You know, I was thinking about that old council block on the outskirts of Manchester where two sisters lived together. They were real sisters, and if you ignored the few years between them youd swear they were twins. Both were thin, wiry, with those perpetual pursed lips and a little tuft of hair on top of their heads. They always wore the same drab grey housecoat, the kind that looked like itd been handed down for generations. Everyone in the building hated, feared, and looked down on them.
The younger lot on the estate couldnt stand them because they were always making remarks, never satisfiedwhether it was the loud music, the latenight parties, or the kids coming home at the witching hour. The little ones were scared too, because the old ladies would constantly tattle to their parents over the tiniest slipup, like leaving the bathroom light on or tossing candy wrappers in the hallway.
Milly Harding, the sweetnatured one, was despised for everything she wasnt: no university degree, no family, no kids, and a habit of pointing out everyones faults. She never bothered anyone, never nagged about the kids mischief or about Vince and Seans late returns. The sisters didnt give a toss they were the sisters, after all.
Milly was actually the kids favourite. She never squealed on anyone; if something went wrong, shed flash a cheeky grin, wink, and keep quiet. The flat was always noisy, constant chatter. Often Agnes Pearson, the older sister, would step out, purse her lips and scold the youngsters:
Hey, you cant be shouting like that! Someone might be trying to rest. Uncle Pete from the factorys just gotten off his shift, maybe someones trying to write a booklook, Vals in there writing, shed say, gesturing toward the door where Violet was indeed scribbling away.
Everyone would snicker, and Milly, of course, was right at the front of the crowd.
Val, when are you going to finish that thing? Im tired of waiting! I could really use a good read, the old lady would blurt out, bursting into laughter. Everyone grabbed onto that.
Violet would tighten her thin lips and stay silent, but once shed slipped into the room shed weep bitterly on her sisters shoulder:
Agnes, why are you always bringing up the book? Theyre already having a laugh at us.
Let them laugh, her sister soothed. Theyre not doing it out of spite. Theyre our neighboursalmost family. Dont take it to heart. No tears.
Then, in 1939, the war broke out, and by September the Blitz had the city under siege. Hunger didnt hit straight away; at first there was still a bit of warmth. The block slowly got used to the new realityration cards, halfempty rooms, the constant wail of sirens, the lack of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of everyone, and an eerie hush.
The youngsters stopped strumming guitars, the kids stopped playing hideandseek. It was quiet, and that silence cut deeper than the prewar clamor ever did. Agnes and Violet grew even thinner, still in their grey coats that hung on them like a shroud, still keeping orderjust a different kind of order now.
Milly only left the flat when she absolutely had to, and one day she just vanished. She slipped out and never came back. The sisters searched for her for days, but she was gone as if shed never existed.
Spring of 42 brought the first death in the block. Toms mother passed away, leaving the lad all alone. Everyone felt sorry for the boy, but there was war. Life went on and Tom was soon forgotten. The sisters didnt forget, though. They took him under their wing, fed him, looked after himhed just turned eleven in October. Later, Billy and Jack lost their mothers too. Their dad was at the front, no word from him. The prim and proper Agnes and Violet became their guardians, and not just for them they looked after all the children in the block, which was a lot.
Each day, the sisters boiled a single pot of soup, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they could find. The pantry was empty, yet the broth turned out richer than anything anyone had tasted before. They fed all the kids the same soup at the same time every day and called it Mischief Stew.
Grandma Agnes, why Mischief Stew? Tom asked one evening, puzzled by the name.
When his name surfaced, a tear escaped Agness eyeshe hadnt seen a boy alive in six months. She answered gently:
Its called that because we throw everything inmillet, barley, maybe a scrap of glue for thickening, and if were lucky, a spoonful of tinned meat! She patted his head, pulled a tiny crumb of sugar from her pocket, plucked off a piece and popped it straight into his mouth so none was lost.
Tom, go see if Grandma Vals got any glue left. I need to finish the Mischief, she joked.
Soon all the orphaned kids were gathered into their little room, living together. It felt warmer, less scary. They huddled together, and Val would read bedtime stories from her unfinished manuscript, which had long since been relegated to the fire. Still, Val remembered every tale shed ever written and even spun new ones on the spot. The children would beg:
Grandma Val, tell us the story of the Snowcapped Beauty today?
Ill tell you, shed begin, and the room would hush.
Everyone had chores. Grandma Agnes kept a tight watch. Tom fed the stove, Billy gathered firewood, Jack prepared kindling. The girls fetched water, rationed the cards, helped with the soup. They sang each morning, with Jack leading the choruswhether you liked it or not, you had to join in.
One day Agnes brought in a girl from the street, on the brink of death. She nursed her back. Later Val found another boy, and then another, and another By the end of the blockade, twelve children were living in the sisters room. They all survivedmiracle, Id say.
Even after the war, they kept making Mischief Stew. The kids grew up, scattered across the country, but never forgot Agnes and Val. They lived out their days in that same council block, visited often by their grownup children, who helped out. Both women stretched out to nearly a hundred years, still clutching that battered storybook. Val penned a new collection of tales about all her grandchildren, calling it My Beloved Block.
Every 9May theyd all gather at Agness and Vals place while they were still alive, a big, happy family that kept growinggreatgrandchildren started to appear too. And you know what the main dish was at those gatherings? You guessed itMischief Stew. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and a strong spirit, keeping those little lives alive.
