Anne Bennett - Keep the Home Fires Burning

Marion couldn’t speak, the lump in her throat was too large, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

Polly stood up, jerked Marion to her feet and put her arms around her. ‘Come here, you silly sod,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be crying on Christmas Day.’

Marion made a valiant effort and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I know I shouldn’t, but it’s made me feel … I don’t really know … Anyway, Happy Christmas, Polly.’

‘And to you,’ Polly said, and her smile seemed to light up her whole face.

Marion thought that although that Christmas was one of the poorest she had ever spent, because of Polly and her kindness she felt suddenly filled with warmth and happiness.

The year turned, though Marion had no great hope that 1940 would be any better than 1939. All they had to look forward to was rationing starting on 8 January.

‘We’ll have to register with a grocer and a butcher,’ Marion told Polly. ‘Everyone gets a ration book, even the nippers.’

‘Well, that’s not that surprising, is it?’ Polly said. ‘I mean, the smallest has to eat.’

‘Well, they won’t get much on the ration,’ Marion said. ‘It’s only bacon, butter and sugar that are rationed so far, but they reckon there’ll soon be plenty more.’

‘Yeah, I think every damned thing will be rationed in the end,’ Polly said. ‘They’re just breaking us in gently. Shall we go down this afternoon and get ourselves sorted?’

‘If you like, but I’ve got to do something first.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got to pawn Bill’s watch,’ Marion said. ‘I hung on to that till the last minute, but I’ve fallen behind with the rent and need more coal.’

‘Do you want me to come?’

Marion shook her head. ‘I must do this on my own,’ she said. ‘I can’t keep relying on you holding my hand all the time.’

‘Well, don’t let yourself get fleeced,’ Polly cautioned. ‘Don’t accept the first offer.’

Marion, though, was too saddened at having to pawn all the things she had treasured so much to argue overly about the value of the watch. She knew the money raised would buy food and coal and pay off her rent, but she was very much aware that she had pawned the last item of value that she possessed apart from her wedding ring. She knew that would be the next thing to disappear and she was filled with depression at the thought of losing that golden band that she had never taken from her finger since Bill had put it there in 1922.

Just a day or so after this, Tony and Jack were once more serving at early morning Mass. Tony felt very miserable because the previous evening meal hadn’t really filled him up and he had gone to bed with his stomach grumbling. And then he had to get up early in the coal black of a winter’s day and go out into the frost-rimed streets with nothing to eat or drink at all because he would be taking Communion. By the time he got to the church, despite his good thick coat, he was cold all through and feeling very sorry for himself.

Jack was already in the vestry when he got there and he took one look at Tony’s glum face and said, ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Nothing,’ Tony growled out. ‘I’m all right.’

‘God, are you really?’ Jack said ironically. His dark eyes sparkled with humour. ‘Hate to see you when you’re not all right, that’s all I can say. You have a face on you that would turn the milk sour.’

‘Oh, shurrup, can’t you?’ Tony cried.

‘Now, boys,’ the priest said, coming in at that moment, ‘what’s all this? I hope you’re not arguing in God’s house.’

‘No, Father,’ the boys said in unison, and the priest, not believing them for an instant, said, ‘Good. Now I have to go out for a while. One of my parishioners is very ill and asking for me and I want you to wait here until my return.’

‘What about school, Father?’

‘You’ll be away in plenty of time to go to school, Jack, never fear.’

But shall we be in time to eat some breakfast, such as it is, before school? Tony thought, but didn’t say anything. Father McIntyre had been a bit sharp with both of them since the business with the holy water font. So the boys waited as the minutes ticked by.

Eventually Jack said, ‘I reckon he’s not coming back. Shall we just go home?’

‘We can’t do that,’ Tony answered. ‘If he comes back and we’re not here, I will get in one heap of trouble.’

‘We’ll get the strap if we’re late for school.’

‘And if I don’t have something to eat soon I’ll fall into a dead heap on the floor,’ Tony said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘I could eat something too,’ Jack said as he began to prowl around the room.

He opened a long cupboard and saw the priest’s vestments hanging there. They were very beautiful, in vibrant colours or stark white, according to the Church calendar, in satin or shiny silk and heavily embossed and decorated with intricate embroidery in gold or silver.

‘My dad said these cost a packet to make,’ Jack said, flicking his finger through them. ‘He said before the war, when people were starving ‘cos there weren’t no jobs or owt, it seemed all wrong to him to see the priests dressed up in these when they came to Mass on Sunday morning. Price of them, he reckoned, would feed ten families for a year.’

Tony didn’t doubt it. ‘Don’t you think you’d better shut the door now, Jack? If Father McIntyre comes back—‘

‘Aren’t you one scaredy-cat, Tony Whittaker?’ Jack said jeeringly. He shut the door, though, but opened the door on the other side. There was the bottle of Communion wine. The bottle had been opened ready to mix with water in the chalice at the Mass. ‘D’you suppose it’s real wine?’ he said, withdrawing it from the cupboard.

‘I don’t know, but put the flipping thing back, Jack, before the pair of us are killed.’

‘Like I said, you’re a scaredy-cat.’

That jibe, issued for the second time in so many minutes, cut Tony to the quick. ‘I ain’t,’ he said, ‘but I just get punished much more than you if we do owt.’

‘Prove you ain’t scared then.’

‘How?’

‘Let’s try some.’

‘You’re barmy.’

‘And you’re scared,’ Jack said. ‘I dare you. I’ll do it first, if you like. He won’t miss a few sips of wine, will he? He has a whole bottle.’

Tony thought that he would show Jack what he was made of and he grabbed the bottle from Jack, put it to his mouth, took a couple of hefty swigs and began spluttering and gasping.

‘Don’t think you’re supposed to neck it like that,’ Jack said. ‘And you have taken an awful lot. He’s sure to notice.’

‘Now who’s scared,’ Tony said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

‘I ain’t scared,’ Jack declared, taking a hefty swig himself.

‘God, Jack, there ain’t that much left. What we going to do?’

‘S all right, we’ll fill it up with water,’ Jack said. ‘He mixes it with water, anyroad, so he won’t even notice.’

‘Come on then.’

‘Not yet. We can have a bit more if we’re going to fill the bottle up anyway. Let’s have some more. It’s good stuff, this, ain’t it?’

Tony had actually never tasted anything so foul, but no way was he going to admit that, and he nodded his head vigorously and put his hand out for the bottle.

When Father McIntyre returned a little later he found two highly intoxicated altar boys in his vestry, and the bottle of Communion wine only a quarter full.

That evening, Marion wrote to Bill.

I told you about the incident with the water pistols, and Pat’s reaction to it. Well, early this morning the boys did something far worse. While they were supposed to be serving at Mass, the priest was called out of the sacristy to deal with something and what did those two rips do but help themselves to the Communion wine. They drank so much that they were unable to serve at the Mass, or do anything else either. The pair were once again marched to our Polly’s. Pat hadn’t left for work and Father McIntyre told him that if he didn’t thrash his son and Tony too, as you are away, then he would do the job himself. So he had to thrash them, for once. Honest to God, Bill, if we’re not careful that son of ours will end up in Winson Green Prison. When you come home I want you to have a stern word with him.