A Ration Book Daughter Page 4

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Queenie replied, setting Peter back on the floor. ‘I thought I might get there a bit earlier as I’m mighty worried about poor Father Mahon. For wasn’t he coughing fit to rip his soul from his body at confession on Friday? So I want to see how he’s faring. He’s been a martyr to his chest since he was a boy. It’s damp today so I hope he’s remembered his scarf.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Dunn would have reminded him,’ said Ida.

  ‘Mrs Dunn,’ scoffed Queenie, opening the door and retrieving her ankle-length black coat and Sunday hat from the stand in the hall. ‘Don’t talk to me about the so-called housekeeper at the Rectory. She let him go out last week in the rain without his umbrella.’

  ‘I don’t know, Queenie,’ said Ida, ‘the way you fuss over Father Mahon.’

  ‘Sure, haven’t I known the man all my life?’ Queenie replied. ‘And, tell me if you will, who’s to watch over him if I don’t?’

  She turned towards the door but as she did, she spotted Cathy’s empty cup.

  Quick as a light and before Cathy could stop her, her gran’s bony hand shot out and she grabbed it.

  Throwing the grouts into the aspidistra’s yellow and green majolica pot on the sideboard, Queenie peered into the mug.

  Unhappiness pressed down on Cathy again. She didn’t need the tea leaves to show her what her future was because until she found out if Stan was alive or dead, she had none.

  However, as Queenie studied what remained inside the china teacup, a blissful smile lifted the old woman’s thin lips and the long-forgotten feeling of hope fluttered in Cathy’s chest.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  Her grandmother raised her head.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, her coal-black eyes dancing with delight.

  As Fred pulled on the 3-ton Austin K5 handbrake, Archie opened the cab door.

  Straightening his field cap, he banged on the side of the truck then strolled to the rear. The canvas curtain flapped back as the tailgate dropped down.

  ‘Come on, bonny lads,’ Archie shouted as half a dozen men scrambled out. ‘We havenae got all day.’

  ‘But it’s Sunday, Sarge,’ murmured Mogg, stifling a yawn. ‘And we ain’t had no grub yet.’

  ‘Aye,’ Archie agreed, ‘but I’m afraid a category-A bomb won’t wait until you jessies have had your Day of Rest or filled your bellies.’

  ‘I bet the officer ain’t been dragged out of bed,’ said Ron.

  ‘Too true, boyo,’ said Mogg. ‘One law for the toffs and another for the rest of us.’

  Truthfully, there should have been an officer on duty, but after seeing it was Monkman chalked up on the duty board, Archie had decided to take the report and reconnoitre the place himself. It wasn’t the first time he had done so and, having been in bomb disposal since the word go, he had twice the experience of nearly all the lieutenants assigned to the North East London Unit.

  ‘Never you mind about the officers, Evans,’ said Archie. ‘But, Sarge,’ said Ron Marchant, giving him an artless look, ‘I thought you were a socialist. I thought you said all men are equal and all that.’

  ‘Aye, they are,’ Archie replied. ‘So I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you so you shovel as much muck as everyone else today.’

  The squad laughed.

  ‘Now, away,’ said Archie, suppressing a smile. ‘And make sure you and the lads look lively if I give you the nod. Chalky, get them in order.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ the corporal replied.

  Leaving the crew to unload, Archie went and stood next to the Shadwell Social Hall and stared down a deserted Johnson Street. On the viaduct above his head ran the railway from Tilbury that carried almost all the goods unloaded from every dock east of the City, and just half a mile away was the entrance to the Blackwall Tunnel, one of only two river crossings east of Tower Bridge. Both the tunnel and the railway were vital to the war effort.

  Being close to the docks and railway, the whole area had taken a pounding the night before, as the brickwork, shattered glass and personal effects strewn across the cobbles testified. Most of the houses at the far end of the street had had their roofs blown off, while the last two were missing their side walls. A lamp-post lay at half mast, its mangled light mantel touching the paving stones as if executing a very low bow in the early-morning chill.

