A Ration Book Christmas Broadcast E-Book

Jean Fullerton

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Ration Book series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 170

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A Ration Book series short story from the Queen of the East End saga, Jean Fullerton *SHORTLISTED FOR THE LIBERTA BOOKS ROMANTIC NOVEL AWARD 2022* ________ Tune in to love... December, 1944: Grace Meredith, the BBC Outside Broadcasting unit's assistant, is in trouble. She needs to find a family to interview for what could be the last 'Just Ordinary Folk' Christmas programme before the end of the war, pronto. So when she remembers her old friend Francesca Brogan has married into a large and unconventional East End family, her sense of relief is palpable. Thrust into the warm and bustling world of the Brogans - from Ida and Jeremiah, still sweethearts after 30 years of marriage, to their seven children, some married, one still in nappies, and to Queenie, Jeremiah's tealeaf-reading, black-market afficionado mother - Grace feels she's finally going to make her mark at work. Then things take an unexpected twist when she meets Francesca's brother, Giovanni Fabrino of the Royal Engineers. With the Christmas Eve deadline rapidly approaching, now would not be the best time to fall in love. But Gio keeps appearing, and their mutual attraction keeps growing. Can Grace and Gio's Christmas wishes come true - both of them?

Leseprobe

Also by Jean Fullerton

A Ration Book Dream

A Ration Book Christmas

A Ration Book Childhood

A Ration Book Wedding

A Ration Book Daughter

A Ration Book Victory

Short Stories:

A Ration Book Christmas Kiss

Chapter One

Grace Meredith, one of the BBC’s Outside Broadcasting production assistants, re-crossed her slim legs and tugged the hem of her navy skirt back over her knees as the head of her department digested what she’d just told him.

‘What, all seven of them?’ Percival Draper exclaimed. His pale grey eyes filled with panic as they regarded her through his black-rimmed spectacles.

Grace nodded. ‘It seems the youngest boy, Cyril, started with a sore throat last week and now the whole family have it.’

It was just after nine thirty on Monday morning and Grace was sitting at one end of a committee table in the small, wood-panelled meeting room on the third floor of Broadcasting House.

As always, she’d left the flat she shared in Fitzroy Square at seven forty-five, just as the dim-out, which had replaced the blackout in September, finished. She had made the two-mile walk to the BBC’s headquarters alongside not only office workers like herself but also freshly arrived GIs taking in the sights of Little Old London before being shipped across the Channel to join the battle to liberate Europe.

She’d arrived at her desk at the Outside Broadcasting Department at eight thirty and had been gathering the previous week’s recording discs together to return to the sound library in the basement when the girl on the switchboard had put through the call.

It was then her unenviable task to inform the man responsible for some of the BBC’s key Christmas broadcasts that the family they had chosen to feature in their Home Service 1944 Christmas Eve special – for what everyone hoped would be the last wartime Christmas – had all contracted mumps.

‘What about Mrs Naylor’s two sisters?’ asked Harry Murray, producer of the Just Ordinary Folk programme and Grace’s immediate boss, sitting to her right. ‘Perhaps we could switch to them. After all, they have a couple of children each so—’

‘They have the mumps, too.’ Grace tucked a stray light-red curl back behind her ears. ‘It seems they all went to a party together two weeks ago, so I’m afraid it really is the whole family.’

Looking like a pair of landed guppies, the two men sat motionless for a moment, then Mr Draper sprang to his feet and strode towards the tall windows overlooking Langham Place.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he glared at the drab winter morning through the gummed tape criss-crossing the panes of glass for a moment then spun around and marched back.

‘This is a disaster,’ he shouted, raking his fingers through his unruly grey hair. ‘A complete and utter disaster! How could the whole bally lot of them do something so stupid?’

‘I don’t suppose the Naylors are very happy about it either, Mr Draper,’ said Grace. ‘Not two weeks before Christmas.’

