A Ration Book Daughter Read online

  ‘Chalky!’

  Corporal White’s apple-round face appeared over the edge of the parapet. ‘Sarge?’

  ‘You, Mogg and Ron get yourselves and the drill down here pronto, and tell Arthur to fire up the steamer,’ Archie called.

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ his corporal shouted back. ‘And, Sarge! Guess what?’

  ‘The Andrew Sisters are dropping into HQ to entertain us all over a spot of tea?’ Archie yelled.

  ‘No,’ his second-in-command bellowed. ‘One of the coppers up here just got a copy of the Evening Standard, and splashed across the front page is the news that old Monty’s gone and kicked Rommel’s fat German arse in some place called El-Armin or summink.’

  ‘Well now, while I’m right pleased for General Montgomery, Chalky, you’ll forgive me if I dinna go too wild with joy just at the moment, due to the fact I’m standing alongside 1,500 kilos of high explosives. So if you don’t mind . . . ?’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ said Chalky.

  ‘And fetch us down a slug of water, will ya?’ Archie shouted back. ‘Ma mouth’s as dry as the bottom of a budgie’s cage.’

  Chalky hurried off to do his sergeant’s bidding.

  Flicking his cigarette butt into the corner of the damp pit, Monkman stood up.

  ‘Well, McIntosh, I’ll get out of your way while you and the chaps get the drill and steamer going.’

  ‘You’ll nae be hanging around to oversee the operation?’ asked Archie.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Too many cooks and all that.’ He grinned and slapped Archie’s upper arm. ‘Good work, Sergeant.’

  Turning, he practically bounced up the ladder and was gone.

  There was a scuffling above and Archie looked up to see Chalky and the three squaddies he’d asked for climbing down the ladder with the drill and rubber hosepipe from the steamer.

  Chalky, a solid individual with sandy-coloured hair and a ready smile, stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder and sidled over.

  ‘I see our commanding officer has done his usual,’ he said, handing Archie a water bottle. ‘Well, at least wiv him gone, we’ve got a decent chance of getting out of the stinking pit in one piece.’

  Uncorking the canteen, Archie’s mouth lifted slightly by way of reply. He took a swig of water and then hunkered down.

  ‘All right, me bonny lads,’ said Archie, picking up the discarded headphones and putting them over his ears. ‘You know what to do, so let’s get on with it.’

  Hooking his towel on the peg, Archie stepped under the stream of water pulsing out of the chrome shower head a few inches above him.

  Resting his hands on the white tiled wall in front, he hung his head and let the warm water trickle down his aching body.

  It was already dark by the time he and his men had arrived back at the depot half an hour ago. Thankfully, drilling through the outer casing of the bomb had been pretty straightforward, as had the removal of the explosives. It hadn’t taken long to emulsify them using the steamer. Although, even without the fuse, the explosives could still blow you to kingdom come, Archie had decided that it would be better to get the whole thing up top so he could disarm the fuse in the daylight. Unfortunately, as the bomb was smack bang in the middle of two buildings vital to the war effort, they’d had to transport its carcass, with the clock stopper still attached, to the safer location of the bomb graveyard on Hackney Marshes.

  They’d arrived there just as the blackout started at six, so in a tarpaulin blackout tent under the glare of two spotlights, Archie had finally detached the fuse with his spanner and made it safe before heading back to base.

  The army’s bomb disposal squad was housed in what had been Wanstead High School for Boys. With most of its pupils evacuated elsewhere, the school had been converted into the North East Regional Headquarters, housing ten sections, comprising of half a dozen men apiece. Each squad was headed up by a sergeant and, in theory, were under the command of any of the dozen or so lieutenants. In reality, with a few notable exceptions, the lieutenants did little work, leaving it to experienced sergeants like himself to manage the day-to-day business.

  Archie’s D Squad was located on the second floor of the old school building, along with E and F Squads. The classrooms had been converted into barracks, but, although it was cheaper to live on site, Archie, like a couple of the other non-commissioned officers, had found himself a billet close by, just east of Bow Bridge. The officers made their own arrangements and rented houses if they had families or took lodgings if they were single.

