‘Mum!’ she shouted, as her mother reached Carswell the chemist’s.
Ida turned and waved when she spotted Jo. ‘Hello, luv,’ she said as Jo arrived by her side. ‘I thought you were on duty at twelve thirty.’
‘I’m just on my way,’ Jo replied.
‘Well, you’d better get your skates on,’ her mother said. ‘Whitehorse Lane is a good thirty minutes’ walk from here.’
‘I know,’ said Jo. ‘But what with me doing double shifts since Monday I’ve hardly seen you this week, so I thought I’d just try and catch you in the market.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ Ida said, as they joined the queue outside Pollock’s fish and chip shop. She acknowledged a couple of acquaintances in the line as it shuffled forward then turned back to Jo and smiled.
‘So did you have a nice weekend with Tommy?’
Jo told her mother selected highlights of what she and Tommy had got up to during her visit the weekend before.
‘And although they were a local band they were very good,’ Jo concluded. ‘They knew all the latest American dance tunes.’
‘Sounds like you and Tommy enjoyed yourselves,’ Ida said.
‘We did,’ said Jo, hoping her mother didn’t notice her warming cheeks. ‘And although he seems to be working all the hours God sends, he loves it, and the chaps he’s stationed with are a great bunch.’
‘Well, I’m glad he’s getting on well in the army,’ Ida added. ‘Pity he’s stationed so far away.’
Jo slipped her arm through her mother’s. ‘Funny you should say that, Mum, but . . .’ She told her mum about Tommy’s transfer back to London.
‘So because of that rather than wait another two years until I’m twenty-one we wondered if Dad would give his consent for us to get married at Whitsun. Tommy’s going to talk to Dad when he comes back next month on leave but . . .’ She gave her mother an imploring smile. ‘Well, we wondered if you could soften him up beforehand.’
A bleak look flashed across her mother’s face.
‘Your dad’s got a lot on his mind at the moment,’ she said flatly. ‘Perhaps it would be better for you and Tommy to wait for a bit.’
Jo’s shoulders slumped. ‘It’s not fair,’ she said, not caring if she sounded like a five-year-old. ‘Dad let Cathy get married at nineteen, so why can’t I?’ She kicked a pebble and sent it skittling across the pavement.
‘Please, luv,’ her mother whispered. ‘Just wait a week or so.’
Jo’s gaze flickered over her mother’s face. ‘You all right, Mum?’
‘Of course, I’m fine,’ her mother said, blinking away what looked suspiciously like a tear. ‘I’ve just got a bit of a headache and—’
‘You’re not sick or something, are you?’ Jo cut in as fear flared in her chest. ‘Because Mary Fletcher’s mother kept saying she was all right and now she’s in the London with her family sitting at her bedside.’
Her mother placed a work-worn hand on Jo’s arm. ‘Jo, it’s just a monthly headache and, like everyone else, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since I can’t remember when, that’s all.’
‘All right, Mum,’ said Jo, feeling a little foolish for letting her imagination run away with her. ‘Tommy’s not back for a few weeks so there’s nothing to be done right now but—’
The blast of the midday hooters at the surrounding factories and warehouses cut off her words.
‘You’d better go or you’ll be late,’ said her mother when the racket ceased.
‘You’re right.’ Jo adjusted her canvas first-aid bag across her. ‘But, please, Mum, if you get a chance, will you talk to Dad?’
‘I’ll try,’ said her mother, shuffling forward with the queue.
‘Because if you tell him to let us get married, he’ll agree,’ Jo persisted. ‘You know what he’s like.’
‘I thought I did.’ An odd look flitted across her mother’s face for a second then she let go of Jo’s arm. ‘Now off you go.’
Leaning over, Jo gave her mother a peck on the cheek.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she called over her shoulder as she hurried off. ‘I’ll see you when you get home from the shelter in the morning.’
As she hurried towards Commercial Road at the top end of the market, Jo grinned. The war might be turning the whole country upside down but there was always one thing that would never change: although her dad could beat a man half his age in an arm-wrestle, as far as the Brogan household was concerned, her mother was the one in charge.
