14September1942 Diary
Tonight I sit by the flickering lamp in my spare room on the council block at Bethnal Green, trying to put the events of the past months onto paper before they fade. In this battered building we share a roof with a motley crew of families, and among us live two old spinster sisters, Martha and Winifred Hartley. Though ten years separate them, one might think they were twins. Both are gaunt, with tightpressed lips, thin hair pulled back into knotty buns, and the same drab grey housecoats that mark them as the wardens of order. The whole block either despises or fears them.
The younger residents mutter about the sisters constant nagging and perpetual sournessabout the music that plays too loudly, the parties that run late, the children who linger after curfew. The older ladies complain to the council officers whenever the lights stay on in the communal lavatory or when a piece of foil is left on the landing. Then there is Mrs. Eleanor Finch, the kindly neighbour who, despite having no formal education herself, looks down on the Hartleys for their schooltrained airs, their childless lives, and their relentless criticism.
Eleanor never intervenes, never presses anyone about the childrens mischief or the latenight returns of Tom and Harry. The sisters, as they arejust the Hartleyspay her no heed. Yet the children love Eleanor. She never rats them out to the wardens; instead she flashes a sly smile, winks, and stays silent. The hallway never ceases to hum with the chatter of dozens of youngsters, and the block is a constant clamor.
Often, Martha, the elder Hartley, would step out, purse her lips, and scold the youngsters:
Cant you keep it down? Some folks might be trying to rest. Mr. Peters from the night shift just got in, and Miss Valerie may be writing a letter! shed say, pointing to the door where Winifred was indeed penning a story. The other tenants snicker, and Eleanor, of course, remains the first to laugh.
Val, when will you finish that book? Im tired of waiting! I could die for a good read, the old woman would croak, and the whole block would burst into chuckles. Winifred would bite her already thin lips, say nothing, then slip into the room and weep on Marthas shoulder.
Al, why do you keep mentioning the book? Theyre already laughing at us, she sobbed.
Let them laugh, Martha soothed. Theyre not cruel. Theyre our neighbours, almost family. Dont take it to heart.
In 1940 the war erupted, and by September the Blitz began. Hunger did not strike immediately; at first the cold was the worse enemy. The council block adjusted slowly to ration coupons, empty rooms, the wailing sirens, the loss of kitchen smells, the pale gaunt faces of our neighbours, and an eerie quiet that cut deeper than any prewar clatter.
The youths stopped strumming guitars, the children ceased playing hideandseek. Silence settled, and its weight was a sharper blade than any bomb. Martha and Winifred grew thinner still, yet still wore their grey coats, now hanging on them like curtains, and they continued to police the blockthough now they policed for different things.
Eleanor appeared only when absolutely necessary. One day she vanished entirely. She walked out and never returned. Martha and Winifred searched for her for days, but her disappearance was as total as if she had never been there.
In the spring of 1942 the first death struck our block. Mrs. Harper, mother of young Tom, passed away, leaving the boy alone. Everyone felt sorry for the lad, but war leaves little room for sentiment. Yet the Hartley sisters did not forget. They took Tom under their wing, feeding him, looking after him. He had just turned eleven that October. Later, when the twins own children, Albert and Henry, lost their mothers, and their father was away at the front with no word, the sisters became their guardians as well.
In fact, the Hartleys guarded all the children of the block. They cooked a single soup each day, stirring it for ages, adding whatever they could findthough the pantry was stripped bare. The broth was surprisingly hearty, and every child ate it at the same hour. The twins christened it Ragamuffin.
Gran, why Ragamuffin? Tom asked one evening, recalling the name the Hartleys had used for a mischievous boy from his childhood.
A tear rolled down Winifreds cheek, though no boy had set foot in the block for half a year. She answered, We call it Ragamuffin because we throw everything into itmillet, barley, a splash of gluelike broth, and if were lucky, a spoonful of tinned meat. She brushed his hair, slipped a tiny shard of sugar from her pocket into his mouth, ensuring no grain was lost in the handtohand passing.
Tom, go see if Gran Winifred has any glue left, else Ill have to season the Ragamuffin myself, he teased, and the laughter echoed through the corridors.
Soon every orphaned child found a place in the Hartley room. They huddled together, warmth spreading among them, and Winifred would read bedtime stories from her own unfinished manuscript. The book had long been destined for the fire, yet Winifred remembered each tale and even wove new ones on the spot. The children begged, Gran Winifred, tell us the story of the Lady of the Snowy Hills tonight?
I will, shed reply, and the story would begin.
Each child had duties. Old Mrs. Ada Clarke made sure everyone contributed. Tom tended the stove, Albert gathered firewood and prepared the kindling, the girls fetched water, the ration coupons were distributed, and together they sang each morningHarrys voice leading, everyone joining in whether they liked it or not.
One winters night, Ada rescued a shivering girl from the street, barely alive. She brought her inside, nursed her back to health. Winifred later found a boy, then another, and anotherby the end of the siege twelve children lived under the Hartley roof, all alive. It seemed a miracle. Even after the war ended, the Ragamuffin soup continued to be served, now a reminder of survival. The children grew up, left for different towns, but never forgot Martha and Winifred. The sisters lived on in the block until nearly a hundred, their storybooktitled My Beloved Council Blockwas passed down through generations.
Every 9May we gathered at the Hartleys flat, as long as they could still host us, forming a large, extended family that grew each year, even producing greatgrandchildren. And the centerpiece of every feast? You guessed itRagamuffin soup. Nothing ever tasted sweeter than that broth, seasoned with kindness and the stubborn spirit of those wartime days, which kept us all alive.
Looking back, I realise that the true sustenance was not the soup itself, but the willingness to share, to watch over each other, and to keep stories alive. In the darkest of times, community is the light that never burns out. This is the lesson I carry forward.
