In one of the cramped flats of a massive council block in wartime London lived two elderly spinster sisters. They were bloodrelatives, and if it werent for the tenyear gap between them one might have thought they were twins.
Both were thin, gaunt, with pursed lips and wispy white hair tucked under identical drab grey dresses. The whole block despised, feared and looked down on them.
The younger residents resented the sisters because they were constantly pointing out faults and seemed never satisfiedwhether it was the loud music, the latenight parties or the childrens noisy comings and goings. The older tenants were uneasy because the sisters would repeatedly report the slightest infractionlike a light left on in the communal bathroom or a discarded chocolate wrapper in the hallwayto the building manager.
Sweetnatured Mrs. Pemberton, who had never finished a university degree, loathed the sisters for their education, their childlessness and their habit of nagging. Yet she never interfered, never hounded anyone with complaints, and simply ignored the mischief of the boys Victor and Samuel when they returned home late. The sisters, after all, were just thatspinster keepers of order.
The children adored Mrs. Pemberton. She never squealed on them; instead she would flash a sly smile, wink, and keep quiet. The block was always noisy, full of chatter. Often Mrs. Agnes Whitfield, the older of the two sisters, would step out, purse her lips and admonish the youngsters:
Cant you keep it down? Someone might be trying to sleep. Mr. Thompson from the night shift just got back, and Miss Violet is trying to finish her novel.
The other sister, indeed bent over a battered notebook, would be pointed at by Agnes. The whole block snickered, and Mrs. Pemberton, as always, led the laughter.
Violet, when will you finish that book? Im getting tired of waiting! the old lady would demand, bursting into giggles that the other tenants echoed.
Violet would press her thin lips tighter, offer no reply, and then slip into the room, bursting into tears on her sisters shoulder:
Agnes, why do you keep mentioning the book? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them laugh, Agnes soothed. They mean no harm. Theyre our neighbours, almost like family. Dont be upset, dont cry.
In 1940 the war erupted, and by September the Blitz began. Food didnt run out straight away, but the cold did. The block gradually adjusted to ration coupons, empty rooms, makeshift graves, wailing sirens, the loss of kitchen smells, pale gaunt faces and a pervasive hush. The youths stopped strumming guitars, the children ceased playing hideandseek. Silence settled, and it gnawed at the soul more fiercely than any prewar clamor.
Agnes and Violet grew even thinner, yet still wore their grey dresses that hung on them like mothproofed coats, continuing to enforce ordernow a different sort of order. Mrs. Pemberton ventured out only when absolutely necessary, and one day simply vanished. She left and never returned. Agnes and Violet searched for her for days on end, but to no avail. It was as if the old woman had never existed.
In the spring of 1942 the first death struck the block. Tommys mother passed away, leaving the elevenyearold boy utterly alone. Everyone felt sorry for him, but war left little room for sentiment. Soon the sisters took him under their wing, feeding him, looking after him. When later the mothers of Billy and Sam were lost, their father away at the front with no news, the stern Agnes and the gentle Violet became their guardians as well.
In fact the sisters oversaw all the children in the buildinga sizable lot. They boiled a broth once a day, stirring it for ages, adding whatever scraps they could find. No one knew exactly what went into it; supplies were scarce, yet the soup was delicious. Every child ate it at the same hour each day. They christened the dish Ragamuffin.
Auntie Agnes, why call it Ragamuffin? Tommy asked, recalling the name.
When the name Victor was mentioned, Agness eyes welled, for she hadnt seen a living boy in six months. Yet she answered him gently:
Ragamuffin is how we make itthrown together with whatever we have, like peas, barley, a splash of boiled broth, even a spoonful of tinned meat when luck smiles. Its a hodgepodge, but it keeps us warm.
She brushed his hair, slipped a tiny fragment of sugar from her pocket into his mouth so none was lost in the handtohand passing.
Tommy, look, have you seen Aunt Violets glue? she teased, Im about to season this ragamuffin.
Soon all the orphaned children gathered in the sisters flat. Living together made the cold a little less sharp, and the fear a little easier to bear. The children huddled together, and Aunt Violet would read them bedtime stories from her halffinished manuscript. The unfinished book eventually went to the fire, but Violet remembered every tale and kept inventing new ones. The youngsters begged:
Aunt Violet, will you tell us the story of the SnowCapped Beauty tonight?
I will, she replied, and began.
Daily chores were assigned: Tommy tended the stove, Billy fetched firewood, the girls collected water, the ration coupons were distributed, and the soup was prepared. Songs were sung each morning, with Sam leading the choruswhether you could sing or not, everyone joined in.
One day Agnes brought in a girl from the street, ill and near death. They nursed her back to health. Later Violet rescued another boy, and then another, and another. By the end of the blockade twelve children lived under the sisters roof, all alivea small miracle.
After the war the ragamuffin soup was still made, now a comforting reminder of survival. The children grew up, scattered across the country, but never forgot Aunt Agnes and Aunt Violet. They visited often, helped with chores, and the sisters lived on until nearly a hundred. Violets collection of stories finally saw the light as a book titled My Beloved Block.
Every May9th, while they were still alive, the whole extended family would gather at Agness and Violets flat, celebrating together as their household swelled with grandchildren and even greatgrandchildren.
And the centerpiece of every feast? You guessed itthe ragamuffin soup. Nothing ever tasted as well as that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and steadfast spirit, which saved a generation of children.
The lesson lingered long after the last spoon was cleared: when hardship strips away comfort, the simple acts of sharing, caring and a pinch of generosity become the most nourishing feast of all.
