A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  Mattie shook her head. ‘He’ll have enough to worry about without me adding to it.’

  Queenie didn’t say otherwise.

  Draining the last of her tea, Mattie put her cup down on the floor and Queenie’s gaze flickered on to it.

  ‘And you don’t need to read my tea leaves,’ said Mattie, guessing her thoughts, ‘because I know Daniel will be coming back to me and Alicia.’

  ‘And his little lad,’ said Queenie, faintly sensing her still forming great-grandchild.

  Mattie gave her a long-suffering look. ‘Gran . . . really.’

  ‘Just calling it as the sight shows me,’ said Queenie.

  Her granddaughter rolled her eyes.

  The door opened and Ida, still in her coat and unwrapping her scarf, came in.

  ‘Mattie, I saw it was your pram.’ She saw her daughter’s tear-stained face. ‘Sweetheart, what’s happened?’

  Mattie had just finished retelling her story again by the time Queenie came back in with the next round of tea. She was now sitting in her father’s chair on one side of the fire with Alicia on her lap and Ida sat on the opposite side with Patrick on hers.

  ‘Well, orders is orders,’ said Ida, taking the cup Queenie offered her and placing it on the top of the mantelshelf, out of Patrick’s reach. ‘And it was very thoughtful of him to make sure you both had a night to remember while you’re apart.’

  ‘It was lovely night,’ said Mattie. ‘But Mum, Daniel’s posting wasn’t the only thing I discovered.’

  Closing the door behind her, Stella Brogan yawned and then stretched her eyes to wake herself up.

  She had arrived home only twenty minutes ago, barely enough time to replenish her make-up and change out of her high heels and cocktail dress into something more suitable to walk along Commercial Road to Mafeking Terrace, three streets away.

  Truthfully, she was so tired she reckoned she could have slept even if a hundred-pounder went off on the pillow beside her, but it was gone one o’clock now so she daren’t leave Patrick with Ida much longer. The last thing she wanted was to have her mother-in-law poking her nose in as to why she was late. If she put Patrick in his cot and shut his door so she couldn’t hear him, she should be able to get a couple of hours’ shut-eye before Ida came to collect him.

  She yawned again, and a smug smile spread across her lips. Missing a night’s sleep had been worth it, though. Commander Julian Moncrief of His Majesty’s Navy had been most generous, as the five green pound notes added to the cash box hidden under the pantry’s floorboards testified.

  When Ida had agreed to look after Patrick, Patrick had been just six months old and a grizzly little bugger who woke her most nights, so Stella had been more than happy to dump him on his doting grandmother while she worked in the ball bearing factory and had a laugh with the girls on the assembly line.

  A full week’s work at the factory comprised five twelve-hour shifts but she’d told Ida it was six, so she could have a night to enjoying herself up West. She’d gone with a couple of local friends at first but soon got in with a more sophisticated set and it was after a particularly wild night in some private club somewhere that she’d been offered the job in the BonBon Club. The owner, Tubbs Harris, had seen her potential and offered her seven quid a week on the spot. What with that, tips and the occasional payment to take a serviceman’s mind off the war for an hour or two, she was accumulating a tidy sum.

  She turned the corner of Mafeking Terrace and gazed down the too familiar street at the women on their knees scrubbing a white half-circle on the pavement outside their front door – a sign that the woman of the house was not only a diligent housewife but also respectable.

  Stella’s lips curled up in a sneer. Ha! Who wanted to be respectable when life was so much more fun when you weren’t?

  Ignoring the disapproving looks from the women kneeling on their front steps, Stella shook out her hair, raised her chin and wiggled down the pavement towards her mother-in-law’s house.

  Walking past the front door, she slipped down the side alley. Lifting the latch on the back gate, Stella walked through and into the paved yard behind the house. Of course, letting yourself into a house by the back door was so common but then what else did you expect from a rag-and-bone man’s family?

  Crossing to the door, Stella paused for a moment to stretch the sleep from her eyes – she was supposed to look as if she’d just woken up rather than exhausted after a night partying – and entered the house.

