A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Weren’t you always the master of the blarney, Jerimiah Brogan?’ she said.

  Hope flickered beneath the hard lump of unhappiness in his chest as Ida held his gaze for a heartbeat then left the room.

  Leaning forward, Jerimiah rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. Maybe, just maybe, in spite of everything that was now between them, they could find their way back to each other again.

  ‘How are you getting on with your homework, Michael?’ Ellen asked, walking into the lounge carrying a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of jam sandwiches.

  Her son, who was sitting at the table and still wearing his school uniform, looked up from the books spread out in front of him. ‘The arithmetic was easy, but I’m a bit stuck on filling in the capitals of the Empire.’

  It was nearly three thirty in the afternoon the day after Ida had come to see her. Michael had drawn the blackout curtains when he’d come home ten minutes ago so with the coals glowing in the grate and the low-wattage light overhead, Ellen’s living room was both warm and cosy. As Children’s Hour wouldn’t be on the wireless for another hour, Michael had decided to make a start on his homework.

  ‘Do what you can and I’ll help you when I’ve had my tea,’ she replied.

  Michael turned his attention back to his book, the lock of black hair that never would stay where it was put falling over his forehead as he looked down.

  Resisting the urge to reposition it, Ellen put his tea and the plate of sandwiches next to him and took her tea. Settling herself in the armchair, Ellen put her feet up on the fender as her son devoured his afternoon snack.

  The fire crackled and the clock on the mantelshelf ticked off the minutes. Ellen felt her eyelids grow heavy but just as they were fluttering down there was a knock on the door and Michael looked up from his studies.

  ‘It’s open,’ Ellen called, praying it wasn’t Mrs Crompton after her rent.

  Jerimiah stepped in and removed his leather cap. ‘Afternoon, Ellen.’

  A warm glow spread through Ellen. ‘Afternoon, Jerimiah.’

  Jerimiah’s attention shifted to his son. ‘Hello, Michael.’

  ‘Hello,’ Michael replied, twiddling his pencil back and forth.

  ‘You look frozen, Jerimiah,’ said Ellen. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’

  ‘A tea would be most welcome,’ he replied. ‘But not if it’s putting you out at all.’

  ‘I’ve just made one,’ she replied. ‘Make yourself comfortable and I’ll fetch it. Two sugars, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not any more.’ Jerimiah tapped his flat stomach. ‘At my age I have to watch me waistline.’

  Her eyes slid over him, her heart beating a little faster at the sight of his broad chest, long legs and firm features. As if he could sense her feelings, Jerimiah broke from her gaze.

  Tilting his head, he looked at the school atlas on the table. ‘Am I right in thinking that’s geography homework I see?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Farley wants us to list all the capitals of the British Empire by Friday,’ Michael replied, pointing to his exercise book. ‘I have most of them, like India and Burma, they’re easy, but I get the African ones like Togoland and Southern Rhodesia muddled . . .’

  ‘Well now,’ said Jerimiah, pulling out the upright chair next to the boy, ‘let me see if I can be of some assistance.’

  Ellen went into the kitchen and poured another cup of tea. By the time she returned to the lounge, Jerimiah and his son were deep in conversation, their black curls side by side as they studied the atlas.

  ‘One cuppa,’ she said.

  They looked up at her with the same eyes and the same smile and a lump formed in her throat.

  ‘Do you know what, Mum?’ said Michael. ‘Mr Brogan has an encyclopaedia with twenty-nine books in his house.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ellen, as she pictured the bookcase that had always taken pride of place in Ida’s back parlour.

  ‘How come?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Because Mr Brogan and his wife Ida are old friends and before you were born I used to live across the street from them.’

  ‘Have you got children?’ Michael asked.

  ‘That I have,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘Two boys and three girls.’

  Michael sighed. ‘I wish I had brothers and sisters. My dad died when I was a baby.’

  Jerimiah raised his eyes and looked at Ellen.

  Jerimiah ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘I’ll tell you what, Michael, I’m just on my way back to my yard so how do you fancy coming and giving me a hand bedding my horse Samson down for the night in his stable?’

