It was not much of a Christmas. Nobody expected it to be. Only Ania was transformed, radiant now with happiness. She had moved into her new billet, where she could see Lukasz whenever he was free. “They are kind and friendly. They invite Lukasz to family dinner on Christmas Day,” she told Joan. “We make plans. We talk about my father. How we might find him when the war is over.”
“I do hope so, Ania,” said Joan.
At home, no one mentioned Mum and Ronnie’s engagement. Luckily, Ronnie was on duty on Christmas Day, so they were spared his presence and spent it quietly together.
On Christmas morning, the whole family attended early service at church, where special prayers were said for servicemen and -women serving abroad and at sea. Then it was time for present-giving.
Mum had found gifts for everyone: two pairs of nylons for Audrey, a special bicycle repair kit for Brian, a beautiful doll wearing an old-fashioned crinoline dress (lovingly made by two old ladies) for Judy, and a pack of watercolour paints and two new brushes for Joan.
The children all had presents for Mum too, mostly purchased in local jumble sales. Mum was especially pleased with Joan’s gift. Joan had painted a picture for her and put it in a nice old gilt frame that she had found in the attic. It was an illustration from Cinderella, of the moment when Cinders runs from the ballroom, leaving her glass slipper behind. Mum hung it in the front room
right away.
Mum had done her best with Christmas dinner too, and they all pitched in to help with the cooking. It was difficult to resist Ronnie’s contributions when they were all so hungry. Even Joan’s resolve weakened when it came to the Christmas pudding and mince pies.
But by far the best occasion of this not-very-festive season came on New Year’s Eve, when the whole family were asked to spend the evening at the Russells’. Ronnie was not invited.
The Russells’ lounge was as warm and welcoming as always, with a good fire and holly and mistletoe everywhere. Mr Russell had opened two good bottles of wine for the grown-ups.
“It’s the last of a case I brought over from France. Just before the war,” he said. “Those were the days… What a long time ago it seems now!”
They all laughed, chatted and gossiped as Mrs Russell handed round some delicious food. Even David, who was usually rather quiet, was in tremendous form. He’s so funny, Joan thought. Meanwhile, Doreen was tactful enough not to show off all the lovely presents she had received.
One of the best things about this family, thought Joan, is that they never rub in how much better off they are than us.
When midnight came, Mr Russell proposed a toast. “To 1941,” he said. “And to peace!”
“To peace!” they all cheered, and raised their glasses.
It was a forlorn hope. The festive atmosphere, such as it was, faded very quickly in January, when the Liverpool Blitz intensified, with devastating damage to buildings and docks, and terrible civilian casualties.
Food shortages were worse than ever and Joan felt hungry all the time. She hated running errands for Mum because of the long queues that formed outside any shop rumoured to have a consignment of fish or meat. Sausages were occasionally on offer, but were filled with some dubious substance that certainly wasn’t pork. And, although it didn’t affect Joan directly, the sight of the pubs closing early, displaying a sign saying, “Sorry, no beer”, was dispiriting to local morale.
But Mum explained that it was the Ministry of Food’s job to see that nobody starved. “Rationing’s awful, but it’s all worked out to keep us healthy, if not well fed. At least we’ve got plenty of fresh vegetables, with everybody digging for victory and all those Land Army girls working flat-out on the farms.”
All the same, the meagre sweet ration involved an agonizing choice between scoffing the lot in one go and then going without for the rest of the month, or eking it out, bit by bit. Joan usually preferred the former.
“At least you’re all growing up with good strong teeth,” said Mum.
Mum like many other self-sacrificing mothers, had long ago declared that she had never really liked chocolate, and divided her rations among the rest of the family.
The post-Christmas gloom was reinforced by headlines in the newspapers and on the radio about the iniquities of the black market. The news reports reeled at the scandal of all kinds of off-ration food being sold at extortionate prices to those who could afford it and were unpatriotic enough to buy it. The stories hinted at corruption in high places: “Not only ‘spivs’ selling illicitly on street corners, but a canker running right through our society, which must be rooted out!”
Joan’s heart sank when she read this, thinking about the old mill, and Ross and Derek’s discovery when they were nosing around there.
“You’ve just got to tell someone about it soon,” she told them when they were next out trundling the handcart. “Even if it does get you in trouble for trespassing.”
“We’re planning just one more trip out there next time there’s an air raid on,” said Ross. “Might even be able to pick up a bit of stuff.”
“You can’t do that! It’d be stealing!” Joan said.
“No one’ll miss it. It’s probably all hot, anyway,” Derek said.
“You ought to tell someone,” Joan repeated.
“Who would we tell?” said Derek. “The police? And have them coming round and asking questions and worrying my mum stiff?”
“Couldn’t you tell a grown-up? Someone you can trust?” said Ania, who had started to help them with the collections.
“Don’t know anyone,” said Ross.
Joan cast about for a suggestion. Ronnie Harper Jones came into her head, but she immediately dismissed it. Things were already complicated enough in that direction. And she would never forget the officious way he had barged into their back room on that terrible evening when he had handed Lukasz over to the Military Police. If it had not been for Mr Russell’s timely intervention, Lukasz would be in a military prison by now.
Then a thought struck her. It was so blindingly obvious that she could not think why it hadn’t come to her before. “What about Mr Russell?” she said. “Couldn’t you get Doreen or David to tell him about the old mill? He was so great about getting Lukasz’s court martial quashed. He’d know what to do.”
“OK. We might think about it,” said Ross, non-committal as ever.
But a few days later, disaster struck.
It was Ross who broke the bad news to Joan.
“Derek’s been in hospital,” he told her.
“What? Is he ill?”
“Nah. He’s got a broken collarbone. Been knocked off his bike. But he’s home again now. I’ve just been to visit him.”
“Where did it happen?”
Ross looked slightly shifty.
“Out by the old mill,” he said. “We bicycled out there again for another look around. Maybe get some stuff. But we never took anything in the end. Too risky, like you said. It was getting dark and we were on our way back, cycling along that narrow track, when a great lorry with no lights came up behind us out of nowhere! Going like hell, really fast. Drove right at us, deliberately trying to run us down. I managed to swerve into the hedge, but it knocked Derek flying and drove on. He hit the ground hard and broke his collarbone.”
“Oh, Ross! That’s terrible!”
“I didn’t get their number plate. I was too busy trying to help Derek. He was really bad, crying with pain and that. I did like they tell you in the first-aid classes – didn’t try to move him, but propped his head up a bit and put my jacket over him. Then I beat it out of there as quick as I could to the call box on the main road, near the end of the track, and rang for an ambulance. They took ages – they’re short-staffed cos of the air raid and that – but they came in the end.”
“Did you tell them that it was a hit-and-run? That someone tried to knock you down on purpose?”
“Nah. We’re keen to keep quiet about it, Derek and me. We’ve agreed we don’t want anything to do with the cops. I told them we were riding without lights and that we never had time to get the lorry’s number plates. So they took the usual statement and told us off – and now with any luck they’ll leave us alone.”
Joan, Ania and Doreen went to visit Derek and took him some of Ronnie’s precious chocolate biscuits, left over from Christmas. They found him remarkably cheerful. One good thing at least had come out of this accident.
“My mum’s stopped going out in the evenings,” he told them. “She’s been staying at home with me since I had this bad shoulder. She cried when she came to see me in hospital and said she felt awful that she wasn’t there when they rang to tell her. Course, this means it’s going to be trickier for Ross and me to get out on our bicycles at night when my shoulder’s better. But it’s nice having her around, cooking my supper and all.”