Mr Draper gave her a withering look.

‘I don’t suppose they are, but they haven’t got a new series riding on this, have they?’ he replied.

Harry, who was dressed in his usual tweed suit, tattersall shirt and crochet tie, gave him a puzzled look. ‘What series?’

Mr Draper looked sheepish. ‘I didn’t want to say – not until it’s a bit more official – but I’ve put up an idea to the old servants on the sixth floor for a weekly series that visits different places all over the country and asks the people who live there to choose a piece of music.’

‘That sounds interesting,’ said Grace. ‘What’s it going to be called?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Mr Draper replied. ‘Up My Street or Meet the Neighbours or something.’

‘What about Down Your Way?’ suggested Grace.

‘Or perhaps Dead in the Water,’ he snapped back. ‘Because that’s what it will be after this fiasco. And what am I going to tell the Head of the Home Service? Sorry, old bean, but you’ve now got an hour’s slot to fill in just two weeks. Two blooming weeks!’

‘I’m sure we can find something to put in instead,’ said Harry.

‘Like what?’ asked Mr Draper.

‘I don’t know.’ Harry took off his glasses to clean them. ‘But the chaps in the archives must have something. Something about nature, perhaps, or maybe we could repeat one of the lecture series.’

‘What, like Summer Birds who Visit our Shores or the Sunny Countries of the Mediterranean?’ Draper gave him a sour look. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, Just Ordinary Folk will be going out at six p.m. on Christmas Eve! Our listeners will want blazing fires in the grate, a tree with presents beneath it and carol singers. Talks about tropical feathered visitors or the sea lapping sun-kissed Aegean beaches is unlikely to bring them much festive cheer, is it?’

Grace and Harry exchanged looks.

‘I thought not.’ He studied them for a moment then covered his face with his hands. ‘I’ll probably end up in charge of Island Broadcasting in the Outer Hebrides after this,’ he muttered through his fingers. ‘And if that’s not bad enough, after weeks of wrangling, I finally got Donald Pettigrew to agree to head up the show.’

‘Donald Pettigrew is going to be the presenter?’ said Grace, her heart fluttering in her chest.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Draper. ‘And can you imagine the complaints there’ll be from the Light Music Department who wanted the Corporation’s golden boy for their Choirs of the Cathedrals broadcasts?’

Silence fell on the room as the head of Outside Broadcasting stood, shoulders slumped, contemplating the dead-air chasm that had opened at his feet.

‘I know,’ said Grace. ‘Why don’t we just find another family?’

Mr Draper raised his head and stared incredulously at her.

‘Find another family,’ he replied. ‘Find another family! Are you completely mad? It took us three months of interviewing families to find the Naylors. We haven’t got time to scour the country again.’

‘I know,’ said Grace. ‘But what if we found a family right here in London?’

‘Who?’ asked Harry.

Mustering her courage and taking a long inwards breath, she voiced the idea she’d been running over in her mind since she put the receiver down on Mrs Naylor. ‘Do you remember Francesca Fabrino?’

Harry’s heavy features lifted a little. ‘I worked with her when she was the translator for Radio Roma. She transferred to the Children’s Department when the station folded.’

‘I worked with her on Children’s Hour until she left to have her baby, but we’ve kept in touch,’ said Grace. ‘She married into a large East End family: the Brogans. All the young men are in the army, her father-in-law has his own business, her mother-in-law and one sister-in-law are members of the WVS, the other is an ambulance driver, the third teaches English to refugees who’ve escaped the Nazis, and there’s an old granny who sounds quite a character, plus two schoolboys and a baby or two.’

Harry looked hopefully at Mr Draper.

‘I suppose they might do,’ their boss said grudgingly. ‘If we could get it organised in time.’

‘Well, Harry’s got the sound crew on standby already,’ said Grace. ‘And if I visited Francesca tomorrow and then did the preliminary interview the following day, we could squeeze all the other interviews in next week ready to go out on Christmas Eve.’

