other children which means they’ve lots of cast-offs but we don’t have anything like that.’
That was true. Lily was born in 1931, ten years ago, and all her baby clothes had long since vanished, cannibalised to make something else from the wool and material.
I kept thinking about Kathleen and the man. They had looked very intense in their conversation. The man’s identity still eluded me although the more I thought about it, the more I realised I knew him. It was just before falling asleep that night that I remembered where I had met him – Maddie and Danny’s wedding.
He had been the photographer and a high-class one at that. He had his studio in a posh-looking, stone building at the foot of the Perth Road. He didn’t have a window full of photographs extolling his wares. No, all he had was a well-polished plaque with his name and occupation. He didn’t quite say he was a photographer to the rich but he was very high-class and, whatever it was that he wanted with Kathleen, she was seemingly considering it – at least I thought so judging from the look of concentration on her face.
Now that Rosie was blooming with health, Lily and I were eager to get into our new abode – Maddie and Danny’s flat. Lily was forever speaking about it and I had to warn her, ‘You’re not to keep speaking about it, Lily – especially in front of Rosie as we can’t leave her till Dad gets back.’
The next morning in the shop, Joe was doing his usual commentary on the German Army’s trek into Russia. His face would beam every morning when he read the headlines. ‘Aye, they’ll have to retreat when the winter comes in,’ he said. ‘The Jerries will find it’s no picnic in Moscow.’
Personally, I was growing weary of the war and all the queuing for food and the never-ending problem of making meals with fewer and fewer ingredients. In fact, there had almost been another war at the butcher’s shop that afternoon when one customer had discovered her whole meat ration was used up for that week.
‘How am I supposed to feed my man and three hungry bairns if I’ve no meat coupons left?’ she hollered in front of a dozen women who all agreed with her.
The butcher looked embarrassed but said there was nothing he could do. ‘You’ll just have to make a big vegetable pie with loads of tatties,’ he said. His unhelpful suggestion was met with a dozen scornful remarks.
‘A vegetable pie with no carrots or onions – just neeps and tatties? What kind of a meal is that for a growing family?’
A wee woman at the back came up with a suggestion. ‘I always flavour my chunks of turnip with Bisto and it looks like chunks of steak.’
The butcher looked relieved. ‘There you go, then. What a great tip.’
The customer gave him a withering look and he retreated to the back shop before coming back a moment later with three slices of corned beef.
‘There you are, missus. I’ll let you have this from next week’s coupons and don’t say I’m not good to you.’
Of course everyone in the queue wanted some corned beef as well and, when I left the shop, the butcher looked shell-shocked.
I knew life was difficult for everyone – shopkeepers and customers alike. I was used to hearing snippets of conversation from the women who came into the shop.
‘It’s all right for some folk who get more than their fair share. It’s not coupons that counts but who you know.’
Well, we all knew that was true. A thriving black market existed but, like all illegal things, I often wondered if it suffered from myths and exaggeration. After all, we were always hearing about someone who got an extra bag of sugar or butter or sweeties but it was never anyone we knew. It was always this mythical person – the person who knew all the sources and had the money to buy these illegal items.
Then, at the end of the month, Maddie arrived at the house with great news. ‘Mum was asking at the Red Cross about your dad and the wonderful news is that
That was true. Lily was born in 1931, ten years ago, and all her baby clothes had long since vanished, cannibalised to make something else from the wool and material.
I kept thinking about Kathleen and the man. They had looked very intense in their conversation. The man’s identity still eluded me although the more I thought about it, the more I realised I knew him. It was just before falling asleep that night that I remembered where I had met him – Maddie and Danny’s wedding.
He had been the photographer and a high-class one at that. He had his studio in a posh-looking, stone building at the foot of the Perth Road. He didn’t have a window full of photographs extolling his wares. No, all he had was a well-polished plaque with his name and occupation. He didn’t quite say he was a photographer to the rich but he was very high-class and, whatever it was that he wanted with Kathleen, she was seemingly considering it – at least I thought so judging from the look of concentration on her face.
Now that Rosie was blooming with health, Lily and I were eager to get into our new abode – Maddie and Danny’s flat. Lily was forever speaking about it and I had to warn her, ‘You’re not to keep speaking about it, Lily – especially in front of Rosie as we can’t leave her till Dad gets back.’
The next morning in the shop, Joe was doing his usual commentary on the German Army’s trek into Russia. His face would beam every morning when he read the headlines. ‘Aye, they’ll have to retreat when the winter comes in,’ he said. ‘The Jerries will find it’s no picnic in Moscow.’
Personally, I was growing weary of the war and all the queuing for food and the never-ending problem of making meals with fewer and fewer ingredients. In fact, there had almost been another war at the butcher’s shop that afternoon when one customer had discovered her whole meat ration was used up for that week.
‘How am I supposed to feed my man and three hungry bairns if I’ve no meat coupons left?’ she hollered in front of a dozen women who all agreed with her.
The butcher looked embarrassed but said there was nothing he could do. ‘You’ll just have to make a big vegetable pie with loads of tatties,’ he said. His unhelpful suggestion was met with a dozen scornful remarks.
‘A vegetable pie with no carrots or onions – just neeps and tatties? What kind of a meal is that for a growing family?’
A wee woman at the back came up with a suggestion. ‘I always flavour my chunks of turnip with Bisto and it looks like chunks of steak.’
The butcher looked relieved. ‘There you go, then. What a great tip.’
The customer gave him a withering look and he retreated to the back shop before coming back a moment later with three slices of corned beef.
‘There you are, missus. I’ll let you have this from next week’s coupons and don’t say I’m not good to you.’
Of course everyone in the queue wanted some corned beef as well and, when I left the shop, the butcher looked shell-shocked.
I knew life was difficult for everyone – shopkeepers and customers alike. I was used to hearing snippets of conversation from the women who came into the shop.
‘It’s all right for some folk who get more than their fair share. It’s not coupons that counts but who you know.’
Well, we all knew that was true. A thriving black market existed but, like all illegal things, I often wondered if it suffered from myths and exaggeration. After all, we were always hearing about someone who got an extra bag of sugar or butter or sweeties but it was never anyone we knew. It was always this mythical person – the person who knew all the sources and had the money to buy these illegal items.
Then, at the end of the month, Maddie arrived at the house with great news. ‘Mum was asking at the Red Cross about your dad and the wonderful news is that
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