Gran
G RAN
R IGHT ON SCHEDULE , C HARLIE listened to the dull dings of the battered windup alarm clock followed by the sounds of his grandmother lurching up from her hard mattress. The dings ceased, and her bare feet scuttled across the cold planks until he heard the bathroom door close. A minute after that the toilet gave a pathetic flush. Next the sink water began its feeble run.
She would dress as quickly as she could, having few items from which to choose: basically the one skirt and blouse or the spare, and the old, scruffy shoes, with the low chunk of worn heels, and stockings now so threadbare they were near transparent against her swollen, veiny calves. After that he would hear her trudge a few truncated steps to the small kitchen. The only other space was the front room, which held a chair for her, a wooden stool for Charlie, and a small square of faded Wilton rug. A chipped porcelain shepherd’s lamp with precarious wiring perched on a wobbly table. On the fireplace mantel was a pair of tarnished brass candlesticks, often minus any candles; and then there was the fireplace itself, a blackened brick opening about two feet square, that rarely had anything to do.
On twin pegs hung their respective gas masks. They were two of nearly forty million handed out by a government terrified that the Germans would continue their World War I tradition of deploying mustard and other poison gas, only this time dropped from the sky. used to always carry her mask, but as memories of the Blitz receded, she, like many others, left it behind more often than not. She did carry her ID card, as did Charlie. They had been issued by the National Registry to every person living in all of the United Kingdom, and the Isle of Man. If people were to be blown into unidentifiable pieces, perhaps this bit of paper would survive to tell folks who had perished. Only Charlie couldn’t see how.
After a cup of lukewarm tea and bread with margarine and jam and perhaps a slice of fried Spam, she would be off to her job at a bakery shop one jarring bus ride away from here.
He firmly shut his eyes when she opened his door and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, which she always managed to do despite her rheumatism. She touched his head and then brusquely cuffed him on the ear.
He sat up, annoyed. “Eh, what was that for, ?”
“Wet hair, Charlie,” she exclaimed, looking very cross. “You’ve been out again. Tell me, and no fibs now.”
“Had lice in my hair and ran the tap to get ’em out,” he said defiantly.
“Lice!” she gasped. Her fingers automatically started to search his head. “I best get the Lysol then.”
“It’s okay, . The matron at school give me somethin’.”
He was pleased with this lie, since it not only explained the wet hair but also reinforced the equal untruth about his still attending school.
Her fingers left his hair as she straightened and looked down at him. “You worry me, Charlie. If only I could keep up with you. If only I weren’t so… old !”
“You ain’t so very old, ,” he replied kindly.
“Even if we do win this bloody war, there’s so much out there that can hurt you.”
“I’m strong, .” He made a muscle with his arm.
“If you were fed proper, you’d be stronger still.”
“We’ll get by, , we always do.”
She rubbed absently at her mouth where he knew she’d recently had a tooth out. She didn’t have the shillings necessary for the gas or cocaine used by the dentist to dull the pain. They pulled teeth for free so long as you could endure the trauma of having them forcibly yanked.
“You deserve proper parents, luv.”
Charlie’s still forming Adam’s apple quivered at this unexpected comment. “Well, I ain’t got none, whether I deserve ’em or not.” Before she could reply to that he added, “You’ll be late, . And me too. Workin’ on some mathe-matics at school. Very interestin’.”
She looked him over. “You’re growing ever so tall, Charlie, like your father was, while your mum was such a wee thing.” She eyed the diminutive space. “This cupboard—you need something bigger.”
“Why, it’s more space than I know what to do with, really. And we got a kitchen, and a loo all to ourselves. We’re practically rich.”
“Well, you can thank your granddad for that. Many around here respected him. And we got this flat because of that respect. Your dad’s people lived in Whitechapel with six families to two rooms and no loo. Lord, I don’t know how they did it. Now, you’re quite sure you didn’t go out last night?”
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, . 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, . 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 ’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, , 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, . 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, .”
“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’, .”
“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, .”
This was a little ritual of theirs, and Charlie reckoned it did as much good for 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 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.