A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  Ida looked up at him incredulously. ‘It’s not the same, Jerimiah; you know it’s not. Michael is your flesh and blood whereas neither of us are Billy’s real parents—’

  Jerimiah’s attention shifted from her face to a spot just behind her right shoulder and alarm flashed across his face.

  Ida turned to see Billy, dressed in his school uniform, with his grey socks at half mast, his claret and blue West Ham scarf wrapped around his neck, standing in the doorway with a look of utter devastation on his face.

  ‘Billy luv,’ said Ida, as a cold hand clutched around her heart. ‘Let me explain.’

  But Billy didn’t. Instead, he stared wide-eyed at her and Jerimiah for a moment then turned and tore out of the house, slamming the back door behind him.

  ‘Billy,’ Ida screamed. Dashing past Jerimiah, she chased after her son. ‘Billy, come back—’ But her words were cut off by the wail of the air raid siren.

  ‘Billy!’ she screamed again, racing through the kitchen towards the back door.

  Jerimiah got there before her and yanked their coats off the hooks. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, thrusting her coat into her hands as he opened the door to the low hum of German planes above and searchlights cutting across the sky. ‘We’ll find him.’

  The first bomb hit the ground somewhere close to the Limehouse Cut as Jerimiah turned into Cable Street. Ida, who was just a pace in front of him, staggered as the ground beneath their feet shook. Jerimiah caught her before she collided with the wall.

  ‘There he is,’ she shouted, righting herself and jabbing her finger down the empty street.

  Jerimiah followed her gaze towards where the Town Hall stood silhouetted against the fiery sky over the City. He saw his son scoot past the steps of the Old Dispensary and even though the night was as dense as pitch because of the blackout Jerimiah could see the boy’s white face illuminated by the red blaze of the burning buildings around them.

  ‘Billy,’ screamed Ida.

  Billy halted for a second but then turned and tore off again. A blast, a little closer this time, rattled their ears as it sucked the air from around them. Instinctively, Jerimiah held Ida to him as scalding air pulsed past them, splattering him with grit and whipping tendrils of her hair across his face.

  Ida gripped her husband’s arms and looked around him.

  ‘Billy, wait!’ she screamed as the low humming from the next wave of aircraft overhead grew louder. ‘Billy!’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll catch him,’ Jerimiah told her, dragging her into a shop entrance. ‘You stay here.’

  ‘No,’ she said, pushing past him and running after their son.

  Jerimiah followed as another bomb found its target and rattled the glass in the shop windows, sending the wires of the barrage balloon overhead squeaking and whining as the air buffeted it.

  Keeping Billy in his sights, Jerimiah stretched his legs and pelted past Ida. The sooner he caught the boy the safer for all of them.

  The clanging bell of a fire engine slowed him for a couple of seconds as it passed but then he picked up the pace again, closing the distance between him and his distraught son. Another blast reverberated around them as something, probably a warehouse roof, crashed to the ground a street or two south of them, sending flames leaping into the air.

  Billy staggered slightly with the impact then seeing Jerimiah gaining on him, he dashed across the road as an ambulance, bell clanging and tyres screeching, roared around the corner, narrowly missing the fleeing boy.

  Without breaking his stride, Billy headed for the charred beams and the mountain of bricks and concrete that had only a month ago been the Waterman’s Arms public house.

  ‘Billy. Son. Stop!’ bellowed Jerimiah, his voice hoarse with the burning air he was dragging into his lungs. ‘Let me and your mum explain.’

  Scrambling up five foot until he reached the top of the jumble of brickwork and plaster that had been the public house’s front wall, Billy turned.

  ‘I ain’t your son,’ he screamed, his cheeks damp in the red reflection of the blazing buildings. ‘And she ain’t my mum.’

  Wiping the back of his hand across his nose, he turned and disappeared behind the mound of rubble he’d been standing on.

  ‘Billy, come back; it too dangerous,’ sobbed Ida, as she reached Jerimiah’s side. She went to go after the boy, but Jerimiah caught her.

