In a cramped council block on the outskirts of London lived two oldfashioned spinsters. They were sisters, and if it werent for the noticeable gap in their ages youd almost swear they were twins. Both were wiry, gaunt, with alwaystightened lips and a thin braid looping over their heads. Their drab grey overalls matched like twins pajamas, and the whole building seemed to loathe, fear and sneer at them.
The other residents hated them for constantly pointing out flaws and being perpetually grumpy about loud music, latenight parties and anyones tardy returns. The kids kept their distance because the elderly women would always tattle to the parents about the smallest misdemeanours a light left on in the loo, a candy wrapper on the landing.
Sweettempered Mabel Clarke despised them for everything: the university degrees the sisters had and she didnt, their childless lives, and the horrendous habit of nagging everyone. Yet she never meddled, never hounded anyone with complaints, and simply ignored the latenight antics of Billy and Sam. That suited the sisters just fine they were, after all, the sisters.
Mabel was adored by the children. She never squealed on them, no matter what they were up to. Shed flash a sly smile, wink, and keep quiet. The flat was always noisy, a constant hum of chatter. Often, Ethel Smythe the older sister would step out, purse her lips and lecture the youngsters:
Dont shout so loudly! Someone might be trying to get some peace. Uncle Pete from the night shift has just arrived, and perhaps Miss Valentine over there is trying to finish her novel, shed say, pointing at the door where her sister Violet Brown was indeed scribbling away.
The whole block snickered, and Mabel, of course, got the biggest laugh.
Val, when will you actually finish that book? Im getting tired of waiting I could really use a good read, the old lady would tease, bursting into giggles. Everyone caught the joke.
Violet tightened her thin lips and said nothing, but when she slipped into the room she wept bitterly on her sisters shoulder:
Ethel, why do you bring up the novel? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them laugh, Ethel soothed. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre neighbours, almost family. Dont be upset, dont cry.
Then, in 1941, the war erupted, and by September the Blitz began. Hunger didnt strike instantly; for a while there was still warmth. The council block gradually adjusted to ration coupons, halfempty rooms, the wail of sirens, the loss of kitchen smells, pale, exhausted faces, and a new, oppressive silence.
The youths stopped strumming guitars, the children stopped playing hideandseek. A quiet settled over the flat, and that quiet tore at the soul harder than the prewar clatter ever did.
Ethel and Violet grew still thinner, but they kept their grey overalls on, hanging on them like a coat on a hook, and they continued to police order now of a different sort. Mabel only left the flat when absolutely necessary, and one day she simply vanished. She walked out and never returned. Ethel and Violet scoured the corridors for days, to no avail. It was as if the old woman had never existed.
In the spring of 1942 the first death struck the block. Mother of young Tommy had died, leaving him all alone. Everyone felt sorry for the little boy, but there was little else to be done war, after all. Life trudged on and Tommys memory faded.
The sisters, however, did not forget. They took him under their wing, feeding him, looking after him. Hed just turned eleven in October. Later, another boy, Freddy, lost his mother; his father was fighting overseas and his news had long gone silent. The prim and proper Ethel and Violet became his guardians, as they did for almost every orphaned child in the block.
Each day, the sisters boiled a single pot of soup, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they could find there were hardly any ingredients left, but the broth turned out astonishingly tasty. All the children ate it at the same hour, every day. They called the soup Rascal.
Grandma Ethel, why Rascal? I remember you calling Billy that, Tommy asked, curious about the odd name.
The mention of Billy made a tear roll down Ethels cheek; it had been half a year since any boy had been alive. She answered, Anatole! We make this soup the rascally way, thats why we call it so.
Rascally? Whats that mean? the boy asked.
Well, its what you get when you toss everything youve got into the pot millet, barley, even a bit of plaster paste if youre feeling adventurous. And if youre lucky, a spoonful of tinned meat! Ethel patted the boys head, pulled a tiny sugar crystal from her pocket, pinched it off and popped it straight into his mouth so none of it was lost in the handoverhand.
Tommy, go see if Grandma Violets stuck any glue in the soup. Ive got to season my rascal, he shouted.
Soon all the orphaned children were gathered into the sisters room. Living together made things warmer and less terrifying for the little ones. They huddled close, and Granny Violet would read bedtime tales from her own halffinished manuscript a book that had long been earmarked for the fire. Still, she remembered every story and whipped up new ones on the spot. The children clamoured:
Granny Violet, will you tell us the tale of the Beauty from the Snowy Hills tonight?
Ill tell you, shed begin, and the room would fall silent.
Each child had chores: Tommy stoked the stove, Freddy collected firewood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were topped up, and everyone helped with the soup. They sang in the mornings, with Harry leading the chorus you could either join in or just grin and hum along.
One day, Ethel rescued a girl from the street, barely alive, and brought her in. Later, Violet fetched another boy, and then another, and another
By the end of the blockade, the sisters little room housed twelve children, all of whom survived. How? Perhaps a miracle.
The Rascal soup was still on the boil after the war ended. The children grew up, scattered to all corners of the country, but never forgot Granny Ethel and Granny Violet. They lived out their days in that council block, visited often by their grownup children who helped them. Each reached nearly a hundred years of age, and the manuscript of tales finally saw the light of day, titled My Beloved Council Block.
Every year on the 9th of May, all the descendants gathered at Ethels and Violets flat while they were still with us, a big, happy family that kept expanding as greatgrandchildren were born.
And do you know what the main dish on that table always was? You guessed it the Rascal soup. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and a stubborn spirit that kept the children alive.
