Aunt Greta's Woolton Pie - Pt 2

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A Second Helping of
Aunt Greta’s Woolton Pie

By Gabi
Chapter 3 of a Continuing Saga

I closed the door after waving goodbye to Sue and Judy and returned to the dining room where I had been doing my prep. Mummy had laid a cheerful checked cloth on the table so all I had to do was put out place mats and lay out the cutlery. Auntie G kept the "dining-room cutlery"–as she called it–in one of the drawers of the Welsh dresser, so I went straight to it and opened the drawer, and sure enough, there were knives, forks and spoons for all occasions–many of them strange to me–but I was able to select what I thought was needed and laid up two places.

I remembered that Auntie G had told me that her mum was a stickler for doing things correctly and always laid the table with a full set of cutlery for each person–even if it was going to be a simple one-course meal–so at each place I put a large and a small knife on the right, a large fork on the left, and a desert spoon and fork head-to-tail and side-by-side across the top. I wondered if I should lay a soup spoon as well, but decided to ask Mummy if they would be needed. I also placed two mats for vegetable dishes with large serving spoons alongside. There was a vase of chrysanthemums to one side of the dresser and I decided they would look pretty in the centre of the dining table so I carefully lifted them across.

There was a good smell coming from the kitchen, so I went to find out what we were having for our supper. Mummy was at the stove stirring something in a saucepan. ‘What are we having for supper, Mummy?’ I asked.

‘It’s something we’ve not had before, darling; I found it on one of those receipt leaflets that the Ministry of Food give out. It’s called "Woolton Pie" and I thought it would make a change from "corned-beef hash", our usual Thursday supper. It’s made of vegetable, so why they had to give it a fancy name goodness alone knows.’

‘It smells good,’ I said. ‘Was it invented by Lord Woolton?’

‘No, darling, I shouldn’t think he knows one end of a gas stove from the other. The receipt leaflet says it was invented by the head chef of the Savoy Hotel in London. Have you laid the table?’

‘Yes, Mummy, I didn’t know if I should put out soup spoons or not.’

‘Well, I do like the table to be laid properly, Greta, and that should always include soup spoons for a sit-down meal in the dining room. It so important to keep our standards up, particularly in wartime. Daddy would be horrified if he came home and found us eating at the kitchen table, like some of your school chums do; it’s so slovenly.’

‘I’ll go and lay soup spoons now,’ I said, turning to leave the kitchen.

‘Would you take these dinner plates through, darling,’ she said handing me two large china plates she was holding with a tea-towel. ‘Use the cloth, because they’re hot.’ I managed to take them from her and while she opened the door for me I took them to the dining room. The dining room door was ajar so I turned my back and pushed it open with my bum–golly, I mustn’t call it that in front of Mummy, Auntie Greta told me that she had to call it her "sit-upon" when she was a girl! I put the plates on one of the big serving mats in front of Mummy’s place and looked at the table to check if everything was there: soup spoons! I took two from the cutlery drawer and laid them outside the knives to the right of each place setting. There was nothing to drink out of so I got two glass tumblers from the dresser cupboard and put them in place before going back to the kitchen for some water. As I was filling the water jug, Mummy was pouring brown gravy into a gravy boat; she asked me to carry that in as well as the water. By the time I reached the dining room again I could hear sounds of Mummy getting the Woolton pie from the oven, so I placed the water jug on the table and the gravy-boat on one of the serving mats and waited, standing behind my chair, listening to Mummy’s heels clicking on the kitchen floor tiles.

‘Ah, there you are, Gabs,’ said "Mummy" coming through the door; she looked older again so I realised that she must be Auntie G and I must be back in 1994 again. This was getting soooo confusing. ‘It’s turned out rather well, poppet; look.’ She placed the pie dish on one of the serving mats. The potato slices on top had turned a gorgeous golden brown and it smelt rather delicious too. ‘I must say you’ve done an excellent job laying the table; even my mum would have approved. That’s odd, the gravy’s here, and I was just going to ask you to go and fetch it from the kitchen.’

‘Auntie, I think I should tell you that I think the gravy’s from 1944, as I was asked to bring it in by a lady who was wearing your dress and was calling me Greta. And I met two of your school mates, Susan Brown and Judy, Judy, err–’

‘Wilson?’

‘Yes, they came round to ask me about our homewor–prep, coz they had forgotten to write it down. And you never told me your form teacher’s nickname.’

‘"The Grim Reaper",’ giggled Auntie. ‘D’you know, I’d forgotten all about that: poor Miss De’Ath, she was actually a really nice, kind lady and didn’t deserve the name we horrid little girls gave her. Shall we say grace? For what–’

‘–we are about to receive,’ I joined in, ‘may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’

Auntie took a sharp knife and cut into the top of the pie and lifted a slice of the potato crust on to one side of my plate and then spooned out some of the steamy, goo-ey vegetable mixture and placed the crust back on top. She handed the plate to me saying, ‘Help yourself to gravy, honey, and don’t wait for me to start; it would be a shame to let it get cold.’

I poured some gravy over the pie, picked up my knife and fork and tried a mouthful. It was really, really tasty. ‘Mmmm, Auntie G, it tastes great. Can we have it again soon?’

‘Thank you, darling, but you should give yourself a pat on the back too as you did at least half the work. It would be fun to do it again, and perhaps try some of Mummy’s other wartime receipts.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘So what did you think of my two chums, Sue and Judy?’

‘I thought they were really-really nice–they asked me to go and play with them which would’ve been cool, but your mummy said supper was nearly ready and asked me to lay the table; so I didn’t meet them for very long.’

‘Soon after Wendy was killed by that doodlebug, Judy’s parents moved to Scotland, taking her with them and Sue and I became best friends for the rest of our schooldays. She went on to become a teacher and eventually headmistress of a girls’ boarding school.’

‘Do you still see her?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but not very often; she’s retired now and lives in France but whenever she comes over here she usually comes and sees me.’

‘I’d love to meet her sometime. We could tell her about my meeting her as a little girl.’

‘I’m not sure she’d believe you. It would be different if you had met her several times, then you could provide more proof of your time travels.’

‘Well, I might have some more time travels, Auntie, after all I’ve done it twice today. Your mum was making a Woolton Pie when I was in 1944, did you have it often?’

‘Quite a bit, although I can’t remember the first time Mummy made it; we usually had a baked apple and custard for afters; it made sense to make use of the oven while it was hot. We always had plenty of apples because of the apple trees in the back garden and Mummy managed to hoard a small supply of raisins, currants and mixed peel to stuff in the hole left when the core was removed. We would have cooked more apples if the sugar ration had been bigger. Mummy used to save as much sugar as possible by having saccharine in our tea. The other pudding that we loved was spotted dick;’ I couldn't help giggling and Auntie grinned realising I was having impure thoughts! Mind you, spotted dick is one of my favourites too, except mum prefers to call it fruit sponge.

‘I can’t imagine having food rationing,’ I remarked. ‘It must have made things very difficult.’

‘It did. Mummy became very expert at using up "left-overs". The left-overs of our tiny Sunday joint would be used as the basis for a stew with lots of veggies and an Oxo cube* added for our Monday meal; or sometimes she would mince it up and make a cottage pie or even make it into a curry. One thing about having food rationing was that there were no fatties among my school chums. The only food that was never rationed during the war was bread. Bread rationing came in after the war.’


‘Really?’ I said, surprised. ‘There are seven fatties in my year at Tuckton–four boys and three girls–who seem to spend all their pocket money on sweets and chips** and they’re all useless at games.’

When we had had our fill of Woolton Pie, Auntie gathered up our plates and I took the gravy boat and empty pie-dish and followed her to the kitchen to fetch our pud.–baked apple and custard–yummy and I was really looking forward to it. The kitchen had changed back into Auntie’s modern one again with its stainless steel sink and Formica-topped kitchen units. There was a double saucepan keeping the custard hot on the top of the cooker as Auntie took the apples out of the oven. They smelled soooo good. Auntie poured the custard into a jug and gave it to me to carry to the dining room while she plated the baked apples.

My baked apple was so good–the flesh was so soft and creamy. I was glad I was eating it in "my own" time rather than during the war as I needed to add some sugar–brown sugar–to sweeten the rather tart Bramley apple. When we had finished we took the crocks out to the kitchen and put them on the side ready to wash-up.

