At Aunt Greta’s–
Bisto & History
by Gabi
Chapter 22 of a Continuing Saga…

I was wakened in the dark by the horrid wailing of the air-raid siren.

‘Here we go again,’ I thought, pulling on Greta’s baggy navy-blue knickers before traipsing out to the Anderson shelter in the corner of the back garden.

I pulled my warm, long flannelette nightie down again, put on my socks and shoes and was heading for the bedroom door when it opened and Mummy was there; I was surprised that she was fully dressed and wondered what time it was. ‘Oh, good girl, you’re ready. Go straight to the shelter, and I’ll be over in a moment after I’ve checked that Gray is awake.’

‘Gray?’ I queried.

‘Yes, Gray V. Browning–the American youth who’s spending a few days with us–Freya’s cousin, remember?’ Mummy replied. ‘Come on, sleepyhead, you can’t have forgotten he arrived just after supper.’

‘Oh, THAT Gray,’ I said, not having a clue to whom she was referring; but then I wouldn’t, would I because I had only just time-slipped back to 1944 again. ‘Do you know what the ‘V’ stands for?’

‘Yes, I believe it’s Val–short for Valentine.’

‘Oh, like 14th February. I’ve never knew there were boys called Valentine, anyway, isn't Val really a girl's name.’

‘I think he said he was named after his Uncle Val who makes guns,’ Mummy replied. ‘Evidently it’s quite a popular boys’ name in America. Anyway you go straight to the shelter, light the lantern and I’ll go and chivvy Gray V. Browning.’

‘Ah, Bisto,’ I said, giggling and thinking of the classic tin canister in which we kept our supply in my own time–Mummy grinned and then giggled too.

‘Just make sure you don’t call him The Bisto Kid,¹ young lady,’ Mummy added, giggling even more.

‘Yes, Mummy; I’ll just call him gravy browning,’ I replied, giggling. ‘Hurry up, won’t you? In case the Jerries are close.’

‘I will, darling,’ came the reply as I started going downstairs.

When I reached the kitchen I did not turn the light on because of the blackout. When I opened the back door I was surprised that it was still only dusk, so I looked at the kitchen clock and saw it was not quite ten o’clock. Jerry was early tonight. I was able to reach the shelter without the use of a torch, but I needed it once I was inside the shelter to find the matches to light the hurricane lantern.

I climbed on the top bunk and waited… and waited… and then heard the unmistakable buzz of a Doodlebug overhead; I slipped down off the bunk to look outside just in time to see The Bisto Kid arriving with a very harassed Mummy bringing up the rear.

‘Say, ma’am,’ the Bisto Kid drawled, ‘I don’t get what all the hurry’s about.’ He sounded more like Billy the Kid to me.

‘Don’t you hear that noise?’ I asked.

‘Oh hi, Greda,’ he replied. ‘You mean that weird sorta buzzin’ noise? Say, what is that?’

‘It’s a doodlebug,’ I replied.

‘Gee, that sounds awful, I’d hate to have a bug on my doodle.’ He gave a dirty laugh and winked at me.

‘Enough of that, young man,’ Mummy exclaimed. ‘How dare you make lewd suggestions to my daughter; she’s only eleven. And for your information that weird sort of buzzing noise is a German V-1 flying bomb that could blow all us to smithereens at any moment. It is the reason we have come out to the air-raid shelter.’

I wondered where he had been during these war years–in a hermit’s cave, perhaps?

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Chambers, I didn’t mean anything rude.’

‘For goodness sake, Gray,’ Mummy said irritably, ‘go inside and get up on the top bunk with Greta, and NO hanky-panky, if–you–please.’

‘Gee, must I? It looks real kinda spooky in there.’ He was beginning to breathe fast.

So it hadn’t been a hermit’s cave. ‘Come on in, Gray,’ I urged, ‘once the buzzing stops that means the engine’s cut out; then the bomb will crash and explode.’

‘Oh shi–my gosh,’ he exclaimed, doing a swift change of words, breathing faster and looking really scared, ‘What’ll I do? I just can’t come in there with you, I get claustrophobia. Can’t I just stay in the house?’

I put an arm round him. ‘Come on, Gray, you’ll be all right. Mummy and I have been spending lots of nights out here, and it’s much safer than staying in the house. Wendy–my best friend at school–was killed when a doodlebug demolished her home just over a week ago. If you hold on to me, I’ll keep you safe.’ I could feel him relaxing a little.

‘I think I wanna go to the bathroom,’ he said, still sounding panicky.

‘It’s okay, Gray, we’ve gotta potty inside you can use.’

‘Couldn’t I do it out here before I go in?’

