A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  A bleak expression flashed across Jerimiah’s face and the corners of Ida’s mouth lifted slightly as they both knew exactly what Mattie, Cathy and Jo would say.

  ‘What about Michael?’ said Jerimiah after a long pause. ‘We’ll have to tell him too.’

  Feeling as if she were teetering on the end of a bottomless chasm, Ida gazed into her husband’s dark eyes.

  ‘I’ll tell Ellen you’ll drop by next week and talk to him, and if he’s going to be part of the family, perhaps you could bring him around now and again so he can get to know us. He’ll be miserable enough when his mother dies without finding himself living with a bunch of strangers.’

  Jerimiah gave her a grateful smile. ‘Thank you again, Ida. You’re a grand woman and I just want to—’

  The back door opened, and Queenie stomped in, bringing a rush of cold.

  ‘’Tis cold enough to freeze the lake of fire in hell,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

  ‘How are the chickens?’ asked Ida, grateful for the excuse to tear her gaze away from her husband’s unsettling face.

  ‘Well enough,’ Queenie answered. ‘They’re starting to scratch around so I’m going to fetch them some of Albert’s bird seeds and find an old blanket to keep them snug.’

  She disappeared into her room and Ida’s attention returned to Jerimiah. He smiled, and even after all these years he still had the power to send her pulse racing and her stomach fluttering.

  For a second it was as it had always been between them and a smile started to lift Ida’s mouth, but then thoughts of what he’d done with Ellen cut it short and she looked away.

  Queenie reappeared carrying a tartan bundle and a brown paper bag. ‘Shouldn’t you be picking Patrick up now, Ida?’ she said as she marched through the kitchen.

  ‘I should,’ said Ida as another blast of cold air signalled her mother-in-law’s departure.

  Rising to her feet she went to walk past Jerimiah, but he caught her hand.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ he said, looking up at her with eyes full of love and devotion. ‘I want you to know, Ida, that from the moment I first set eyes on you across the hall at that St Patrick’s Day dance wearing that scarlet ribbon in your hair, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved or ever will love.’

  Ida studied the thick knuckles, the twisted veins and the fine dusting of hair across the back of his hand for a moment then she withdrew her fingers and her eyes returned to his face.

  Although there was a sprinkling of grey amongst her husband’s bristles and the lines around his eyes and mouth were a little deeper, it was the face she’d smiled upon for more than two decades. Still, Ida held her emotions in check as she imagined it must have worn that same wanting expression on it ten years ago when he looked at Ellen.

  Chapter Ten

  WITH THE PINT of milk she’d just collected from the doorstep in her right hand, Mattie rested her left on the newel post at the end of the banister.

  ‘Breakfast!’ she called, looking up the stairs.

  ‘Two minutes, luv,’ her husband called back.

  The telephone in the hall had rung as Daniel had wiped the last few suds from his chin. That was twenty minutes ago and she knew his toast would have to stay warming under the grill for at least ten more.

  It was just before seven thirty on the fourth Saturday in November and Mattie, in her dressing gown and slippers, was like any other wife cooking her husband’s breakfast before waving him off to work.

  Except she wasn’t because unlike most men, her husband was eating the first meal of the day at his own kitchen table rather than in a military canteen somewhere hundreds of miles away from his family.

  Not that Daniel wasn’t serving his country as much as any other able-bodied man, it was just Major Daniel McCarthy, veteran of the Spanish Civil War, was doing his bit in an MI5 bunker in central London rather than in the army.

  They had debated moving out a bit to Leytonstone or Barkingside but Mattie hadn’t liked the idea of being that far away from her family so in the end they’d decided to take their chances with everyone else.

  They both knew the Luftwaffe would be back as soon as the weather allowed them to fly again, so sinking their savings into the house was a bit of a gamble but . . . well, you had to look to the future.

  It also meant that, unlike many other families, and if you ignored the fact they slept in a Morrison shelter in the basement, they had some semblance of normal married life.

  Mattie walked back into the kitchen and Alicia, who was munching her way through a chopped boiled egg and soldiers, looked up.

