Aunt Greta’s Woolton Pie

By Gabi
Chapter 2 of a Continuing Saga…

In response to requests here is some more of the story of
Aunt Greta and her nephew/niece Gabriel/Gabrielle

After I told Auntie Greta about what I had thought had been a dream about doing her homework in 1944, she told me that Miss De’Ath, her class teacher, had been cross with her over something I had said in the essay I had written. I felt guilty that I had not thought more carefully about what I was writing.”  I realised I must have had a brief sojourn in 1944.

‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble, Auntie Grete, Wattie quite likes it when we use a few modern words in our essays." I took a bite of the chocky cake that I hadn’t eaten earlier. I was still wearing her old 1940’s school uniform–navy-blue box-pleated gym tunic, white blouse, tie and white ankle socks–that must have been my "ticket to the past".

‘That’s all right, Gaby,’ she said. ‘The only thing was I had no idea what it meant so I couldn’t explain. In the end Miss De’Ath decided that it must have been because the doodlebug had interrupted my thoughts and caused me to write gobbledegook. So what did you think of being a girl in 1944?’

‘Not that much different from being a boy in 1994,’ I replied, ‘except for the air-raid–and the clothes, of course. I liked your mummy–she looked just like you do, ’cept a bit younger.’

‘Well, dear, she was quite a bit younger than I am now. She was 31.’

I did a quick sum in my head. ‘Twenty years older than you; Jeez, she’d be 81 now, kewl,’ I stated. ‘That’s really-really old.’

‘It’s not so old nowadays,’ Auntie replied. ‘Let’s get these crocks into the kitchen, and we can load them into the dishwasher.’

‘I didn’t see a dishwasher in your mum’s kitchen,’ I remarked.

‘Good gracious, no. I don’t think they had even been invented. Now I’ll put everything on the tray and we’ll go to the kitchen and decide what to have for our 1944 wartime supper. Will you open the door for me, please, Gaby?’

I opened the door and held it open for Auntie while she carried the tray through to the kitchen. It sounded odd to be called Gaby, but I was wearing girls’ clothes. My name is Gabriel Chambers, but Mummy, Daddy and my big brother, Tim, usually call me Gab–they say I chatter too much and at school I sometimes get called Gab-pots for the same reason.

In the kitchen we put the tea-time crockery in the dishwasher while Auntie emptied the tealeaves from the teapot into her ‘compost bucket’. Now, let’s find that old receipt book,’ she said, reaching up to the shelf where she kept her cookery books and taking down a very tatty old one that had definitely seen better days. ‘I thought we would have a Woolton Pie for our wartime supper tonight, Gabs. We often had it and it was very delicious. It’s named after Lord Woolton who was the Minister of Food during the war.’

‘Wattie told us about him in history last term,’ I said.

‘Well we’ll have his pie this evening. Do you want to help me? I often helped Mummy when she made one,’ she said putting on her apron and tying it behind her back.

‘Yes please, Auntie G, that would be fun.’

‘Then you’d better put a pinny on. Mummy always insisted I wore one when helping in the kitchen so I didn’t splash anything on my tunic. I’ll go and find one for you.’ She left the kitchen, leaving me wishing I knew more about what it was like for children during the war. A minute or two later she returned. ‘There you are, Gaby, I knew I’d seen one amongst those old clothes we found in the attic.’ She handed me a plain white linen apron. ‘This was what we wore at school for dommy sci. Now let’s make our Woolton Pie.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Well, d’you remember I told you about the rationing and how short everything was?’

I nodded; ‘Yes, Auntie.’

‘Our meat ration was minuscule so we had to make up with extra veggies which nearly everyone grew in their gardens or on allotments.[see note 1] Mummy had an allotment just round the corner and we hardly ever had to buy vegetables. She was one of about four women who had one. The other allotments were all kept by elderly men who were too old for military service. The government had a slogan "dig for victory" to encourage everyone to do their bit.

‘Mummy was a bit naughty, actually,’ Auntie G confided in me, giggling. ‘When she went out to the allotment she used to wear a slightly shorter skirt so that when she bent over the old men could see some of her knickers; she said she did it to encourage them to go out to work their allotments. She insisted it was her bit towards the war effort!’

‘I can’t imagine your mum doing that,’ I said. "She seemed rather serious and strict to me.’

‘Oh, she was very prim, but she was very patriotic and if giving a glimpse her bloomers to a few elderly men would make them go out to dig their allotments, she was up for it. Our knickers in those days were huge in comparison to the ones we ladies wear now.’ She smiled at me and started leafing through the old recipe book

‘I noticed,’ I replied, thinking about the navy knickers I was wearing and how loose and baggy they were in comparison to the briefs the girls at school wore under their netball skirts. ‘So what do we need for our Woolton Pie?’ I asked.