  ‘Only me,’ she called.

  ‘We’re in here,’ her mother-in-law replied from the parlour.

  Giving the kitchen with its rickety table and chairs and dresser full of mismatched crockery a contemptuous glance as she passed, Stella walked through to the family’s main living area.

  If the kitchen was ramshackle then the front room, with its collection of armchairs, dusty books and cheap ornaments from long-forgotten days at the seaside, was positively decrepit but what really brought Stella up short when she walked in was that both Ida and Queenie were in the room.

  Both were sitting in their respective chairs, both had their arms folded across their bosoms and both were wearing a face like they’d been sucking the juice from lemons. Between them, playing with a pile of bricks on the hearth, was her son Patrick, who seeing her walk in, reached up for his grandmother.

  Without taking her hard eyes from Stella, Ida picked him up and settled him on her knee.

  Forcing a friendly expression on her face, Stella smiled at the two women.

  ‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ she said, ‘I didn’t get in until three and forgot to set the alarm.’

  Ida gave her a tight smile. ‘Busy night?’

  Stella nodded. ‘The club was chock-a-block with service personnel and by the time I left I was totally exhausted.’

  ‘I bet you were, Salome,’ said Ida.

  Stella’s heart lurched.

  ‘Who?’ she said, trying to look puzzled.

  ‘The BonBon Club off Charing Cross Road, isn’t it?’ her mother-in-law continued. ‘Where you work?’

  ‘Who told you?’ asked Stella.

  ‘Never mind who told us,’ said Ida. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Of course it’s true,’ Queenie replied. ‘You only have to look at her face to see that.’

  ‘All right,’ said Stella, shaking her hair and giving both women a hateful look. ‘I’m a dancer, what of it?’

  ‘Dancer!’ scoffed Queenie. ‘That’s a fecking posh word for a floozy who takes her clothes off in front of a load of men. Stripper is what everyone else calls it.’ A sweet smile lifted her wrinkled face. ‘Salome,’ she said in a falsetto voice, wriggling her hands around Arab-style. ‘Fresh from the Exotic East! Fresh from giving a sailor a tuppenny one up against a dock wall, more like.’

  Stella glared at the old woman who matched her furious stare.

  ‘How could you?’ asked Ida, pressing her lips on to Patrick’s dark curls. ‘And what do you think Charlie will say when he finds out? God only knows why my boy didn’t see through you from the start.’

  ‘Because her tits stopped him seeing what she was really like,’ said Queenie. ‘Sure aren’t all men fecking eejits when it comes to their cods?’

  ‘Well, you certainly know that, don’t you, Ida?’ Stella replied. ‘After all, everyone knows what Jerimiah’s cods were thinking about with Ellen Gilbert!’

  The colour drained from her mother-in-law’s face but Stella’s enjoyment of it was cut short as Queenie jumped up and stormed across the room. The old woman raised her gnarled hands and before she could stop herself, Stella took a step back.

  ‘Oh, hear me, spirits,’ Queenie warbled in that ridiculous quivery voice she used when she pretended to talk to the socalled other world. ‘Hear my call—’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ snapped Stella.

  Snatching Patrick off Ida’s lap, she grabbed his coat that was lying on the end of his pram.

  ‘I don’t give a shit what
you think,’ she said, bundling her son into his outer clothing. ‘And I don’t care what Charlie thinks neither. We could all be dead and gone this time next week, but in the meantime, I’m not going to sit around worrying about it. I’m going to have some fun and enjoy myself, whether you like it or not, and if you want to collect Patrick and take him to the shelter, you can but if not I’ll find someone else—’

  ‘No, I’ll take him,’ Ida cut in.

  ‘Well then, I’ll have him ready as usual,’ said Stella, plonking her son in the pram.

  She looked at Queenie. ‘And as for you, you mad old woman, they ought to lock you in the barmy farm and throw away the key.’

  Grabbing the handle, she kicked off the brake and then pushed the pram back through into the kitchen.