  ‘Dada,’ she said, kicking her legs excitedly.

  ‘He’ll be down soon, sweetie,’ Mattie replied, setting the milk on the table next to the teapot.

  She went to the cooker and gave the porridge a stir. Satisfied that it hadn’t stuck to the bottom, Mattie was just about to reach for a bowl when Daniel strolled in, with the morning newspaper under his arm.

  Mattie’s heart did a little double step. Even now, after eighteen months of married life, the sight of him sent her pulse racing.

  A little over six foot with dark hair and eyes, a blunt chin and a broad athletic frame, Daniel looked more like a matinee idol than one of the country’s top undercover operatives.

  Thanks to his mother who came from the Alsace region of France, who their daughter was named for, he spoke French like a native and German like a Frenchman, which was why he was the man in charge of liaising with the resistance cells in Normandy.

  Seeing her father, Alicia jigged in her highchair.

  ‘How’s my best girl this morning?’ he said, crossing the room in two strides.

  She offered him a well-chewed piece of her toast by way of reply.

  Skilfully avoiding getting butter and jam on his shirt, Daniel kissed his daughter on her dark curls.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But you eat it as I think Mummy’s made me breakfast.’

  He sat down next to his daughter as Mattie set a bowl of porridge in front of him.

  ‘Is there an egg this morning?’ he asked, looking up at her.

  ‘You’re in luck,’ she replied, enjoying the smell of his freshly applied aftershave drifting up. ‘Gran got me half a dozen from the market yesterday.’

  ‘Your gran!’ Daniel’s well-formed mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘She’d find ice in a desert.’

  Leaving him to skim through the headlines while eating his oats, Mattie went to the larder to fetch eggs and her bowl containing their weekly fat ration.

  Scraping off a sliver of lard with a knife, she plopped it in the frying pan, lit the gas and within seconds the block of white fat had melted.

  Taking the egg from the carton she cracked it on the side of the pan but as she dropped it into the sizzling lard and watched it slide into the fat, her stomach heaved. Mattie put her hand to her mouth and swallowed. She glanced at Daniel who was busy playing a finger game with his daughter, and let out a sigh of relief.

  Telling her rebellious stomach to behave, Mattie retrieved her husband’s toast from the grill. She put it on a plate, scraped butter across it then flipped the cooked egg on to it. Turning off the boiling fat before the smell could reach her nose, Mattie picked up the plate and carried it to the breakfast table. Placing it in front of her husband, she sat on the chair opposite him and picked up the teapot.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, indicating the front page of The Times.

  ‘The usual,’ Daniel replied. ‘Labour MPs are asking that the conscription powers be extended to cover property, which their Tory counterparts are calling communism by the back door. The government have given the Finns until midnight to stop fighting the Russians or Britain will declare war on them.’

  ‘Who aren’t we at war with?’ asked Mattie, holding her daughter’s Peter Rabbit beaker to her lips so she could drink her milk.

  ‘Well, not the Americans, thankfully,’ said Daniel. ‘Although they’re going to have to get
off the fence soon as the talks between them and the Japanese have broken down and there are reports that the Japanese fleet have been sighted off south-east Indo-China. Oh and they’re still showing that Arthur Askey film, I Thank You.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you fancy it?’

  Mattie pulled a face.

  ‘No, me neither,’ he replied. ‘But the new John Wayne looks pretty decent.’

  Mattie laughed. ‘So when do you have time to go to the flicks?’

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘I suppose that was Lennox phoning,’ she said, as she refilled his cup.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Daniel, spearing a square of yolk-covered toast with his fork. ‘A bit of a problem with one of the contacts in France.’

  ‘And he wants you to sort it out,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Got it in one.’ He gave her an apologetic look. ‘It might be another long day if we can’t raise him.’

  Picking up her cup Mattie raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, there is a war on.’

