Hey love, let me tell you about the two sisters who lived in a cramped flat on a council estate in London back in the war years. Their names were Edith Harper and her younger sister Mabel Harper they were so close in age youd have thought they were twins. Both were thin, wiry, with tightpressed lips and a little tuft of hair on top of their heads. They always wore the same drab grey housecoat that the council gave out, and everyone in the block either hated, feared, or looked down on them.
The other tenants hated them because they were constantly poking their noses into everyones business, always complaining about the noise, the late arrivals, the music blaring from the next door flat. The kids were scared too the older ladies would rush to the superintendent and tattle about any little slipup, like a light left on in the bathroom or a candy wrapper tossed into the hallway.
Then there was Mrs. Gladys Brown, a sweettempered, softspoken woman who was looked down on even more. Shed never gone to university, while the sisters had managed to snag a nightschool diploma, and she had no family of her own. She was infamous for her nitpicking. Still, she never meddled when the boys Billy and Charlie came home late, she just smiled a little, gave a wink, and kept quiet. The kids loved Gladys because she never rat them out to the landlord; shed just grin and shake her head, letting the little rascals get away with a bit of mischief.
The block was always noisy, a chorus of chatter and clatter. Often, Edith the older sister would step out into the hallway, purse her lips, and scold the youngsters: Oi, you cant be shouting like that! Some of us are trying to get some rest. Uncle Pete from the night shift just got back, and Miss Valerie might be writing a story in that flat over there. Shed point to the door where Mabel was indeed scribbling away on a battered notebook.
Everyone laughed at her, especially Mrs. Gladys, who was always the first to join in. Val, when are you going to finish that story? Im getting impatient, I could really use a good read, the old lady would say, bursting into giggles. Mabel would tighten her already thin lips and stay silent, then slip into the room and sob on Ediths shoulder: Ed, why do you keep bringing up the book? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them laugh, Edith would soothe her. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont take it to heart, and dont cry.
Then 1941 rolled around, the war kicked off proper, and by September the Blitz began. The food shortages didnt hit straight away, but the cold did. The council block slowly got used to ration cards, halfempty rooms, the wail of airraid sirens, the lack of smells from kitchens, the pale, gaunt faces of everyone, and an eerie quiet that tore at the soul more than any prewar clamor.
The youngsters stopped strumming guitars, the kids stopped playing hideandseek. It was calm, almost too calm, and that silence gnawed at you deeper than the earlier bustle. Edith and Mabel grew even skinnier, but they still wore their grey coats like a uniform, keeping an eye on order now a different kind of order, the one forced by war.
Gladys only came out when absolutely necessary, and one day she simply disappeared. She never came back. Edith and Mabel searched for her for days, knocking on every door, but she was gone as if shed never existed.
Spring of 42 brought the first death in the flat Tommys mother passed away, leaving the little lad alone. Everyone felt sorry for him, but there was little they could do besides keep moving. The war carried on, and soon the flat took Tommy under its wing. They fed him, looked after him he was just eleven in October. Later, when Vas and Jen lost their mums, their dad was off on the front and no word came back, the two sisters stepped in again, caring for them and, in fact, for most of the children in the block.
Each day the sisters would boil a pot of soup, stirring it for ages, tossing in whatever they could find there was hardly any food left, but the broth turned out richer than anything else around. They fed every kid the same soup at the same time, every day. They called it Rascals Stew.
Mrs. Harper, why Rascals Stew? Tommy asked one evening, remembering how they used to call Billy that nickname.
Ediths eyes welled up; it had been ages since a boys name had been spoken aloud. She answered, Its the Rascals way of cooking! Thats why we call it that.
Whats the Rascals way? the boy wondered.
Its tossing in everything you can find millet, barley, a splash of gluelike broth if youre lucky, maybe a spoonful of tinned meat if the ration card allows. A pinch of sugar, too, Edith said, patting his head, pulling a tiny sugar crystal from her pocket and popping it straight into his mouth so none of it got lost.
Tommy, can you check if Aunt Vera has any glue left? I need to season the stew, he joked.
Soon all the orphaned kids were gathered into the sisters little room. Living together felt warmer, less frightening. They huddled close, and Aunt Vera would tell them bedtime stories from the halffinished book shed been working on for years. The manuscript ended up as firewood, but Vera remembered every tale perfectly and even spun new ones on the spot. The children would beg, Aunt Vera, tell us the story of the SnowCapped Beauty tonight? and shed begin, voice soft and steady.
Everyone had a role. Mrs. Aly (the other old lady) kept things in order. Tommy tended the stove, Vas collected firewood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were sorted, the soup was stirred, and songs were sung each morning with Jen leading the chorus. Sing along, even if you cant carry a tune, just hum with us, shed say.
One day Edith brought a girl from the street, barely clinging to life. She nursed her back to health. Then Vera found another boy, and another, and another By the end of the blockade, twelve children were living in their small flat, all of them alive. It seemed a miracle.
After the war, they kept making Rascals Stew. The kids grew up, scattered across the country, but they never forgot Aunt Aly and Aunt Vera. They visited often, helped out, and both women lived nearly to a hundred, each clutching a battered notebook of stories. Vera eventually finished a new book titled My Beloved Block. Every May 9th theyd gather at Alys and Veras place, a big family reunion, watching generations expand with greatgrandchildren arriving.
And you know what the centerpiece of every feast was? You guessed it Rascals Stew. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and a strong spirit, it kept a whole lot of little lives going. Hope you liked the tale. Talk soon!