  ‘You’ll never make it across in those,’ he said, glancing down at her lightweight court shoes. ‘I’ll get him.’

  Ida nodded. ‘All right, but—’

  The ack-ack guns half a mile away at the Tower drowned out her voice and she started forwards again. She slipped, and Jerimiah caught her.

  ‘Ida,’ he said firmly, setting her upright and gripping her upper arms, ‘I’ll get him.’

  She nodded.

  Leaving her on the pavement and with the St James’s Gardens searchlights criss-crossing the sky above, Jerimiah picked his way across the jumble of splintered floor joists and shattered concrete towards his son.

  Billy was nimble but he didn’t have the weight to keep his footing and each time a bomb sent the ground trembling he struggled to remain upright.

  Towards the river another bomb exploded, shaking the ground again and sending loosened brickwork tumbling from the half-destroyed walls of the public house.

  ‘Stand still, Billy! ’ Jerimiah shouted in a voice that would have usually halted the boy at a hundred paces but tonight had no effect.

  Instead of heeding his words, Billy leapt across on to another block of masonry, wobbling precariously as he found his balance.

  Jerimiah jumped across on to another chunk of concrete. ‘For the Love of God, Billy—’

  The ear-piercing shriek of a German bomb hurtling its way towards the ground cut off his words as the world burst into a scorching inferno of red and yellow. From what seemed like a long way away Ida’s scream echoed across to him. He turned but not before the heat seared the right side of his face and he smelt the unmistakable odour of singed hair.

  A blast of air, heavy with the smell of sulphur and evaporated cordite, pressed him backwards before the vacuum created by the bomb’s detonation sucked him forward, almost lifting him off his feet in the process. As the shockwave subsided, Jerimiah planted his boots firmly on the rubble.

  ‘Billy!’ screamed Ida, stumbling across the debris with her eyes fixed on something behind him.

  With his ears still ringing, Jerimiah looked around to see Billy lying like a rag doll across a pile of bricks.

  ‘Mum,’ Billy sobbed, as he tried to get up.

  ‘I’m here,’ Ida shouted back as she reached Jerimiah.

  ‘We’re both here,’ Jerimiah added. ‘And don’t you worry, me lad, we’ll soon have you home. You wait here, Ida. I’ll fetch him.’

  Stepping on to the broken bricks, Jerimiah started towards their son but Ida grabbed his forearm.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said, her fingers biting into his muscle despite his thick coat.

  Although his burnt skin stung, Jerimiah smiled. ‘For sure, me darling.’

  Moving as fast as he dared, Jerimiah picked his way across the rubble until he reached the sobbing boy. Bending down, he scooped Billy up in his arms.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m so . . . sorry, Dad,’ sobbed Billy, his face buried into Jerimiah’s shoulder and his arms like a metal vice clamped around his neck.

  ‘Hush, now. ’Tis forgotten,’ said Jerimiah, holding the boy’s trembling body closer. ‘Now let’s get you back to your ma, and home.’

  Turning, Jerimiah started back but he’d taken no more than a pace or two when the ominous drone of approaching aircraft started his eardrums vibrating. The first of a dozen bombs fell in an even row behind him, sending flames darting into the sky and buildings a few streets away crashing to the ground. The planes soared over their heads and looped southwards to pay a visit to Bermondsey, Rotherhithe and Surrey Docks on their way back to northern France.

  In the pe
culiar lull that settled over an area once the munitions were spent, Jerimiah heard something like a rusty hinge on a door creak.

  He looked up at the Waterman’s Arms’ only remaining wall looming over them. The space around him shifted an inch or so. Ida screamed but Jerimiah was already moving. Placing his large hand over the back of Billy’s head to protect it and grasping the boy even tighter, Jerimiah jumped across from shattered chunk of brickwork to concrete pillar as the wall crashed to the ground.

  With blocks of plaster and mortar bouncing around him and dust and grit swirling around his legs as he ran, Jerimiah fixed his eyes on Ida, who stood on the pavement with her hands covering her mouth, a look of horror on her face. He had only a couple of paces to go when something hard and sharp thumped into his back, knocking the breath from him and sending pins and needles down his arm.

