The War Widows (18 page)

Grimbleton seemed to live on a diet of flour-and-water soups, stodgy pastry, soulless bread and sausages that tasted of sawdust. No wonder the herbal stall was so popular. Customers queued for liver pills, indigestion tablets, laxatives and flatulence potions. There were packets of dehydrated vegetables and eggs in a powder. There were shelves of canned meat and tinned fruit, jars of pickles. Where was the life in the food? These provisions were tasteless to her, cooked without love.

In Crete they could live on mountain greens,
horta
and wild spinach, pick living fruits and nuts from their own trees. They did not pour yellow custard over green shoots and call it salad.

The Tommies had turned their noses up at olive oil, at first saying it was fit only for lamp oil but some of them grew to love the delicate flavours of vegetables grilled with oil and lemon juice. Oh, just to pick a lemon from a tree!

Before the war came the Cretan market stalls were full of raisins and fresh fish, the scent of roasting coffee, sacks of beans and rice, barrels of feta cheese and rounds of hard cheese from their sheep, thyme honey, kegs of raki, blocks of chocolate, Turkish delights, halva and fruit syrups and every colour of olive oil; before the tanks came and flattened the olive groves and there was not a walnut or raisin to be had.

If only there were
chios
here, shaped like eggs with their soft flesh,
kalimata
, black and purple bittersweet, earthy old Cretan wine, olives marinated in oil and vinegar dressing.

The taste of the olive was a taste as old as the world itself, a taste of life and love and home. How she missed the silkiness of its texture on her tongue.

How quickly you could learn to exist on boiled porridge dotted with snails and mountain greens, rough corn breads and goat’s-milk yoghurt thinned out with stream water. The enemy stole everything from their cellars, their sheep and goats, chickens, their fruit and olive harvest and their honeycombs. They were left destitute. Hunger was a terrible thing. It changed people into animals, scavenging, stealing.

In the labour camps it was worse: in the harsh winters living off soup made from stolen greens and roots and the bones of anything they might snare for the pot. Sometimes Ana lay on her bunk, dreaming of the day when her belly would be full of oil and wine and cheese,
dakos
and sharp spicy sausages.

Cretan food was full of colour and guts and strong smells. There were always garlands of garlic and mountain tea, onions and dried herbs hanging from the kitchen rafters. The family had lived from their garden, the mountains, from hives and orchards. There was kid and lamb for festivals and a harvest from the shore.

The Papadakis were just village folk, her father worked leather. They were proud and wanted for nothing in the stone white house close to the church. She had gone to Canea to help in the Red Cross station until it was overrun, then escaped into the high hills above the port. She was lucky to be alive when so many of her school friends were dead. Sometimes she dreamed that Eleni was chasing after her into the fields. When she turned to wait for her, she vanished and Ana woke with tears down her face.

Ana didn’t know whether any of her relatives survived when the village was razed to the ground in reprisal after an ambush in the hills on that terrible day when Eleni died. They were scattered like seeds into the wild wind.

There was no point going back. The country was at war with itself now. She dare not write for fear of more bad news. Here she could pretend all was well now the
war was over. This was where Dina must grow up, in this strange town in this foreign country amongst the people who had taken them in. It was the honourable thing to do.

All this daydreaming would not put a meal on the table, she sighed, knowing she must go back to the stall. Maria would help her out with food if stuck, but she was already beholden to their new friend. Why should a guest provide her own dinner?

Getting out of Division Street each Sunday afternoon was the treat they most looked forward to. Maria was always so full of life and energy, scurrying round the tiny flat that she kept like a palace. She hardly stopped to draw breath, with her two jobs and her husband, Marco, making such slow progress. Ana sensed that if Maria stopped for a second she’d collapse and sink down with exhaustion. Keeping busy was how she dealt with her pain.

Everyone was keeping busy after this war, queuing, cleaning, tidying up the bomb sites, making the best of very little. The Winstanley women never stopped, and if she was married to Levi she’d not stop until she’d run a mile from him.

For a moment she could feel just a flicker of sympathy for the sharp little wife who must share his bed. There was a bitter taste to the two of them and Levi’s eyes were hungry for something sweeter.

