying to convince his mother she had it all wrong, so he told her about Ida’s encounter with Ellen. A look of astonishment spread across Queenie’s wrinkled face.

  ‘So, let me get this right,’ she said, when he’d finished. ‘You’re this boy’s father?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said, holding his mother’s penetrating gaze.

  ‘For mercy’s sake!’ she said, staring across the table at him in disbelief. ‘No wonder Ida’s had a face like a scalded goblin all week.’

  ‘Can you blame her?’ Shame surged up in Jerimiah and he raked his fingers through his hair. ‘But I only . . . me and . . . it was only the once!’

  His mother gave a mirthless laugh. ‘For sure, don’t I know it only has to be the once? Are you positive you’re the father?’

  Jerimiah nodded. ‘You only have to look at the boy to see he’s mine.’

  ‘But if he is your lad, why in the name of all that is holy hasn’t she come back to tell you before?’ asked his mother.

  ‘Because . . .’ He told her about Ellen’s condition.

  ‘God and all the saints have mercy,’ said Queenie when he’d finished. ‘’Tis bad enough for one so young to be facing Eternity, let alone to leave a child alone in the world, too.’

  ‘Which is why she’s asked me to care for him,’ said Jerimiah.

  Queenie chewed her lips. ‘And what does Ida say to that?’

  ‘She hasn’t; not yet,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Shoving his bowl away, Jerimiah covered his face with his hands as the weight that had been pressing down on him since Monday became even heavier.

  He felt his mother’s hand on his arm and he looked up.

  ‘What’s the lad’s name?’ she said, her grey eyes filled with love.

  ‘Michael.’ Jerimiah held his mother’s gaze for a second or two then spoke again. ‘I can’t undo what’s done but I will have to face up to my responsibility—’

  The wail of the air raid siren on the top of St George’s Town Hall cut off Jerimiah’s words.

  Throwing back the last of his tea, he stood up. ‘But just for now I’m going to get into my Home Guard uniform, grab my rifle and report for duty.’

  Chapter Five

  GRIPPING ON TO Tommy’s upper arms, Jo gasped as the wave of pleasure washed over her. His arms tightened around her for a second then he relaxed and rested his head on her shoulder.

  Jo smiled and opened her eyes. She studied the fringed lampshade above the bed for a little while before shifting her gaze to her weekend case on the floor. Her winter coat was thrown over the chair and her clothes and Tommy’s khaki uniform formed a haphazard trail to the bed.

  It was the last Friday in October and she was lying on the double bed in room sixteen in the Old George Hotel on Stoney Stratford High Street just ten miles from Bletchley Park where Tommy was stationed.

  He’d borrowed a friend’s Rover 10 and had met her off the London train when it arrived at six fifteen. After half an hour’s drive through icy country lanes Tommy had signed them into the hotel’s register as Mr and Mrs Sweete. It had taken them five minutes to get to their room and only three minutes to remove each other’s clothes before hurling themselves, naked, on to the bed.

  Turning her head slightly Jo studied her fiancé’s angular face then kissed the bit of him nearest to her lips, which happened to be his shoulder.

  He opened his eyes and he smiled.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered.

  ‘I could tell,’ Jo replied, pressing her pubic bone on to his thigh.

  ‘Well, what do you expect,’ he laughed, ‘handing me your still-warm knickers when you greeted me at the station?’

  Jo laughed. ‘I just thought I’d give you some encouragement.’

  ‘Believe me, my love,’ he said, tucking her into him, ‘after nearly thirteen weeks I don’t need any encouragement.’

  Reaching up, Jo ran her hand along his square jaw, enjoying the feel of his evening bristles under her fingertips. ‘Twelve weeks and three days, actually.’

  His dark eyes captured hers. They gazed silently and lost in love for a couple of heartbeats then Tommy lowered his mouth on to hers, setting her recently sated needs trembling again.

  After a moment he released her lips and sat up on the side of the bed. Having dealt with the French letter he swung his legs back on to the bed then, gathering her to him, he rolled on his back. Snuggling closer, Jo rested her head in the dip between his shoulder and neck, sliding her smooth leg over his hair-roughened one.

  The winter wind rattled the casement window and Tommy pulled the sheet and blankets over them to keep out the chill.

  ‘Well, as my leave starts the Saturday before Christmas,’ he said, ‘at least it won’t be as long before I see you next time.’