  Michael’s eyes lit up. ‘Can I, Mum? Please.’

  Ellen smiled. ‘I don’t see why not. As long as you’re back by six so we can get to the shelter.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have him back by then,’ said Jerimiah. ‘See if you can find all those capitals before I’ve finished my drink, and we’ll go.’

  Michael’s eyes lit up again. Gripping his pencil firmly, he turned back to his studies.

  Jerimiah’s eyes grew soft as they rested on him for a moment or two then they returned to Ellen.

  ‘So, how have you been?’

  ‘All the better for what Ida told me yesterday.’ She glanced at Michael deep in his studies. ‘Are you going to—’

  ‘Yes I am,’ he replied, then looked down as he drank his tea.

  A sad smile lifted Ellen’s lips as she watched his averted face. He didn’t want to be here with her, she knew that, but she was happy he was.

  They sat in silence while the clock ticked a minute and their son’s pencil scratched across the paper. After a few moments, Michael shut his book and looked up eagerly.

  ‘You done then, lad?’ asked Jerimiah.

  Michael nodded.

  Draining the last of his tea, Jerimiah rose to his feet, his thigh muscles moving effortlessly as they took his weight.

  ‘Well then, get your coat.’

  Jumping down from his chair, Michael dashed to the door and wrenched his duffel coat from the hook.

  Holding the coat open so Michael could get his arms in, Jerimiah opened the door.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ Michael shouted, dashing out.

  ‘Have a nice time,’ she called after him, as her son’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.

  ‘I’ll get him back in good time,’ Jerimiah said as he followed him.

  ‘Bye, Jerimiah,’ said Ellen softly. ‘Lovely to see you.’

  He forced a smile and left.

  Silence descended, bringing desolation in its wake, but Ellen pushed it away and forced happiness to take its place.

  And despite everything she was happy. Happy because not only would Jerimiah take Michael into his family, but he would love him, too. Ellen knew he would. He would love his newly discovered son because Jerimiah was a man who loved. And that’s why she would love him until her last breath.

  Resting his hand gently on his son’s shoulder, Jerimiah guided Michael along the pavement to the lamp-post where he’d left Samson.

  ‘He’s big, isn’t he?’ said Michael, standing by the horse’s head and looking up.

  ‘Sixteen hands.’ Jerimiah patted the beast’s neck affectionately. ‘But as gentle as a lamb.’ Taking the last nugget of that day’s carrot from his pocket, Jerimiah gave it to the boy beside him. ‘Put it on the palm of your hand and hold it out flat.’

  Michael did as instructed and Samson snuffled it up.

  The boy laughed and wiped his hand down his trousers. ‘It tickled.’

  Jerimiah smiled. ‘That’s his whiskers. Tell you what, Michael, instead of sitting on the wagon, why don’t you ride on his back?’

  The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘Can I? Like a cowboy?’

  ‘Sure you can.’ Grasping the lad under the arms, Jerimiah lifted him up. ‘Swing your leg over.’

  Michael did, and Jerimiah lowered him on to the horse’s back. Flicking his ears, Samson turned to see who was astride him and then blew through his
nose.

  ‘He doesn’t mind, does he, Mr Brogan?’ asked Michael, eyeing the horse warily.

  ‘No, he don’t mind,’ said Jerimiah. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll walk beside you.’

  Jerimiah loosened the reins from the lamp-post and, taking it as his signal to head home, Samson stepped off.

  ‘Rest your feet on the shafts and hold on to the clump of hair at his shoulders,’ said Jerimiah, noting that Michael’s ankles already dangled below the wagon’s shafts.

  ‘So,’ said Jerimiah as Samson got into his pace, ‘how’s school been this week?’

  Having recounted coming top in his spelling test and how he’d been picked instead of some other boy for the football team to play Morpeth School the following week, Michael finished by confessing he’d been sent to the headmaster for fighting in the playground. He’d avoided the cane as it was his first offence but he’d had to do a hundred lines instead.

  By the time they’d turned into Chapman Street, Michael was rolling with Samson’s stride like Roy Rogers and Jerimiah was up to date with all the happenings at school. As they reached the yard gates, Michael turned the conversation to other things.