Ana’s own sadness made her feel lethargic. It was an effort to eat, to sleep in the middle of the night, to get up in the morning, and now she had a big meal to prepare so Su must help with the shopping. Su had the
money for extras but how to manage a meat ration for eight people?

As she scoured the butchers’ stalls for inspiration she thought of pig for
souvláki
chunks skewered on knitting needles and marinated in lemon, herbs and oils. That was out, for a start, and they could only get meat from the counter where they were all registered. Perhaps some beef or lamb for
stifado
, cooked slowly and eked out with vegetables, but beef for eight? Impossible.

Lily said Walt couldn’t spare any coupons because his mother was old. Ivy refused to give a single coupon because Neville needed extra rations, and Levi thought the idea of a meal made from ‘foreign muck’ a big joke. When she’d asked him to order some olive oil he refused, saying she must use dripping like everyone else. Then he’d laughed and said he might get hold of some if she made it worth his while.

‘I will pay good price,’ she smiled, but he just winked.

‘What I’m after don’t cost money, love, just a little time,’ he said, pointing to the cubbyhole and she fled, blushing. If his mother found out that his wandering hands were also in the till perhaps
that
would cool his passion.

With a heavy heart, Lily watched Levi ogling Ana from the cubbyhole that served as an office. Business was quiet and they didn’t need three staff on duty.

Taking the Greek girl down to Winstanley Health and Herbs to work was not such a good idea. It was nearly Christmas and shoppers were too busy trying to eke out their ration coupons to want to bother with
pills and potions. Their rush time would come after New Year, when the winter gloom set in proper: a time for tonics and pick-up remedies to prepare, stocktaking and weighing those who wanted to lose their winter excess baggage.

They kept all the more expensive items and spare stock in the back cubbyhole, and when Ana brushed past Levi to reach up for the boxes he would lean back on his stool to feel the brush of her skirt. There was often the smell of liquor on his breath in the afternoons these days, but should she say anything to him?

She sighed. If Ivy got even a sniff of his inclinations, never mind his breath, she’d banish the girls from the house, Christmas or not.

Levi was becoming a worry. Ever since Ana and Susan arrived he seemed to think Freddie’s lady friends were his personal harem. When she was on guard there was no bother, but out of eyeshot she guessed he was up to his old tricks. A pass was a pass in any language. It was up to her to put a stop to it and sharp.

‘If Levi is bothering you, I’ll have a word,’ Lily offered.

Ana shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘It is nothing. Men are worse during the war. In my country a woman not work with a man alone,’ she said. ‘A single girl might be a slave to the kitchen and the fields but she has respect. All we have is a good name and I have bad name now. We keep headscarf over our face. War has changed everything. Now there is flesh everywhere and men are tempted.’

Sometimes when Ana talked a shutter came over her eyes like a veil, her eyes would flutter and the subject
was changed. Ana was suffering in ways Lily could only imagine. She was learning to respect this withdrawal into silence. ‘Look at me, just skin and bone. Who would want to look at such a face?’

There might be silver threads in her hair but her eyes still burned brightly and Lily could see how Freddie would have been attracted to her fierce spirit, her courage and kindness.

‘Lily, what shall I cook with no meat ration? This is big worry now.’ They had scoured the food stalls for ideas for that special supper, something that might remind them of warmer climates and better times.

It was the knitting patterns on the wool stall that did the trick: a picture of a matinée coat with a fluffy bunny embroidered on it. Lily suddenly remembered Allotment Billy, who’d kept them in rabbit meat all through the war. Rabbits were cheap and plentiful. The flesh was sweet and tasted like chicken if cooked slowly, and he might have an onion or two to spare if they explained their dilemma. Allotment Billy was an old pal of her father’s: another survivor of the Grimbleton Pals Brigade.

‘There’s always fresh rabbit,’ she offered in desperation.

‘You are angel from heaven, you save bacon. I can do plenty with rabbit and herbs.’ Ana flung her arms around her in gratitude.

No one had mentioned anything about herbs. Herbs were going to be a different challenge altogether, but she’d not be defeated now. If Winstanleys couldn’t rustle up a spice or two it’d be a poor do!