  ‘Are you going around to your mum’s later?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I was going to,’ Mattie replied. ‘But I want to finish my piece on turning shirt collars and cuffs and get it in the lunchtime post. We’re around there for tea tomorrow anyway and besides, Jo said you could cut the atmosphere with a knife so she’s volunteered for extra shifts at the ambulance station to keep out of the way. She’s upset too because she was hoping Mum could talk Dad into letting her and Tommy bring the wedding forward, but she’s got no chance if they’re not speaking to each other.’

  ‘Poor Jo,’ said Daniel. ‘Although I can’t understand why your dad won’t let them get married. After all, Tom’s a good chap.’

  Stretching forward on her highchair Alicia caught her father’s hand.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a dad and daughter thing,’ said Mattie, watching Daniel struggling to continue with his breakfast with one hand.

  They exchanged a fond look then he glanced down at the empty table in front of her.

  He frowned. ‘Aren’t you having anything?’

  ‘I’m not hungry at the moment,’ she replied. ‘I’ll have something later when I’ve got washed and dressed.’

  The telephone in the hall rang.

  Putting down his tea and freeing himself from his daughter’s grip, Daniel stood up.

  ‘Stay put,’ he said. ‘It’s bound to be for me.’ And he left the room.

  Listening to the muffled sound of her husband’s deep voice in the hall, Mattie raised the cup to her lips and took a sip.

  What with feeling queasy and having missed two monthlies now, she was pretty certain she was pregnant again, but they had been disappointed before so, as Daniel had enough on his plate at the moment, she’d decided to wait until her next period was due in another few weeks before giving him the good news.

  The low hum of male voices in the Catholic Club bar drifted over Jerimiah’s head without making a dent on his consciousness. It was hardly surprising, really, given his brain had so many thoughts crashing against his skull.

  It had been a dismal cloudy day but just before the blackout started at five thirty the wind had picked up so now the sky above was clear, which would no doubt herald a night of bombing. On a clear crisp winter night the Luftwaffe pilots only had to follow the moon’s reflection off the Thames to find their targets. For this reason, Ida had gathered Billy early and headed off to the shelter, via Stella’s, an hour ago.

  It was still an hour before he had to report for duty, which is why he was enjoying a pint, dressed in his Home Guard uniform with his rifle propped up against the bar beside him.

  The room on the first floor of the Catholic Club had the usual couple of dozen customers leaning against the bar or dotted around the tables. Many, like Jerimiah, were dressed in their khaki or navy Civil Defence uniforms and were either on their way to a night duty or on their way home having completed their day’s shift at their air raid shelter or plane spotter posts. There were even a few regulars amongst them who were home on leave.

  Pete was, as ever, behind the bar serving beer and good cheer.

  He’d served Jerimiah his usual Guinness but after assuring each other that their respective families were well, Pete had left him to his beer and his disquieting thoughts of how Mattie, Cathy and Jo might react to the news that they had a half-brother.

  Picking up his half-drunk pint Jerimiah swallowed another mouthful of the dark liquid, enjoying the bitterness at the back of his throat. He was just in the process of taking a second when the bar door opened and Jo’s fiancé strolled in.

  He’d have to say, if someone had told him a year ago that he’d have allowed Tommy Sweete, kid brother of the notorious gang leader Reggie Sweete, to become engaged to Jo, he would have laughed in their face. Reggie, who was in Wakefield doing twenty years for manslaughter, was a bad lot and no mistake but, credit where credit’s due, Tommy was cut from a very different cloth. He was also one of those rare fellas who had a head for figuring out numbers and puzzles and so was in the signals regiment stationed in Bletchley.

  Spotting Jerimiah at the bar, Tommy walked over.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Brogan,’ he said, as he reached Jerimiah.

  ‘And to yourself, Tommy,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Can I get you another?’ Tommy asked, indicating Jerimiah’s glass.

  ‘No, but if you were to top it up with a half, I’d thank you.’

  Jerimiah finished off the last of his drink as Tommy signalled the barman over and gave their orders.

  ‘Well, it’s grand to see you,’ said Jerimiah. ‘But I’m a mite surprised as I thought you weren’t back until Christmas.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to be but I’ve been sent to do a bit of liaison with our post at Hendon,’ Tommy replied. ‘It’s me and two of my team and we’re billeted in a hotel near Euston. It’s a bit scruffy but the landlady’s a good sort and there is a war on.’