‘You’ll need to be quick, dear,’ Mummy told him. ‘We won’t look, will we, Greta?’

‘Would you like me to hold your hand, Gray?’ I asked.

‘’T’s okay, Greda, I’ll need to use both hands, but I feel better with your arm round me. You won’t look, will you?’

‘’Course not, I’ll keep my eyes tight shut, if you like; anyway I kno…’ I was about to say that I knew what it was like to wee through a willie when I suddenly realised that I’d be “outing” myself, not only to him but to Mummy also. I felt myself blushing violently and was aware of the deadly droning buzz of the doodlebug getting louder and louder.

‘Hurry up, children,’ Mummy said, anxiously.

‘Finished?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ he said, and I pulled him into the shelter, shut the door and helped him up to the top bunk where I put my arms round him to keep him safe; I could feel him shaking–with fright I supposed. We were barely settled when the buzzing stopped. I pulled Gray to me and held him tight while enduring that seemingly endless silence that always preceded the explosion.

Finally there was an earth-shaking explosion that sounded nearer than the one that killed Wendy. Gray gripped me tightly as the earth shook.

‘Geeee-zus Mary Joseph!’ he exclaimed, crossing himself.

‘Watch your language, young man,’ Mummy said brusquely.

‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ Gray said. ‘Can we go back to the house now?’

‘No, dear,’ Mummy replied. ‘We have to wait for the all clear to sound. There could still be another flying bomb on the way.’

I listened, but found it difficult because my ears were ringing from the explosion. After a few minutes, I could hear the unmistakable sound of another doodlebug on the way. Luckily it fell much further away and there was not the violent earth-crunching explosion of the first one.

Twenty minutes later, the all clear sounded and we traipsed back to the house. I climbed back into bed and was soon asleep again.

* * *

I was awakened by a beam of sunlight that shone on my eyelids through a narrow gap in my bedroom curtains. When I came to, it dawned on me that I must be back in my own time due to the lack of black-out curtains and the fact that I was wearing my own pink nightie and no knickers. Had my trip back to wartime been just a dream? Had I really met the Bisto Kid? My bedroom door opened and Auntie G came in.

‘You’d better get up, Gabs,’ she told me. ‘It’s a quarter past seven and you’ve got school today.’

‘Okay, Auntie,’ I replied pushing back the duvet. ‘Did you ever have an American teenage boy to stay during the war?’

‘You had another of your trips, didn’t you? And you met Gray Browning.’

‘The Bisto Kid,’ I answered.

Auntie burst out laughing; ‘So it was YOU who called him that.’

‘He got claustro-wotsit in the shelter.’

‘Claustrophobic,’ she corrected me. ‘He thanked me next morning for cuddling him to make it easier for him, and when I couldn’t remember anything about it or even calling him The Bisto Kid, Mummy was worried that I might be losing my mind.’

‘You mean going bonkers?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, except we didn’t call it that in those days.’

‘He didn’t fancy weeing in the potty in the shelter, so he watered the flowers outside with the buzz of an approaching doodlebug overhead and me, with my eyes shut, clasping his shoulder from behind to help his claustropho…oh, you know!’

‘…phobia, dear.’

‘Yes, claustrophobia; thank you, Auntie,’ and I added giggling, ‘It sounds like it should be the fear of Father Christmas, or maybe sitting on his knee in his grotto. But actually, I suppose it must be awful to suffer from claustrophobia.’

‘Yes, poppet, it must be a very uncomfortable feeling,’ agreed my Aunt. ‘It made things very difficult for poor Gray.’

‘He seemed to be clueless about air-raids and how urgent it was to get into the shelter,’ I remarked, ‘so I wondered where he had been living up to then. I don’t think it could have been in Britain, or he’d have known all about air-raids.’

‘He’d been living with the monks in a monastery in Ireland, so he’d never experienced an air-raid until that first night he spent with us. It really came as a frightful shock to him. Anyway, young lady, enough blethering, you have to wash, dress, have brekky and get ready for school. I’ll put out clean a clean bra and knickers for you; will yesterday’s blouse do or would you like a clean one?’

‘I think I better have a clean one, yesterday’s might be a bit pongy in the underarm department. Do you know why Gray had been living in a monastery?’

‘Not now, Gabs. Bathroom! Wash! Dress! Brekky! School! Chop-chop!’

‘Yes, Auntie Grete. May I have a shower, please?’

‘Indeed you may, but use a shower-cap ’cause it’ll take too long to dry and restyle your hair in time.’

‘Thanks, Auntie,’ I replied and gave her a peck on the cheek.

I was still in awe of my “new” body and its sensitive skin, particularly in what Mummy calls erogenous zones, namely my vagina and boobs; sadly it had to be a quick shower, but patting myself dry on–luxury of luxuries–a warmed towel, I felt refreshed and clean. I shrugged on my towelling robe, brushed my teeth and dashed back to my room to get dressed. A number of the girls at school hate school uniform ’cause it can hardly be thought of as glamorous or á  la mode, but for me it was an essential part of being a schoolgirl. I put my hair up in a high ponytail and went downstairs for a brekky of cornflakes, a boiled egg with toast soldiers and then toast and marmalade, all washed down with two cups of tea.

‘Auntie?’ I asked, spreading Oxford Marmalade on my buttered toast, ‘could you please ring up Mrs Rose to find out how Bryony is? I hope she’s going to be all right and able to come home from the hospital soon.’

‘She will be coming home before lunch today,’ came the reply. ‘I rang her mum last night after you’d gone to bed, because I knew you’d be anxious about her. Helen’s fairly sure she’ll be well enough to come to your sleepover party on Friday; but won’t say anything definite for a day or two.’

‘That’s great; I wonder if I’d be allowed to visit her after school today?’

‘I’ll find out for you, poppet.’

‘Thanks, Auntie.’

Mrs Way was driving the Cherokee this morning; ‘Hi, Gaby,’ she said. ‘All ready for another exciting day at school? Get in the back with Farah and fasten up your seat belt.’

‘Okay, Mrs Way,’ I replied. ‘Hi, Farah. You all right?’

‘I’m good,’ Farah replied. ‘You?’

‘I’m good too.’

‘Where’s your dad?’ I asked.

‘He’s gone up to Scotland for a few days for a conference,’ Mrs Way replied. ‘So you will have to put up with my driving for the next few days.’

‘Say, Mom, don’t forget we’re in England and they drive on the wrong side of the road,’ Farah said, sticking her tongue out at me.

‘No, you drive on the wrong side of the road,’ I returned and stuck my tongue out at her.

‘Now-now, girls,’ Mrs Way laughed, ‘This is not the right time to start the Revolutionary War all over again; and I am quite used to driving on the left side of the road now, daughter o’ mine.’

The drive to school took only a few minutes and we were dropped off at the school gates where the rest of the B.B.C. were waiting for us, with the addition of our new friend who we were sheep-dogging, Leigh Pierre.

‘Hi, guys,’ Farah chirped as we tumbled out of the Cherokee.

A chorus of ‘Hi, Farah,’ and ‘Hi, Gaby,’ came from our friends, as we all exchanged high fives.

Hey, Gabs, you’ll never guess,’ Angela said, ‘Leigh lives four houses down the road from me.’

‘In Letsbeigh Avenue?’ I answered.

‘Duh! Of course Letsbeigh Avenue,’ she replied, gazing heavenwards.

‘Any news of Bryony?’ Lacey asked as we walked towards the school building.

‘Yeah, she’s coming out of hospital today.’

‘You never told me,’ Farah said, pouting.

‘Sorry, I was so surprised to find your mum driving today that I forgot to tell you. Auntie only told me during brekky; she said she ’phoned Mrs Rose last night.’

‘Will she be coming back to school this week?’ Juniper asked.

‘Who’s Bryony?’ Leigh asked.

‘Bryony Rose,’ I replied. ‘You’ll like her, Leigh.’

‘Is she in our class?’ Leigh countered.

‘Yes, but she had to go into hospital at the end of last week when she started her first period,’ Angela explained.

‘What? She had to go into hospital because she came on for the first time,’ Leigh exclaimed. ‘Why, for goodness sake? Wasn’t she expecting it to happen?’

‘Well, err–no.’ I replied. ‘You see, she–and everyone else–thought she was a boy until last week.’

‘Oh my God, the poor girl,’ Leigh sympathised. ‘How did she find out? Was her period the first clue she had?’

‘She did say her boobs were starting to grow,’ Kristal explained, ‘but that has been known to happen to boys about our age.’

‘When we visited her in hospital,’ I added, ‘she told us that although she looked like a boy on the outside, she had always thought she should have been a girl. They did a scan in the hospital and they found she had a full set of girl-bits inside–even a vagina, except it had no opening. She also had blood tests, and they showed that she’s a girl and was undergoing girl puberty.’

‘She must be producing lots of girl hormones. So what’s going to happen to her next?’ Leigh asked, as we entered the girls’ changing room.

‘I don’t exactly know yet, but her mum says they’ll probably have to do some sort of operation to give her a proper–err–’ I dropped my voice to a whisper, ‘err–front bottom–like we have. I’m hoping to visit her on the way home this afternoon.’

