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From Ration Books to Pension Books
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(Buch) |
Dieser Artikel gilt, aufgrund seiner Grösse, beim Versand als 2 Artikel!
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| I have two daughters and ,like all sisters, they sometimes have disagreements. While trying to remain impartial while acting as mediator, my mind drifts back to two other sisters from long ago.
Like my girls, they were born only 18 months apart, and though they were part of a much larger family, they were the closest.
It was just after the war ended in 1945 that I first remember my gran and my great aunt Mary. I was three years old and had no concept of the chaos surrounding me. Food was rationed, and most children had never seen fruit let alone sweets. Yet these were things I took for granted. Oh, the sins of the Black Market!!!!.
Eliza (my gran) and Mary both worked as upholsterers, and were indeed excellent at their chosen profession. They took great pride in their work and had references from many eminent people of the day. Each taught the craft to their sons, and that's when the rivalry started. I well remember the competition and rows , which, despite many bitter exchanges, they thoroughly enjoyed.
Every few weeks they would go away to some posh seaside resort, (different ones of course) and would return after two months or so and compare who had worked for whom, and who had earned the most. They were generous to a fault with their money, and we were the envy of the street with our bananas, chocolate, and comics. How often I've watched the Antiques Roadshow and remembered all those comics, and wondered what they would be worth now.
Once the excitement of their return had died down, I would be despatched to the local pub to fetch the "supplies". I would trundle up the road with my doll cosily tucked down among the blankets in my old fashioned pram. On the return journey, I would heave my way home with my doll perched sky high on top of twenty -four bottles of Pale Ale. On the way back I'd call at the tobacconist for two tins of snuff. Gran would only have Hedges, while Mary favoured Jip, and woe betide me if I got it wrong. Of course I never did. After an af |
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