  Of course, by the time he and his team had returned, soaked to the skin and ravenously hungry, the officers were already celebrating the news from Egypt, knocking back large Scotches in the mess as if they’d been the ones who’d routed Rommel.

  Archie was now standing in what had been the boys’ changing room, and around him were the six men that made up D Squad, all vigorously scrubbing the day’s filth off them with slivers of carbolic soap.

  ‘Oi, Archie!’

  He looked around at Fred Wood, the driver and tea maker, lathering himself under the shower opposite.

  ‘Me and some of the boys are going to the Regal later to raise a glass or two in Monty’s honour, fancy joining us?’ asked the private, who’d been a bin man in Doncaster before he was called up.

  ‘Yeah,’ said eighteen-year-old Private Tim Conner, rubbing his hands across his hairless chest. ‘There’ll be plenty of totty.’

  ‘The boy’s right, Archie,’ said Mogg Evans – the Swansea Mangler, as he was known in amateur wrestler circles. ‘Wild they are since those Yanks arrived. Coming down to London from all over looking for a bit of fun.’

  ‘Yes, I tell you, I just flashed the old bomb squad badge last week at the Ilford Palais and I was swamped with girls who wanted to show a hero of the Blitz their gratitude.’

  Archie smiled. ‘I wouldnae want to cramp your style, lads.’

  ‘’Ark at ’im,’ laughed Ron Marchant, who’d been a stevedore in the Royal Docks. ‘The UXB’s very own Casanova.’

  They all laughed, and Archie joined in.

  ‘Come on, Archie,’ urged Arthur Goodman, who at thirty-eight was the oldest in the squad. ‘You need to get out a bit.’

  ‘Yeah, come on.’ Chalky glanced down at Archie’s bare crotch. ‘Give your todger something to do for once.’

  Archie smiled. ‘Thanks for the offer, pal, but I’ve already got a date. And don’t enjoy yourselves too much: we’re back on duty at six.’

  This brought forth the usual groans, expletives and rude gestures.

  Archie’s smile widened, and, throwing his towel over his shoulder, he headed off for the changing room.

  In the steamy atmosphere, each one of his squad’s naked bodies looked much the same as the other. Only he looked different. And not just because at six foot two he towered over the other men. He looked different because, despite his Glaswegian accent and Highland name, while they were pale pink all over, he was the colour of milky coffee.

  Chapter Three

  AS EVERYONE WAS keen to read the full account of the 8th Army’s rout of Rommel in North Africa in the Sunday papers, Fieldman the stationers, at the bottom of Watney Street Market, was doing a brisk trade by the time Cathy reached them. Crunching through the thin layers of ice on the pavement puddles, she turned into Chapman Street.

  It was just after eight thirty and a little over a week since she’d received the telegram about Stanley.

  A train rattled along on the viaduct above, leaving black smoke and the smell of coal dust in its wake. As Cathy walked past the archway of her father’s removal and delivery business, her thirteen-year-old brother Billy tore around the corner with twelve-year-old Michael just a step behind. As always on a Sunday morning, they were both in their school uniform.

  Known to friend and foe as ‘the Brogan boys’, they were in fact chalk and cheese as far as appearances went. Billy was stocky, with a mop of sandy-coloured hair, while Michael, with his black
curly hair and lanky frame, looked so much like Cathy’s older brother Charlie it was uncanny. Michael’s face lit up as he spotted her.

  ‘Can’t stop, Cath, or we’ll be late,’ he shouted as he shot past her.

  ‘I guessed as much,’ Cathy replied.

  ‘See you at church,’ added Billy as he sped by.

  Cathy watched them for a moment or two then continued on towards the turning they’d just come from.

  Mafeking Terrace, where her parents Ida and Jeremiah Brogan lived, was a couple of turnings down the road, so within a moment or two Cathy swung the front wheels of the pushchair into her parents’ street and headed for the house with the green door.

  The street – just a hop, skip and a jump from London Docks – was part of the Chapman Estate. Like dozens of others in the area, the Victorian cottages that lined both sides of the thoroughfare opened straight on to the cobbled street, with just a narrow pavement in front of them. There had been mutterings about the council condemning them as unfit for human habitation. And truthfully, with damp in the walls, windows rattling in their frames and an unreliable sewage system running beneath, you’d have a hard time arguing otherwise. However, with half the houses in the area just piles of rubble and families living in one room, it wasn’t the right time to start bulldozing what was still standing, no matter how ramshackle they were.

  Within a few moments, Cathy was at her family home, but instead of knocking on the front door, she headed down the narrow alleyway between the houses towards the wooden gate at the end. Flipping the latch, Cathy wheeled the pushchair through into the backyard.

  Her father Jeremiah had taken over from his father as the local rag-and-bone man when he’d come back from France the first time the country was at war with Germany. However, under the War Act the Government now bought all scrap metal at a fixed rate, so he had had to branch out. Now Brogan & Son no longer dealt in old mangles, misshapen pots or bedsteads, but was, instead, a removal and delivery firm, with a second-hand furniture business on the side.

  Where discarded household items had once been stacked, there now stood a barrel with potato leaves spouting out of the top and next to that was a row of old china sinks planted with carrots and onions to go alongside whatever cut or kind of meat her mother managed to prise out of Ray Harris, the butcher they were registered with. However, the most notable change at the back of the family home was the chicken coop straddling the back wall.

  Spotting the hens pecking around in the dirt as Cathy wheeled him into the yard, Peter stretched his arms towards them.

  ‘Chick chicks,’ he said, waggling his mittened hands and looking excitedly at his mother.

  ‘In a minute, Peter,’ Cathy said, and smiled. ‘Let’s see Nanny and the baby first.’

  Knocking the pushchair’s brake on with her foot, Cathy lifted her son out and tucked him on to her hip. As she opened the back door, the smell of porridge and toast filled her nose.

  Her parents’ kitchen was as familiar to her as her own face in the mirror, and it was the welcoming heart of the house. Although none of the chairs around the scrubbed table matched, there were enough seats for everyone, plus a spare or two for visitors. There was always a cuppa to be had and, rationing permitting, often a slice of her mother’s cake to accompany it. At the far end was a massive dresser that housed all her mother’s mismatched crockery, alongside the odd beer glass or two; that was also where Ida now kept Cathy’s brother Charlie’s battered school satchel containing all the family certificates and her Prudential saving book, ready to take to the shelter.

  ‘Only me, Mum,’ shouted Cathy, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ her mother called back from the parlour. ‘There’s a fresh pot if you fancy a cuppa, and could you bring me another while you’re at it. I’m parched.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Cathy shouted back as she took off her son’s coat and scarf.

  Free of his outerwear, her son toddled off into the lounge and after pouring herself and her mother a mug of tea, Cathy followed.

  Like the kitchen, the back parlour also reflected her father’s trade and was furnished with an odd assortment of easy chairs, with a three-seater leather sofa along the far wall. The south-facing window that looked out on to the narrow passageway at the side of the house provided some light. Standing on one side of the fireplace was her father’s pride and joy: a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. There was also a shiny Bush wireless in the corner, and new metal frames around the family photos; with people having to find new accommodation and furniture after being bombed out, her father’s business was clearly prospering.

  Cathy’s mother was a few months short of her forty-sixth birthday and had the same light brown hair and hazel eyes as Cathy. She was wearing the navy maternity dress with the white collar Cathy had found when she’d been unpacking one of the Red Cross packages a while back.

  She was sitting with her feet up on the sofa and although she looked tired, as well she might with a ten-day-old baby, she had the contented glow of a new mother.

  On the floor beside her was one of the drawers from her parents’ tallboy, which had been emptied to be used as a makeshift crib.

  Peter had pulled out the toy box from behind the sofa and was sitting on the hearth rug rummaging through.

  Crossing the room, Cathy placed a cup of tea on the table beside her mother and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Hello, Mum, I thought I’d pop in before church to see how you’re getting on?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ Ida replied. ‘I’m still a bit sore, but now my milk’s come in at least I haven’t got two rocks on me chest.’