‘While I wash up, will you make a pot of tea, Gabs?’ Auntie asked. ‘Remember one teaspoonful of tea per person and one for the pot.’ Auntie preferred "proper tea", as she called it, because ‘it makes a better cuppa than tea-bags.’

‘Do you want me to dry for you?’ I asked.

‘No, poppet, we’ll leave it to drain overnight and it’ll be dry by the morning.’

I filled the electric kettle and switched it on. When it had boiled I poured a little water into the brown pottery teapot to warm it, emptied it, added three teaspoonsful of tea to the teapot, brought the kettle up to the boil again and poured the still-boiling water into the pot.

‘Good girl,’ Auntie said, and I felt myself blushing as she put the last of the plates on the rack to drain. ‘Let it stand for five minutes while you put our cups and saucers on the tray, and then we’ll go through to the sitting room.’

In the sitting room, Auntie put the tray on the coffee table, and told me to sit on the sofa. I tucked my feet up under my bum, straightened my skirt and watched her pour out our tea.

‘Well, Gabs,’ said Auntie after she had taken a sip of tea, ‘After you’ve had your tea you’d better go and put in half-an-hour’s piano practice. Don’t forget you’ve got your Grade Four exam in three weeks time.’

‘Gosh, yes, I must. Mummy will be cross if I don’t pass.’ We chatted while we drank our tea, Auntie telling me more about her girlhood, and then I made my way to the dining room again where Auntie’s old upright piano was kept. I started off with scales and arpeggios and some exercises to get my fingers going and then practised the piece I would have to play for the exam and then thumped out some bars of Chaminade, thinking of poor Nancy having to perform it for her dreaded Great Aunt in The Picts and the Martyrs. When I finished I returned to the sitting room where Auntie was listening to some music on Radio 2.

‘That sounded quite good, Gabs, you have a nice touch,’ said Auntie, as I settled myself on the sofa, tucking my legs under my bum again, ‘Have you enjoyed being a girl today?’

‘Yes, it’s been great fun, Auntie and I've enjoyed myself trimmensely. Somehow I feel right wearing your old school uniform, as if I was meant to be a girl. I was wondering if you had any of your old pyjamas I could wear tonight.’

‘Oh, I was never allowed to wear pyjams, honey. Mummy would only let me wear nighties; pyjams were only for boys, according to her. I saw a couple of my nighties among the stuff we found up in the loft. You can wear one of them if you like for tonight.’

‘Yes please,’ I replied. It’ll soon be time for me to go upstairs for my bath. ‘Should I wash my hair again, Auntie? I washed it last night, remember.’

‘I don’t think you’ll need to tonight, poppet. Leave your plaits in, though, and I’ll pin them up on top of your head so the ends don’t get wet in the bath water. I’ll come up with you and find you one of my old nighties–if you're sure you want to wear one tonight?’

‘Yes please,’ I replied.

When I undressed I discovered I had my boy’s body again, so I guessed I only had a girl-body when I was in 1944.

I enjoyed my bath, and after I had dried myself, Auntie came in with a pink flannelette nightie for me to wear. She slipped it over my head and unpinned my plaits to let them hang down normally.

‘Should I undo my plaits?’

‘No, hon, leave them in while you sleep. It’ll stop your hair getting tangled while you sleep and it will be easier to manage in the morning. Now into bed with you, girl, and read your book. I’ll be back to kiss you goodnight in half an hour.’

I settled down and read another chapter of "The Picts and The Martyrs" and then Auntie re-appeared for lights out. We kissed each other on the cheek, and she said, ‘Sleep tight!’ and I replied, ‘And see the bugs don’t bite!’ She turned off my light and I settled down under the sheets and was soon in the land of nod.

***

In my dream I heard a loud wailing noise. Soon someone was shaking my shoulder. ‘Greta, wake up, darling. It’s an air raid we have to go out to the shelter.’

I swung my legs out of bed and stood up, shaking my nightie down where it had ridden up my legs. Mummy was holding out a pair of white briefs. ‘Put these liners on, darling. It will be cold in the shelter.’ She pulled them right up under my nightie and I realised that I was a proper girl again. ‘Now these,’ said Mummy holding out my navy blue knickers which I stepped into as well. ‘Put on some warm socks and your outdoor shoes and a warm dressing gown, dear. Hurry up now, and don’t forget to bring your torch.