‘Here we are, Woolton Pie. Goodness, this receipt will make one for four people, so we’d better halve the ingredients. It says here that we need a pound each of diced potatoes, carrots, swedes, and cauliflower, I think we’ve got all those–although I remember Mummy didn’t dice the cauli, just separated it into small florets–so we’ll do that. Then we need four spring onions [see note 2] so two will be enough then we will either need some pastry to cover it or we could do what my mum did sometimes and cover it with overlapping potato slices.’

‘I think sliced potatoes would be nice,’ I said.

‘Right then, here’s a potato-peeler; roll up the sleeves of your blouse and I’ll get what we need,’ she said, taking a colander from the pan cupboard and going into the larder. [see Note 3] Auntie had a fridge-freezer, but she also had the larder that had been part of the house ever since it was built back in the 1030s. It was always cool and Auntie kept her vegetables and tinned goods there. While she rummaged for the veggies, I filled a bowl with water.

‘Good girl,’ she said, when she came back. I felt myself blushing, and she must have noticed because she added, ‘Sorry, Gabs, seeing you dressed like that, I forgot you’re a boy.’

‘It’s okay, Auntie, I don’t mind. In fact I’m rather enjoying wearing your tunic an’ stuff. It somehow feels kinda right.’

‘P’raps you should have been a girl, poppet,’ Auntie suggested, tipping potatoes and carrots into my basin of water.

‘P’raps I should. I often play with the girls at school.’

‘You peel and I’ll dice. This swede’s far too big so we’ll only use half of it,’ Auntie stated. ‘While you’re doing that I’ll separate the cauli into florets and slice the spring onions.’ I had soon peeled the spuds and carrots and passed them over to Auntie; then I started on the swede which was much more difficult. When everything was prepared, Auntie put the vegetables in a saucepan, then added a teaspoonful each of Marmite[see note4] and oatmeal together with just enough water to cover everything and put them on the gas to cook.

‘The receipt says they should cook for ten minutes, stirring occasionally so it doesn’t stick to the pan,’ Auntie told me. ‘After that we put it in a pie-dish and let it cool before we sprinkle it with chopped parsley, add the potato crust and pop it in the oven. I’ve saved some of the spuds to use to cover the pie so I just have to slice them thinly.

‘It’s dead easy to make, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Yes, Poppet, it is. Now if I wash up the utensils we used, would you be a helpful girl and watch the saucepan and stir it occasionally.’

Okay, Auntie G,’ I replied, feeling myself blush at being called a "helpful girl", until I remembered how I was dressed. A few minutes later, Auntie had finished the washing up and came over to look at the mixture bubbling in the pan which was beginning to thicken up and resemble porridge with vegetables in it–not surprising seeing as that is exactly what it was.

‘That looks fine, Gaby; just like I remember it looked when Mummy made it. Turn off the gas now and put the pan on the draining board to let it cool while I light the oven so it gets up to heat. Why don’t you go and read your book?:’

‘Okay, Auntie G.’ I put the hot pan on the draining board and went back to the sitting room. I picked up my book, went to the sofa and sat down. After taking off my shoes, I tucked my feet up under me, smoothed out the skirt of my tunic and got back to the story.

Some time later, I’m not sure how long it was, I heard Auntie Greta going upstairs. Shortly afterwards I heard the loo flush and then Auntie came in and joined me. ‘What are you reading, sweetie?’ she asked.

‘The Picts and the Martyrs,’ I replied.

‘Oh, Arthur Ransome. I loved his books about the Swallows and Amazons; in fact I still do.’

‘This is one of yours,’ I mentioned, ‘I’ve not read this one before and I’m really enjoying it. Nancy is sooo different in this story, not the wild girl terror of the seas, but much more civilised. She’s my fave character of all in the stories.’

‘She’s mine too,’ came the reply. ‘In fact I always wanted to be her when I was your age.’

‘Me too,’ I replied without thinking and then blushed as I realised what I had just said. Here I was, a boy, saying I wanted to be a girl in a story. Auntie must have noticed my blushing because she came over and sat beside me and gave me a hug.

‘It’s all right, poppet, you’re pretending to be me as a girl, aren’t you? Of course you’d want to be Nancy.’

‘It’s not just coz I’m pretending to be you as I girl, Auntie. Even when I’m being me, Gabriel, I want to be her. D’you think that’s wrong? I mean, it’s not right for a boy to want to be a girl.’

‘Is that what you’d like, Gaby?’

‘I don’t really know, but wearing your old school uniform feels right somehow, as if I was meant to wear girls’ clothes.’

‘Have you ever dressed up in girls’ clothes before?’ Auntie asked. I could feel myself blushing again and before I could admit or deny it she added, ‘I guess you have.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I found some of Mummy’s clothes from when she was younger that fitted me. I felt so good wearing them.’