Mr Draper sucked at his lip for a moment then let out a long breath.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go and see if we can salvage something out of this mess; but I what to see you in my office at nine o’clock on Thursday morning, Miss Meredith, and by then I’ll expect a plan of all the interviews plus the biographies of the family members you’re going to include. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Mr Draper,’ said Grace.

He gave her and Harry a jaundiced look, and then stormed out.

‘Well then,’ said Harry, turning to Grace, ‘you’d better get to it.’

Squaring her shoulders and gathering her notes into the manila folder labelled ‘Christmas Broadcast’, Grace followed the producer out of the room and made her way back to her office at the far end of the corridor.

Perhaps in trying to substitute the Brogans for the Naylors in four days she might have bitten off more than she could chew, but if Old Draper had secured Dishy Donald Pettigrew as the presenter then she was damn well going to try.

[line #]

Handing over a six-penny piece for her plate of liver, bacon and mash to the cashier, Grace picked up her tray.

Turning away from the people queueing behind her, she looked around the BBC’s first-floor canteen. Like the rest of the building, the walls were wood-panelled, with uplights sculpted in the shape of shells placed at regular intervals. The tall windows looked out on to the street, but their stylish appearance was marred by the criss-crossed gummed tape stuck on them. The elegance of the room’s art deco decor was diminished further by the pervading smell of boiled cabbage and fried food coming from the serving counter.

As it was now just after twelve thirty there were people at almost every table, but Grace spotted an empty chair next to a couple of her fellow production assistants and made her way over.

‘So,’ said Mavis Steeple, looking across at her through her wire-rimmed spectacles, ‘did old Draper go for it?’

‘He did,’ Grace replied, putting her tray on the table.

‘Well done, you,’ said Anne Wright, who was sitting next to Mavis. ‘Did he shout?’

Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean you didn’t hear him in your office?’

Her friends laughed.

‘To be honest, I’d be surprised if they didn’t hear him in Alexandra Palace,’ Grace added.

Picking up the water jug, she poured herself a glass and then reached for the salt.

‘Mind you,’ she said, sprinkling it over her potatoes, ‘after spending the last hour going through the questions I’d drafted for the Naylors’ interviews, other than “What is your favourite thing about Christmas?” and “What do you hope for in 1945?”, I’ll have to scrap the lot.’

‘Why?’ asked Anne, her blonde curls bobbing on her forehead as she sawed through a sausage.

‘Because the Naylors live in a village in Surrey while the Brogans live near London Docks. I can hardly ask them about the harvest or the children’s ponies.’ She sighed. ‘Still, I’ve got three days, so once I’ve been to see Francesca tomorrow, I can start rewriting them.’

‘Give her my regards,’ said Mavis.

‘Mine too,’ added Anne. ‘From what she used to say about her in-laws, they sound like a lively bunch. Do you think they’ll agree?’

‘I hope so,’ said Grace, spearing a piece of liver. ‘Otherwise we’re all sunk. But actually, I think the Brogans will be better.’

‘Why?’ asked Mavis.

‘Because if you want to feature “an ordinary family”, I don’t think many of our listeners in cities and factories live like the Naylors, in a five-bedroom detached house with an orchard at the bottom of their garden.’

As Grace scooped up a portion of potato, one of the canteen’s double doors swung open.

There was a collective sigh from Mavis, Anne and almost every other woman in the room as Donald Pettigrew strode into the canteen.

Why wouldn’t they?

Tall, slender and with a sharp navy suit encasing his athletic figure, he made Stewart Granger look like Boris Karloff.

Putting her elbow on the table, Anne rested her cheek on her hand.

As a wave of female adoration rolled towards him, Donald paused for a moment, his gaze skimming the lunchtime crowd. He spotted someone and walked across the tiled refectory, the eyes of every woman in the room following him.