  Seeing him, the elderly ARP warden, with a knitted balaclava under his helmet, shuffled over, blowing on his hands as he rubbed them together.

  ‘Morning,’ said Archie.

  ‘And you,’ the warden replied, giving him the surprised look his dark features usually engendered.

  The warden’s watery eyes shifted to the three stripes on his upper arm then back to his face.

  ‘Where’s the little beauty, then?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Her, over there’ – he indicated a stout woman in a navy ARP warden’s uniform and tin hat standing under the stone arch of St Peter’s porch – ‘thinks there’s a UXB behind the Three Tuns, but I say it’s already blown.’

  ‘Why?’ said Archie.

  ‘Well,’ the old man’s droopy grey moustache moved from side to side as he chuckled, ‘you only have to look around to know the answer to that!’

  He was right, of course. The whole street looked like the morning after the Sack of Rome but ...

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look?’ asked Archie.

  ‘’Elp yourself,’ said the warden.

  Archie gave a two-tone whistle and Chalky, who was leaning on the truck’s red wheel arch, looked around.

  Archie nodded and then set off, his corporal soon falling into step alongside him.

  ‘But don’t blame me if you find sod all,’ the warden shouted after them.

  Archie raised his hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘And keep an eye out for kids,’ the warden added. ‘Little buggers are forever popping up where they oughtn’t.’

  As he and Chalky headed towards the public house, Archie told his second-in-command what the warden had said.

  ‘So he thinks we’re wasting our time,’ said Chalky when he’d finished.

  ‘Aye,’ said Archie. ‘But if three years of hunting and destroying German armaments has taught me one thing it’s never say never.’

  Skirting down the side of the drinking house, Archie lifted the latch to the yard and wandered in.

  ‘What d’you think, Sarge?’ asked Chalky.

  Archie looked around.

  ‘Well, although they’re cracked, the windows aren’t all blown out, so whatever destroyed the front was to the south, closer to the river,’ he said.

  His gaze travelled over the upturned crates strewn across the cobbled yard until he spied a piece of distorted metal poking out from behind a barrel by the wall.

  Archie walked over and, reaching down, dragged out a tail fin just short of a foot across.

  He held it out. ‘Two hundred and fifty kilograms?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Chalky agreed. ‘But where’s the entry point?’

  Archie looked around again then noticed the bricks in the back wall were buckling out of line.

  He kicked one of the toppled barrels nearer to the wall. Grabbing the rim, he set it upright and, using an old tin brandy keg as a stepping stone, jumped up on to the barrel.

  He peered over into the next garden. Archie found himself looking down into a cavity some five feet wide, double that depth, and with recently disturbed soil in the middle. This was the reason why he’d had to drag the squad from their pits so early that morning.

  Smiling, he jumped down.

  ‘You found it, then?’ said Chalky.

  ‘Aye,’ Archie replied, rubbing the dirt from his hands. ‘So now let’s dig the bugger out.’

  The squad were leaning on the truck, smoking, but when they saw the two men emerge they stood up.

  ‘Right. Safety point around that corner, Ron,’ he said, nodding towards the shop at the bottom of the street with the shutters locked down. ‘And get the kettle on. The rest
of you start digging, Chalky will show you where while I go and find us some grub.’

  Ten minutes later, having gathered all their billy cans into a haversack, Archie strolled north towards the main road in search of something to fill his squad’s bellies. Despite it being Sunday, there was likely to be a Jewish baker or perhaps a café open. Skirting around the heavy-rescue teams that were still digging out a collapsed building, the mobile ambulance and the kitchen table that had been set up as an ARP information point, Archie reached the main road. Although the scene here was a little calmer, in the wide thoroughfare there was a burnt-out trolley bus with its cable dangling from above and the tarmac had bubbled, the result, no doubt, of an incendiary bomb dropped during the previous night’s bombardment.

  Looking around he spotted a Morris van with the letters WVS painted on the side. It was parked by the side of a Victorian church and standing by the van’s open back doors was a handful of women serving breakfast to a dozen or so ARP personnel.

