In number one, the day began quietly, as usual. Irene and Bert, old, and set in their ways, came downstairs, wrapped in dressing gowns past their best, and started their morning routine. Bert sat at the little table by the back window and gazed out at the little patch of earth in his back yard, trying to see if the seeds he had thrown out there were sprouting yet. Irene having stoked up the fire which she’d banked up the night before, pushed the trivet with the blackened kettle over the hot coals, and set the teapot to warm, while she cut the loaf ready to toast in front of the fire.
In number two, the day had started early for Alf. People would still want their milk, despite the day. He trudged up the hill to the Co-op to start his work, musing on the way today might go, his feet feeling lighter today than of late. Sometimes in the past few years he’d barely been able to drag himself up here. The constant talk in the depot of houses bombed, dockyards decimated by fire, factories being taken over to provide stuff for the war effort, had got him down. Harry, who did a round at the other side of town, seemed to take delight in regaling them with tales of how many telegrams his fourteen year old son was delivering every day. It had got Alf down.
In number three, Alan and Ronnie raced downstairs. They hadn’t been able to get to sleep last night. They’d stood at the window, hiding behind the curtains, listening to their mum talking to the next door neighbour. Mum was sitting on the back door step, cup of tea in her hand, whilst Mrs Mason had climbed a ladder so she could see over the back yard wall, and had rested her cup of tea on the top of the wall, whilst she settled down for a nice long chat. Alan and Ronnie had heard how the war was over, and the men would be home soon. Alan and Ronnie were only four, but they understood what “soon” meant. Their mother often said it when they asked when dinner would be ready, or when they could go out in the back lane to play with the other kids, so they were excited this morning. They expected their Daddy would be sitting downstairs waiting to surprise them.
In number four, Mrs Mason shouted to her daughters to come downstairs. She needed them to go to all the neighbours and collect sugar and fat and flour and eggs. Even dripping would do. Anything she could use to make buns for the party this afternoon.
In number five Mrs Johnson busied herself cleaning her already clean home. She pulled her kitchen table away from the wall so she could dust the dust-free legs. The men would be round soon, to carry it outside, to join all the others for the party this afternoon. She filled the sink with water from the kettle, and washed the spare plates from the pantry, and put them with the bed sheets she had found to use as tablecloths.
In number six there was a row going on. Ernie had been celebrating early, and had rolled in the door tired and belligerent, just as Gladys was coming down the stairs. She, exhausted and suspicious, having had little or no sleep, as she wondered which floozy he was with this time, was in no mood to put up with his attempts to justify himself to her. She flew at him, screaming, and pummeling his chest. He always ruined everything. Everything she looked forward to. Even their wedding had been spoiled when he got drunk and punched his best man. And now today, when at last the war was over, he’d ruined that as well.
In number seven, Susan and Janet Turner ran into their mother’s bedroom, excited and ready for the day to begin. Today there was going to be a party, and they didn’t want to miss a minute of it. They could already hear people outside starting to put up bunting, and discussing where the tables should go. Their mother smiled at their excitement, but reminded them there was a lot to do, before the celebrations began.
In number eight, Sid sat remembering the end of the last war. He was loathe to celebrate this time. Last time had been “the war to end all wars”, and just look what had happened. He stared gloomily into his tea, and wondered when the next one would start. He was happy for a break, of course, but he didn’t trust those buggers in Whitehall not to start another one when the mood took them. He got up from the table, put his cup and saucer in the sink, pulled on his old jacket, and made his way out of the back door. At least today his allotment would be quiet, nobody trying to pull him into their conversations , or asking advice, or trying to tell him a better way to grow his veg.
In number nine Enid was ready to do battle. If she didn’t get out of the front door soon, her neighbours would have set everything up, and as usual, they’d have done everything wrong. They needed someone like her to organise everything, otherwise she knew what would happen. Tables would be put up in the wrong place, nobody would think to make sure the teapots went on a strong table that wouldn’t collapse with the weight, and then where would they be? With tea on ration, they couldn’t afford to waste any, that was for certain!
In number ten, Betty dragged herself out of bed and tried to stifle the feeling of dread at the thought of a party. She poured tea, added milk and sugar, stirring it carefully before carrying it upstairs to her Mum. Back downstairs, she opened her handbag, and took out and re-read the last letter she had received from her Jim. It arrived the day after that dreadful telegram. She didn’t want to read that again. She never wanted to read that again. When the Mason girls knocked on the door to ask her for a contribution towards their mother’s baking, she plastered a smile on her face, agreed that it was indeed a wonderful day. VE Day 1945.
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