  ‘There might be a bit of a problem with you kipping on the sofa at mine, though,’ Jo said, idly twirling her fingers through his chest hair.

  ‘Why, has your mum gone off me or something?’ he asked.

  ‘No. She’s gone off Dad.’ Jo told him about her parents’ argument.

  ‘Blimey,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘And you don’t know what it’s about?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘But I hope they sort it out soon. Mum’s snapping everyone’s heads off while Dad’s just moping with his chin scraping the floor. Gran knows what’s up but she’s not letting on. Whatever Dad’s done it must be pretty bad – I’ve never seen them at odds for this long before. It’ll be bad enough having Mattie and Cathy not speaking at the dinner table without Mum and Dad looking daggers across the Christmas pudding at each other.’

  Tommy pulled a face. ‘It’s a pity your mum and dad have fallen out,’ he said, ‘because I was hoping I could persuade your mum to help me with something.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m being transferred back to London.’

  Jo’s eyes flashed open. ‘Oh, Tommy, that’s wonderful.’ She raised herself on to her elbow to look at him. ‘When?’

  ‘At the beginning of February.’ He grinned. ‘Pleased?’

  ‘Of course I’m please.’ She kissed his blunt chin. ‘If you’ve got your own place I won’t have to creep downstairs when the family are asleep.’

  ‘Well, Jo, I was thinking perhaps we should stop sneaking around altogether and get married. I know your dad said he wouldn’t allow us to marry until you were twenty-one but as I’m being transferred to head up a new team and I’ve all but been told I’ll be up for promotion in a month or two, I’m more than able to support you. Plus,’ he gave her a wry smile, ‘I just don’t want to wait any longer.’

  Slipping her arms around his neck Jo hugged him. ‘Me neither. When?’

  ‘I thought perhaps after your birthday in March,’ said Tommy. ‘I had hoped to persuade your mum to speak to your dad about it, but if he’s in the dog house then—’

  ‘But it might be better for us that he is,’ cut in Jo. ‘Don’t you see? If we can persuade Mum to agree to us getting wed, then perhaps he will too, just to get back in her good books. I’m sure Mattie and Cathy would be on our side too. Dad would have all of us on at him so he’d have to give in. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, I know I would,’ said Tommy, ‘if I had all you Brogan women set against me.’

  Jo laughed and kissed him. ‘You’ll have to speak to him, though,’ she said.

  ‘I intend to,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll put in for a
forty-eight-hour pass when I get in to work on Monday.’

  Jo giggled. ‘Shouldn’t that be report for duty? You make it sound as if you’re working in an office all day.’

  He smiled. ‘Do I?’

  Sliding her leg further over, she sat up, straddling him. His eyes flickered down on to her breasts and his face went from relaxed to alert in an instant.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she said, leaning forward and running her hands over his chest. ‘And I worry sometimes that whatever it is you and your chums are doing in that old country house it’s something dangerous.’

  ‘Do you?’ he replied, resting his hands lightly on her thighs.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Jo.

  ‘Well, do you know what worries me?’ he asked, as an expression that sent her pulse racing crept into his eyes.

  ‘No, what?’

  Gripping her waist, he flipped her over on to her back and, parting her legs with his, covered her with his body.

  ‘What worries me, Josephine Margaret Brogan, is where exactly you took your knickers off on a train packed with soldiers,’ he said.

  Jo laughed and as his hand cupped her left breast, she stretched across to retrieve the open packet of French letters on the bedside table.

  Finally, Jo thought, as she spotted her mother come out of the Home and Colonial Store, situated halfway up the market.

  It was the first Thursday in November and just after eleven thirty in the morning and she’d been pretending to study the display of ration-style underwear in Shelston’s haberdashery window for almost twenty minutes. She was beginning to worry she might have missed her mother.

  It was four days since she’d kissed Tommy goodbye and got on the last London-bound train from Bletchley and although she didn’t know if or when he would get a weekend pass, she wanted to get her mum on her side ready for when he did.

  Unfortunately, between her WVS duties and working double shifts at the station, her mother’s work and the nightly bombing raids, this was the first opportunity she’d had to catch her alone.

  Leaving her contemplation of lisle stockings, vests and underslips, Jo turned and, dodging between the stalls and women pushing prams, hurried towards her mother.