  Archie’s stomach rumbled, so, adjusting the haversack on his shoulder, he set off at a brisk pace towards the van, but as he reached the front gates of the church one of the bell ringers in the tower let go the treble, setting off a joyous round of bells. As the ringer in the bell tower started their second round, other churches nearby joined in.

  Caught up in the country’s jubilations, Archie stopped and raised his face to the icy blue November sky. Taking a deep breath as the sounds not heard for over three long years rolled over him, something collided with his leg.

  He looked down to see a small boy of about three, with sandy-coloured hair and dressed in his Sunday-best coat, looking up at him.

  ‘Hey there, pal,’ said Archie, smiling down at the toddler. ‘Where did—’

  ‘Peter!’

  Archie looked up to see a young woman wearing a becoming cobalt-blue coat dashing towards him down the path, her rich corn-coloured hair glistening in the sun as she ran.

  The child, seeing his mother heading towards him, started off again, but before he’d taken a second step Archie swooped him up.

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said breathlessly as she reached them.

  ‘Nae problem,’ Archie replied, settling the boy on his forearm. ‘I know what they’re like at this age.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, her pale hazel eyes filled with relief. ‘Turn your back and—’

  ‘They’re off.’

  ‘Like a streak of lightning.’ She laughed.

  Archie smiled and handed the boy back to his mother.

  Her eyes flickered on to the emblem on his sleeve.

  ‘You’re in bomb disposal,’ she said, tucking her son on to her hip.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied, noting the curve of her cheek. ‘We’ve found one down the end of Johnson Street.’

  ‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘I’m just at church.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘They’re ringing the bells,’ she said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.

  ‘For El-Alamein.’

  ‘Yes, for El-Alamein,’ she replied.

  ‘Cathy!’

  They both looked around.

  Standing in the church porch was a woman with dark hair wearing a black ambulance service uniform. The young mother in front of him nodded at her and the dark-haired woman went back in.

  Cathy looked up at him. ‘That’s my sister Jo. I expect they’re starting the service, so I’d better go.’

  ‘Aye, me too.’ He adjusted the haversack strap on his shoulder. ‘I’m supposed to be getting the lads their breakfast.’

  She laughed and put her son back on the ground. Holding the toddler’s hand, she turned to walk away but after only a couple of steps, she turned back.

  ‘Thanks for catching Peter and good luck with the bomb.’

  Giving him half a smile and a shy glance from under her eyelashes, she walked inside the church, Archie’s eyes following the sway of her hips and her shapely legs all the way.

  As she disappeared from sight, Archie stood staring after her for a long moment then, dragging his mind back from where it had wandered, he continued with his task.

  *

  As the Reverend Eustace Paget, followed by his curate and the ten-strong choir, processed out to the vestry, Violet clasped her hands in front of her and begged the Almighty once again that Stanley would soon be found.

  The army and others might say otherwise but, in her heart, Violet knew that her son, who loved her more than anyone in the world, was just missing and not dead.

  It was just after ten thirty and, as always on Sunday, she was in St Philip and St Augustine’s, having completed her week’s obligation to God. Around her in the frigid church, wrapped up in scarves and gloves, were the fifty-plus congregation.

  In common with all the Anglican places of worship in the area, those attending St Philip and St Augustine’s were the sober, respectable and upright members of the neighbourhood. Unlike the drunks and ne’er-do-wells clogging the pews in the Pope-worshipping Catholic churches, her daughter-in-law and her hateful Irish family included.

  Feeling the anger rise in her chest, as it always did when she thought of Cathy, Violet weaved her fingers together and closed her eyes.

  As she did each morning when she woke and each night before bed, she reminded God of Stanley’s many virtues and prayed earnestly for his swift return. She also assured God that although as a good Christian she couldn’t wish anyone ill, should part of His divine plan include her daughter-in-law’s demise, she wouldn’t question His great wisdom.

  Waiting until the last note of the organ died away, Violet crossed herself and, leaning heavily on the seat behind her, stood up.