‘How can anyone have such blue eyes?’ wondered Anne. ‘And he’s so handsome.’

‘Isn’t he just?’ Mavis agreed, gazing adoringly at him through her lenses. ‘Don’t you think so, Grace?’

‘Yes, he is,’ she replied, her heart lurching as he smiled at an acquaintance as he passed.

Actually, from the moment she’d first set eyes on him three years ago, Donald Pettigrew had always set Grace’s heart racing.

‘Pity he’s married,’ said Anne.

‘The best ones always are,’ said Mavis. ‘And to some rich debutant.’

Anne glanced over her shoulder.

‘I heard a whisper that it’s not a very happy marriage,’ she said in a low voice.

‘I heard that, too,’ said Grace, finding it incredulous that any woman couldn’t be happy as Mrs Pettigrew.

Anne pulled a face. ‘It must be her fault.’

‘Must be,’ agreed Mavis. ‘In fact, I hear they’re getting a divorce.’

Patting the victory-roll curl above her left ear, Anne cast a yearning look across the canteen.

‘I suppose that means he’ll be on the lookout for another Mrs Pettigrew,’ she said.

Mavis laughed. ‘You’re a bit optimistic, aren’t you?’

Anne looked affronted. ‘Well, you never know. After all, he talks to everyone from the tea lady up.’

‘He does,’ said Mavis. ‘Look how much time he spends with the telephonists, and every time there’s a new secretary he makes a point of popping down to say hello. You don’t see Tommy Handley or the Radio Doctor doing that, do you?’

Anne sighed. ‘I’d give anything to work with him.’

‘Me too,’ agreed Mavis.

‘Actually,’ said Grace, allowing a smug smile to spread across her face, ‘I will be next week.’

Mavis’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. ‘No!’

Anne looked equally incredulous. ‘You’re working with Dishy Donald?’

Grace’s smile widened. ‘I am. Somehow Mr Draper got him to agree to be the interviewer for his Just Ordinary Folk Christmas programme.’

‘You jammy thing,’ said Anne.

‘You’re just so lucky,’ added Mavis.

Putting her elbow on the table, Grace cupped her chin in her hand. Her gaze returned to Donald, who was chatting to a couple of producers in the executive area.

‘I know,’ she sighed, as her heart started fluttering again. ‘I know.’

Chapter Two

Handing her ticket to the collector standing by the barrier, Grace joined the people streaming out of Whitechapel Station on to the main road.

It was Tuesday, the day after her meeting with Mr Draper and Harry, and according to the clock sitting above the classical portico of the London Hospital opposite, it was just coming up to ten thirty.

Adjusting the oversized satchel on her shoulder, Grace stepped out into the frosty December air and looked around.

The station was flanked by shops on either side and there was obviously a market some days of the week: empty barrows were chained to lamp-posts all along the road. Although the stalls weren’t currently in use, the street was still busy, with women pushing prams and van drivers unloading their wares. Grace spotted a newspaper seller by the station entrance setting up his stall ready for the delivery of the lunchtime editions. After asking him for directions to Alf’s Café, Grace turned left and headed along the wide pavement.

The shops were of the usual sort you’d expect to find on any high street, but although the news from Europe was increasingly cheerful there was even less on display by way of presents and decorations than there had been the previous year. There was still the odd luxury item available – a fancy soap or a box of New Berry fruits – but the majority of gifts were practical, such as knitting needles, packets of vegetable seeds or book tokens, as the country’s manufacturing was still geared towards the war effort. However, what the shops lacked in variety they made up for in enthusiasm, as cut-out paper snowflakes were pasted around the edges of every front window apart from the kosher butcher next to Home and Colonial grocers. And since the country had gone from the total darkness of the blackout to the muted glow of the dim-out, strings of fairy lights had reappeared in most windows.

Within a few moments of leaving the newspaper seller, Grace spotted a café on the corner with steamy windows and a mellow light within. A painted sign above the door saying ‘Alf’s’ confirmed that she’d found the right place.

