Growing up british
Mother was generous and frugal at the same time. Our home in a British suburb of London was always full of relatives, families and friends. The kettle boiled happily on the stove. The tea was ready for everyone to drink. I was a son of the second world war.
Mother was frugal not only with food but with everything else that was part of daily life. Nothing was wasted. All the precious soap scraps were saved and used in a metal device called a soap guard. What little portion of meat we had was mixed with potatoes to make croquettes. We ate a lot of croquettes. Damn mother father’s socks. He turned the collars of his shirt. We lengthen the hems of our dresses. Mended the sheets. Boiled kitchen towels. We didn’t want anything. Everyone who visited our home brought sadness, joy, or laughter, but my sister Annie and I were loved. A chocolate bar was a pleasure to eat for a period of at least a week. If Annie ate all of hers first, then I gave her a piece of mine. That was how things were.
Father, on the other hand, was simply generous. Our house had a large garden and during the war most of it was devoted to fruits and vegetables. When you walked out the front door, you were faced with a green sea, under which, on the ground, humble potatoes lurked, a mainstay of our diet. Often times, my mother would get quite irritated when she saw prized vegetables that her father had grown to maturity and given them to a stranger she had met at the County Arms.
The County Arms was our local tavern, here most of the men gathered for a pint of bitterness and lots of gossip. For the uninitiated, a public house is a place where people gather to drink alcoholic beverages, chat, eat, play cards or that unique British game of darts.
When the mother was angry, the father laughed, took her in his arms and whispered something in her ear, we never knew what he was saying, but the mother was suddenly all smiles and laughter
My sister Annie was six years old when I came into the world. We get along wonderfully. They all spoiled us.
The mother had a father, a stepmother, three brothers and two sisters. The father had three sisters, a mother, and many friends. They all visited us. Sometimes all at once. They never came empty-handed. I loved Aunt Winnie more. Aunt Winnie always looked so glamorous. His hair was bright red. “Henna,” Annie said knowingly. She brought canned peaches from the mother, drums of bright yellow dehydrated egg, the occasional packet of sugar, coffee and tea, and always some sweets. These candies indicated on the wrappers were just for Annie and me. The mother said Aunt Winnie obtained them from the US Air Force Base, Bushy Park, where she worked. Aunt Winnie was always accompanied by Harold Green. She never came alone. We called him Uncle Harold. Father did not approve of Harold Green. And poor Vivian? he asked his mother “Really Bill, not now, not in front of the children”, he would say. All we knew was that Vivian was Aunt Winnie’s husband.
I clearly remember, even to this day, the great Sunday lunch. It was Grandma Maude’s birthday. Even then, Grandma Maude seemed older to me. She really wasn’t. Mother had been skimping and saving for months for this special occasion. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, and friends crowded into the house and out into the backyard.
Father hoped there would be no air strikes in the area today. The women worked in the kitchen, piles of potatoes and carrots had been peeled, mountains of green beans had been broken. The apples had been heartless, the little worms that inhabited most of them went down the drain.
Annie remembered first. “I think we should feed Blacky and Brownie, before we eat,” he whispered to me. “Good idea” I agreed. Then we approach the father. “Can we have some leftovers for our chickens?” we ask him. Father was silent. This in itself was very unusual. Father was never speechless. Finally he spoke. “Didn’t Mom tell you girls?” I ask. We thought we already knew the answer. We were determined to get him to tell us. He finally did. “The delicious smell that comes out of the oven is of roast chickens.” We look at it in horror! Blacky and Brownie were Sunday lunch. “How could you?” Annie yelled. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “I won’t eat chicken. I won’t. I won’t.” I said stomping my little feet and running up the stairs to my room.
It seemed like hours, when in fact, it was only a matter of minutes, when someone knocked on my bedroom door. It was Grandma Maude. I had buried my face in my pillow so I couldn’t see it. I could smell the smell of lavender. The scent of Grandma Maude. “Mary Elizabeth,” she said in her low, soft voice, “Brownie and Blackie were doing fine in years, you know they were ready, so don’t worry girl.” “Here” I was saving this for you. He spread his hands in the middle of which was the tiniest yellow chick. I smiled. “I’m going to call her” Sunny, “I said. Together we went down the stairs. Annie also had a chick. Everyone was smiling and happy, despite the war.
Annie and I ate everything, including all the chicken that was put on our plates.