In the dim hallway of a sprawling wartime council block on the outskirts of London, two gaunt women moved like ghosts. Eleanor Whitaker and her younger sister Margaret Barlow were sisters, their faces so alike that, were it not for the twelveyear gap between them, you might have whispered they were twins.
Both were skinny, their lips forever pursed, their hair slicked back into tight knots. Dressed in identical, drab grey housecoats, they were the unwelcome eyes of the entire building. The residentsold and young hated, feared, and despised them. The youngsters muttered under their breath about the sisters constant criticism: Never a word of praise, always a complaint about the music, the parties, the late returns. Even the children kept their distance, knowing the elderly ladies would snitch to the landlord over the slightest offenseleaving a light on in the bathroom or a discarded wrapper in the stairwell.
Agnes Clarke, the kindly widow who lived on the ground floor, bore the brunt of the sisters contempt. She had no university degree, no husband, no children, yet the sisters scolded her for everything. Still, she never meddled. When Tommy and Sid sneaked home after curfew, Agnes said nothing; the sisters, set in their ways, cared little for the mischief. The children, however, adored Agnes. She never rang the bell to the landlord, even when they broke a rule; shed just flash a sly smile and a wink, and the kids would scurry away, hearts light.
Often, Eleanor, the elder, would step out of her flat, purse her thin lips, and lecture the youngsters:
Dont shout so loudly! Someone might be trying to rest. Mr. Peterson from the night shift is back, and Miss Valentina Barlow is writing her novel in the next flat. She gestured toward the door where Margaret sat, indeed scribbling away.
The whole block snickered. Even Agnes, who usually kept to herself, heard the mockery and retorted:
Val, when will you finish that book? Im tired of waiting to read it. She burst into laughter, and the others joined in.
Margaret tightened her pursed lips and said nothing. She slipped into her sisters flat, tears spilling over her shoulder as she whispered, Eleanor, why remind them of the book? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them laugh, Eleanor soothed, theyre not cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont take it to heart.
In 1940, the war thundered into Britain, and by September the Blitz had begun. Hunger did not strike immediately; first came the cold, the blackout, the constant wail of sirens, the empty kitchens and the hollowedout faces of the tenants. The council block settled into a new rhythm: ration coupons clutched in trembling hands, halfempty rooms, the mournful hum of the airraid siren, and a crushing silence that gnawed at the soul more sharply than any prewar chatter.
The youths no longer strummed guitars, the children stopped playing hideandseek. A bleak quiet settled, and it tore at the heart. Eleanor and Margaret grew even thinner, their grey coats hanging on them like a funeral shroud, but they still patrolled the corridors, now enforcing a different orderone born of scarcity.
Agnes left the block only when absolutely necessary. One bitter morning she simply vanished. Eleanor and Margaret scoured the stairwell, the dusty attic, the broken garden, for days, but she was gone as if she had never existed.
Spring of 1942 brought the first death in the block. Toms mother, a seamstress, succumbed to the rationinduced famine, leaving the boy alone. The other children felt a pang of pity, but war left little room for sentiment. Tom, now barely eleven, was taken under the sisters wing. They fed him, wrapped him in blankets, and called him Little Tom as if he were their own.
Soon, another childJohnlost his mother. His father was at the front, a name that had not been heard in months. Again, Eleanor and Margaret assumed guardianship, as they did for the dozens of warorphaned youths that drifted through the blocks corridors.
Each day, the sisters boiled a single pot of soup, stirring it for what seemed hours, adding whatever scraps they could findmushroom caps, stale bread crumbs, a pinch of powdered milk, even the occasional tin of spiced meat. The broth, thick and oddly comforting, became known among the children as RagBoy Soup.
Grandma Whitaker, why RagBoy? Tommy asked one cold evening, his breath fogging the window.
A tear slipped down Eleanors cheek at the memory of a boy named Victor who had once begged for a bite. We call it RagBoy because its a hodgepodge, ladevery bit we can find thrown in, just like a ragboys patchwork life. She pressed a tiny sugar crystal to his tongue, a sweet reminder that even in scarcity, a sliver of sweetness could survive.
Oi, Tom, go fetch the glue, will ya? We need it to thicken the pot, Margaret called, a wry grin breaking through her stern façade.
One by one, the orphaned children crowded into the sisters flat, sharing the warmth of the cramped space. Margaret would tell them bedtime stories from a battered notebook, halffinished years ago, now serving as tinder. Yet she remembered each tale vividly, inventing new ones on the spot. Grandma Val, will you tell us the story of the Lady of the Snowy Hills? a shy girl would plead.
Very well, Margaret would begin, her voice softening, once in the highlands
The children took on chores: Tom fed the coal fire, John collected firewood, the girls fetched water, the boys distributed ration coupons, and everyone helped stir the soup. In the mornings, a chorus of cracked voices rose as they sang Land of Hope and Glory, with Johns offkey tenor leading the way. Even the smallest could join in, their harmonies a thin thread of hope.
As the blockade tightened, another girl, ragged from the streets, was dragged into the flat by Eleanor. She was near death, skin pallid, eyes glazed. The sisters wrapped her in a blanket, and she recovered. Soon after, another boy was brought in, then another, until, by the wars end, twelve children lived under that leaky roof, all alive against the oddsa miracle born of stubborn love and that strange, greasy soup.
When peace finally returned, the children grew, scattered to the provinces and cities, but they never forgot the two greycloaked women who had been their guardians. Visits became a ritual; the sisters, now approaching a hundred years each, still tended a tiny garden of lilies, and Margaret kept adding pages to her storybook, titling it Our Block of Memories.
Every May9th, long after the wars shadows faded, the surviving children gathered in the courtyard, now a modest park, around a long table laden with potatoes, roast, and, of course, a steaming pot of RagBoy Soup. Laughter rose, tears glistened, and the sisters, clasping hands, watched the family they had forged endure.
No dish ever tasted sweeter than that ragged broth, seasoned with kindness, perseverance, and the indomitable spirit of a block that survived the darkest of nights.
