Linda – I’ll have to see how I am when I’m up, won’t I? If it’s too much I promise I’ll go back to bed, but I’m bored bloody solid, and it’s too much trouble and cost to have a fire in the living room and the bedroom.’
‘It ain’t no trouble, Mom, honest,’ Linda protested. ‘The bedroom would be like an ice box without a fire. Dr Sanders said you had to keep warm.’
‘I know, but today I’ll get up and sit by the fire downstairs for a bit, all right?’
‘OK,’ Linda conceded. ‘I’ll make us both a cuppa, eh?’
Patty’s face still looked pasty-white, Linda thought, but at least she wasn’t coughing quite so much any more. She knew what had given her the chest infection; it was that trip to the Bull Ring the previous Saturday to buy her some new shoes. Her mom had already been full of cold. Their good neighbour and friend Beattie Latimer had told her to leave it a while, for the day had been wild, squally and cold, not a day to be going anywhere, but Patty said Linda could wait no longer for shoes. And she couldn’t really. Her summer sandals hurt her toes, they were so small and her pumps didn’t keep her feet warm or dry, despite the cardboard Linda put inside them.
Still, they didn’t have to go as far as town to buy shoes and Linda guessed her mom wanted a gander at the Bull Ring after the bombing raids on it in late August. She did herself, and when Patty had told Beattie not to fuss, it was just a cold, she’d believed her.
They’d had a great day, for much as she loved her two little brothers, George and Harry, Linda enjoyed having her mother to herself at times. And Beattie, despite her disapproval, agreed to mind the two little ones so that they could go together.
They’d both been shocked by the devastation. They’d read about it, of course, and seen pictures in the Evening Mail and the Despatch, but seeing pictures and hearing about it was one thing; being there was quite another. Much of the rubble from inside the shops on the bottom end of High Street down towards the Bull Ring had been cleared over the past weeks and the empty shells of the shops leaned drunkenly one against the other.
At first, the Bull Ring itself had seemed much the same as ever. The bag lady was still there chanting, ‘’andy carriers,’ as she had for as long as Linda could remember, and opposite to her was the man selling Alcazar razor blades. There didn’t seem quite so many barrows though, and the fish stalls were severely depleted. ‘I heard tell they were going to start selling whale meat,’ Patty said. ‘But I can’t see any sign of it.’
‘Ugh,’ Linda had said in disgust. ‘Don’t you go buying any of that.’
‘Now, now. You ain’t never tasted it, so how can you say that,’ Patty had admonished. ‘Any road, you might be glad of it before we’re finished, with all this rationing.’
Linda had doubted she’d ever be that desperate, but wisely didn’t argue further.
She’d always loved the buzz and clamour of the Bull Ring, the mingled smells of the goods on offer, and the chatter and hubbub of the crowds, mixed with the cries of the vendors shouting their wares. Hawkers had been spread about Nelson’s Column, their wares laid out in suitcases with lookout boys on the corners in case any rozzers came that way. Linda knew you had to watch what you bought from hawkers. She’d heard of a woman who’d bought a watch from them for five bob. When she couldn’t get it to go, she took it to a watch repairers, who took the back off and found there was nothing inside. ‘Daft ’aporth she must have been,’ Beattie snorted when she’d told the tale. ‘I’m sure I’d make certain the bloody thing worked before I’d hand over five bob.’
Linda was sure she would too, but she had felt sorry for Thelma Grimshaw, the mother of her best friend Carole, who had once bought a pair of silk stockings at a bargain price from a hawker, only to find there was no foot in one of them! But still, that day the hawkers had been doing a brisk trade. It was mainly black-market stuff and there’d been clusters of people around them, seeing what they had to sell.
The fruit and veg stalls no longer had the array of stuff they’d had before the war. There were no bananas or oranges, just a few piles of mangy-looking apples, some rock-hard pears and small bunches of grapes. There were plenty of potatoes and onions, carrots and swedes and some tired-looking lettuces and small tomatoes, but little else.
However the sight of the Market Hall had taken Linda’s breath away for a moment or two. Open to the sky, it was still a fine old building, and the old lags were still there on the steps with their trays of bootlaces and matches and hair grips. Linda and Patty went up the steps to gaze at it and saw that the people had begun returning. They’d been sheltered from the elements by canvas awnings, the Market Hall had been cleaned up and was now back in business.
Linda remembered Beattie telling them all about it just after the bombs had landed. ‘Bleeding animals running all over the place,’ she had said. ‘God it must have been a sight.’
Linda had felt sorry for the frightened creatures. A visit to Pimm’s Pet Shop was always one of the highlights of any trip to the Bull Ring when she’d been younger. The shop had a wide variety of animals – hamsters, guinea pigs and rabbits, together with adorable kittens or boisterous puppies that nipped playfully with their sharp little teeth. Then there were the birds; she used to spend ages standing in front of the budgies trying to get them to talk. The canaries, she recalled, always sang so beautifully, and occasionally there’d even be a parrot or a mynah bird.
There were no pets now, and the clock the children and many adults had been fascinated by was also gone. There were fewer flower-sellers than before the war, Linda noticed. This came as no surprise. Everyone was digging up their lawns and gardens now to grow vegetables. They had been urged to ‘Dig for Victory’.
She herself couldn’t ever remember having flowers in the house, or growing in the garden. Patty had told her that her father had tended the garden nicely before he got too sick, they’d had vegetables in the back and flowers in the front, and he’d often cut a bunch and bring them into the house for his wife. But eventually he’d grown too ill to see to the garden and Bert Latimer came to mow the lawns. The vegetables and flowers went to seed and died; Ted Prosser, her second husband, never had any interest in it. Linda remembered Patty’s sad face as she’d said that, and she thought if ever she had any spare money, she’d buy a bunch of flowers to cheer her up.
As she followed behind Patty, she saw Jimmy Jesus taking his place by St Martin’s Church. ‘Look, Mom!’
‘He’s early today,’ Patty remarked. ‘Must have plenty to say.’
They’d stood a minute to listen to the old down-and-out with the long white hair and beard that had given him his name. ‘Though your souls be as black as pitch, if you repent of your sinful ways, your soul can be washed cleaner than the whitest snow by the blood of the lamb,’ Jimmy began.
A few hecklers shouted at him from the crowd, but Jimmy Jesus took no notice and opened up his Bible. ‘Oh, Gawd blimey, come on, chuck,’ Patty had urged. ‘I ain’t in the mood for a bloody sermon today.’
Linda followed her mother as she made her way towards the Rag Market, but sneaked a look back at Jimmy Jesus as she went. He’d always fascinated her; though she couldn’t understand all he said, she liked the sound of his voice which was surprisingly gentle and without an accent of any kind.
The Rag Market was used as a fish market through the week and the reek of fish was still there; Linda wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she knew as well as anyone that this was where the bargains were to be found. Sure enough, after a little bit of