‘I’m looking forward to meeting her,’ Leigh declared, hanging her blazer in her locker.

‘You’ll like her,’ Farah remarked. ‘She much happier now that she knows she really is a real girl and not transgendered.’

‘Mummy told me that she’s what they call intersex,’ I added. ‘She explained that Bryony was born with a slight plumbing defect.’

‘Gaby’s mum’s a nursing sister on the gynae ward at the General Hospital,’ Angela explained.

‘So Bryony’s been a boy at school up to now?’ Leigh queried.

‘Yes,’ Kristal replied. ‘She used to be called Bryan.’

‘That figures,’ Leigh opined.

‘Before she went into hospital,’ Farah added, ‘she told a few of us about knowing she should have been born a girl; well, in my school back in the States there was a boy who was transgendered and we formed a small support group for her.’

‘Transgendered?’ Leigh queried. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The easiest way to think of it,’ Farah replied, ‘is that she is a girl, but born into a boy’s body. In other words she has a girl-brain in a boy-body.’

‘Oh my gosh, how absolutely awful for her,’ Leigh sympathised.

‘So you see, thinking she might be transgendered,’ I added, ‘the six of us decided to form a support group for her.’

‘We wanted to do something to help ’cos she would prob get teased and bullied by the boys when she turned up in girl’s uniform for the first time,’ Lacey explained. ‘Boys can be such foul pigs, you know.’

‘We call ourselves the B.B.C.–the Bryony Buddy Corps,’ Juniper added as the bell rang, summoning us to our classroom.

‘That’s a brill idea,’ Leigh said. ‘Do you want any more members?’

‘The more the merrier,’ Farah answered as we entered our Year 7 classroom for registration.

* * *

Just after lunch Farah, Angela and I had been waylaid by Miss Morgan who told us that Mrs Rose ’phoned her to bring her up to date on her daughter’s progress and to leave a message for us–her B.B.C. friends–that Bryony was back home and wanted to see us. We reported back to Juniper, Kristal, and Lacey, who just happened to have Leigh with them

‘We could go on the way home this afters?’ suggested Angela. ‘D’you think your dad would be willing to stop by for a few minutes, Farah?’

‘Mom’s driving today and tomorrow,’ came the reply. ‘Daddy’s away at a conference up in Scotland just now. I guess she wouldn’t mind.’

‘What homework do we have tonight?’ Juniper asked.

‘History and math,’ Farah replied.

‘Sssss!’ Lacey said.

‘Don’t you like history and math?’ Farah asked.

‘Actually, I think history’s great, specially with The Gnome,’ Lacey replied. ‘It was just that you left the “S” off the end of maths.’

‘They always say “math” in the States,’ Leigh explained. ‘When I was there they all asked why I put an “S” on the end and I explained it was because it’s short for mathematics. What’s the history you’re doing this term? We had a foul history teacher at my last school–she was soooooo borrrrring.”

‘The Civil War,’ I replied and added, ‘the English Civil War. You’ll like our history lessons, our teacher is fantastic.’

‘Yeah,’ Farah said. ‘I was real surprised when I heard that you had a civil war in England like 219 years before we did in the States. It’s all about Roundheads and Cavaliers.’

‘I’ve been to several re-enactments of Civil War battles done by The Sealed Knot²,’ Juniper told us. ‘My Uncle Robin and Auntie Lesley are members of Thomas Ballard’s Regiment of Foote.’

‘Are they Roundheads or Cavaliers?’ Lacey asked.

‘Roundheads, except they call them Parliamentarians. The Cavaliers are properly called Royalists. They even borrowed some seventeenth century clothes for me to wear so I didn’t look out of place on the camp-site. Lots of families with kids take part, and until they’re about six, some of the the little boys wear long dresses and have long hair like girls. I was allowed to go on the battle field as part of the Parliamentary Baggage Trayne as it’s called. It was absolutely fantastic, just like stepping back in time. Oh, wouldn’t it be kewl to be able to travel back in time?’

Farah and I glanced at each other and grinned conspiratorially before Juniper continued her narrative.

‘Thomas Ballard’s Regiment really existed and in 1642 was one of those that fought the Battle of Edgehill–the first pitched battle of the Civil War. Every time I’ve been to a muster I’ve had an amazing time; it was really, really good fun. They have cavalry who gallop round the battlefield waving swords and firing pistols–like the highwaymen used to use–and there are cannons which make very loud bangs. The musketeers have these old-fashioned guns that make lots of smoke when they fire them and the pikemen have ginormously long spears called pikes which are about five metres long.’

‘Wow,’ exclaimed Farah, ‘that’s over sixteen feet. Cool. I’d love to see one of their battles sometime.’