I did as I was asked and headed for the stairs. Mummy had put on a warm coat and led me out to the shelter. It was very dark outside. ‘Point your torch on the ground, darling, otherwise the German pilots might see it.’ It made me shudder to think about it and I gripped Mummy’s hand tighter. We reached the shelter without incident, Mummy lighted the two candles and we settled down, wrapping ourselves in blankets and huddling together, did our best to keep warm. I tried to get to get to sleep, but I was too tense waiting for that horrid droning, buzz that told of the approach of a V1. We hugged each other more tightly as the noise grew louder and louder.

Then it stopped, and again after what seemed like an hour there was another ginormous explosion. I felt my heart miss a beat and I nearly wet myself. We both screamed, my ears were ringing and hurt and I burst into tears.

‘Mummy, I’m so frightened, hold me tight please.’

‘That’s not like you, darling. You’re usually so brave and stoical during air-raids these days.’

‘Sorry, Mummy, I just feel extra frightened tonight.’

She cuddled me tightly until we heard the "all clear" and then we went back to the house. I was shivering with cold and fright as Mummy helped me back into bed. We cuddled for a while and I must have dropped off to sleep because the next thing I knew was Auntie Greta waking me at half past seven next morning.

‘Come on, Gabs, show a leg, rise and shine. Go to the loo and then have a wash and get dressed. Do you want to be a girl again today?’

‘Yes please, Auntie,’ I replied, and headed for the loo. I lifted my nightie and found I was wearing knickers–two pairs. I remembered Mummy helping me put them on before we went to the shelter as I felt for my willie. But I only found a "front bottom"!

After having a wee–I had to sit down, natch–I cleaned myself up; it was sooo much nicer using Auntie's lovely soft Andrex compared with Mummy's horrid, rough, Bronco. I pulled up my knickers and rearranged my nightie, then flushed and opened the door.

‘Auntie Greta! Can you come here a minute. Something terrible has happened!’

To be continued…

 © 2008 Gabi Bunton All rights reserved

* Oxo, a meat extract that was available as a thick brown paste in a jar or as cubes. See:— http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oxo_%28food%29
** Note for our friends on the west side of the pond: "Chips"–short for "chipped potatoes", are what we Brits call French Fries–as found in the ever-popular and staple item of British cuisine "Fish and Chips"

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Comments

whilst this is....

Angharad's picture

an electrifying story, I suspect you had currants rather than current in your baked apple and Sauce Anglaise! 8)

Angharad

Angharad

Thanks, Sis!

Well spotted that girl! Just as well it wasn't Spotted Dick for Pud, Eh? I understand it is a favourite at Roedean!
I shall append a correction.

Hugs,
Gabi
(blushing somewhat)

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

thanks

good story but what is a tuch other than that and a cuppa ?.sorry but i guess your story must be in the kings english and than i tray to get the words in usa english ok kinda hard but to me funny and goodeven if i dont under stand a lot of this thanks and have a good one love n hugs whildchild

mr charlles r purcell
verry good story i wood love to see a lot more of this all i can say is wow verry good thanks for shareing

Cuppa

Cuppa is how we Brits often refer to a cup of tea (cuppa = cup of).

Sorry to cause confusion across the pond, but the language is called English!

Gabi

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

More please!

Really enjoying this story Gabi - hope you can serve up some more helpings.

Glad to see Aunt Greta again

Thanks for bringing Aunt Greta around again -- these stories are very sweet and I love them.

I particularly like the natural way you move them back and forth in time.

Woolton Pie - all

I finally made it through Aunt Greta/Gaby's adventures. Well done and more to come I hope!

During WWII like in Britain everything was rationed here in the States though the way things are these days you'd never think it was possible. I lived with my mother who worked in the shipyard. She had her young half-sister with us. We lived next door to a decomissioned school that was taken over temporarily by soldiers on their way to the Pacific Islands. The half-sister was a teen-ager and very pretty. With the combination of her and those GIs next door we never lacked for rationed foods until they had to leave on the next troop transport. Whatever my half-aunt did while mom was at work and I was at school we'll never know.

It was around this time I put on a pair of my mother's high heels and walked around the house only to be scolded for doing so. I never did anything like that in public again until I was much older. I'm sure everyone who reads this has experienced something like it.

marie c.

marie c.