  ‘Curse you, Stella Miggles,’ Queenie screamed after her. ‘Curse you and may the furies crush your wicked—’

  Stella slammed the door and headed across the flagstones towards the gate but as she opened it, a gust of wind whirled past her and a shiver ran up her spine.

  Queenie’s words started to return to Stella’s mind, but she cut them short. Load of old claptrap, she thought. Pushing her son’s pram out of the yard and down the side alley, she walked home.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE LOW HUM of the people sitting beside their loved ones and talking softly drifted down Charrington Ward and roused Ellen back to consciousness. Realising the pain had lessened, and she was not in heaven yet, she breathed out slowly, relieved the shot the nurse had given her a little while ago had worked.

  Each day it was more difficult to fight the pain, but she suffered it because it gave her one more precious day with Michael.

  There was a faint scraping sound beside her and Ellen raised her eyelids a fraction to see Ida, dressed in her WVS long coat and felt hat, sitting by the side of her bed. She had the latest copy of Woman’s Weekly open at the Christmas recipe page on her lap, but she wasn’t reading it. Instead her chin rested on her chest and her eyes were closed. Ellen wasn’t surprised.

  The air raid siren had gone off at six the night before and the whole area had been bombarded until the sun crested the horizon. Like those sheltering in the reinforced hospital basement, Ellen doubted Ida had had more than a few hours of snatched sleep before heading off to work.

  Ellen opened her eyes fully and her gaze ran slowly over her old friend. A wry smile lifted her lips. Friend! Ida would hardly call her that now. And she was sorry for it, truly she was. She almost wished Jerimiah had married someone else then she would not have had to deceive her dearest friend, but he hadn’t, he had married Ida.

  Even now, with death hovering on her shoulder, Ellen didn’t regret what she’d done. How could she when Jerimiah had released all of her pent-up need for him that night and given her Michael? His son.

  Something clanged further down the ward. Ida jumped and opened her eyes.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she said, pulling herself up straight. ‘Did it work?’

  Ellen looked puzzled.

  ‘The jab the nurse said she gave you just before the visitors’ bell rang,’ Ida explained. ‘She said you’d been in a lot of pain.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ellen. She glanced at the magazine. ‘Planning the Christmas dinner?’

  Ida rolled her eyes. ‘I would if I knew what I’ll be getting from the butcher. All he could get me last year was an ox heart.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve asked him for a turkey.’

  ‘Yes, me and everyone else,’ Ida replied.

  There was a pause and then Ellen spoke again. ‘How was Michael this morning?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Ida. ‘He and Billy have formed their own gang in the shelter and he’s learned all his spellings for the test this morning, but I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he comes in later. I’ve put his name down with Billy’s for next week’s children’s party in the shelter. Dr Robertson from Greenbank surgery is going to be Father Christmas.’

  A lump formed in Ellen’s throat but she swallowed it down.

  ‘Michael will love that,’ she said, forcing a smile.

  ‘And I’ve told Father Mahon you’d like him to visit,’ said Ida.

  Someone further down the ward called out for a nurse and Ida turned to see the cause of the commotion.

  Ellen’s gaze ran over her old friend’s profile and a pang of sadness pressed down on her.

  ‘Thank you, Ida,’ said Ellen.

  Ida shrugged. ‘I’m sure the good father’s happy to come.’

  ‘No, I mean for taking Michael in,’ said Ellen.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t leave him to fend for himself, could I?’ said Ida.

  ‘Some would,’ said Ellen. ‘Especially—’

  ‘Well, not me,’ Ida cut in. ‘Besides, he’s been no trouble.’

  A nurse hurried past them down the middle of the ward. Ida’s gaze followed her for a moment then she looked back at Ellen.

  ‘You’ve done a good job raising him,’ she said, looking straight at Ellen.

  ‘Thanks, Ida.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been easy by yourself,’ her old friend continued.

  Ellen smiled. ‘Is it ever easy raising children?’

  Ida laughed softly. ‘You’re right about that but credit where credit’s due: Michael’s a good lad.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ellen repeated. ‘But it must be a difficult situation having him at home with you and Jer—’

  ‘As I said, he’s been no trouble,’ Ida cut in, her eyes bright as they fixed on Ellen.