  Jerimiah gasped and staggered forward into Ida’s arms.

  ‘Jerry, are you all right?’ she asked.

  Stars popped in the corner of Jerimiah’s vision and he shook his head to clear them.

  ‘I’m grand,’ he said, loosening Billy’s arms a little and taking a deep breath. ‘And so is Billy, aren’t you, lad?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said Billy, his tears now damp on Jerimiah’s collar.

  ‘I should think so too,’ said Ida. ‘Making your poor dad—’

  ‘Go easy there,’ said Jerimiah, smiling down at her. ‘The lad’s had a bit of a shock all round, wouldn’t you say?’

  She hugged Billy, who was still clinging to him, and Jerimiah winced.

  ‘And what of you?’ said Ida, looking him over.

  ‘Something whacked me in the back, that’s all; I’ll be right as rain tomorrow,’ he replied, praying it would be so.

  Ida’s gaze ran slowly over his face.

  ‘Oh, Jerry, I . . . I . . .’ In the light of the search beam, tears glistened in his wife’s eyes. ‘I thought . . .’

  Although it ached like billy-o, Jerimiah put his free arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, luv.’

  A low hum could be heard as the next squadron flew up the Thames towards them.

  In the dark, Jerimiah pressed his lips on to his wife’s hair. ‘I think we’ve all had enough excitement for one night so to my way of thinking a cup of tea is long overdue.’

  Ida raised her head and her eyes locked with his for a couple of heartbeats then she forced a smile and nodded. He gave her a squeeze and pain shot down his arm. Ignoring it, Jerimiah adjusted Billy into a more comfortable position in his arms and guided his family towards home.

  Reaching forward, Ida smoothed a stray lock of hair out of her son’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Billy, we should have told you sooner but . . . well, I couldn’t because . . .’

  The words ‘I was scared’ had stuck in her throat.

  ‘Because Mum wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand,’ said Jerimiah.

  Ida gave him a grateful look. They had returned to the house about half an hour ago and now she and Jerimiah were sitting on either side of their son’s bed. Billy’s room was the smallest of the three upstairs rooms and was situated by the turn of the stairs. Billy had shared the room with his older brother Charlie but now he had the ten-by-six room to himself, along with his collection of comics, model soldiers and the Airfix RAF planes that dangled from the ceiling. That said, tonight he’d dug out his old and very worn teddy bear Mr Buttons from the bottom of the wardrobe to tuck under the covers with him.

  The all-clear had gone just as they were about to head for the shelter so they’d returned home instead and walked into an empty house. Jo was on duty at the ambulance station and wouldn’t be home until dawn and Queenie had yet to return from whichever one of her old cronies she had sat out the evening’s air raid with.

  After checking her son over and finding his only injury from the night’s adventure was a twisted ankle and a few cuts and bruises, Ida had made them each a hot drink: tea for her and Jerimiah and a hot chocolate, with plenty of sugar, for Billy.

  ‘So Aunt Pearl is really my mum,’ said Billy.

  ‘Sure enough, she’s the woman who gave birth to you,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Is that why she’s always buying me presents?’ said Billy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ida. ‘Because you’re special to her.’

  ‘But if I was special, why did she leave me in the workhouse?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Because she . . .’

  Ida glanced across at Jerimiah.

  ‘Because, Pearl was very young,’ he said. ‘And knew she couldn’t look after you properly so she wanted to make sure someone who loved you would care for you.’

  ‘Why didn’t she just give me to you?’ he asked, looking at Ida.

  ‘She was upset and wasn’t thinking straight,’ Ida replied, trying to keep the revulsion at her younger sister’s callousness from her tone.

  ‘Who’s my dad?’ asked Billy.

  Stretching across, Jerimiah ruffled his hair. ‘I am, of course.’

  ‘What, like Michael?’

  A stab of pain jabbed into Ida’s breastbone.

