A Ration Book Daughter Page 11

  ‘And now, last but not least, I’ll take you to meet our elves,’ said Cathy.

  One of Mrs Paget’s carefully pencilled eyebrows rose half an inch. ‘Elves?’

  Cathy smiled and indicated the half a dozen steps leading off the stage. ‘After you.’

  Holding the rail and with her metal-tipped heels striking the wooden struts, Mrs Paget made her way back down to the floor of the hall.

  Sidestepping between the table of ARP crew and the Local Voluntary Defence personnel having their afternoon cuppas, Cathy lead Mrs Paget across to the double doors at the end of the hall and into the corridor. The sound of men’s voices drifted down the stairs from above.

  ‘What’s up there?’ asked Mrs Paget.

  ‘That’s the Catholic Club’s bar,’ Cathy replied. ‘The club used to have all sorts of organisations, like a Brownies, Cubs, Girl Guides, Scouts, who all used to meet at the club before the war. But when the war started the club’s committee donated the downstairs space so we could set up the rest centre, but they kept the bar.’ She laughed. ‘Well, they had to leave us somewhere to have wedding receptions and funeral wakes.’

  Mrs Paget gave her another stiff smile.

  ‘And here,’ said Cathy, grasping the brass handle of the small meeting-room door just in front of them, ‘are our elves.’

  She opened the door and Mrs Paget walked in.

  Sitting around the central table were half a dozen women, with silver thimbles on their fingers and needles in their hands. In the centre of the table was a cardboard box with ‘OMO’ stamped on the side, which had assorted dolls and teddies spilling out of it.

  Cathy went around the table slowly, introduced Mrs Paget to the women. ‘They’re helping me and a couple of others with the children’s Christmas party.

  ‘Ladies,’ Cathy went on, smiling at them all. ‘This is Mrs Paget, who will be taking over the running of the centre for the time being.’

  The women said ‘hello’ and ‘pleased to meet you’ as they plied their needles through fabric.

  Mrs Paget stepped nearer and peered into the box.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Dot Buckle, who was threading the arms of a plastic doll through the sleeves of a knitted dress.

  ‘These toys have been donated from all over the country for children made homeless by the blitz,’ Dot explained. ‘We’re making sure the toys are in good order so they can go into Santa’s sack. In the case of the dolls, we’re ensuring they all have a new dress and a pair of knickers before the party.’

  ‘Never mind knickers,’ said Lottie Perkins, the grandmother of ten, as she pulled a naked doll from the jumble of legs and arms. ‘This one needs a full wardrobe.’

  The women around the table laughed.

  Mrs Paget’s tight smile returned. ‘Thank you, ladies. I’ll let you get on with your task.’

  She turned and swept out of the room in a waft of expensive perfume.

  The women looked at Cathy and she gave them a little encouraging smile then followed Mrs Paget out.

  ‘Well,’ Cathy said, when she joined Mrs Paget in the hall, ‘that’s about it. I hope you’ve got the general idea about how things are run.’

  ‘Indeed I have, Mrs Wheeler,’ Mrs Paget replied, as her cool grey eyes held Cathy’s hazel ones.

  ‘Please call me Cathy,’ she said. ‘Mrs Wheeler makes me sound like my mother-in-law.’

  ‘I prefer Mrs Wheeler,’ the vicar’s wife replied. ‘However, I did notice several toys still in their boxes, including a Tri-ang fire truck, a bridal doll and what looked like a Crown Potteries Happy Children tea set.’

  ‘Yes, the Houndsditch Warehouse kindly donated a box of toys for our party,’ said Cathy.

  ‘How very generous of them,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘But perhaps in view of their quality, they might be better suited somewhere more fitting, like Belgravia, so perhaps we—’

  ‘The toys have been donated to the children here,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I know,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘but surely it would be better to give them to children who know how to care for them properly.’

  Cathy fixed her with a hard stare. ‘As I said, all the toys have been donated for the children here, in St Breda and St Brendan’s Rest Centre, most of whom have been bombed out of their homes. Many have seen friends and family members killed, and they’ve had to sleep in shelters for the past three years. So, Mrs Paget, if any of the “quality” toys go missing, I’m sure you would report the matter to the police at Arbour Square and I’m certain they will take a very dim view of anyone stealing toys intended for our East End children.’

