A Ration Book Daughter Page 7

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Doris. ‘Is he from the West Indies?’

  ‘Well, half of him obviously is,’ said Sadie.

  The women laughed.

  ‘He’s Scottish, if you must know,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I don’t care where he comes from,’ said Maureen. ‘I wouldn’t mind passing the time with him in the blackout.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Coleen.

  ‘Well, I think we’re out of luck, girls,’ added Maureen, casting her gaze around the women at the table. ‘Because from where I’m sitting, it looked like our Scottish sergeant only has eyes for Cathy.’

  Cathy forced a light laugh.

  ‘Honestly, you lot are blooming man mad,’ she said, trying to ignore the fluttering in her chest. ‘And if you must know, he’s married with a little girl.’

  There were mutters of ‘shame’ and ‘lucky woman’.

  ‘Your sergeant might be handsome, but that don’t make it right,’ said Edie.

  ‘What?’ asked Doris.

  ‘Mixing the races,’ Edie replied.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Cathy. ‘We’re all different colours around here, from jet black to freckled ginger, and all shades in between. And where would we be without the Jewish bakers on a Sunday?’

  ‘And the Italian cafés,’ said Maureen.

  ‘Don’t forget the Greeks who run the fish and chip shops,’ added Coleen.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s different,’ said Edie.

  ‘I don’t see how?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Because they’re more like us,’ Edie explained. ‘You know, in colouring. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want any of your daughters married to a darkie.’

  From nowhere an image of Stan looming over her with belligerent beer-glazed eyes and clenched fists flashed across Cathy’s mind and fury rose up in her chest.

  ‘I haven’t got a daughter, Edie,’ she said, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on the other woman. ‘But if I did, I wouldn’t care if she married a man with black, white, red, blue, green or yellow skin, or even a combination of them all, as long as he loved her.’ Pushing herself away from the table, Cathy stood up. ‘And as for Sergeant McIntosh, I don’t care what colour he is, where he comes from or who his parents are. Because not only did he stop Peter ending up under the wheels of a bus, but he spends every day digging out German bombs and then defusing them to keep all of us and our families from being blown to kingdom come. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to add Ruby Freeman’s name to the toy list for the Christmas party.’

  Turning around, Cathy headed for the door but halfway across the hall her gaze returned to Archie McIntosh as he stood in the queue.

  He would have been counted as good-looking for his square jaw and strong cheekbones alone, but add in his ice-blue eyes and, well ... goodness me. He was handsome.

  The woman in front of him was holding a grizzling child and he was pulling a funny face to amuse it while the mother was getting served. Then, having put in his own order, he carried the woman’s dinner to a nearby table for her before returning to collect his own meal.

  He handed over his money and, taking his plate, squeezed himself between two elderly matrons who greeted the newcomer with motherly smiles.

  Who cared what colour any man was? What mattered was that they were kind and caring, considerate and gentle, but above all they had to love you totally.

  She didn’t know if Archie McIntosh was a man like that, but it didn’t matter if he was because she was not free to find out. Not yet, anyway.

  With the barrage balloon hovering over the dock shining pink in the dying rays of the sun, Cathy pushed Peter, wrapped up to his ears in his coat and woolly scarf, in his pushchair towards Watney Street Market.

  She’d left the rest centre just half an hour ago and, although it was only just after four, the blackout would be starting in half an hour. The shops on both sides of the thoroughfare already had their blackout blinds down and the last few shoppers gathered their purchases before the daylight disappeared completely.

  Arriving at the back door, Cathy lifted the front wheels of the pushchair over the step and into the kitchen.

  Her mother-in-law, standing by the stove in her candlewick dressing gown and curlers, looked around as she walked in.

  ‘Don’t you scrape my cabinet doors with those spokes,’ she said, indicating the pushchair wheels with a nod.

  Lifting Peter out of his seat, Cathy didn’t reply.

  She unwrapped her son and he toddled off to explore the bucket and brushes behind the curtain that hung from Violet’s posh integrated enamel sink and draining board.

  Dressed for her night in the shelter, Violet watched Cathy for a moment then a crafty expression spread across her face.

  Pulling a buff-coloured envelope with ‘final demand’ stamped across the top in red from her pocket, Violet placed it on the table.

  ‘This came in the afternoon post,’ she said.

  Cathy picked it up. ‘You’ve opened it.’

  ‘Of course I opened it,’ said Violet. ‘It’s addressed to Mrs Wheeler.’

  ‘Yes, to me, