In a cramped flat of a sprawling council block lived two gaunt women who seemed almost twin sisters, were they not for the years that stretched between them. Both were thin as reeds, with perpetual pursed lips and bunlike knots perched atop their heads, dressed in identical drab grey housecoats that clung to them like everpresent fog. Everyone in the building loathed, feared, and looked down on them.
The younger tenants muttered their contempt because the sisters were never without a remark, never without a sigh of disapproval. They prowled about the corridors complaining about the loud music, the latenight gatherings, the childrens raucous laughter. The elders whispered that the sisters reported every minor breachan unextinguished light in the bathroom, a discarded wrapper in the hallwayto the building manager, Mrs. Whitaker, who would then write it up in their ration book.
Mildhearted Miss Eleanor Whitfield, who had no university degree but boasted a gentle smile, despised them for everything they represented: the education they possessed, the childless lives they led, the sharp way they scolded everyone. She never intervened, never pestered anyone with complaints, and simply ignored the mischief of the boys Tom and Simon when they came home late. That was the way the sisters weresisters in spirit, if not in blood.
The children adored Eleanor. She never tattled to the landlord, no matter what mischief unfolded under her watchful eye; instead she would flash a sly grin, wink, and remain silent. The flat was always a chorus of chatter and clatter. Often, Auntie Margaret, the elder of the two sisters, would glide out of her room, purse her lips, and scold the youngsters:
Now you cant be shouting so loudly! Someone might be trying to sleep. Mr. Peters from the night shift has just arrived, and perhaps Mrs. Collins is writing a book
She pointed at the door where her sister, indeed hunched over a notebook, was scribbling. The whole building snickered, and Eleanor, of course, led the chorus.
Val, when will you finish that book? Im tired of waiting! the old woman crooned, laughter bubbling from her throat. Everyone who heard it echoed the tease.
Valerie tightened her already thin lips and said nothing, then slipped into the room, weeping bitterly on her sisters shoulder:
Ellen, why do you mention the book? Theyre already laughing at us.
Let them laugh, her sister soothed. They arent cruel. Theyre neighbours, almost kin. Dont be sad.
Then, as the clouds of 1940 darkened the sky and the Blitz began, the world shifted. In September the city fell under siege, and hunger crept in slowly, after an initial warmth. The council flat adjusted to new realities: ration cards, halfempty rooms, the distant wail of airraid sirens, the smell of burnt coal replacing kitchen aromas, gaunt, pallid faces, and a silence that tore at the soul more fiercely than the prewar clamor.
The youths stopped strumming guitars, the children ceased playing hideandseek. A stillness settled, and that stillness gnawed deeper than any bomb blast. Auntie Margaret and Valerie grew even thinner, yet still wore their grey coats that hung like motheaten curtains on their shoulders, still keeping ordernow a different order.
Eleanor ventured out only when absolutely necessary, and one day she simply vanished. She walked away and never returned. Margaret and Valerie searched the hallway for days, calling her name into the empty corridors, but found only echoes. It was as if the old woman had never existed.
In the spring of 42 the first death struck the flat. Mother Hargreaves, the widowed mother of young Tom, died, leaving the boy alone. The building felt a pang of pity, yet war left little room for sentiment. Life trudged on, and Tom was taken under the sisters wing. They fed him, tended to him; he had just turned eleven in October. Later, another boy, Harry, lost his mother; his father was away at the front with no word. The prim Valerie and the stoic Margaret became his guardians, as they did for every orphaned child in the block, and there were many.
Each day the sisters boiled a single pot of soup, stirring it for ages, adding whatever scraps they could findthough the pantry was bare, the broth turned out mysteriously rich. All the children ate from it at the same hour, day after day. They christened the broth MuddleStew.
Grandma Margaret, why MuddleStew? Tom asked, curious about the odd name.
When the name of a boy named Victor was mentioned, a tear slipped down Margarets cheekno boy had lived in the flat for half a yearbut she answered the boy gently:
Arthur! We cook this stew Muddlestyle, thats why its called so.
Whats Muddlestyle? the boy asked.
Its when you toss everything into the potmillet, barley, a splash of gluelike broth, maybe a spoonful of canned meat if youre lucky, Margaret said, patting his head, pulling a tiny sugar crystal from her pocket, breaking it into pieces, and popping it into his mouth so none were lost in the handtohand passing.
Tom, lookdid Auntie Valerie put glue in it? I need to season my MuddleStew, he shouted.
Soon all the orphaned children were gathered into their room, living together. The cold receded, and it no longer felt as terrifying. They huddled close, and Grandma Valerie would read bedtime tales from her own halffinished manuscript, a book that had long been relegated to the fire. Yet she remembered every story and even invented new ones on the spot. The children begged:
Grandma Valerie, tell us the tale of the SnowCapped Beauty tonight.
I will, she replied, and the story began.
Tasks were assigned, and Auntie Althea, the other sister, kept a strict eye that everyone contributed. Tom tended the stove, Harry gathered firewood, the girls fetched water, the ration cards were updated, and they helped stir the stew. Songs rose each morning, with Harry leading the chorus, forcing even the reluctant to join.
One day Margaret brought a girl from the street, barely alive, on the brink of death. She was taken in and nursed back. Later Valerie rescued another boy, then another, and another. By the end of the siege, twelve children lived in the sisters cramped room, all having survivedmiracle or providence, none could say.
Even after the war, they kept boiling the MuddleStew. The children grew, scattered to distant towns, but never forgot Auntie Althea and Grandma Valerie. They remained in the council flat until their very old age, each reaching nearly a hundred years. The manuscript of bedtime stories eventually saw the light of day, titled My Beloved Block. Once a year, on the ninth of May, the surviving children gathered at Altheas and Valeries kitchen while they still breathed, forming a large, jovial family that kept expanding with each generation, even greatgrandchildren appearing.
And what topped the table at every reunion? You guessed itthe MuddleStew. Nothing ever tasted sweeter than that wartime broth, seasoned with kindness and indomitable spirit, a soup that preserved the childrens lives and their memories.