  ‘So they tell me,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Tommy grinned. ‘I haven’t told Jo so I’m going to surprise her at the end of her shift.’

  Their drinks arrived, and Tommy offered Pete a few coppers.

  ‘Put it on my slate,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Ta very much,’ said Tommy, pocketing his money.

  ‘I’ve had a good week,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Taking his pint, Tommy took a long swallow. ‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘I’ve been dreaming of that.’

  Jerimiah gave him an amused look. ‘Don’t they have beer in the mess where you are?’

  ‘They do,’ Tommy replied, ‘and some local brew that knocks your head off, but there’s nothing so good as being back on your own patch with a pint in your hand, so thanks.’ He took another mouthful. ‘Jo said you’ve branched out into removals and second-hand furniture.’

  ‘Needs must,’ said Jerimiah. ‘I’d never have kept food on the table if I hadn’t, but if I’d known I’d be in such demand, I’d have done it a year back.’

  ‘Jo said you’re doing well for yourself,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I could say the same about yourself, lad,’ Jerimiah replied, indicating the single chevron on Tommy’s upper arm.

  Tommy grinned. ‘Yep, I’m aiming to make sergeant by next Christmas.’

  Jerimiah took suitably impressed.

  Picking up his pint Tommy took a long draught. ‘Actually, Mr Brogan,’ he said at last, ‘it’s about me making lance corporal that I dropped by to have a few words.’

  Jerimiah waited as Tommy took another drink.

  ‘It’s about me and Jo,’ Tommy went on.

  Jerimiah frowned. ‘What about you and Jo?’

  Alarm flashed across Tommy’s face. ‘Oh, nothing like that, Mr Brogan,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s about bringing the wedding forward a year. Jo had a word with her mum and so I thought perhaps Mrs Brogan might have mentioned it to you.’

  ‘She said you and Jo were talking about some such,’ Jerimiah replied.

  Tommy cl
eared his throat. ‘I know you said we had to wait until Jo was twenty at least but, well . . . I’m being transferred to London in the New Year and as she’s nineteen soon—’

  ‘In four months,’ corrected Jerimiah.

  ‘And I have almost seventy pounds in the bank, which is enough for a deposit on a house in Bethnal Green or Bow,’ continued Tommy, ‘and with my promotion I’ll have enough to support myself and Jo, if not in luxury then at least in comfort, so I . . . that is we were wondering if you’d consider agreeing to us getting married the week after Whitsun in May.’

  ‘Were you now?’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘Yes, we were,’ said Tommy firmly. ‘After all, Cathy was eighteen when she got married.’

  ‘I know, lad,’ he said wearily. ‘But I’ve weightier matters on my mind at present which are requiring my attention so—’

  ‘All I ask is that you think about it, Mr Brogan,’ Tommy cut in, looking Jerimiah square in the eye. ‘I love Jo and she loves me and we want to face whatever the war and life throw at us together; we want to face life holding fast together as man and wife.’

  Jerimiah held the younger man’s gaze for a second then he nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Tommy’s shoulders relaxed a notch. ‘Thank you, Mr Brogan.’ He finished the last of his beer and glanced at his watch. ‘I ought to get my skates on.’

  ‘Will we see the two of you later?’ asked Jerimiah.

  ‘Er . . . no There’s . . . a . . . a nice restaurant around the corner from the hotel so I thought I’d treat Jo to supper,’ he said, looking innocently at Jerimiah. ‘Thanks again, Mr Brogan.’

  Leaving his empty glass on the counter, Tommy strolled back across the bar and out through the door.

  Jerimiah watched the door swing back and forth a couple of times then raised his glass to his lips.

  Holding fast together as man and wife, he thought as the creamy foam slid over his tongue. That’s how he would have described him and Ida just a few short weeks ago but now, although he was relieved that Ida had agreed to care for Michael, he wondered if the lad would forever stand between them.