In one of the cramped rooms of a sprawling council block on the outskirts of London lived two old women who were sisters. If they werent for the several years that separated them, you could have taken them for twins. Both were thin and gaunt, with tightpressed lips and the little curls that never seemed to stay in place. They wore identical drab grey housecoats, the sort that blended into the concrete corridors. Everyone in the block loathed, feared, and despised them.
The younger residents complained that the sisters were always making remarks and never seemed satisfiedabout the music that blared late at night, the parties that ran past curfew, the children who stumbled home after dark. The older tenants kept their children away because the senior ladies would write to the landlord about any minor infraction, be it a light left on in the lavatory or a discarded sweet wrapper in the hallway.
Molly Whitby, a sweetminded neighbour, despised them for all the same reasons. She had a university degree, something the sisters never pursued, and she was childless, which only added to the sisters irritation at her constant criticism. Yet Molly never interfered or pestered anyone with complaints. When Tommy and Jimmy came home late, she simply smiled, gave a knowing wink, and kept quiet. The two brothers didnt mind one bit; after all, they were just old women doing what they thought was right.
The children loved Molly. She never snitched to the landlord, no matter what mischief they got into. If she saw a boy about to get into trouble, shed flash a sly grin and a silent nod, and that was that. The block was always noisy, full of chatter and clatter.
Often it was Ethel Brown, the elder of the sisters, who would stalk out of the kitchen, press her lips together, and lecture the youngsters: You cant shout like that! Someone might be trying to sleep. Uncle Pete from the night shift is on his way, and Miss Valentina might be writing a book in that room over there. Shed point at the door where her sister Vera was indeed hunched over a notebook. The whole block would snigger, and Molly, of course, would be the first to laugh.
Val, when will you finish that manuscript? Im sick of waiting! the old lady would demand, bursting into giggles. Everyone who heard it would repeat the words.
Valeria, tightening her already thin lips, said nothing. She slipped into the room and, on her sisters shoulder, began to weep bitterly: Ethel, why do you keep mentioning the book? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them, Ethel soothed. Theyre not being cruel. Theyre neighboursalmost family. Dont take offense, and dont cry.
In 1940 the war erupted, and by September the Blitz began. Hunger did not strike at once; at first there was still warmth. The council block slowly adjusted to the new reality: ration coupons, halfempty rooms, the wail of airraid sirens, the loss of kitchen smells, the pale, gaunt faces of neighbours, and an eerie quiet.
The youth stopped strumming guitars, and the children ceased playing hideandseek. A heavy silence settled, gnawing at the soul more than the prewar clamor ever had. Ethel and Valeria grew even thinner, but they still wore their grey coats, hanging on them like motheaten shawls, now keeping order in a different way.
Molly only left the block when absolutely necessary, and one day she simply vanished. She never returned. Ethel and Valeria searched for her for days on end, but she was gone as if she had never existed.
In the spring of 1942, the first death shook the block. Toms mother passed away, leaving the boy alone. Everyone felt for the lad, but there was little they could do; the war pressed on. The sisters, however, took the boy under their wing, fed him, and looked after him as if he were their own. He turned eleven that October. Later, Billy and Jack lost their mothers, their fathers were at the front with no word for months, and the sisters assumed responsibility for them too, as they did for most of the children in the building.
Each day the sisters boiled a pot of soup, stirring it for ages, adding whatever scraps they could find. The rationing had stripped the pantry bare, yet the broth was somehow the most delicious thing the children had ever tasted. They served it at the same hour every afternoon, and the children called it Mishap Stew.
Grandma Ethel, why do you call it Mishap Stew? Tom asked once, curious about the odd name.
A tear slipped down Ethels cheek at the mention of a boy named Victor who had vanished six months earlier. She answered, Anatoly! We brew it in a haphazard wayhence the name. Its a bit of a mess, but it feeds the soul.
What does haphazard mean? the boy asked.
It means we toss in everything we can findmillet, barley, even a bit of gluelike broth if theres any left. And if luck smiles, a spoonful of tinned meat. Ethel patted his head, slipped a tiny fragment of sugar from her pocket into his mouth, making sure not a grain was lost in the handtohand transfer.
Tom, go see if Aunt Val has any glue left, or Ill have to season this stew myself, she chuckled.
Soon all the orphaned kids were gathered into the sisters small room. Living together made life a little warmer, and less frightening for the youngsters. They huddled together, and Grandma Val would read a bedtime story from her own unfinished manuscript. The book, never completed, had been set aside for firewood, but Val remembered every tale and even invented new ones on the spot. The children would beg, Grandma Val, tell us the story of the Beauty from the Snowy Hills today.
Ill tell you, Val would reply, and the room would fill with her voice.
Every child had a duty, and the stern Aunt Al (Ethels nickname) made sure all hands were busy. Tom tended the coal stove, Billy gathered firewood, the girls fetched water, the children distributed ration coupons, helped with the soup, and sang songs each morning with Jack leading the chorus. Whether you could sing or not, you joined in.
One day, Ethel brought in a girl from the street, barely clinging to life. She nursed her back to health. Later Val returned with another boy, and then another, and another. By the end of the siege, twelve children were living in the sisters cramped quarters, all of them alive. It seemed a miracle.
Even after the war, they kept making Mishap Stew. The children grew up, left for jobs across the country, but never forgot the two old women who had kept them alive. Their grandchildren visited often, bringing food and help. Both Ethel and Val lived well into their nineties, the unfinished storybook eventually published under the title My Beloved Council Block.
Every year on the ninth of May, the survivors gathered at Ethels and Vals modest kitchen while they were still able, a large, happy family, growing with each generation. Greatgrandchildren were born, and the main dish on every table remained the sameMishap Stew. Nothing ever tasted better than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and the indomitable spirit that saved those childrens lives.