Mother was a plain cook and didn’t bother to flavour
food with anything other than white pepper and salt and sometimes stalks of parsley. There was Oxo cubes, of course, but Lily preferred to drink them like tea. The drink was harsh and salty, and warmed her through on cold days.

No one touched garlic except as a medicine, but if she threw in enough garlic salt and pearls from the stall perhaps no one would notice. It was the nearest they could offer in the way of exotic.

There were bay trees growing like ornaments in the Green Lane gardens. Perhaps Su could beg a few leaves when she came home with Dr Unsworth’s daughter and family from the parish church. Her being Church and not Chapel was causing quite a stir.

If the worst came to the worst they could scour the local park gardens for the last stalks of thyme, but the ground was under a foot of snow.

‘How can we serve a fresh salad when there’s nothing green?’

‘It’s not the season for cold stuff,’ Lily advised. ‘We can have tinned peas.’

The Winstanleys didn’t eat much salad. Levi called it rabbit food. There was not a tin of tomatoes or dried herbs in the house, but sardines or pilchards in oil would flavour the vinegar.

The first course was to be a
mezéthakia
, little plates of olives or cheese, little tastes to whet the appetite. Ana said Greeks never drank without a little food.

‘We’re a teetotal family, although we haven’t signed the pledge and I suppose we’ve sort of slipped a bit. There’s brandy in the medicine cupboard and tonic
wine. How about starting with tripe and onions from the U.C.P.? Cows innards are very healthy.’

‘No, I do cheese and spinach pie then,’ Ana smiled.

‘Cheese is rationed. And it’s not the season for spinach,’ Lily replied, trying to veer her away from big ideas. It would be impossible to find an olive in Grimbleton. ‘The only thing in the pantry I can think of is a tin of anchovy fillets in oil but you won’t be wanting that, will you?’

Ana snatched the idea with glee. ‘We fry potatoes and boil eggs. It is perfect meze.’

Lily hadn’t the heart to mention that fresh eggs took some negotiating. There was also the pudding problem. Her mouth was watering from all the tempting desserts that rolled off Ana’s tongue: honeyed pasties with walnuts and sweet raisins, fruits poached in wine. All there might be on Billy’s allotment were precious sticks of forced pink rhubarb, grown in his secret way especially for Christmas. It would take the promise of a knitted jumper to get some of those off him.

‘We’ve got plenty of bottled fruit in the larder and Bird’s custard to go with it.’

‘But that is not feast food, that is Wednesday food. I will make yoghurt. I know how from pan of warm milk and flask. You watch. It is delicious with honey…’

Where on earth would she get honey? ‘We’ve got some golden syrup.’

‘No. Honey from hills in Grimtown!’

‘You mean Grimbleton-oh, I don’t know, love.’

‘Yes, Grimtown. We will find it for our feast. You will help?’

I will help, though Lord knows how, Lily smiled to herself. Planning this feast was a mad idea and taking so much time. But it was yet another distraction from her thoughts about Walter-not that she had much time to spare him a minute. The poor lad had slipped down the pecking order of her ‘must dos’. Days would go by with only a cheery wave across the Market Hall for contact. She was so pushed for time, he never volunteered to help her out and she was too proud to ask. It wasn’t right but if she could just get Christmas over with then she’d make up for her neglect. Now they were late from their tea break.

‘What time of night do you call this? I don’t pay you to go sightseeing.’ Levi puffed out his chest in indignation, then ordered them to dust all the stock down. Within minutes he was off meandering round the market himself, doing deals and coming back with booty for Ivy and Neville’s Christmas stockings.

On the Friday morning before the dinner party there was still no honey, but Ana’s yoghurt, after two disasters, had set perfectly. Lily now needed to make a trip up to the Jubilee Allotment to see Billy Eckersley and collect the rabbits.

The doorbell rang and there was Pete Walsh, grinning, and Lily in her curlers looking like a rat bag.

‘I brought you these,’ he smiled, ‘for you and your mother.’

In his hand was a pair of precious tickets for the Cup tie against Everton. People had been queuing for hours to get these. Lily felt herself blushing.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she smiled, wishing her face was washed and her turban wasn’t full of curlers. ‘Mother’s been under the weather. I’m not sure she’ll be able to brave the chill. I would love to go only—’