  ‘What are your children called, Mr Brogan?’ he asked, as Jerimiah unfastened the chain and padlock.

  ‘Charles, Matilda, Catherine and Josephine, known as Charlie, Mattie, Cathy and Jo, they are all grown up, and then there’s William, known as Billy, who’s a few months older than you,’ Jerimiah replied.

  ‘Are they named after saints like I am?’ asked Michael.

  ‘My girls are rare treasures, so I named them after empresses,’ he replied, aware that at the moment he and his three ‘rare treasures’ weren’t on the best of terms.

  ‘What about Charlie and Billy?’ asked Michael, as Jerimiah led Samson into the yard.

  ‘I wanted to call Charlie, Charlemagne but Auntie Ida put her foot down and Billy already had his name when we collected him,’ said Jerimiah.

  That wasn’t strictly true. Billy had been listed as ‘male infant 17’ in the workhouse but the matron in charge of the babies, a motherly woman, named all of her charges alphabetically. Had Billy arrived in her care a day earlier he might have been called Victor.

  Michael gave him a quizzical look and Jerimiah gave him a sanitised version of how Billy came into the world, which seemed to satisfy the boy.

  Holding Samson by his halter, Jerimiah manoeuvred the horse so the wagon was flush against the wall, then he lifted Michael down.

  ‘Right now, cowboy,’ he said, setting the lad on his feet. ‘Help me un-tack Samson. I’ll hold the shaft if you undo those big buckles.’

  Michael nodded as Jerimiah gripped the smooth wood and the lad started picking at the leather, a lock of his thick black hair flopping over his brow as he bent to his task.

  Michael released the strap and Samson plodded away towards his stable. Jerimiah lifted the shaft back to rest on top of the wagon.

  ‘Can you fill his trough with some feed while I remove the rest of his tack?’ asked Jerimiah.

  Michael nodded and went to the sack while Jerimiah relieved the horse of the last items of strapping and hung them on the hook. When he came back Michael was stroking the horse’s neck while Samson munched his way through his supper.

  Jerimiah smiled and put his arm around the boy’s slender shoulders. ‘You’ve done a good job there, son,’ he said, feeling the word embed itself in his heart. ‘Let’s sit down and rest a while.’

  He led him over to the bales of hay stacked in front of the office and they sat down, his son’s feet skimming the ground.

  Jerimiah turned to face him. ‘Michael, do you remember much about your dad?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Not much,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t think he liked me, though, because I can’t remember him ever talking to me and the only time I can remember him doing something other than sit by the fire with a glass of beer in his hand was when he got very angry and swiped me around the head. He went to hit me again but Mum stepped in so he hit her instead and called her names then stomped out of the house.’

  Anger flared in Jerimiah’s chest, but he held it in check.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why Mum named me after my granddad, Mum’s dad,’ Michael continued. ‘And she named me after St Boniface instead of me dad; Mum said he was a bishop in the olden days. ’

  ‘He was, in the eighth century. He was martyred. But your mum didn’t name you after him. She named you after me. My second name is Boniface, too, and that’s why she gave it to you, Michael, because,’ Jerimiah drew a breath, ‘you’re really my son.’

  Michael’s eyes opened wide and he stared up at Jerimiah.

  ‘But how, when you’re married to Auntie Ida?’ he asked.

  Jerimiah coughed. ‘I’ll explain all that to you when you get older,’ he replied, shifting his position slightly. ‘All that matters is that you’re my son and no matter what happens I’ll always look after you.’

  He watched as emotions crossed back and forth across his son’s face as he took in the news of his true parentage.

  ‘So, Charlie, Mattie, Cathy, Jo and Billy are . . .?’

  ‘Your brothers and sisters,’ said Jerimiah.

  Joy flooded Michael’s face. ‘I have brothers and sisters!’

  ‘You have,’ laughed Jerimiah, caught up in his son’s happiness. ‘And that’s why your mum came back so we could all get to know each other.’

  Michael jumped down. ‘I’ve got brothers and sisters!’ he repeated, springing up and down on the balls of his feet. ‘I always wanted brothers and sisters, Mr Brogan!’ He stopped bobbing and looked uncertainly at Jerimiah.

  They stared at each other for a heartbeat then Jerimiah smiled, ‘Perhaps “Dad” would be better now.’

  He opened his arms and Michael rushed into them. Hugging his son to him, a lump formed in Jerimiah’s throat as the fatherly love flooded through him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘AND YOUR MUM’S cough is a lot better, Stan,’ said Cathy. ‘The doctor said if her chest is clear when he calls next week she can stop the eucalyptus inhalation.’

  Her husband Stan, sitting on the other side of the wire grille that divided prisoners from their visitors, grunted by way of reply.

  It was the last Thursday in November and she was sitting in the visiting room of Bedford Prison. According to the large-faced clock over the door it was just after two in the afternoon, although it was difficult to know as the windows were set so high that hardly any of the winter sunlight penetrated the gloomy interior.

  The custodial building had been constructed a hundred or so years ago and, like Pentonville and Wandsworth, had separate wings for inmates depending on the severity of their crime. Its large entrance gate was flanked by two mock medieval towers and high brick walls surrounded the buildings and exercise yard within.

  What should have been an hour-and-a-bit journey had in fact taken over two and a half due to a bomb destroying one of the lines out of St Pancras the night before. Having arrived much later than she’d planned, Cathy had then had a damp half an hour walk through the town to the prison.

  She’d arrived three-quarters of an hour earlier and, after being frisked by a miserable-looking prison matron and having Peter’s pushchair all but dismantled to ensure she wasn’t trying to smuggle contraband or a jemmy into the prison, she and a handful of other bedraggled wives and children were led through the echoing stone corridors and into the visiting room.

  Her son, wrapped up to his chin in a crochet blanket, was sitting on her lap chewing on a Bikiepeg while she was trying to have a conversation with Stan. Trying because she reckoned she’d have more chance of getting blood out of the prison stonework.

  Cathy forced a smile and they lapsed into silence.

  As it was only a few weeks to Christmas the visiting room was packed. There were a dozen or so other women sitting either side of her and staring through the criss-crossed grille at their loved ones. At the far end, a couple o
f the children started squabbling, causing a big-boned woman with arms like a wrestler’s to stand up and belt both of them around the head. The fighting siblings lapsed into silence just as one of the babies in the room started grizzling.

  Cathy looked back through the mesh at her husband.

  Stanley had just turned twenty-nine and stood a fag paper below five foot ten.

  After eighteen months in prison, his slender frame had toughened to wiry and even with his hair cropped and wearing the shapeless buff-coloured prison uniform, he was still a handsome chap. Well, he would be if he lost that sulky expression.

  ‘I was surprised how near the prison is to the train station,’ said Cathy, having racked her brains and come up with nothing else.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Stan.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Cathy. ‘Just a short walk.’

  An ugly expression twisted Stan’s mouth. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know, would I? The only place I walk every day is around the poxy exercise yard.’

  ‘Language, Stan, please.’ She looked pointedly at Peter.

  He shot another angry look at her through the wire. ‘I thought you were here to visit not nag.’

  ‘I’m not nagging,’ said Cathy. ‘I just don’t want Peter to pick up bad language now that he’s started talking, that’s all.’

  ‘Talking, is he?’ said Stan, giving his son a disinterested look. ‘Well, I ain’t heard him say a dicky bird since you walked in.’

  ‘He’s just shy, that’s all,’ said Cathy, giving her son a quick hug. ‘He called your mum “nanny” as clear as day yesterday.’

  ‘Has he said “daddy” yet?’ asked Stan.

  ‘No, not yet, but it’ll come,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I don’t see how,’ Stan replied. ‘When he don’t know who I am.’

  ‘Of course he knows who you are,’ Cathy replied. ‘I have your picture next to his bed and I tell him to wave you goodnight. Peter.’ Her son looked up. ‘Give Daddy a wave like we do when you and teddy go to sleep.’

  With the teething peg still in his mouth he looked at her solemnly for a moment then waved at the portly prison warden keeping an eye on proceedings, baton in hand, by the door.