Greta's Adventures as Future Boy!

laika's picture

Another fine installment Gabi....... But suddenly I'm wondering:
Is young Greta running around as a boy in 1994 during these shifts?
Meeting herself? Might be fun to explore if you could keep it low key
& normal like these are; and I guess there would be paradox issues
to work out, like why the older her didn't remember, unless she is
hit by a falling beam on arrival back home in '44 & contracts amnesia
(this is getting cheesier by the minute); But then how could it be
a first person narrative? Aw Nevermind...
~~~V for Victory! LAIKA

I like it

I think this is a great story Gabi. I luv the way gaby gous back and forth to wartime.

More please

NS

Arthur Ransome ......

....would have found much to enjoy in your story Gaby, even if Wild Cat Island itself was never actually bombed :)

A lovely nostalgic air pervades the whole story. Especially for one who was much in love with Nancy Blackett for many a formative year

I am greatly enjoying it.

Hugs,

Fleurie

Fleurie

I adored Ransome, still do

I was an avid Ransome reader as a kid, and still have my original hard-back copies in the bookcase by my bed. I re-read each of the 12 books in the series once a year, and I also have the full set of the excellent audio tapes read by Gabriel Woolf, who is a tremendous Ransome enthusiast; he is currently putting them all on CD as well.

Nancy was always my fave character too; she was always so bossy and feisty, I just longed to be her.

Hugs
Gabi

PS If you get a chance read Ransome's Autobiography: it is fascinating, particularly his exploits as the Manchester Guardian correspondent in Russia during the Russian revolution—real hair-raising stuff!

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

Don't forget Racundra's ....

.... First Cruise. Another delight.

I read the biography years ago. About time I re-read it.

Such a shame there were only twelve in the series. I went into a severe decline when the realisation that there were no more sunk in. Never really recovered!

Hugs,

Fleurie

Fleurie

There was another…

… that Ransome started, but which he never finished. It was published along with a number of his excellent short stories under the title "Coots in the North". In the time-scale it comes just after Picts & Martyrs, so it includes all three dinghies, Swallow, Amazon & Scarab, but with the added delight of the three young Coots who somehow stow away on a new boat in Jonatt's Yard that is due to be delivered to "The Lake". It gets as far as the Coots meeting Nancy and that's all. He obviously lost interest in it, as he then went on to write "Great Northern?"—his last S&A book.

Sad really. Incidentally, last week, BBC7 (The digital nostalgia radio station) ran readings of five of the stories from "Old Peter's Russian Tales". I think there will be some more on Radio 4 soon, as Ransome's literary executives have given them permission.

Hugs,
Gabi

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

Surely Not "Terrible"?

joannebarbarella's picture

If Gaby's going to tell her Auntie about her "front bottom" surely that's something lovely? Beautiful story, can't wait for more. I'm drooling for some of that pie with OXO for flavouring. Did you have POM too? Hoots of laughter from Aussies, but it was dehydrated potato,
Hugs,
Joanne

POM

Yes, we did have dehydrated potato. I rather liked it back then. And there was that Ministry of Food concentrated orange juice which came in medicine bottles and was a thick gooey substance (probably full of orange dye) that was diluted with water. I hated it, but it was all there was. We even had it at birthday parties. Yukk!

Gabi

Gabi.


“It is hard for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thomas Hardy—Far from the Madding Crowd.

OXO-moron!

Is that an Oxo-moron, for a veggie-pot-pie?

The thing I like about these stories, Gabs, is not only the
enthralling look at these times. That is amazing enough,
because you do it so well. What I also like is the same thing
I find in a lot of Sue Brown's work. There is an innocence of
impression and purpose that I find compelling. I have no
idea how you can do it without it being corny, but I for
one only find it Charming!

Thank you Gabi. I just got my new glasses today, an' yours
was the first story I read! Nothing Terrible about that!

Sarah Lynn

Is there a Chapter 3?

I noticed the stories listed in the Aunt Greta Saga go from "Aunt Greta's Woolton Pie - Pt 2" to "At Aunt Greta's 4 – Don't Panic!" Had there been a third chapter? I hope nothing to happened to it. I've been havin' so much fun readin' about Gabi's adventures, and I'd hate to miss out on any of this wonderful story!