  ‘Is she still feeding well?’ asked Cathy.

  Her mother nodded. ‘She’d put on another three ounces when the nurse weighed her on Friday.’

  ‘I’ve just passed the boys dashing to church,’ said Cathy, as she sat at the other end of the sofa.

  Her mother nodded. ‘It’s going to be a special commemorative service for the victory at El-Alamein. Father Mahon wants to make sure the altar servers and choir know what they’re doing.’

  ‘And behave themselves,’ said Cathy. ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘He did an extra duty at the fire station so he’s upstairs having a kip,’ her mother replied.

  Cathy’s gaze shifted down on to the improvised crib next to the sofa.

  Her new sister looked very different from when Cathy had first seen her, red-faced and mucus stained, the day after she’d been born. She had plumped up and the dark hair that had been plastered to her head had turned to soft downy curls. Weighing in at six pounds thirteen ounces, the new baby Brogan was no lightweight, but nestled in among the white and lemon knitted blankets, with her fists clenched, she looked tiny.

  Cathy drank her tea as her mother went through how many times Victoria had woken her in the night, how it seemed strange after all this time to have a new-born and how she was going straight down to the Town Hall’s ration department to get Victoria her ration book as soon as her two weeks’ lying-in was over.

  Finishing her last mouthful of tea, Cathy put the cup on the sideboard.

  ‘Can I have a little cuddle?’ she asked, watching the infant’s almost transparent eyelids flicker as she dreamed.

  ‘Of course you can, luv,’ her mother replied.

  Cathy gently scooped up her new-born sister.

  Looking down at the infant slumbering peacefully in her arms, Cathy’s heart ached; she would never know the joy of motherhood again.

  ‘Has the official letter arrived from the army yet?’ her mother asked softly.

  Cathy nodded. ‘It came in the second post on Friday. Stan was officially listed as missing three weeks ago on the twenty-second of October, so I’ll be free of him on Good Friday.’

  ‘You’ve counted,’ said her mother.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I, Mum?’ Cathy replied, enjoying the feel of the baby in her arms.

  Reaching across, her mother took her hand. ‘O
h, Cathy, if we’d only known what Stan was like your father would have nev—’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ cut in Cathy.

  ‘And to think how he came between you and Mattie,’ added her mother.

  The cloud of sadness that was always there when she thought how Stanley’s involvement with Mosley’s thugs had stopped her talking to her eldest sister Mattie for over two years descended.

  ‘I shouldn’t have been so blind to what Stan really was.’ She gave Ida a plucky smile. ‘And at least now I’ve got it in writing that he’s missing in action the bank will let me have access to Stan’s savings, so I’ll have something to live on other than Stan’s grudging army allowance from the Post Office each week.’

  The baby gave a little sigh. Cathy kissed her sister’s peach-like forehead.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, giving her mother a bright smile, ‘let’s forget about Stan. Tell me how’s the baby been otherwise?’

  ‘The sweet darling’s been a pure angel, so she has, and there’s none who’d say otherwise.’

  Cathy looked around and found her grandmother standing in the hallway door.

  Slightly built, Queenie Brogan would have had to stand on her tiptoes to make five foot. She was in her mid-sixties and looked as if a strong gust of wind would have her off her feet. However, her wiry arms put the family’s washing through a cast-iron mangle each and every Monday, and her sparrow-like legs could outpace a woman half her age from one end of the market to the other.

  Although on every other day of the week, her gran wore a faded wraparound apron, which was probably older than Cathy herself, today, as she would be going to Mass soon, she wore her best maroon dress with the crochet lace collar, freshly laundered lisle stockings, and her hair was neatly styled into a tight bun. Also, as it was the Lord’s day, she’d popped in her false teeth.

  Seeing his great-grandmother, Peter stood up and, clutching a rag book in his hand, toddled across, arms outstretched. As he reached her, Queenie swept him effortlessly up into her embrace.

  Cathy glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. ‘You’ve got half an hour yet, Gran. I can squeeze one more out of the pot, if you fancy one.’