Sisters
In one of the small, draughty flats of a rambling old boarding house in Birmingham lived two formidable women. They were sistersproper sisters, and if not for the decent gap in their ages, you might well have mistaken them for twins.
Both were rail-thin, bony, with sharp noses and lips in a perpetual, pinched purse. They wore identical plain grey skirt suits, hopelessly out of fashion, and their hair was always scraped back into tight buns. The whole house held them in a complex mix of fear, resentment, and derision.
Young people in the house despised them for their endless interfering, their habit of always tutting and scoldingnever content, never quiet. Loud music, parties, coming home latethere was always something that they disapproved of.
The children couldnt help but dread their presence, for these old spinsters ran to parents with every minor trouble, from a light left burning in the loo to sweet wrappers dropped in the hallway.
Kind, gentle Mrs. Marple, meanwhile, had no time for them at all. She looked down on them for all sorts: for the university degrees they had but she never attained, for their lack of family or children, for their nasty way of criticising everyone.
Mrs. Marple, now, never got involved, never tattled on anyone. She let the children get up to their tricks and turned a blind eye to Mark and Simon tramping in at all hours. But those twowell, they had their noses in everyones business. Dragons. Absolute dragons.
The children loved Mrs. Marple. She never grassed them up, no matter what they did, not even right under her nose. Instead, shed give a sly grin, a conspiratorial wink, and all would be kept hush-hush.
There were plenty of children in our old house. The racket never stopped.
Often, the elder of the two dragons, Alice Booth, would appear in the corridor, mouth set in a thin line, ticking the kids off:
You simply cannot shout like that! Someone might be trying to sleep, you know. Mr. Peters has finished night shift; and for all we know, someone might be writing a novellike Violet, for instance! Alice would point to the door where her sister really was, indeed, penning away at stories.
Everyone snickered at her behind closed doors, and Mrs. Marple was always the loudest.
Vi, hows that book of yours coming? Ive been waiting ages! Cant wait for a read! shed cackle, and the laughter would ripple through the house.
Violet would purse her lips even harder, offering no reply, only to dissolve into tears on Alices shoulder as soon as they were alone.
Alice, you mustnt tell them about my writing. They do nothing but mock us.
Let them, Vi, Alice would comfort her. They mean no harm. Theyre neighbours, almost like family. Dont take it to heart. Now, dry your eyes.
Then came the year 1941, and with it, the shadows of war. By September, the city was caught in the Blitz. At first, life was only a bit differentration books, half-emptied flats, telegrams in black-edged envelopes, the howl of sirens, the absence of supper smells, faces grown pale and thin, and a heaviness, a hush, that weighed more than any pre-war clatter.
The young stopped singing with their guitars, children no longer played hide-and-seek. The silence grew so thick it was crushing.
Alice and Violet shrank thinner still, yet kept donning their frumpy grey suits, which hung from their shoulders like shrouds, and kept their watchful eyes on the housethough now for other reasons.
Mrs. Marple stepped out only when necessary. Then, one day, she disappeared altogethersimply gone. Alice and Violet searched for days, but of her there was no trace. It was as if shed vanished into the fog of war.
That spring, the first death came to the boarding house. Little Toms mother passed, leaving the boy alone in the world. Everyone pitied him, but there wasnt much to dowar had changed everything. Tom faded into the background.
Everyone except the sisters. They took him in, watched over him, did what they could to feed himhe was only eleven that October. Later, when the mother of Paul and Jenny died and their fathers letters from the front stopped coming, Alice and Violet stepped in for them, too.
In time, all the children in the house became their wards.
They managed, once a day, to brew a pot of soupeach taking turns at the little stove, grating and stirring, the kitchen awash with the scent of hope. No one knew quite what went into that soup, for rations had run out, but it tasted marvellous. Every child got a bowl, every day, at the very same time.
They named itthe Odds-and-Ends Soup.
Aunt Alice, why dyou call it that? Tom once piped up, frowning at the curious name.
Alices eyes misted at the mention of Marka boy now gone for over six monthsyet she replied gently for Toms sake,
Tom, we throw a bit of this, a bit of thatwhatever we findinto the pot. Thats why we call it odds-and-ends!
But what does that mean? Tom couldnt grasp it.
Well, you see? Who ever puts both lentils and barley in the same pot? And a touch of wallpaper paste if needed! And, if luck shines, a spoonful of tinned meat! Alice tousled his hair, fished out a sugar shard from her pocket, broke off a crystal, and popped it straight in his mouthto avoid a single precious crumb being lost during handover.
Now, Tom, run see if Vis managed to scrape together any pasteI need to finish the odds-and-ends.
Soon, all the orphans were brought to the sisters tiny flat, crowding into their beds at night for warmth, the children huddled close and Violet telling stories in the darknessfrom memory, from her unfinished book (the pages of which had already been used as firelighters), and from the new tales she composed along the way. The children wouldnt sleep without her tales.
Granny Vi, will you tell us about the Beauty from the Snowy Mountains tonight?
I will, and so she would begin.
Every child had a job. Aunt Alice made sure of it. Tom kept the fire going, Paul fetched wood and chopped kindling, the girls queued at the standpipe for water, spent their rations and helped stir the soup. They sang as well, though their voices were thin. Jenny led the singing; every morning, everyone joined in.
Once, Alice brought in a pale slip of a girl she found on the streetnearly gone, but somehow brought back, nursed through it. More children arrived, one by onethe sisters never turned anyone away.
By the time the Blitz lifted, twelve children crowded in their tiny room. All survived. No one could say how. Some call it a miracle.
After the war, the tradition went on. The Odds-and-Ends Soup still graced their little table, year after year. The children, now grown, scattered across England, but never forgot their two aunties, Alice and Violet. They visited often, helped out, and each old lady lived to see nearly a hundred. The storybook of fairy tales was published, and Granny Vi kept writing, stories about each of her grandchildren filling its pages. The book bore the perfect title: My Beloved Boarding House.
Every spring, on the 8th of May, the whole extended family gathered at Alice and Violets, as long as the old girls were still with us. The family only grew in sizesoon, there were great-grandchildren, too.
And you know what dish took pride of place on the table every year? You guessed itOdds-and-Ends Soup.
Nothing ever tasted better than that war-time soup. Seasoned with kindness and the sheer will to survive, it saved a whole generation of children.