With the pain slicing across the back of her eyes, Ida snapped the lid on the tin then glanced up at the clock. Four thirty. Where was that blasted boy? She placed Billy’s lunch box in the basket on the kitchen table.
Jo was right. Jerimiah had agreed to Cathy getting married at nineteen but given Tommy’s brother Reggie’s criminal reputation she could understand why her husband had been reluctant to let Jo and Tommy marry straight away. They’d been engaged for nearly a year now and with Jo turning nineteen at the end of March, Ida felt he ought to give way and let them marry.
Ordinarily, she would have been arguing Jo’s corner but as for the past three weeks she’d had to force herself even to look at Jerimiah, let alone speak to him, Jo and Tommy weren’t her priority just at the moment.
Wiping her hands on her apron, she walked through the door leading from the kitchen to the back parlour.
Queenie was sitting in her chair by the fire studying the back page of yesterday’s Sporting Life. She looked up as Ida walked through.
‘Isn’t it a bit early for you to be going to the shelter?’ she asked, peering over her half-rimmed spectacles.
‘I’m picking Patrick up from Stella’s on the way,’ Ida replied as she passed her mother-in-law.
‘She doesn’t have to catch the bus until eight,’ said Queenie.
‘Madge Smith tried to nick my spot twice last week,’ Ida replied, not meeting her mother-in-law’s eye. ‘So, I want to get there early to make sure she doesn’t try it on again.’
‘But—’
‘And if I don’t get Patrick down before the siren goes off, he’s unsettled all night,’ Ida added, as she went out into the hallway.
Closing the parlour door behind her, Ida took the torch from the hall stand. Switching off the hall light she pulled open the front door. Although the blackout had come into force thirty minutes before, there was still enough late-afternoon light to see, so stepping out Ida peered down the street towards the river.
To conserve energy and to ensure pupils were home before the blackout started, Stepney Council had decreed that when British summer time ended in October, school should finish an hour earlier at three. That was nearly two hours ago so where was that blasted boy?
Jerimiah was late too, not that she cared. He was usually home by now. A cold feeling started behind her breastbone. What if he’d gone around to see . . .?
‘All right, Ida?’
She looked around. ‘Oh, hello, Doll,’ she said, shoving aside her unsettling thoughts. ‘I was miles away.’
Dolly Tucker was wrapped up against the cold in a brown and mustard checked coat with a scarf over her head. The old battered pushchair she had with her was loaded with bags so she was clearly on her way home from the market. Ida had been in the same class at school as Dolly, who now lived in Kimberly Terrace, the next road over. Her husband was a docker and, like Ida, she had a son in the army and two working-age girls still at home.
‘I could see that,’ her neighbour replied. ‘You going down the shelter, then?’
‘I am when that blasted son of mine gets back,’ Ida replied. ‘You going tonight?’
Dolly looked up at the wispy clouds gathering overhead. ‘I might if it don’t cloud over soon.’
‘Do you want me to save you a space near me?’ asked Ida.
‘Thanks, but my sister keeps me a dry spot,’ Dolly replied. ‘Hey, you’ll never guess who I saw yesterday?’
Ida’s heart thumped painfully in her chest. ‘No,
who?’
‘Ellen Dooley,’ said Dolly. ‘You know, her who married Paul Gilbert who was in the year above us in Miss Roger’s class.’
‘Did you?’ said Ida flatly.
‘Yes,’ laughed Dolly. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when I came out of the grocers and walked straight into her.’
‘Did she say anything?’ asked Ida.
‘Not much but I was surprised to see she’s had a little lad.’ Dolly laughed. ‘After all, her and Paul had been married for years without Ellen falling for a nipper once. Plus, with his wheezy chest and all I didn’t think Paul had it in him. It must have been his parting shot before he dropped off his perch. After all the candles she’d lit for the Virgin over the years, she got her wish in the end. He put me in mind of your Charlie when he were a nipper.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Ida.
A worried look creased Dolly’s fair brow. ‘Mind you, she don’t look well.’
Ida gave her a tight smile. ‘Well, I best get on. Don’t want to find myself up top when the Luftwaffe arrives.’
‘Me neither, I’ll see you later.’ Dolly kicked off the brake and continued along the street.
Ida went back inside and closed the door. Leaning back against it she closed her eyes as the images of Jerimiah and Ellen that plagued her awake and asleep flooded back into her mind. Did he smile that crocked smile of his at Ellen? And did her heart skip like Ida’s did when his dark eyes locked with hers at the climax of their lovemaking?
Tightness pinched her nose and the corners of her eyes as tears pressed to be released. I’ll never forgive him, she told herself. Never!
Squeezing her eyes tight, Ida rubbed them with the heel of her hand and then willing her legs to work she walked back into the parlour.
‘Any sign of Billy?’ asked Queenie.
Before Ida could answer, the kitchen door burst open and Billy stormed in. He was wearing his grey school uniform, but in his own inimitable style: the shirt collar turned up, his tie skew-whiff, a grubby handkerchief dangling from his knee-length trouser pocket and his socks at half-mast.
‘Cor, I’m starving, Mum,’ he announced, throwing his satchel on the chair opposite. ‘Any chance of a—’
‘Where the hell have you been?’ shouted Ida.
‘Playing with Smudge and Ernie,’ Billy replied, looking surprised at her outburst. ‘The sweetshop on the corner of Albert Square had its window blown out last night so we had a quick shuftie.’
‘Did you find anything?’ asked Queenie.
‘A couple of bars of chocolate and a dead cat,’ said Billy.
‘Never mind all that,’ said Ida. ‘I told you to come straight home from school this morning.’
A cherub-like expression spread across Billy’s freckled face. ‘Did you?’
‘You know full well I did, Billy Brogan,’ Ida snapped, feeling her temples throb. ‘And look at the state of your shoes.’
Billy glanced down at his scuffed toes then back at her. ‘Sorry, Mum.’
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ said Queenie. ‘A bit of polish will have them looking like new—’
‘I’ll give you sorry,’ said Ida, storming across the room. She grabbed him by the arm. ‘Seven and six those shoes cost me. Seven and six!’
‘Mum, you’re hurting,’ he cried.
‘I’ve a good mind to take it out of the money the Cohens and Greenbergs give you for lighting their Saturdaymorning fires,’ she continued, as her son struggled to free himself.
Setting aside her newspaper, Queenie rose from her chair. ‘Let the boy be, Ida.’
‘It’s all right for you,’ said Ida, the pain behind her eyes biting deeper as she glared down at her mother-in-law. ‘It’s not you on your knees scrubbing floors each—’
‘Let him be,’ Queenie repeated.
Ida released him.
Billy snatched his arm back, rubbing it and giving her a wounded look.
‘It really hurts,’ he whined.
‘It’s no more than you deserve for not coming straight home as your mother told you,’ said Queenie. ‘Now go up and get what you need for the night.’
With his lower lip jutting out and still rubbing his arm, Billy skulked out of the room and thumped upstairs.
As her son’s bedroom door slammed, Ida looked at her mother-in-law. ‘You’ve changed your tune, haven’t you? Aren’t you forever telling me I’m too soft on Billy?’
‘You surely are,’ Queenie replied. ‘But I don’t like to see any child made a whipping post for their parent’s bad mood.’
Ida closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her fingers in the hope of easing the pain. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes again, but she forced them away and looked up.
‘I suppose you know,’ she said.
‘About Ellen?’
‘Of course about Ellen,’ barked Ida, as images of her husband embracing her best friend slid back into her mind. ‘Unless your son’s fathered some other woman’s child.’
Queenie matched her angry stare. ‘Well, if you must know, Ida, I had no knowledge of Ellen or her boy until recently, just like you.’
A tear tried to escape from Ida’s right eye, but she dashed it away and gave a mirthless laugh.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t get one of your “visions”.’ She wiggled her fingers, indicating her mother-in-law’s so-called second sight. ‘Or see it in your blasted tea leaves.’
‘Well, as it happens,’ Queenie replied, crossing her arms firmly across her sparrow-like chest, ‘I did a few weeks back but the leaves were after showing me a girl-child.’
