In one of the cramped rooms of a massive wartime council flat lived two perpetual caretakers. They were sisters, and if the age gap hadnt been a decade, you might have guessed they were twins.
Both were thin, wiry, with perpetually pursed lips and the same drab grey jumpsuits that made them look like a pair of standingby firefighters. The whole block adored, feared and despised them in equal measure.
The young residents loathed them for always pointing out flaws and never missing a chance to grumbleabout loud music, latenight parties, or anyone coming home after a pint. The children kept their distance because the elderly ladies were quick to write a complaint to the landlord over the smallest misdemeanours: a light left on in the loo, a discarded candy wrapper in the hallway.
Sweettempered Evelyn Clarke, the wellmeaning neighbour, was the target of everyones scorn. She had no university degree, no husband, no children, and a talent for delivering a lecture at the drop of a hat. Yet she never meddled, never nagged, and simply smiled a conspiratorial wink when the kids mischief or the brothers Tom and Sams late arrivals crossed her path. The sisters didnt mind a bitthey were, after all, the resident watchdogs.
The children adored Evelyn. She never tattled to the landlord, no matter what they were up to. Shed flash a sly grin, give a quick wink, and keep quiet. The flat was perpetually noisy, a chorus of shouts and laughter.
Often, Margaret Maggie Thompson, the older sister, would pop out of the kitchen, purse her lips and chide the youngsters:
Cant you keep it down? Someone might be trying to read a book. Uncle Pete from the night shift is back, and perhaps Mrs. Valentine is penning her memoirs! Shed point to the door where Valerie Val Harper, her younger sister, was indeed hunched over a notebook.
Everyone snickered. Evelyn, of course, led the chorus of giggles.
Val, when will you finish that novel? Im getting sore just waiting to read it! the old lady would croak, bursting into laughter. The whole flat echoed with her mirth.
Val would purse her already thin lips, remain silent, then slip into the room and sob on her sisters shoulder.
Maggie, why tell them about the book? Theyre already having a laugh at us, she sniffed.
Let them laugh, Maggie soothed. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont be upset. Dont cry.
Then September rolled around and the Blitz began. The airraid sirens wailed, the ration cards arrived, and the smell of fresh cooking vanished from the communal kitchen. The flat settled into a new rhythm: cardlinked meals, halfempty rooms, the occasional mournful wail of a distant bomber, and pale, gaunt faces peering through curtained windows.
The youngsters stopped strumming guitars, the kids abandoned hideandseek. A heavy silence fell, louder than any prewar racket. Maggie and Val grew even leaner, still clad in their grey uniforms that hung on them like spare overalls, now watching over a different kind of order.
Evelyn only left when absolutely necessary. One day she vanished altogether. She slipped out and never returned. Maggie and Val scoured the corridors for days, but the kind soul was simply gone.
In spring 1942 the first death hit the block. Toms mother passed away, leaving the lad utterly alone. The flat felt a pang of pity, but war was war. Soon after, the sisters took Tom under their wing, feeding him and watching over himhe was just eleven in October. Later, Billy and Joe lost their mothers, their father was off fighting and the letters stopped coming. Again, Maggie and Val stepped in, not just for those two but for every child in the building, of which there were dozens.
Each day, the sisters boiled a single pot of soup, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they could find in the dwindling pantry. The result was a surprisingly tasty broth that fed all the youngsters at the same hour, every day. They christened it Rascal Stew.
Mum, why Rascal? I remember you calling Tommy that, Tom asked one evening, puzzled by the name.
When his voice mentioned Tommy, Vals eyes welled upno boy had lived in the flat for six monthsbut she answered calmly:
Arthur! We call it Rascal Stew because we throw in everything, just like a rascal would. Thats why its called so.
What do you mean, like a rascal? Tom wondered.
Well, we toss in millet, barley, maybe a scrap of gluelike starch if were lucky, and if fortune smiles, a spoonful of tinned meat! Val patted his head, slipped a tiny sugar crystal from her pocket into his mouth so none was lost in the handtohand transfer.
Tom, could you check if Aunt Val is still gluing the soup? I need to season my Rascal, he teased, and the flat burst into chuckles.
Soon, every orphaned child was ushered into their room. They lived together, warm and less frightening. They huddled close, and Val would read a bedtime story from her halffinished manuscript. The book never made it to the fire, but Val remembered each tale and even spun new ones on the spot. The kids demanded:
Aunt Val, will you tell us the tale of the SnowCapped Beauty tonight?
I will, Val replied, launching into another yarn.
The children each had chores: Tom stoked the coal stove, Billy gathered firewood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were distributed, and they all helped with the soup. Songs floated each morning, led by Joes croaky tenor, and everyone sang along whether they liked it or not.
One day, Val brought a shivering girl from the street, on the brink of collapse. She nursed her back to health. Then she introduced another boy, and another, and another
By the end of the blockade, the sisters room housed twelve children, all alive. How? Some miracle, perhaps. The Rascal Stew continued to simmer long after the war, feeding the grownup youngsters who later scattered across the country. Yet no one ever forgot Maggie and Val. They remained in that council flat, visited often by their offspring who helped out. Each lived almost to a hundred, their storybooktitled My Beloved Blockstill tucked away, pages filled with anecdotes of grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.
Every 9May, while they were still breathing, the whole extended family gathered at Maggies and Vals doorstep, a big, noisy reunion that grew each year as new generations were born.
And the centerpiece of every feast? You guessed itRascal Stew. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and a dash of indomitable spirit, which kept those childrens lives afloat.