  Above the pristine white bow at her throat, a crimson blush spread up the other woman’s throat.

  ‘Now if there’s nothing more,’ continued Cathy, ‘I have some Canadian Red Cross parcels to unpack.’

  She turned and, with Mrs Paget’s eyes boring into the space between her shoulder blades, walked back into the hall.

  ‘I think I can spot someone just leaving,’ said Jo, picking up the tray with two bowls of hot stew and mugs of tea.

  Handing over her money to the woman behind the white marble counter, Cathy looked around. ‘You grab it and I’ll catch you up, Jo.’

  It was just past midday on Saturday and they were in Cooke’s pie and mash shop opposite Stratford Town Hall. Cathy and Jo had jumped on the number 25 bus at Stepney Green on the dot of eight thirty. Stowing Peter’s pushchair under the stairs, they’d found themselves a seat downstairs for the three-mile journey over the old cast-iron Bow Bridge to Stratford. After reaching their destination they’d had a quick cup of tea in the market café then, like dozens of other women, they’d started their usual Saturday-morning forage for bargains in Stratford Market before heading for lunch.

  Cathy transferred her shopping bags to one hand and took her son’s hand with the other. She guided him to the corner where her sister had found them a table.

  If she had a penny for every time she’d eaten in Cooke’s on a Saturday lunchtime, Cathy would be a rich woman by now. Like many of its kind to be found in the highways and byways of East London, the shop had floor-to-ceiling white tiles, table and chairs bleached white with decades of scrubbing and a floor strewn with sawdust to soak up spillages. The menu, if it could be called that, was simple: stewed or jellied eels or the more popular choice of beef pie and mash. The pies were baked in individual tin dishes and served upturned on a plate. They were accompanied by a pile of mashed potato and smothered with parsley sauce. However, the liquor, as the sauce was universally known, was like no other sauce you’ve ever tasted because it was made from the water used to cook the eels and had a distinctive flavour and faint green tinge. That said, it was the nectar of the gods for any true East Ender.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Jo as Cathy reached her, ‘I’ve never seen it so packed.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’ she replied, lifting Peter on to a chair. ‘With less than two weeks until Christmas, people are desperate to find something to put under the tree.’

  Jo placed their plates in front of them and sat down. ‘I don’t know what on earth to buy Tommy. Blooming men, they’re so difficult.’

  Taking a bib from one of the bags clustered around her feet, Cathy tied it around Peter’s neck.

  ‘Perhaps you can get him a Parker fountain pen in Boardman’s,’ she suggested, as she scooped up a lump of potato from her plate and offered it to her son.

  ‘Maybe,’ her sister replied. ‘But I was hoping to get him something a little more personal, like a set of cufflinks. I did see a set I liked in Spiegelhalter’s but they cost an arm and a leg so I had to scrub that idea.’

  ‘Still, at least we’ve both got something for Mum,’ said Cathy, cutting into her pie.

  ‘Yes, thank goodness,’ said Jo. ‘But only because you managed to grab the last set of embroidered handkerchiefs and I spotted the bottles of scent in the chemist’s window. All we need now is to find something for—’ Jo jumped up. ‘Mattie, Fran
!’ she called, waving frantically. ‘Over here.’

  Cathy looked across to where their elder sister and very pregnant sister-in-law, Francesca, were waiting in the queue.

  Mattie waved back and then said something to Francesca, who took the bags Mattie was holding and waddled over.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ said Francesca, as she sank into the chair next to Jo. ‘My feet are killing me.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Cathy. ‘Where’s Patrick?’

  ‘I left him with Dad,’ said Francesca. ‘He follows him everywhere, so I left him helping his “Nonno ” lay the tables for breakfast.’

  ‘What about Mattie’s two?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Daniel’s got them for the day,’ Francesca replied.

  Holding the tray high, Mattie wove her way through the jam-packed shop and then placed her and Francesca’s midday meals on the table.