‘Does Mummy know?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, feeling tears welling up behind my eyes. ‘I think she’d hate me if she thought I wanted to be a girl. How could I find out?’

‘Well now, let me put my thinking cap on.’ She was silent for a few seconds and then said, ‘Do you know how Tim is?’

‘He’s got scarlet fever.’

‘I know that, but why don’t you phone Mummy and ask how he is; she’s bound to ask what you’ve been doing, so you could tell her about dressing up in my old school uniform for our pretending it’s 1944, and find out what she thinks about it.’ You needn’t tell her about going back and being me as a girl–unless you want to, that is.’

‘Okay, I’ll ring her,’ I said, wiping my tears on the sleeve of my blouse. ‘Sorry, Auntie, I haven’t got a hankie; it’s upstairs in my room and I’ve nowhere to keep it in what I’m wearing.’

‘Most of us girls used to stuff our hankies up our knicker-legs,’ Auntie admitted. ‘Here, borrow mine.’ So saying she pulled her hankie from the sleeve of her dress and handed it to me.

I dried my tears, got up and went upstairs to fetch a hankie of my own. When I came back down I stopped in the hall, picked up the ’phone and dialled–Auntie’s phone still had an old-fashioned dial–the number at home. I could hear it ringing at the other end.

It only rang four times; ‘Tuckton 868517,’ I heard Mummy answer.

‘Hello, Mummy,’ I said. ‘How’s Tim?’

‘Hello, darling; are you all right, you haven’t called me Mummy for ages. Tim’s not very well, but the doctor says that’s to be expected. How are you, sweetie? Are you having fun with Auntie Greta?’

‘Yes, it’s sooo kewl. We’re both dressed up in world war two type clothes. Auntie’s wearing one of her mummy’s wartime utility dresses and I’ve been wearing her old Tuckton school uniform all day. We had a wartime-type tea and we’re going to have a wartime supper from one of Auntie G’s old recipe books; something called Woolton Pie. It’s made from veggies and is in the oven now.’

‘So you’re wearing girls’ clothes, then? You like that, don’t you?’

‘How did you know?’

‘Mums get to know such things. I knew you sometimes dressed up when you were alone in the house.’

‘But how did you find out?’

‘Easy, sweetie, you don’t fold my things the same way I do.’

‘Sorry, Mummy. Are you cross with me?’

‘’Course not, honey. You like wearing girls’ clothes, don’t you?’ she asked again.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘They make me feel right, like the real me, like I ought to be wearing them.’

‘You mean you feel like you ought to be a girl?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Mummy,' I replied quietly. 'Does that upset you?’

‘Of course not, sweetheart. I’ll love you whatever you are. Look we can’t discuss this on the ’phone; we must talk about it another time when we’re sitting down together.’

‘That’d be cool, Mummy. Give my love to Tim and tell him I hope he gets well soon. Oh, and Auntie G sends her love too.’

‘All right, Gabrielle, my darling. I must go now. Be a good girl for your Auntie. ’Bye.’

‘’Bye, Mummy. Love you.’

‘Love you, too, sweetheart.’ And there was a click as Mummy rang off.

Back in the sitting room Auntie G was continuing to repair my torn jeans. ‘I’ll finish these for you and then you can wear them tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Must I?’

‘Not if you don’t want to; what would you like to wear?’

‘Could I wear some more of your old wartime clothes, please?’

‘If you like, but there’s not a lot of choice. Even then we never had many clothes to choose from because of rationing, but I’ll see what I can find. Unlike you children now, we hardly ever bothered to change out of our school clothes when we got home. I often used to go to play with my school chums–or they’d come round here–after school and we were still wearing our tunics.’

‘But you must have had something else to wear.’

‘Of course, but not much. One of my friends had an elder sister and she got her hand-me-downs. Sometimes a neighbour who had a girl older than me would offer us an out-grown frock; that’s how I got that ghastly party frock. I think I only wore it about twice or three times. But I did get some quite nice dresses, and we had gingham dresses for school in the summer–with baggy gingham knickers to match; my grandma called them "harvest festivals". She giggled, making me giggle too.

‘Why did she call them that?’ I asked

‘Because "all was safely gathered in", as it says in the harvest hymn.’ She put down my jeans and stood up. ‘There, that’s finished those for you in case you want to wear them tomorrow. I’ll just go and see how our Woolton Pie is doing, so why don’t you be a good girl and go upstairs and wash your hands.’

‘Okay, Auntie. I need to go to the loo as well.’