‘I think I’ve got a few pictures in my backpack,’ Juniper replied. ‘Miss Gnomer asked me to bring them in to show her.’ We returned to our classroom and Juniper rummaged among her stuff, bringing out a hairbrush, bits of makeup and, from the very bottom, a wallet containing some photos. She took one out and showed it to us.

‘This is a sort of general view,’ she told us. ‘You can see how the pikemen keep their pikes sticking up in the air when they carry them. When the cavalry attack they form a defensive circle with pikes sticking out at different angles with musketeers in between. They call the circle a hedgehog–you can see why.’

‘That was a splendid explanation of basic tactics of the time, Juniper, and what a good picture.’ Miss Gnomer’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere. We all jumped because we hadn’t heard her come in. ‘Have you got any more?’ she added.

‘Yes, Miss Gnomer, a few,’ Juniper replied, blushing a deep crimson while we all scurried to our own desks.

‘Excellent,’ replied the teacher, ‘Would you like to bring them up to my desk so I can look at them? Please sit down, the rest of you.’

‘Yes, Miss Gnomer,’ Juniper answered, still very pink as she went up to the teachers’ desk at the front of the class. She handed the pictures to the history teacher, who looked through them and made appreciative noises.

‘I must say, Juniper, they are splendid photos and I think they’ll help tremendously in explaining some of the things I’m going to tell you about this afternoon. May I keep them up here till the end of the lesson?’

‘Yes, Miss Gnomer, thank you, Miss Gnomer,’ Juniper replied and returned to her desk.

The best thing about Miss Gnomer was that she really loved history and it showed in her lessons. She had the knack of making them really interesting so we enjoyed them and learned a lot. Even the usually rowdy back-row boys behaved themselves in her lessons because she made them so attention-grabbing.

Our history lesson got under way and soon The Gnome had us enthralled. I think she must be have roundhead sympathies because she made King Charles I sound like a greedy plonker, always demanding more money in taxes to pay for his fancies–including his glamorous French wife, Henrietta Maria, whom protestant England disliked because she was a Roman catholic–and he also needed money so that he could go and fight in the Thirty Years War in Europe with his mates. Then the final straw was Ship Money and the King’s entry to parliament in an attempt to arrest five Members of Parliament.³

Our teacher also explained the basics of fighting 17th century battles and used some of Juniper’s pictures to illustrate what she was telling us.

We all agreed it was one of the best history lessons we’d ever had and Leigh remarked, ‘That was Awesome; I’ve never enjoyed a history lesson so much.’

* * *

It was quite a squash in the back of the Cherokee while we were ferried to see Bryony. Mrs Way seemed happy to be able to help us. We spilled out of car and walked, in an orderly fashion–as we were supposed to when we were wearing school uniform in public–up to the front door. I reached for the bell button, but before my finger touched it, the front door opened and Mrs Rose asked us in.

She counted heads; ‘One more than last time,’ she said. ‘So who’s the new girl?’

‘Me,’ Leigh replied brightly. ‘I started today and these kind girls are sheeepdogging me.’

‘Mrs Rose,’ I chimed in, ‘this is Leigh Pierre; Leigh Pierre, this is Mrs Rose, Bryony’s mum.’

‘How d’you do, Mrs Rose?’ asked Leigh, offering a hand to be shaken.

‘I’m very well, thank you, Leigh. You’d better come through to the lounge, girls. I’m sure you’d all like something to drink, so I’ll go and see what there is and Bryony can tell you all about what is going to happen to her next.’

__________________________________

¹ Bisto: A well-known product in the UK used as an alternative to gravy browning. The Bisto story began in 1908, when two housewives Mrs Roberts and Mrs Patterson, frustrated in their efforts to produce a smooth, tasty gravy, asked their husbands to come up with a way of making the whole process easier, which they did. They called it “Bisto” because it “Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One”. The Bisto Kids first appeared in newspaper advertisements in 1919. The ragamuffin pair, a boy and girl in ragged clothes, would catch the smell of Bisto wafting on the breeze and exhale longingly, “Aah, Bisto!”
See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bisto

² See: http://www.thesealedknot.org.uk/index.asp

³ See: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Civil_War for details.

---

Grateful purrs are due once again to Angharad and Colonel Bonzi for their splendid proofing, advice on Miscellaneous Matters Medical and numerous other useful suggestions.
Any mistakes remaining are the sole responsibility of the idiot author.

If you have been entertained by this chapter, I hope that you will leave a comment and
vote for it by clicking the Voting Box below left. Thank you.
Gabi.

And yes, I am a vote and comment whore!