  Cathy lifted Peter off his chair and on to her lap so her sister could sit down.

  ‘Thanks, luv,’ said Mattie. ‘And how’s my favourite nephew named Peter?’ she asked, giving him a wide smile.

  Peter replied by wriggling his hand at her.

  Mattie grabbed it and kissed it noisily, then picked up her knife and fork.

  ‘If Fran and I had known you two were going to Stratford today, we could have all come together,’ said Mattie.

  ‘We only decided yesterday when Jo switched shifts,’ said Cathy. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since about ten,’ Francesca replied. ‘I think we’re more or less done, but I’ve got to get my dad something and Mattie’s still looking for a present for Daniel, so we’ll probably have another look around once we’ve had lunch. What about you?’

  ‘We caught the bus at eight thirty so we were here when the shops opened,’ said Jo. ‘We’ve been mooching around the market ever since and . . .’

  She told them what they’d bought that morning.

  ‘. . . so there’s just Gran, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to get her a couple of lily-of–the-valley soaps nicely wrapped in a box when we get to the Co-op,’ said Jo.

  ‘Of course, that still leaves the boys and the baby,’ said Cathy. ‘I’ve knitted Victoria a matinee jacket with rabbit buttons and matching leggings.’ Balancing Peter on her knee, she took a mouthful of tea.

  ‘So what’s everyone been up to?’ Jo asked.

  As the four of them ate their dinner, Francesca told them she was looking forward to giving up work after Christmas and that the midwives at Munroe House were almost certain the baby was head down, which all of them agreed was a relief. Mattie told them Daniel was off to somewhere in Dorset in a few days for something he couldn’t talk about, while Jo mentioned Tommy might be going to Bletchley Park after Christmas for a week or two to train some new recruits to do whatever it was they did up there.

  ‘What about you, Cathy?’ asked Francesca. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. You know. Just running around after this one.’ She gave her son a squeeze. ‘The evening classes are going well and Miss Browne says if I carry on making progress, I’ll be ready to take my level-three in both typing and shorthand in June.’

  Mattie, Jo and Francesca looked impressed.

  ‘And, of course, we’re snowed under at the rest centre, what with Christmas and kitting out people now the Luftwaffe have been visiting again. I told Jo on the way up but . . .’

  She told them about Miss Carpenter’s demise, Mrs Paget taking over and their conversation about the toys.

  ‘Blooming cheek,’ said Mattie when she’d finished.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ added Jo, through a mouthful of potato.

  ‘Did she believe you, do you think, about going to the police?’ asked Francesca.

  ‘I hope so, because I will,’ said Cathy. ‘In fact, before I left that afternoon, I made a list of all the new toys in boxes and I’ve made sure she’s seen me checking them every day.’

  ‘Well, good for you, Cathy,’ said Mattie. Her attention shifted to her other sister. ‘It seems strange to see you out of uniform, Jo.’

  ‘Yes, I have a whole weekend off,’ Jo replied. ‘And so has Tommy, so,’ a cheeky smile spread her lips wide, ‘we’ve decided to spend the whole day in bed tomorrow.’

  ‘You hussy,’ laughed Mattie.

  Jo pulled a face. ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘I blooming am,’ Mattie agreed. ‘Most mornings the children have us up before the milkman’s horse comes around the corner. I can’t remember the last time the two of us had a lie-in.’ A dreamy expression spread across her sister’s face. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a couple of undisturbed hours under the sheets with Daniel.’

  ‘Will you two give over,’ said Francesca. ‘At least your other halves are stationed in London. Charlie’s a thousand miles away in North Africa and the saints alone knows when he’ll be back.’

  ‘But think how keen he’ll be when he does.’ Jo winked. ‘Sure, you’ll have to suck a lemon to get the shameless look off your face.’

  Mattie and Francesca laughed.

  From nowhere an image of Archie McIntosh sprang into Cathy’s head. She tried to push it away, but her imagination retaliated by stripping him of his shirt and laying him on a fresh white sheet. In her mind’s eye, she saw a look in his blue eyes that started something very unfamiliar but very pleasant swirling in the pit of her stomach—

  ‘Cathy?’