I left the room and climbed the stairs, heading straight for the loo, which was in a small room on its own. I opened the door and got a surprise–it was different: instead of the modern loo pan with a smart white plastic seat there was an old-fashioned-looking one with a wooden seat and the cistern for the flush was high up on the wall with a long chain instead of Auntie’s nice modern low cistern with a handle. I realised that I was once again in 1944. I lifted the seat, raised my skirt and put my hand up my knicker-leg to find my willie. IT WASN’T THERE! I looked inside my knickers and discovered that in place of my penis was what my cousin Kate called a "front-bottom". So not only had I slipped back in time again, but I had changed sex as well. ‘Kewl,’ I thought, then, ‘Help, how do I have a wee?’ I realised I had to sit down, so I dropped my knickers and did just that and relieved myself. I remembered that girls had to wipe themselves afterwards so as not to get drips of wee on their undies, so I pulled off a couple of sheets from the roll. It was horrid paper–not the nice soft Andrex loo-paper that I was used to, this was more like tracing paper that we used in art lessons at school and had "Bronco" printed in the corner of each sheet. I discovered that my front-bottom was rather sensitive and the "Bronco" was rather rough and scratchy. I was in shock and after pulling up my knickers and shaking out my skirt, went to my bedroom to think things out.

My bedroom was different too: in one corner was a large dolls’ house and there was a teddy-bear and two dolls lying on the pillow of my bed. The bookcase was absolutely crammed with books and I recognised the dust jackets of several of my favourite Arthur Ransome books. I thought about getting a book and sitting down to read, but decided I should explore before I was whisked back to 1994. I went to the chest of drawers where my 1994 clothes were kept; would they be there? I opened the top drawer where my t-shirts and Y-fronts should be: knickers in various colours, white, pink, pale blue and navy, and what I took to be vests. I went over to the dolls’ house; and kneeled in front of it; the whole of the front opened to show the inside; it was beautifully set out with miniature furniture.

I was just going to examine it more closely when I heard a call from downstairs; ‘Greta, are you all right? You’ve been up there an awfully long time.’ It sounded like Auntie G, but I realised it must have been Greta’s Mummy.

‘I’m all right, Mummy,’ I replied, remembering that she objected to slang.

‘Will you come down, two of your school chums are here, Susan Brown and Judith Wilson. They want to ask you about tonight’s prep.’

‘Just coming, Mummy,’ I replied, getting to my feet. I quickly shook out my skirt and headed downstairs. In the hall stood two girls about my age, dressed in the identical uniform to mine. One was blonde with pigtails and the other had dark hair cut in a bob with a navy-blue ribbon keeping it from flopping over her eyes

‘Hello, Grete, Judy and I never wrote down what the Grim Reaper told us to do for our prep tonight,’ said the blonde girl who I worked out must be Susan. ‘Can you remember what it was? We were going to give you a tinkle to ask you, but our phone’s not working since that doodlebug dropped.’ I couldn’t help giggling when I heard that Miss De’Ath’s nickname was "The Grim Reaper".

‘It’s an essay called "Things I shall look forward to when the war is over"; I thought of things like the end of sweets rationing–‘

‘–and clothes rationing,’ squealed Judy. ‘What are you looking forward to, Sue?’

‘Being allowed to swim in the sea again,’ admitted Sue. ‘We have super beaches here, but what use are they to us with the anti-landing defences and all the mines? That should be quite easy, then, and the Grim Reaper doesn’t want it till Monday so there’s lots of time. Wo0uld you like to come and play for a bit?’

‘Yes please, but I’ll have to ask Mummy first. It’ll soon be our supper time’

‘All right, we’ll wait here.’

I headed for the kitchen where Mummy was wiping some cutlery. ‘Mummy, Sue has asked if I can go out and play with her and Judy.’

‘It’s nearly supper time and I would like you to lay the table in the dining doom, so I’m afraid you can’t go and play with them tonight.’

‘Oh, Mu-um!’

‘Ask them to come and play here on Saturday. They can come to tea.’

‘Okay, Mummy,’ I replied and got a "look". I don’t think she liked the "okay". I went back to the hall.

‘Sorry, Sue, but Mummy says our supper’s nearly ready and she wants me to lay the table. But she says would you and Judy like to come round here for tea on Saturday?’

The two girls looked at each other and nodded. ‘We’d love to, Grete, but we’ll have to ask our mums. We’ll tell you at school tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’

‘So long, then, and thanks for telling us about our prep,’ replied Sue. ‘G’night, Grete,’ she added, giving me a hug.

‘G’night, Sue, g’night, Judy,’ I replied, and I hugged her too.

‘G’night, Grete,’ replied Judy.

I opened the door for my friends and let them out. ‘’Bye,’ I called as I watched them walk down the path to the gate and wondered if I would be here for them when they came to tea on Saturday or if it would be the real Greta.

To be continued–

”  see Aunt Greta’s Homework http://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/4837/aunt-gretas-homework
1 Allotment garden: see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Allotment_%28gardening%29
2 Spring onions: Scallions to our American (and other) friends
3 Larder: see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larder
4 Marmite: A vegetable (yeast) extract popular in UK, especially spread on hot-buttered toast. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite