A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ Ida forced out over the lump clogging her throat.

  Putting his rolled-up cap in his blazer pocket, the boy stepped forward. Holding his arm across his stomach, he bowed. ‘Hello, Auntie Ida. Nice to meet you again.’

  Jerimiah’s hands returned to their resting place and then he expanded his gaze to include the rest of the room.

  ‘Everyone,’ he said, his deep voice reaching every corner of the room, ‘this is Michael.’

  ‘Hello, Michael,’ said Ida’s two daughters sitting on the sofa.

  ‘Where’s Billy?’ asked Jerimiah.

  Billy replied before Ida could by bursting through the door.

  He too was dressed for a Sunday family tea but unlike Michael he was blazerless, his tie was skewed sideways, one sock was at half mast and the front of his shirt had come adrift.

  He stopped in front of Michael and the two boys gave each other the once-over.

  ‘Are you Michael?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Yes. Are you Billy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy. ‘Have you got a train set?’

  ‘No,’ Michael replied.

  ‘Well, I have and it’s a big one,’ Billy replied. ‘The best one in the shop and it cost three quid.’

  ‘I’ve got all the RAF Airfix planes,’ said Michael.

  ‘Perhaps you two can swap notes on your toys when we have tea.’ Jerimiah guided Michael across the room to the sofa. ‘Michael, this is Jo.’

  ‘Hello, Jo,’ the boy said, and she smiled at him.

  ‘And this is Mattie,’ Jerimiah continued.

  ‘Hello, Mattie.’

  She smiled at him and took her daughter’s hand. ‘And this is my little girl Alicia.’

  Michael looked down solemnly at the baby who looked solemnly back up at him.

  A sad look crossed Jerimiah’s face. ‘I have another daughter Cathy but she—’

  ‘Couldn’t be here,’ cut in Ida. ‘Because her mother-in-law is poorly.’

  ‘You’ll meet her another time, Michael,’ said Jerimiah, giving Ida another grateful look. ‘And this,’ he said, turning the boy towards Queenie, ‘Is my ma, your gran.’

  Rising from her chair, Queenie stared at her grandson for a long moment then her wrinkled face lit up with pure joy.

  ‘We’ve already met,’ said Queenie. ‘Hello again, Michael.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Brogan,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Gran will do, I’m thinking,’ said Queenie.

  Michael’s expression matched the old lady’s and he smiled. ‘Hello, Gran.’

  The raw-tooth saw cut deeper into Ida’s heart.

  Wiping a rarely seen tear from her eye, Queenie flung her arms around the unsuspecting lad and dragged him to her.

  Looking bemused, Michael stood awkwardly while she kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair as Billy watched with amusement.

  ‘Did you know I have a parrot?’ she asked the lad as she released him.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Michael, his eye lighting up excitedly.

  ‘It’s a grey one and I feed him if Gran’s not around,’ chipped in Billy. ‘Gran lets him out sometimes and he flies around.’

  Michael’s eyes opened even wider. ‘Can I see him flying?’

  ‘Perhaps after tea,’ said Ida. ‘We don’t want him shi—’ She caught Queenie’s amused expression. ‘Making a mess on the tea.’

  ‘And what a tea,’ said Jerimiah, a little over jollily. ‘Auntie Ida’s put on a grand spread for us, hasn’t she, Michael?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Thank you, Auntie Ida,’ he said, looking artlessly across at her.

  Ida forced a smile. ‘That’s all right, Michael. Why don’t you tuck in?’

  Billy started forward, but Ida checked him with a look.

  ‘There’s fish paste or liver sausage,’ said Mattie, standing up and going to the table.

  ‘And ginger cake to follow,’ Queenie added.

  Jerimiah handed the boy a plate. ‘Why don’t you take what you fancy, Michael? And then sit on the pouffe between the girls and your gran.’

  ‘I’ll go and make the tea, then,’ said Ida.

  Leaving the family choosing their sandwiches, Ida fled to the kitchen. Without pausing she relit the gas under the kettle she’d boiled half an hour before and while it came back to the boil she spooned tea into the pot.

  The kettle started whistling. Taking it off the heat, Ida made the tea and returned to the parlour just as Queenie finished telling them yet again about Kinsale, the small port south of Cork where her family originated from.

  Putting a bright smile on her face, Ida walked in.

  ‘Who’s for tea, then?’ she asked, holding up the teapot.

  ‘Everyone, I’d say,’ Jerimiah replied, giving her his usual easy-going, relaxed smile now. ‘How many sugars, Michael?’

  ‘Two please,’ the boy replied. His eyes shifted to the shelves of grey books with gold lettering on them. ‘Is that the encyclopaedia you were telling me about, Dad?’

  Dad!

  The word burst over Ida, taking the breath from her lungs and sending her head spinning as her mind shouted it over and over again in her head.

  Although she’d known in her head that Jerimiah was Michael’s father for over six weeks, hearing the boy call him dad had suddenly burnt the knowledge into her heart. And it hurt. It hurt like hell.

  ‘Mum,’ someone said from afar.

  The floor started to shift but Ida pushed the sensation aside. She blinked and found Mattie standing in front of her, looking worried.

  ‘You’re spilling the tea, Mum,’ she said, glancing down at the pot Ida was holding.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ida, somehow managing to keep her voice even. She shifted her attention past her eldest daughter on to Michael standing quietly behind her. ‘How many sugars did you say, Michael?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘STAND STILL WHILE I do your hair,’ said Ellen, dipping the comb in her son’s washing water and running it through his dark curls again.

  ‘But, Mum,’ he said, bobbing on the balls of his toes, ‘the latest copy of Boy’s Own is out today and if I don’t get to Feldman’s soon they’ll all go.’

  It was just after eight in the morning and the BBC news announcer was informing the country of Germany’s struggle to advance on Rostov.

  It was the first Monday in December and they had left the shelter just after the all-clear had sounded at six. When they’d returned home, the embers in the grate had still been glowing so Ellen had added fresh coals and the replenished fire had soon taken the chill off the room. While Michael had splashed about like a puppy in a puddle getting himself washed and dressed for school, Ellen had cooked him his fried bread and egg, which he’d bolted down in two minutes flat along with his cup of sugary tea.

  ‘There you are,’ said Ellen, cocking her head to the side and admiring her son. ‘All ready for school. Gather your books together while I fetch your sandwiches.’

  Grabbing his satchel from the back of the chair as he passed, Michael scooped his buff-coloured exercise books out from amongst his annuals and comics, crammed them into the bag and buckled the flap. He returned just as Ellen was folding down the edges of the paper bag. Placing her son’s mid-morning snack in the OXO tin, she handed it to him.

  ‘There you are,’ she said.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’

  ‘Fish paste.’

  Michael pulled a face.

  ‘It’ll keep you going until the end of the morning.’ Ellen ruffled his hair. ‘But make sure you eat all your dinn—’ She gasped.

  Alarm shot across her son’s face. ‘Mum!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, taking slow breaths so as not to aggravate the sawing pain under her rib.

  ‘Do you want your medicine?’ he asked, his anxious eyes searching her face.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it just caught me unawares, that’s all. Now come on, my lad,’ she said, forcing a cheery smile. ‘You’d better get y
our skates on if you want to get there before the bell goes.’

  Shoving his lunch tin in his satchel, Michael slung it over his shoulder and then, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, dashed to the door.

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ he called over his shoulder as he tore out. ‘See you tonight.’

  Before Ellen could answer, the pain cut into her again. Holding her side, she focused on the lamp overhead and breathed slowly, hoping the agony would fade. It didn’t. In fact, if anything the movement of her ribcage made it worse.

  Curling into the pain that was now slicing through the left side of her body, she staggered over to the sideboard. In truth, she’d already taken a spoonful of the painkiller not an hour before and shouldn’t really have another until midday, but she needed to do something. Leaning on the solid wooden cabinet to steady herself, Ellen poured out half the measure of morphine and swallowed it down.

  Putting the bottle down, she took a couple of deep breaths then staggered back to her chair. Flopping in it, she closed her eyes and listened to the early-morning sounds: the letterbox rattling and empty bottles chinking together in the crate as the milkman passed on his way back to the dairy.

  There was a knock at the front door and Ellen heard Mrs Crompton, the landlady, open the door downstairs. As the faint melody of Music While You Work from next door’s wireless drifted through the wall, Ellen smiled and embraced unconsciousness.

  Searing pain brought her back to the here and now, dispelling the warm drowsiness of oblivion in an instant. She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, but the sun was now high enough to have crested the house opposite, so she guessed it must be about ten or so. Feeling as if she was being torn apart from the inside out, Ellen cried out in pain. Gripping her side, she tried to sit up in the chair but the torturous sensation in her side bit deeper and she flopped back, fighting for breath.

  She was dying. She knew it. She wished Michael was here with her but better perhaps that he wasn’t. No ten-year-old child should have to watch his parent depart this life.

  No. Although all her love and joy in this world was centred around her darling son, Ellen was glad he wasn’t with her now.

  The agony speared her again, causing sweat to spring out on her forehead. She tasted blood and realised she’d bitten through her lower lip. If only she could ease this pain a little, she could prepare herself properly to meet her maker.

  Her gaze drifted to the bottle of medicine still sitting uncorked on the sideboard. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the arms of the chair again but her legs wouldn’t support her so she shuffled forward and slid on to the floor. Now on all fours, Ellen waited until the blackness threatening to engulf her mind receded a little, then she crawled, inch by inch, towards the sideboard.

  With the pain in her side throbbing mercilessly, Ellen’s fingers felt the rough planks of the waxed floorboards as she crept across the room. Finally, she reached her goal but as she tried to rise up, pain swept over her, causing black spots to crowd into her vison. From what seemed like a long way away, Ellen heard the front door being opened again and footsteps on the stairs.

  There was a knock. Hope flared in Ellen’s chest. Forcing the blackness in her head aside, she tried to call out, but nothing came.

  There was a second knock.

  She had to answer. Stretching up, Ellen curled her hand around the edge of the open cutlery drawer but as she pulled on it to rise, it shot out. Ellen screamed as the drawer crashed to the floor, scattering knives and forks across the room.

  Exhausted, she crumpled on to the floor, her cheek resting on the colourful strands of the rag rug in front of the hearth.

  Gazing across the dusty floorboards, and with the agony in her side overwhelming her mind, Ellen waited for the angels to come and take her soul to heaven.

  The door opened but instead of seeing a white robe and a pair of golden sandals, the last thing Ellen saw before oblivion overtook her was a pair of slender legs in lisle stockings and a pair of stout brown lace-up shoes as Ida Brogan stepped into the room.

  *

  Taking the last mouthful of her tea, Ida put the cup back in the saucer balanced in the palm of her hand and placed it on the bedside locker next to the hospital bed.

  As it was now nearly midday the half a dozen nurses, dressed in the London Hospital’s distinctive uniform of lilac pinstriped dress and lacy cap, had finished their morning tasks and had already set the central table for dinner. Now, half of them were pinning up paper chains at the windows while the rest were dressing the artificial Christmas tree with stars made from pipe cleaners.

  The staff nurse in charge that morning, who was doing her last check of the ward before the dinner trolley arrived, stopped at the bottom of the bed. She walked to the bottle of blood hanging upside down on the stand by Ellen’s head. She checked the rubber tubing dangling beneath and examined the needle in the back of Ellen’s left hand. She then went back to the end of the bed and took a pen from under the bib of her pristine starched apron.

  ‘Mrs Gilbert looks a bit better?’ she said, unhooking the clipboard at the end of the bed and jotting something down.

  ‘She does,’ Ida agreed.

  Although she still looked like she was two breaths away from being a corpse, Ellen did look ten times better than she had when Ida found her collapsed on the floor.

  ‘Did Dr Muir speak to you?’ asked the nurse.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ida. ‘He came by just after the porters brought Mrs Gilbert back from theatre.’

  The nurse glanced at her upside-down fob watch. ‘She went down at eleven, so she should be awake soon.’ She raised her head. ‘She’s a lucky woman. If you hadn’t found her, well . . .’ She let the sentence hang unfinished. ‘I’m on duty until six so if you need anything just get one of the student nurses to fetch me. I’m Nurse Sullivan.’

  ‘I will,’ said Ida.

  Picking up Ida’s empty cup, Nurse Sullivan continued on her way.

  Leaning back in her chair, Ida recrossed her legs and then turned her attention back to Ellen, who was lying peacefully in the hospital bed. As if she knew she was being watched, Ellen opened her eyes. She gazed around for a second or two and then spotted Ida.

  They looked at each other for a moment then Ellen spoke. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In the London on Charrington Ward,’ Ida replied.

  Panic shot across Ellen’s waxen face. She tried to get up on her elbows but she collapsed back, exhausted.

  ‘Michael!’ she whispered. ‘I have to—’

  ‘Don’t worry about Michael,’ cut in Ida. ‘Your landlady said she’d fetch him from school during the dinner break and bring him up here.’

  Ellen relaxed back and let out a long sigh. ‘Thank you.’

  She shifted and must have felt the crêpe bandage secured tightly around her chest because she put her hand on it.

  ‘The doctor said you’d sprung a leak, which meant your lungs were filling up with blood,’ Ida explained. ‘They drained two pints in theatre before it stopped. The almoner came along while you were under. She said that given that they couldn’t just leave you bleeding there’s a good chance, if you apply to the hospital’s charitable trust, they’ll write off the fee.’

  The double doors swung open and Michael dashed in. Seeing his mother lying in the bed, he ran over and threw himself across her.

  ‘Mum, Mum,’ he mumbled, clinging tightly to her.

  Ellen’s unfettered arm closed around him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered, pressing her lips to his forehead.

  A solitary tear escaped from the corner of Ellen’s right eye and trickled down her cheek as sadness and love mingled together on her face.

  A lump formed itself in Ida’s throat.

  The ward door swung open again and Mrs Crompton walked in. Leaving mother and son clinging to each other, Ida went over to her.

  ‘Thank you for bringing him,’ said Ida.

  ‘S’aright, least I could do given how s
he is,’ said the landlady. ‘But I can’t stay because I have to get my Jim’s dinner.’ She gave Ida a conspiratorial wink. ‘You know what men are like. I told Mrs Deeks from number seven on my way here,’ Mrs Crompton continued, ‘and she said if you can get him back to her by five, she’s happy to take Michael to the shelter with her as usual.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Ida.

  The landlady adjusted the shopping bag on her arm. ‘Well, I’ll be off.’

  She turned to leave but after a couple of steps turned back.

  ‘By the way, I thought it best just to tell Michael ’is mum had taken a tumble.’ She looked past Ida to where Ellen and Michael clung together. ‘Breaks your heart, don’t it?’ she said, a sorrowful expression deepening the lines on her face.

  Ida forced a smile but didn’t comment.

  Mrs Crompton left and Ida rejoined Ellen and Michael.

  ‘I was just telling Michael that we are old friends,’ said Ellen, looking beseechingly at Ida.

  Ida paused for a heartbeat then smiled. ‘Yes, we are,’ she said, looking into the boy’s young face that was so much like Jerimiah’s. ‘We used to go dancing together.’

  Michael laughed, and a fond smile lifted the corners of Ellen’s bloodless lips.

  ‘Did you?’ asked Michael, looking incredulously from his mother to Ida and back again.

  ‘Yes, we did,’ said Ellen, pretending to scowl at him.

  The boy laughed again and hugged his mother.

  Holding her son close, Ellen closed her eyes. The bittersweet expression returned to her face for a moment then she looked at Ida.

  ‘Although, Mrs Brogan was always lighter on her feet than me,’ she added softly.

  As Ida held her old friend’s gaze, images of them as girls on a Friday night flashed through her mind. How they’d giggled as they eyed up young fellas, freshly shaved and flush with their weekly wages, lolling against the bar in the Regal. She remembered their wonder at the plush gilt and velvet of the dance hall and how their legs flew and skirts swirled as they’d danced the turkey trot. The smooth sensation of their shoes gliding across the polished dance floor in the tango and then dashing across Stratford Broadway in the rain to catch the last tram home.