  An image of Michael in his school uniform waving her goodbye loomed into Ellen’s mind. It lingered there a moment before an image of him in the same uniform weeping at a graveside replaced it.

  Tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ she sobbed, as the tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Why did I have to be the one who got this bloody cancer? Why is God punishing me?’

  Ida didn’t reply.

  ‘I’ve only got Michael and I was happy with that, watching him take his first steps, tucking him in bed at night. I thought I’d see him grow into a man,’ Ellen continued. ‘See him meet a nice girl some day and get married. But I won’t. All I’ll be to his children is a woman in a fading photo because—’

  Images of what she would never see, never do and never have overwhelmed Ellen and stopped her words. With grief enveloping her, she closed her eyes. Feeling numb, empty and alone, a minute or perhaps ten passed and Ellen’s heart filled with sorrow she couldn’t tell.

  ‘Mrs Gilbert,’ a man’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ whispered Ellen, without opening her eyes.

  ‘I’m Dr Rutherford,’ he continued. ‘If you recall, I spoke to you yesterday.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘As I mentioned then, because of the shortage of beds, we are evacuating our long-stay patients, so we’ve arranged for you to be moved to Brentwood.’

  Ellen’s eyes flew open.

  ‘Brentwood!’ she gasped, staring at the young doctor standing at the foot of her bed. ‘But that’s miles away. My son!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor replied. He gave her a cheery smile. ‘Just until you get back on your feet.’

  ‘But . . . but I need to be with my son,’ Ellen said. ‘Can’t I go home?’

  He pulled a face. ‘You could if you had someone to care for you but at the moment, Mrs Gilbert, you’re really much too frail—’

  ‘It’s all right, Doctor,’ interrupted Ida. ‘I’ll take care of her.’

  The air raid warden at the ARP post in Turner Street was just chalking up the time the blackout started that evening when Ida walked past, having left Ellen’s bedside twenty minutes earlier. She was due on duty at the rest centre at three thirty and should have gone straight there but she had somewhere else to go first.

  Waiting until a couple of army trucks packed with soldiers had rumbled past, Ida crossed the road and hurried down Antho
ny Street.

  Greeting the odd acquaintance and ignoring snide whispers as she went, Ida continued on towards the railway arches. Within minutes she’d turned the corner of Chapman Street and was crossing the road in front of her husband’s yard.

  She paused and then, sending up a quick prayer he would be back from his afternoon rounds, grasped the handle of the small access door and turned it.

  The door opened, and with her heart hammering in her chest, Ida went in.

  Jerimiah was adjusting Samson’s harness, but he looked around as she stepped through the door.

  Pleasure lit his face and Ida’s heart did a little double beat in response.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d be back.’

  ‘Well, back I am, and have you heard the news about the American fleet?’ he asked, leaving his task and strolling towards her.

  ‘Yes, it was on the midday news,’ said Ida. ‘And it’s splashed all over the late papers.’

  ‘And mark my words. We’ll be at war with the Japs too by the end of the day and then the Yanks will declare war on Germany and Italy, joining us in the fight.’

  ‘Well, about bloody time,’ said Ida.

  Jerimiah smiled. ‘I’m sure Churchill said the same thing, especially as it won’t just be spam and powdered egg they’ll be sending us from now on but men and machines.’

  ‘I just keep thinking of those poor lads, though, on the ships,’ said Ida. ‘Because whenever I hear of casualties, I always think of our Charlie.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, giving her a soft look. ‘So do I.’

  Still,’ said Ida, with a sigh, ‘at least we don’t have to worry about standing alone any more.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he replied. ‘But we have to worry about Burma and Singapore because I bet you a pound to a penny that old Tojo has got his beady eyes on our Far East territory.’ He tilted his head. ‘Now, pleased though I am to see you, shouldn’t you be at the rest centre this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m on my way there now,’ she said. ‘But I had to come and tell you first.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘I’ve just come from the hospital and . . .’ She told him what the doctor had said, and what she had offered.