The way she looked at him — a bit mournfully, he thought — took all the fun out of his lying.
He eyed her squarely. “Thin’s are different, Gran. They just are. And we need to do what we need to do to keep goin’. And I’m almost grown now.”
“No, you’re still a boy, and providing for you is my job.”
Charlie’s defiant look melted into an even grimmer one. “I ain’t been a boy for a long while now, Gran. And I can leave school when I turn fourteen next year.”
“No, Charlie, education is too important. You need to stay in school, luv.”
“We need to eat too,” he replied. “And if the war keeps goin’, I can join up.”
“They can’t conscript till you’re eighteen,” she countered, her expression full of dread.
“They didn’t have to make Dad go, did they?” retorted Charlie, making Gran’s lips quiver. “And I hear boys are fakin’ their ages. They carry the rifle at seventeen, maybe sixteen. Bet we’re still fightin’ the Germans when I’m sixteen.”
“No, Charlie. Pray to God the war’s over long before then. There’ll be nothing left of us. And you’re all I do have left.”
His expression softened and he touched her hand. “See here, Gran, the Yanks have got the Jerries on the run, ain’t they?”
“Yes. The Americans.” Her look did not seem to hold the same positive view of their chief ally as Charlie clearly did. “Well, your packed lunch is in the tin in the box, because I know they don’t feed you enough at that school though they say they do. But you’re getting the third of a pint of milk every day, aren’t you, Charlie? They’re supposed to give you that.”
“Absolutely, Gran. It’s quite delicious.”
“Good, good. Now, there’s some dried fruit, and a bit of marge and bread for your breakfast, and a cup of cereal with the powdered milk. And there’s a little of the tinned sausage meat. Use the salt so it doesn’t taste so foul.”
“Yes, Gran.”
“Our new ration books just came in. And the pink books’ coupons look very nice indeed. There’re things we can sell or trade off to folks.”
“That’s good.”
She frowned. “The butcher says a rabbit for Christmas, but he won’t look me in the eye when he says it. I might have to start breeding my own.”
“The Savoy’s got chickens. I seen ’em.”
“I heard they had a farm outside of London where they keep their fowl, but I didn’t know they kept them at the hotel, too.” She shot him a sudden suspicious look. “Eh, what were you doing at the Savoy? You’ve no business in the West End. Like crossing a border. It’s not a good place for our kind.”
Charlie didn’t miss a beat. “We took a school trip there.”
Her doubting look deepened. “Is that where those extra eggs came from? You said I miscounted.”
He stared resolutely back at her. “That would be nickin’, Gran.”
“Hmmm.” Her expression changed. “Do you know they dance at the Savoy while the bombs drop? Got some kind of reinforced basement or what not.” She suddenly smiled proudly. “But East Enders went there for lunch once and then opened their coats and showed off their ‘Ration the Rich’ shirts. Now that’s the proper spirit. Boo-hoo to those money-bag blokes. Churchill goes there right regularly, I’ve read, so of course they get all they want. And movie stars stay there too. John Wayne, Frank Sinatra. And Clark Gable! Oh, what I would give to meet Clark Gable,” she tittered, turning a bit pink before focusing back on her grandson.
“If only I could have a proper garden, Charlie. We’d have cabbages and runner beans and peas. You could pop cherry tomatoes right in your mouth. Sweet and filling, they are. Had ’em once when I went out to the country on a visit with your granddad. Here we just got the allotments and they’re always taken. You’ll die of old age before you get one, much less me.”
“Tell me about before the war. Sometimes I forget, Gran.”
This was a little ritual of theirs, and Charlie reckoned it did as much good for Gran remembering as it did for him hearing it.
She smiled warmly. “Shops full and vendors in between with their wheeled carts with lemonade, and sandwiches, Charlie. And the muffin man with the tray on his head. And the Indian toffee fella. And the okey-pokey gent with ice cream in the summer and chestnuts in the winter. And the pie and mash shops. You could smell the scent of fish and chips from here clear down to the Thames.”
Charlie’s belly gave such a rumble that Gran looked guilty. “Well, no need to speak of what we don’t have. The past is past. But our lot gets the dregs. You know what dregs are?”
He shook his head.
“Well, they’re nothing much, I can tell you that. Now, I would imagine there are those who manage to get whatever they want in this city. I don’t begrudge the likes of Churchill anything because the man needs to be at his best.” She added huffily, “Although Winnie did tell us that the German bombs would never reach London, didn’t he?” Her features softened. “Well, he was no doubt trying to build up our stiff upper lips, eh? But they say rationing is equal? Don’t you believe it. Got to register our ration books at just a few shops, limits what we can get, don’t it? But others drive their fancy motors and eat at the Dorchester and go to the country for ‘weekends’ like there’s no bloody war going on. I hope they feel some guilt in their hearts, though I don’t hold out much hope for that. Now, you have a good day, luv, and fill up that head with knowledge at school. And no more lice.”
She kissed him again and lumbered from the flat to catch her bus.
Memories on the Wall
Charlie lay in his box staring at the small patch of mildewed ceiling. Part of him felt bad for lying to his grandmother. The other part believed that she knew he was lying, so somehow that eased the deception. His gran had grown up poor in the East End, which made Charlie think that she had indeed been familiar with the workhouse howl. But she was exceptionally bright and had read many books and educated herself, Charlie’s mum had told him.
“She should have been a teacher or a nurse,” she had told her son.
“How come she weren’t, then?” he’d asked his mother once.
“Sometimes it has nothing to do with you and what you can do, and everything to do with where you’re from, Charlie.”
“That ain’t fair.”
“No, son, it’s not.” She had tousled his hair and added, “And maybe the likes of you can change that one day.”
Charlie had since learned that the sorts of jobs for women like his gran and mother were few in number and usually involved getting on your knees and scrubbing floors and hearths, cooking and sewing for others, or working in a bakery, greengrocer, or fish shop.
Gran had helped teach Charlie things outside of his schooling, just as she had Charlie’s mother.
Helped me with my elo-cu-tion, he thought with a sudden grin. She had managed, after much work, to resettle his Cockney-subtracted h’s to where they needed to be, but he still had some difficulty corralling his g’s. His speech had gotten so polished that his East End mates had taken to asking him why he was talking so funny!
So what would he buy with his newfound wealth? He needed shoes, of course. But that would not cost anywhere near what he had. His coat was nearly done in and the cold was coming. But he didn’t want to spend the money just on things he needed. He wanted to buy something he actually wanted.