Sidestepping a couple of women pushing prams, Grace headed for the front door and pushed it open, setting off the bell that dangled above. Inside, the unmistakable smell of fried bread and bacon filled the air.

There was a counter running along the right-hand side of the room with a couple of dozen tables arranged by the front and side windows. Behind the counter the black-and-white tiled walls were decorated with old copper pans, ornamental plates and a couple of paintings featuring olive trees and red-tiled buildings, which Grace guessed were of Italian landscapes.

Although it was mid-morning, the place was packed with customers having a late breakfast or their elevenses. Among the various shades of navy, khaki and air-force blue, there were headscarfed women with loaded shopping bags at their feet.

Behind the counter stood a swarthy man in his mid to late forties wearing an apron. He was serving a plate of toast and scrambled eggs to a woman ARP warden, but he looked up as the door closed behind Grace.

‘Morning, miss,’ he said, his long face lifting in a friendly smile. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘That’s very kind of you but, actually, I’m a friend of—’

‘Grace!’

She looked around to see Francesca coming towards her from the door at the back of the café.

Just a little over Grace’s five foot three, with her olive skin, brown hair and dark eyes, Francesca Brogan looked as if she should be stepping out of a Tuscan villa, not the back of an East End café.

‘What a lovely surprise,’ she exclaimed as she embraced Grace. ‘I thought we’d arranged to meet up after Christmas.’

‘We did but, oh, you know, I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by,’ Grace replied.

‘Well, I’m glad you did,’ said Francesca. ‘Come through and we can chat over a cup of tea.’

Grace followed her friend through to the living quarters behind the counter.

The lounge was small but cosy, and the glowing coals in the wrought-iron fireplace warmed the room. Above the fireplace was an over-mantel mirror and arranged in front of it were two easy chairs plus a chaise longue with a tartan blanket draped over it. A blackout curtain covered the back door, and under the window was a continental-looking cabinet with a handful of photographs arranged on top of it.

Sitting on the circular rug in front of the fire was a little boy with dark curly hair. He looked up from the wooden bricks he was playing with as Grace walked in behind his stepmother.

‘Patrick, say hello to Auntie Grace,’ Francesca said.

He waved and Grace waved back.

‘Let me take your coat,’ said Francesca.

Grace unbuttoned her red winter coat.

‘Where’s baby Rosa?’ she asked, handing it to her friend.

‘Upstairs having her morning nap,’ Francesca replied. ‘Now, sit yourself down while I hang this up and then I’ll make us both a nice cuppa. Sugar?’

‘Not for me, thanks,’ Grace replied.

Francesca disappeared back into the café, taking Grace’s coat with her.

Tucking her skirt under her, Grace sat on the chaise lounge and watched Patrick, his brow furrowed with concentration as he balanced an oblong yellow brick on top of a red one.

‘What are you building, Patrick?’ Grace asked.

‘A big castle for my daddy,’ he replied. ‘He’s a brave soldier in the army.’

‘I know,’ said Grace, smiling at the little boy.

‘And he’s going to be here when Father Christmas comes,’ Patrick added.

The door opened and Francesca walked in carrying two mugs in one hand and a Mickey Mouse beaker in the other.

‘Patrick tells me Charlie’s coming home,’ Grace said, as Francesca gave her son his drink.

‘Yes, I got a letter from him saying he’s docking on Monday.’ Francesca sighed. ‘I can hardly wait. It’s been two and a half years since he shipped out and it’ll be the first time he’s seen Rosa.’ She handed Grace her drink. ‘And if Charlie coming home wasn’t enough to have me grinning from ear to ear, my brother’s got leave, too.’

Grace frowned. ‘Your brother?’

‘Yes, Giovanni,’ Francesca said, sitting in the chair opposite. ‘He’s in the Royal Engineers.’