Hey love, let me tell you about the two old aunts who lived together in that cramped council block on the outskirts of Manchester. They were sisters Edith and Margaret and if you didnt know their ages, youd swear they were twins. Both were skinny, gaunt, with thin lips that were always pursed, and they kept their hair pulled back in tight buns. They always wore the same drab grey overalls, the kind you get when you work a night shift in the laundry. Everyone in the block either hated them, feared them or looked down on them.
The younger folks hated them because the aunts were forever making snide comments, never seemed happy with a thing the music blasting late at night, the parties, the kids coming back after curfew. The kids were scared too, because the older ladies would go straight to the landlord and complain about the smallest slipup: a light left on in the bathroom or a candy wrapper left in the hallway.
Then there was sweet, goodnatured Nancy, who the aunts despised for everything her lack of a degree (the sisters both had one), her childless state, and her habit of nagging. Nancy never meddled, never pestered anyone about complaints, and she just ignored the kids mischief and the late arrivals of Tom and Harry. That was fine for the sisters they were, well, the kind of people who liked things their way.
The kids actually liked Nancy. She never snitched on them, no matter what they did. Shed just give a sly smile, a wink, and keep quiet. The flat was always noisy, full of chatter. Often, Mrs. Edith, the older sister, would step out, purse her lips and scold the youngsters:
Hey, cant you keep it down? Someone might be trying to rest. Mr. Pete from the night shift just got back, and maybe Miss Valentine is trying to finish her novel! shed say, pointing at the door where her sister Margaret was indeed scribbling away.
Everyone laughed at her, and Nancy, of course, was always a step ahead.
Val, when are you going to finish that book? Im tired of waiting! I cant wait to read it, the old lady would chortle, and the whole block would echo with giggles. Margaret would just tighten her thin lips, say nothing, then slip into the room and sob on her sisters shoulder.
Ed, why do you keep bringing up the book? Theyre already giving us a hard time, shed sniff.
Let them laugh, Edith would soothe. They dont mean any harm. Theyre our neighbours almost like family. Dont be upset, dont cry.
Then the war broke out in 39, and by September the siege began. The hunger didnt hit straight away; at first it was just the cold. The council block slowly got used to the new reality ration coupons, halfempty rooms, funeral processions, the wail of airraid sirens, the lack of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of everyone, and a heavy silence.
The youths stopped strumming guitars, the kids stopped playing hideandseek. It was quiet and eerie, and that silence cut deeper than any prewar racket ever did. Edith and Margaret grew even skinnier, but they still wore their grey overalls, hanging on them like a coat on a hook, and they kept watch over the flat just a different kind of watch now.
Nancy only came out when absolutely necessary, and one day she just vanished. She walked out and never came back. Edith and Margaret searched for her for days on end, but she was gone, as if shed never existed.
In the spring of 42, the first death hit the block. Tommys mother passed away, leaving the lad all alone. Everyone felt sorry for the little boy, but there was nothing they could do war, you know? Soon after, the aunts took him under their wing, fed him, looked after him. Hed just turned eleven in October. Later, when Billy and Jacks mothers were gone, their father was out fighting and had long been out of contact, the strict Margaret and Edith adopted them too. In fact, they watched over almost every child in the building there were dozens.
The sisters would each cook a soup once a day, stirring it for ages, tossing in whatever they could find there was hardly any food left, but the broth turned out amazing. All the kids ate that soup together, at the same time every day. They called it Rascals Brew.
Grandma Ed, why Rascals Brew? Tommy asked, puzzled by the name.
When Margaret heard Rascal, a tear slipped down her cheek it reminded her of a lad whod vanished half a year ago. She answered gently:
Its called that cause we make it the Rascal way we dump in everything: millet, barley, a splash of gluelike broth, and if were lucky, a spoonful of tinned meat! She patted Tommys head, pulled out a tiny crumb of sugar from her pocket, broke it into bits and shoved it into his mouth so none were lost in the handoverhand.
Tommy, go see if Grandma Vals got any more glue, we need to season the Rascals Brew, he shouted, laughing.
Eventually they gathered all the orphans into their flat. Living together made things warmer, less terrifying for the kids. They huddled close and Grandma Val would tell bedtime stories from her own book a book shed started long ago but never finished, now used for firewood. Still, Val remembered every tale and kept inventing new ones. The children begged:
Grandma Val, can you tell the story of the Beauty from the Snowy Hills tonight?
Ill tell you, shed begin, and the room would fall silent.
Everyone had chores: Tommy fed the fire, Billy gathered wood and prepared the kindling, the girls fetched water, the ration coupons were distributed, the soup was stirred, and songs were sung each morning with Zhenya leading you could join in or just hum along.
One day, Edith brought in a girl shed found on the street, barely clinging to life. She nursed her back. Soon after, Val brought in another boy, then another, and another By the end of the siege, twelve children lived in the sisters flat, and every single one survived. It was a miracle, you could say.
They kept making the Rascals Brew even after the war ended. The kids grew up, left for all over the country, but nobody ever forgot Edith and Margaret. They lived out their days in that council block, visited often by their grownup children, who helped out. Both women lived almost to a hundred, and the storybook theyd once started finally saw the light of day, titled My Beloved Block.
Every year on the 9th of May, all the families would gather at Ediths and Vals place while they were still alive, a big, happy clan that kept getting bigger as grandchildren were born.
And you know what the centerpiece of every feast was? You guessed it Rascals Brew. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime soup, seasoned with kindness and a fierce spirit that kept those kids alive.
