And with that thought she undressed and climbed under the covers.
Not realizing how very wrong about that she was.
A Decision Made
The rain pitter-pattered against the window as Charlie slowly ate his tinned meat along with a small carrot and half a boiled potato. His gran looked over at him as she used the last of the ration butter mixed with margarine and a bit of beef drippings to dab on a chunk of stale bread she’d brought home. She cut it in two and passed the far larger portion to Charlie.
He noted this act of kindness, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He said, “Gran, you needn’t always do that.”
“Young gentlemen need their nourishment, Charlie. Though who could call this a proper meal? They cut the weekly bacon from four to three and the cooking fat by half. I’ve got a full pound of sugar on both our ration books and what do I get? Two ounces. Not enough to make your lips pucker. And your book is due a packet of dried eggs and three ounces of cheese, but the shops don’t have them, do they? Why, it’s been so long since I’ve had a proper bacon butty, I wouldn’t know it if I smelled it. And mind you I haven’t seen an onion at the greengrocers since 1940. And I think I’d faint dead away if I ever laid eyes on a banana or an orange, the latter of which apparently comes from the Yanks, who I don’t consider all that reliable.”
“Yes, Gran.” Charlie heard this diatribe at pretty much every meal.
She then smiled and looked pleased about something. “Now, I’ve saved up enough, and in a week or so, Charlie, we’re going to the canteen at the church hall. A nice meal we’ll have with a pudding and custard after.”
Charlie looked chuffed by this. “That’s amazin’, Gran.”
Her smile broadened. “And later this week I’m picking up a meat pie from the chippie.”
“A meat pie?” repeated Charlie, who thought that life was finally starting to look up.
“From the chippie, yes. Fish and chips used to be just what our kind ate, now the uppity in Kensington and Mayfair eat it, too.” She beamed. “Even saw a photo of the King having a bite of one, off the newspaper and all. But we were ahead of them, Charlie. We knew it was good before they did, right?”
“Right.”
“And the royal family have the same ration books we do. Think about that. Shared sacrifice, it is. Though their digs at the Palace are a bit nicer than ours.” She tittered at her little joke. “Blitz Spirit they call it, though that was years ago; feels more like a century. Blighty Blitz Spirit I call it. But good thing they feed you some at school in addition to your tin. Otherwise I’d be even more worried about you.”
Charlie did not bat an eye. “I get more than I need. It’s very good, too.”
“Why, that’s so fine to hear, Charlie.”
The light sputtered and then went out, casting them into darkness, but neither reacted to that. Gas and electricity had been rationed since 1942 and quite often their building went dark. That’s why Gran kept a torch on the table. She turned it on and they continued their meal.
Two minutes later the power returned and Gran started up again, as though she needed proper lighting to vent her complaints.
“I mean, shelves as empty as if they’d been robbed. It’s a scandal! Why, I had more nourishment from a jar of fish paste when I was your age than I get from a full meal today. Shippams was the paste I liked, but your granddad swore by Bovril. Now let’s hope to heaven they’re feeding the poor soldiers better than this. We’re all doing our bit to fight the Huns, mind you, but for the love of God can’t we have something that tastes good? And if Lord Woolton of the high and mighty Ministry of Food lectures us one more time about how we should be delighted with nibbling carrots like rabbits, well, I might forget I’m a lady and tell that man a thing or two. A right old bust-up we’d have.”
“On the way home from school, I met a girl whose dad works at the Min-stry of Food,” said Charlie.
“A girl whose father works at a ministry goes to your school?” Gran said in disbelief.
“No, I just met her on the way home. She was with her mum. They were... givin’ clothes at the bin shop. ’Cause they got so much extra stuff.”
“Well, it’s so nice to see people giving a toss. I hope you told her so,” said Gran.
“I did, Gran. So I guess the Min-stry of Food is quite big?”
“Oh, ’tis. They also do the rationing books and the ‘cooking programs.’” She rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, like I have time in the middle of the day to motor over to Harrods for a two-hour cooking demonstration on legumes. The nutters! Bloody codswallop if you ask me. And they say one packet of dried eggs comes up to an even dozen of the real thing. Well, maybe it does, but it surely doesn’t taste like eggs to me. And then you got to have something to mix ’em with, Charlie. And well, you mix ’em with powdered milk. Powder this and powder that and what’s in the blooming powder?” She pointed her fork at him. “Did you know that Lord Woolton says sausages must contain at least ten percent meat? Ten percent, Charlie! Well, the question is, what’s the other nine-tenths, eh? Tell me that and you’re smarter than I am, because I haven’t found one ruddy bloke in all of the East End who can answer that.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“Oh, they minister things all right. Paper shuffling and official regulations and lots of tut-tutting. And mind you they have secret warehouses full of food spread all over Britain in case of invasion. Well, the Huns aren’t coming, are they? So I says, give us the food. But no, they won’t do that, will they? If you can muddle that bit out, then Bob’s your uncle.”
Charlie helped her with the few dishes. Afterward, Gran made them two cups of weak loose tea, and they settled in the front room. The fireplace held only woebegone howls of the wind and the idle drips of rain coming through their cracked chimney pot.
“Now, Mr. Abernathy did promise more coal,” Gran said, her tone frustrated. “But I suppose it hasn’t come in yet. And my old bones tell me this coming winter will be a positive corker. Chills already set in, least with me, but I’m old as Methuselah.”
Off this remark Charlie produced two lumps of coal from his pockets.
“Where on earth?” she began when she saw them. “Charlie!”
Charlie set about to turn the lumps to heat in their small fireplace opening. “Fell off a lorry,” he explained. “And I was there when they did.”
“Didn’t the driver want them back?”
“Bloke didn’t notice. I yelled and yelled but he must’a been deaf or somethin’. Lot of that goin’ round what with the bombs and all.”
Charlie had actually stolen the lumps after using his metal tool to defeat a lock on a door where the coal was stored. The two pieces were all that would fit in his pockets. He breathed life into the small flames with a pair of bellows and his gran drew closer to the hearth.
“Damp gets in your bones, don’it, Charlie?”
He rubbed his hands together near the bluish flames. Their chimney flue had never worked properly, but he didn’t mind the smoke collecting around the room and settling over him, though it did make him hungry. Well, just about everything made him hungry.
“I... found somethin’ the other day, Gran.”
She put down her tea, picked up her ball of yarn and needles, and took up working on what would be a winter sweater for him, if the yarn and her rheumatic fingers held out.