where she grew up, of course.’
‘She must have such happy memories of living here,’ Pete said. ‘Shame Margaret didn’t get on with Betty in her later years.’
‘I’m not sure she ever got on very well with her,’ Ali replied.
January 1944
There was no jam for tea. No cake, either. Just plain bread and margarine, and one rich tea biscuit each. Joan craved something sweet, anything sweet. She poured herself a cup of tea, dipped her teaspoon in the sugar bowl and tried to heap it up as much as possible without being noticed.
‘Put that sugar back at once! No more than a quarter teaspoon per cup of tea. You know the family rules.’ Father glared at her from the other end of the table. Joan shook the spoon so that most of the sugar fell back into the bowl, and meekly stirred in the remaining quarter. She tasted her tea and grimaced. Her sister Mags, who was sitting next to her, winked in sympathy, and whispered, ‘You’re sweet enough already.’ They were sitting in the dining room, the second-best lace tablecloth spread over the table. War or no war, Father insisted on sticking to traditions and doing things ‘properly’, as he put it. They were firmly in the middle class, and he refused to let standards slip. Joan thought it all a complete waste of time and effort. Why couldn’t they just eat their tea at the kitchen table? So much less fuss and work!
‘Mother, when do you think rationing will end?’ she asked. Her mother smiled weakly and looked at Father. Just like Mother. She wouldn’t dare answer a question like that herself. She would always defer to the head of the household. That was why Joan had directed the question to her mother—just to stir things up a bit.
‘Not until this war’s over. We all have to put up with it until then, so stop making such a fuss. You’re not a baby any more.’ Father gave her a stern look, and tapped the side of his cup with his teaspoon. Joan sighed as her mother immediately leapt into action, pouring her husband a second cup of tea. Why was she such a doormat? If Joan ever married she liked to think she and her husband would be on a much more equal footing than her parents were.
‘Would you like more bread and margarine, Father?’ asked her other sister Elizabeth, pushing the serving plate towards his end of the table.
‘Thank you, Betty,’ he said. Stuck up Elizabeth, sucking up to Father as always, thought Joan. Another doormat. Well, it was now or never. She knew what the answer would be, but she had to ask anyway. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as Mags would say.
‘Father, may I ask a question?’
‘Not if it’s anything more about rationing, child.’
‘No, it’s something else. The thing is, there is a dance on at the Pavilion tomorrow evening, to celebrate the New Year, and I would rather like to go.’
Father put down his teacup and stared at her over the top of his horn-rimmed spectacles. Joan forced herself to keep her eyes on his. If she looked away she’d lose her nerve.
‘You? But you’re far too young to be attending dances. You’re only sixteen.’
‘I had my birthday yesterday. I’m seventeen, Father.’
‘Don’t contradict me! You’re too young. I forbid you to go.’
‘But Father, Elizabeth and Margaret went to their first dances when they were seventeen.’
‘Are you arguing with me? I’ve said no, and that’s that.’
‘Mother, Mags is going and she said she’d look after me. Please, may I?’ What was the point? Her mother just shook her head gently and looked again at Father. Of course she would never go against anything he said.
‘Mother agrees with me. You are not to go. And Margaret, you will be home by ten o’clock. There’s an end to it.’ He picked up his newspaper and flicked it open, signifying that the topic was closed.
‘Please may I leave the table?’ Joan asked. Not waiting for an answer, she pushed her chair back and began gathering up plates and cups for washing up. Mags quickly joined her, and the two girls took the dirty crockery through to the kitchen.
‘It’s so unfair. Why can’t I go? He’s always stricter with me than he ever was with you or Betty.’ Joan turned the tap on full blast, spraying water everywhere.
‘Watch out, you’re making me wet!’ yelped Mags, as she jumped out of the way, brushing droplets off her skirt and blouse. Joan turned off the tap and clattered some plates into the sink. ‘And now you’re going to chip those plates. Let me do it. You’re too cross.’
Joan stood aside and let Mags take her place. Mags was right; she was cross.
‘Elizabeth’s not going, is she?’ she asked.
‘No. She’s going to the cinema to see some worthy French subtitled film. So I’m going to the dance on my own. But Mary and Noreen will be there, and some of the other girls from the WVS, so I won’t be alone.’
Joan picked a plate from the draining board and began wiping it roughly with a tea towel. She liked Mary and Noreen. It would be such fun attending a proper, grown-up dance with them and Mags.
‘I wish I could go. I feel like Cinderella, having to stay home while my sisters go out and enjoy themselves.’
Mags flicked soapsuds at her. ‘Are you calling me an ugly sister, Joanie?’
‘No.’ Joan giggled. ‘Betty’s the ugly one.’
‘Just think,’ said Mags, ‘if there was any way you could come to the dance, you might just meet your own Prince Charming.’
Both girls giggled uncontrollably at this, until Mother appeared at the kitchen door and told them to shush. They were annoying Father.
Washing up completed, they went upstairs to Joan’s bedroom. It was only four-thirty but already dark, and time to close the blackout curtains. Although their coastal town hadn’t suffered many air raids, unlike London, it had still had its fair share. Besides, Joan knew Father would be angry if they didn’t draw the blackout blinds before putting on any lights. And she’d annoyed him enough already for one day.
‘Mags,’ she said, as they flopped down onto Joan’s bed, ‘do you think I could sneak out and go to the dance? Without the parents finding out?’
‘How on earth could you do that? Father would expect you to be downstairs after supper, to listen to the news on the wireless.’
‘What if he thought I was out but somewhere else? Maybe, I don’t know, volunteering at the WVS? The soup kitchen’s open tomorrow night isn’t it? I could say I’m working there…’
‘Ooh, Joanie, there’s an idea! But what if he checked up on you?’
‘He wouldn’t check. Well, at most he might ask Noreen or Mary. Do you think they would cover for me?’ Lie for me, Joan thought. It was probably a bit much to ask, but she knew the other girls sympathised with her and Mags over their draconian father.
‘I’m sure they would. You know, I think that’s a plan! I’ll see Noreen this evening anyway—I’m doing a shift at the soup kitchen from six till eight. I’ll get her to put your name down on the rota. You were about to start volunteering anyway, weren’t you? He agreed to you doing it after Christmas, and we’re already into the New Year. Won’t he be suspicious though—first you ask if you can go to the dance, then when he says no, you announce you’re starting at the WVS?’
‘I’ll mention the WVS tomorrow at teatime. He’ll have forgotten I asked about the dance by then. You know he never takes any real interest in what you or I do. Not like Elizabeth. He’ll be asking her about every detail of the film she’s going to.’ Joan clapped her hands with excitement. ‘Now then,