  Hooking her handbag over her arm, she left the pew and made her way towards the side entrance, but she’d only got as far as the end of the aisle when Elsie Weston and Dot Tomms stepped out in front of her.

  ‘Any news?’ Elsie asked, her close-set eyes heavy with sympathy.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Violet for the umpteenth time that morning.

  Dot placed her hand on her arm. ‘Well, you mustn’t give up hope.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Violet. ‘And I know he’s probably been captured trying to save others because my Stanley’s brave like that.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Dot, her eyes appearing abnormally large as she looked at Violet through the thick lenses of her spectacles.

  ‘Oh, yes, you mark my words,’ continued Violet, imagining her son striding tall and proud across the desert sands, ‘my Stan was never one to hold back from a fight. Nineteen thirty-three East London heavyweight champion, he was. I’ve still got the cup in pride of place on the mantelshelf.’

  The two women looked impressed, as they should, and murmured their admiration.

  ‘And he’s such a wonderful son. So mindful of my feelings. Nothing is too much for him as far as I’m concerned,’ she continued, warming to her subject. ‘I got a letter each week without fail and I’m sure he’ll write to me as soon as he can.’

  ‘How are you, Violet?’ asked Ruby Wagstaff, who had sidled over to join them.

  ‘Very well,’ she replied.

  ‘No news?’ asked Ruby, her round face a picture of sympathy.

  ‘Not yet,’ repeated Violet.

  ‘How’s your daughter-in-law holding up?’ asked Dot.

  Violet’s mouth pulled into an ugly line. ‘As far as she’s concerned my poor Stanley’s dead and buried.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Ruby, and the others nodded their agreement.

  Basking in their sympathy, Violet delved into her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief.

  ‘It almost broke Stanley’s heart the last time he was home.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘When he saw how she treated me.’

  ‘She ought to be ashamed of ’erself, especially seeing as how you help keep a roof over her head and food on the table with your late ’usband’s pension.’ Elsie patted her arm.

  Violet didn’t comment.


  ‘Mrs Wheeler.’

  Violet turned to find Marjory Paget, the vicar’s wife, standing behind her.

  In contrast to the Reverend Eustace Paget’s somewhat rotund figure, his wife was just an inch or two shorter than her husband’s stocky five foot ten and elegantly slim. With an oval face, cool grey eyes and her dark brown hair smoothed back into a French plait, Mrs Paget wouldn’t have looked out of place on the front cover of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar.

  Her family owned some manufacturing company near Birmingham, so she wasn’t short of a bob or two, as the expensive navy suit and silk blouse testified. The low-heeled court shoes and the handbag hooked over her arm probably cost more than a docker earned in a week and, although it invited gossip given her husband’s position, Mrs Paget was never seen without a powdered nose and a lipstick-reddened mouth.

  She was in her early forties and had dutifully presented her heavenly minded husband with two boys who were in the army and air force respectively. She subscribed to the view that while her husband had been called to serve God, her vocation was to rule the congregation.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Paget,’ the women around Violet muttered.

  The vicar’s wife acknowledged them with a cool smile then her attention returned to Violet, who put on her holiest smile.

  ‘I thought your husband’s sermon on Sodom and Gomorrah was very thought provoking,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be sure to tell him, Mrs Wheeler.’ A small frown creased Mrs Paget’s brow. ‘From what I understand, Piccadilly and Mayfair are not too dissimilar to that wicked city since the Americans arrived in London.’

  The women nodded their agreement.

  ‘I’d just like to say how sorry I am to hear your news, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘Both Eustace and I will remember you in our prayers. And you must have faith.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Paget.’ Tilting her head, Violet gazed at the high altar. ‘And where would we all be without it?’

  The three women put on their Sunday faces and nodded piously.

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the vicar’s wife.

  ‘Will we be seeing you at Mothers’ Union on Tuesday?’

  ‘Sadly not,’ replied the vicar’s wife. ‘I’ve just had another three of my regular volunteers at Smithy Street rest centre move to other centres, so I’ve been to HQ to ask them to find replacements.’