"The ham is three years old"

Not poignant missives from the battle front nor anguished enquiries from those left behind, these wartime letters were  mostly written by my mother to my father during her brief sorties to London from their home in the Welsh border. They had upped sticks in 1940 leaving possessions, friends and, in her case, family behind in order to live off the land and their wits in a remote smallholding. in the Black Mountains. My father, by virtue of his anomalous status, was not eligible for war work, and indeed had to report every change of address to the authorities . 

My mother frequently travelled back to London to try and rescue their belongings (most of which were later blown up while in storage) and to seek out essentials unobtainable in Wales (spices, wine and vegetable seeds were top of the list). She stayed at her family home for convenience rather than pleasure:  her parents were a useful source of funds when their own domestic warfare didn't distract them.

The picture painted in her familiar round hand script describes a capital city in disarray: familiar streets and landmarks destroyed, goods in short supply, bombs and sirens rending the night air. My mother juggled her ration books and swopped coupons, gratefully received cast-offs from her sisters, snatched opportunities to buy olive oil or lemons or rice, and walked everywhere to save on bus fares. Heroics were not the order of the day. Within her own family she reports that her brother J.
"runs an absolute Black Market from his luxurious office, he says people just bring him things – but one has to pay for them. He gave me some chocolate and cheese and said he will get me some tinned tomatoes, rice and jam." Her sister D. "produced from her bag 2lbs. of sultanas, 4 large oranges, tomatoes, gooseberries, sweets and tobacco. She had also obtained a bottle and a half of gin - but she's not parting with any!"

Her brother R, had managed to secure "a diagnosis of visceroptosis (a kind of sagging bowel which is generally got by elderly women who have had several children!) The specialist has given him a very fine letter saying that he is not fit to be in the army." Brother P.  caused a scandal when "discovered working as a cloakroom attendant in a London night club - you know he is supposed to be in the RAF!!"


Back at home my father counted the days till she returned, weighed down with tins and bottles, treasures and trophies, on trains packed with singing soldiers heading tipsily back to Wales on leave: There'll always be a welcome when you come ho-o-ome again to Wa-a-a-ales!

On the occasion that my father received a disconcerting spot-check from a local policeman my mother issued the following instructions.
"I hope there was nothing lying about – pile some books in front of the tinned food in the cupboard under the stairs & take the butter in the pail up into the bedroom & place the jerry on top of it. If anyone should call while I am away don’t forget that the eggs were preserved before egg rationing began, and the ham is three years old."


Wheeling and dealing, shirking and skiving - it's hardly the message conveyed by Winston Churchill's stirring rhetoric, but it is the reality for people trying to stay afloat in a dissolving society. Not everyone behaves nobly.