  ‘No, not like Michael,’ she replied. ‘But in the same way I’m your mum.’ Billy opened his mouth to speak but Ida raised her hand. ‘Now, my lad, now the Jerries have gone home for the night I suggest you tuck yourself under the covers and get some sleep or you won’t be getting that thruppence Dad promised if you scored ten out of ten in your spelling test tomorrow.’

  Billy nodded and snuggled down beneath the blankets.

  Jerimiah leaned forward and kissed his son on the forehead but as he levered himself up off the bed he gasped.

  ‘Why don’t you go and open that bottle of Jameson’s you’ve been saving for Christmas?’ suggested Ida.

  Jerimiah gave her a weary smile. ‘I think I just might.’ Rubbing his left shoulder, he walked out of the room.

  Ida leaned forward.

  ‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’ She kissed the same spot on Billy’s forehead where Jerimiah had planted his kiss. ‘And remember, me and your dad love you and you’re ours as much as Charlie and the girls are.’

  Billy nodded and then sticking his thumb in his mouth, closed his eyes.

  Ida studied his face for a moment then followed her husband downstairs. Jerimiah had taken off his jacket and waistcoat and was just in the process of pouring himself a second drink when Ida walked in the room. He looked weary and from the stiffness of his movement he was clearly in pain from his brush with the chunks of masonry earlier.

  ‘Is the lad all right?’ Jerimiah asked, as she closed the door.

  Ida nodded. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t already fast asleep.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ said Jerimiah, taking a mouthful of drink. ‘Not after the merry dance he led us.’

  Ida gave a wan smile.

  He replaced the bottle on the sideboard. ‘I thought you were a little kind in your explanation in regard to your sister’s part in his birth.’

  Ida shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I could hardly tell him his mother tried to get rid of him and when that failed, dumped him in Bancroft workhouse before his cord barely detached.’

  ‘You have the right of it there,’ he said. ‘But perhaps we should have told him before.’

  ‘We should have,’ said Ida. ‘And I wish I’d listened to you when you said as much but I was . . . I was scared.’

  Jerimiah looked puzzled. ‘Of what?’

  ‘That Billy would . . . would . . . love Pearl more than me . . . because . . .’ Tears welled up in Ida’s eyes.

  ‘Why would he?’ said Jerimiah. ‘Sure, Pearl buys him fancy presents and calls him her “darling” but it wasn’t her who sat up for three nights when he had measles, was it?’

  ‘No,’ said Ida in a small voice.

  The look that always made Ida feel special crept into her husband’s eyes. ‘In all the ways that matter, Ida, you’re Billy’s mum, so why would he love her instead of you?’

  Ida f
orced a brave smile. ‘You’re right but I couldn’t face losing him like I lost . . .’ A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

  Putting down his glass, Jerimiah crossed the space between them in two strides and took her in his arms.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling girl,’ he whispered softly, pressing his lips to her hair.

  His arms tightened around her and feelings she’d not experienced since finding out about Ellen started to steal over her, but she cut them short and disentangled herself from his embrace.

  ‘Sit down and let me look at that shoulder of yours,’ she said a little more harshly than she intended.

  Jerimiah popped open the buttons of his shirt and stripped it off in one swift movement. Turning one of the upright chairs around, he sat astride it, resting his muscly, hair-covered forearms across the back.

  Ida walked around behind him, feeling her pulse quicken, her eyes running over the bulky contours of his shoulder and back.

  ‘Ooow,’ she said, wincing in sympathy as her gaze rested on the livid bruise across his right shoulder blade.

  ‘That bad, is it?’ asked Jerimiah.

  Placing her hands on his shoulder, she ran them gently over his back, enjoying the feel of his skin under her fingertips but then she stopped. Had Ellen enjoyed the feel of his corded muscles under her fingers, too? Ida snatched her hand away.

  ‘You’ll be sore for a week or two, I reckon,’ she said, looking away. ‘‘Truthfully, I don’t know if you’ll be up to taking the wagon out—’