In one cramped flat of a massive council block in Manchester lived two elderly women. They were sisters, and if it werent for the obvious gap in their ages one might have taken them for twins. Both were thin, gaunt, with perpetually pursed lips and wisps of white hair perched on their heads. They wore identical drab grey dresses that hung on them like motheaten curtains. The whole building loathed, feared and despised them.
The younger residents hated them for constantly offering remarks and for never seeming satisfied whether it was the loud music, the latenight parties or the lingering shadows of strangers who arrived after curfew. The children kept their distance because the older ladies would whine to the landlords over the slightest slipup, such as a bathroom light left on or a crumpled wrapper in the hallway.
Kindhearted Mrs. Gladys Finch, who had never finished a university degree, despised the sisters for their education, their lack of families and children, and their irritating habit of nagging everyone. Yet she never intervened, never pressed anyone about complaints, and simply ignored the mischievous antics of youngsters like Victor and Stephen when they came home late. That was just how the two old aunts were.
The youngsters loved Mrs. Finch. She never rated them out to the landlord, no matter what they did in her presence. She would flash a sly smile, wink, and keep quiet. The flat was always noisy, full of chatter and clamor.
Often, Eleanor Whitaker, the elder of the two sisters, would step out, purse her lips, and scold the kids:
Cant you keep it down? Someone might be trying to rest. Mr. Peters from the night shift just got back, and perhaps Mrs. Valentina is writing a book in her room, shed say, pointing to the door where her sister Valentina indeed sat with a notebook.
The whole block snickered, and Mrs. Finch, of course, led the chorus.
Val, when will you finish that book? Im tired of waiting! Id love to read it, the old lady would ask, bursting into laughter that the others echoed.
Valentina tightened her thin lips and said nothing, then slipped into the room and wept quietly on her sisters shoulder.
Eleanor, why do you keep reminding them about the book? Theyre already laughing at us, Valentina whispered.
Let them laugh, Eleanor soothed. They mean no harm. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont be upset. Dont cry.
In 1940 war broke out, and by September the city was under siege. Hunger did not arrive at once; at first there was only cold. The council block gradually adjusted to ration coupons, halfempty rooms, the distant wail of airraid sirens, the loss of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of neighbours and an oppressive silence.
The youth stopped strumming guitars, and children no longer played hideandseek. The quiet gnawed at the soul more sharply than the prewar clamor ever had. Eleanor and Valentina grew even thinner, but they still wore their grey dresses, which draped over them like the shawls in a church hall, and they continued to watch over ordernow a different sort of order.
Mrs. Finch only left the flat when absolutely necessary, and one day she vanished completely. She walked away and never returned. Eleanor and Valentina searched for her for days, to no avail. It was as if the kindly old woman had never existed.
In the spring of 1942 the first death struck the block. Mother Thompson passed away, leaving her son, Tom, alone. The other children felt sorry for him, but war left little room for sentiment. Life moved on, and Tom was soon forgotten.
The two sisters did not forget. They took Tom under their wing, feeding him, looking after him. He was only eleven that October. Later, when the mothers of Billy and Jack disappeared, their fathers were at the front and news of them was scarce, the stern Eleanor and the softspoken Valentina became their guardiansguardians of all the blocks orphaned children, of which there were many.
The sisters took turns cooking a single pot of soup each day, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they could find despite the scarcity. The broth was surprisingly delicious and fed every child at the same hour each day. They named it RagOut.
Grandma Eleanor, why call it RagOut? Tom asked, remembering the nickname they once used for a noisy boy named Victor.
A tear slipped down Eleanors cheek; she hadnt seen a living lad in months. She answered, Thomas, we make this soup the ragout wayhence the name. Its a hodgepodge, a bit of this and a pinch of that.
Whats ragout? Tom persisted.
Its a mix of everythingmillet, barley, maybe a scrap of gluelike broth, and if were lucky, a spoonful of tinned meat! Eleanor patted his head, pulled a tiny sugar crystal from her pocket, and popped it into his mouth so no grain was lost in the handtohand exchange.
Tom, go see if Grandma Valentinas got any glue left. I need to finish the ragout, he shouted, and the children laughed.
Soon all the orphaned youngsters were gathered into the sisters room, living together. It felt warmer, less frightening. They huddled together, and Valentina would read a bedtime story from her own unfinished manuscript, a book that had long been destined for the fire. Yet she remembered each tale well and even invented new ones on the spot.
Grandma Val, will you tell us the story of the SnowCrowned Beauty tonight? a child would ask.
I will, Valentina would smile, and begin.
Every child had chores; Mrs. Alice, the other matron, made sure all hands were busy. Tom stoked the stove, Billy collected firewood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were distributed, and the soup was ladled out. Songs were sung each morning, with Jackie leading the chorusjoin in or not, you sang along.
One day Eleanor brought in a girl from the street, neardeath and shivering. She nursed her back to health. Later Valentina rescued another boy, and then another, and another. By the end of the siege twelve children were living in the sisters cramped room, all alivesome miracle, perhaps.
The ragout soup continued to be made even after the war ended. The children grew up, scattered across the country, but never forgot Eleanor and Valentina. They visited often, helped with chores, and the sisters lived on in the block almost to a hundred years old, their storybook finally published under the title My Beloved Council Block.
Every May9th, as long as they breathed, the whole extended family gathered at Eleanors and Valentinas kitchen, a big, happy clan that kept expanding, even as greatgrandchildren were born.
And the main dish on the table? You guessed itRagOut soup. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and the strength of the human spirit. It fed not just bodies but souls, proving that even in the darkest times, compassion can turn a ragged pot into a feast that sustains life. The true lesson is that love and generosity, however thinly spread, are the richest ingredients of all.