Ida rolled her eyes.
‘Mock if you like, Ida,’ said Queenie, ‘but me knowing or not knowing won’t change the bare fact that Ellen Gilbert has a boy called Michael and Jerimiah is the fath—’
The old woman’s eyes shifted on to something behind Ida and she looked around. Jerimiah was standing in the kitchen door frame wearing his work clothes under his old sheepskin jerkin.
Ida stared up at him for a second then she turned away, vivid images of him holding and touching Ellen in the same tender and loving way he’d held and touched her over the years danced back into her mind.
‘I’ve got to get to the shelter,’ she said, pushing past him as she hurried towards the kitchen with tears blurring her vision.
‘Ida, please,’ Jerimiah said, catching her arm. ‘I’m sorry, so—’
‘I don’t want to hear how sorry you are,’ she yelled, snatching her arm back.
Giving him a contemptuous look, she grabbed her coat from the nail in the back door.
‘Billy!’ she screamed, as she shrugged it on.
Billy dashed into the kitchen as she fastened the top button.
‘Ready?’
Billy held up his duffel bag by way of reply.
‘Right, then let’s go,’ she said, buttoning her coat.
Billy opened the door and as Ida turned, she caught sight of Jerimiah standing with his chin on his chest and his shoulders slumped. As she had done for the past twenty-five years, Ida found herself aching to take him in her arms to ease his pain, but she damped it down. After all, while her breasts were hard with milk for their dead son James, he had slept with her best friend.
Ethel Flannigan shoved her empty teacup across the table towards Queenie.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Just have a quick look.’
Glancing over her to where Father Mahon was standing chatting to a couple of the old men of the parish, Queenie took the cup.
It was Friday lunchtime and Queenie was at St Bridget’s and St Brendan’s weekly lunch club. Before the war the Friday menu would have been fish and chips but now the ladies who cooked each week had to make do with whatever they could get hold of, like everyone else, so this week it had been tripe and onions followed by sponge pudding and custard.
Like most of the churches in the area, the Brogans’ parish church ran a lunch club for the elderly members of the congregation. It gave Qu
eenie and her friends a chance to share a hot meal, boast about their grandchildren and complain about their neighbours. They could also find out without waiting for the East London Advertiser who would be in the obituary column that week and share fond memories of the newly departed. However, whereas in times past this had usually been one of their contemporaries, sadly now it was more often than not a young life cut short.
As the main church hall had been commandeered as a rest centre for those bombed out of their houses, the parish pensioners’ weekly lunch club had been moved into the smaller committee room on the opposite side of the corridor.
Queenie was at her usual table at the back of the room with Ethel, a widow with six children; Vi Riley, a mother of three girls and a boy, and Olive Cotton, who had been blessed with one of each.
Swilling the grouts at the bottom of her friend’s cup, Queenie tipped them into the saucer then tilted the cup to the light.
She tutted and drew her brows together.
‘What is it?’ asked Ethel, her watery grey eyes full of concern. ‘It’s not one of my boys, is it?’
‘No, not as such, although one of them is going on a long journey,’ said Queenie. ‘It’s a relative, though, a woman, but she’s not happy.’
‘That must be your sister,’ said Vi, her wispy white hair floating back and forth as she spoke. ‘You said she was having trouble with her old man last week, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Ethel. ‘Bloody workshy bugger.’
‘No, it’s a younger woman,’ Queenie said, peering at the damp tea leaves stuck to the glaze. ‘And I think she’s unsettled rather than unhappy. She feels she’s in a rut and wants a change.’
‘Must be my granddaughter,’ said Ethel. ‘She and my Sheila had a right barney about her signing up for the ATS.’
Queenie continued to peer into the cup.
‘What do you say, Queenie?’ asked Ethel. ‘Should she join?’
‘Yes,’ said Queenie. ‘It’ll be the making of her and no mistake.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Ethel.
There was but there was little point heralding troubles that couldn’t be avoided. Queenie put down the cup.
A Ration Book Childhood Page 7