  The vision evaporated.

  Cathy blinked and looked up to find three pairs of eyes regarding her oddly.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You tell us,’ said Mattie.

  ‘You’ve got a very funny look on your face, Cathy,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes, and you sighed,’ added Jo.

  ‘I never did,’ said Cathy.

  ‘You’d obviously drifted off somewhere,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mattie, scrutinising her face closely. ‘So, come on, Cathy. What were you daydreaming about?’

  ‘Nothing really, you know, the centre, shopping, the usual stuff,’ Cathy replied, feeling suddenly very warm.

  Mattie arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

  Cathy held her sister’s gaze for a moment then Mattie picked up her tea and took a sip.

  ‘Well, from now on, girls,’ said her older sister, ‘when we are missing our men, perhaps we should try thinking about shopping, as it seems to have brought a contented smile to Cathy’s face.’

  As the organist played the final bars of the processional piece, Violet crossed herself and, leaning heavily on the flat wooden seat behind her, heaved herself to her feet. Stowing the kneeler on the hook, she sidestepped out of the pew, genuflected towards the altar and then, with her handbag hooked over her arm, made her way out.

  Having shaken the Reverend Paget’s hand at the door and assured him, as she always did, that he’d delivered a lovely sermon, Violet headed across the frost-whitened strip of garden surrounding the church and made her way to the hall at the back.

  In contrast to the icy air outside, the room where the after-service tea was being served was comfortably warm, thanks to the enormous hundred-year-old boiler in the corner.

  Surveying the high-ceilinged space, Violet grimaced as she spotted Madge Stone pouring the teas and making a fuss of Father Silas, St Philip and St Augustine’s wet-behind-the-ears curate.

  Greeting acquaintances and giving Madge a frosty look as she collected a cup, Violet glanced around. Dorothy Michel and Hattie Fallow had a spare chair at their table, so Violet went to join them, but before she’d got halfway across the hall, Mrs Paget, wearing a tweed coat and a chilly expression, stepped into her path.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Paget,’ said Violet.

  ‘And to you,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Is Mrs Cathy Wheeler any relation of yours?’

  ‘She’s married to my son,’ said Violet, giving the other woman a wary look.

  Mrs Paget’s mouth pulled into an ug
ly line.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that because . . .’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Due to the untimely demise of Miss Carpenter three days ago, I was asked to take over the running of the St Breda and Brendan’s Rest Centre. Your daughter-in-law was tasked to show me the ropes and, well . . . I’ve never been spoken to in such a rude manner in my life.’

  Violet’s face screwed into a mortified expression.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Pa-Paget.’ She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Please, Mrs Wheeler, do not distress yourself,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘I do not regard your daughter-in-law’s total lack of civility as any reflection on you as—’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Paget,’ sniffed Violet, squeezing a tear. ‘I’ve tried, honestly I’ve really tried, but . . .’ She glanced around then leaned towards the other woman. ‘Blood will out,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’m not one to judge,’ said Violet, ‘but everyone knows her family, the Brogans, are nothing but a bunch of Pope-worshipping, Irish tinkers. Let me tell you. Her father styles himself as a house removal and delivery man, but he’s nothing more than a grubby totter and a ruddy Paddy one at that,’ she continued. ‘My Stanley, he had a good job and a nice home, so you can see why she set her cap at him. So I overlooked everything about her family and welcomed her like the daughter I never had into my home, but . . .’ She dabbed her eyes again. ‘I tried to warn my Stan not to get involved with her, but he wouldn’t listen. Much too good for her, he is, but she caught him good and proper.’

  Mrs Paget’s eyes flew open. ‘She was in the family way?’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ said Violet, ‘but only because I brought my Stan up as a good Christian. I’m sure if it were left to her, little Stanley would have been born months earlier. And if that isn’t enough to make your hair curl, neither of her so-called brothers are her mother’s.’

  ‘They’re not?’

  ‘The ginger one, Billy, is the brat left in the workhouse by Cathy’s loose-knickered aunt,’ Violet replied. ‘And the other one, Michael, he’s her father’s sprog by some woman who pegged it and then dumped her bastard on the family.’