The war news suddenly seemed to have a more optimistic note. General Montgomery and the ‘Desert Rats’ were pushing back Rommel and his forces. The Americans were gaining ground over the Japanese, and islands in the Pacific were constantly in the news. Bataan, Wake Island, Iwo Jima. . Then in July the Americans invaded Sicily. The talk at home was all about the second front, the invasion of Europe. I knew that Stan’s regiment would be taking part in this when it happened. He continued to get leave from time to time and for seven days we tried to pretend that life was normal. In between life went on.
A large hostel had been built in Hassall Road to accommodate the workers who had been brought from different areas of the country to work at Radway Green. One of these was Joan Rudland and she joined our staff in the Diagram Office. We became friends immediately. Her husband, Bill was serving in Italy. We had a lot in common and she was soon spending a lot of time at our house. She also came to the ‘Hostel Pictures’ with us. This cinema within the hostel had been started to keep the workers happy in their free time, but the local people were welcome too, and for a shilling we saw all the latest films, (no old rubbish). The only snag was the seating, hard folding wooden chairs. Joan had a room at the hostel, a tiny cramped space, it was pretty awful but she didn’t spend much time in it.
I think just about everyone was always hungry. Of course there was food of some kind but nothing tasty or tempting. Pilchards and mashed potato and peas from the garden did not have the same appeal as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding! It was so difficult to make anything, all the ingredients you needed were either rationed or not available. I remember sitting for half an hour with a screw top jar containing the top from the milk which ‘when shaken would result in a pat of quite acceptable butter’. It certainly turned into a small lump of sour milk!
Our ration books were registered at the shop on the corner of Shady Grove, and one day when I went to get what we were allowed, Mrs. Cox, the proprietors wife reached under the counter, (everything was under the counter), and brought forth three sausages. This was our super treat for the week, and I was suitably impressed. The sausages were made by ‘Browns’ in Hanley. In happier days their sausages were quite famous locally, but in company with all other manufacturers they could only make a poor imitation, mostly bread with flavouring, I don’t think there was any meat in them, but the prospect of sausages and mash was very tempting, and we had all developed a very strong imagination and no matter what awful concoction we were eating we would assure each other that “it was not too bad, quite nice, really”. I don’t think we ever actually said we’d “enjoyed that” there was a limit to what we could believe. However, when I arrived home with the sausages, (one each), it was decided to have them at teatime. A large pan of potatoes was put on the fire to boil; when these were cooked they were put on the hob while the sausages were fried. The table was laid, and Dad was trying to read the paper, (he had come in early in order to enjoy the meal when it was just freshly cooked). Mum had put a tin plate on the rack above the fire. This was to put the sausages on when they were cooked, to keep warm while she mashed the potatoes, (no milk or butter for the mash). Three large dinner plates were also warming on the rack. The sausages spluttered, sizzled, and burst slightly in the frying pan, and they really smelled savoury; whatever the flavouring was, it certainly was effective. At last they were done, and transferred to the warm tin plate. Mum mashed the potatoes and put a heap on each of our plates. She turned round to get the plate of sausages, (all three of them), and somehow her hand caught the plate and all three sausages fell in the fire! Now, no matter how hungry you may be, it is quite impossible to put your hand in a red-hot fire, and before she could think to get a large spoon they were all literally burnt to a cinder. I have to say that both Mum and I cried, and I think Dad was too stunned to speak. We tried to eat the mashed potatoes but they stuck in our throats. Years after we often talked of the time we cried when the sausages fell in the fire.
Stan had an awful story to tell about sausages. They were encamped somewhere out in the wilds and the Army cooks only had a couple of large boilers in which to prepare the food, and one day the meal was sausages, and, yes, they boiled them! They came out white and slimy and all but a few hardy souls suddenly didn’t feel hungry at all!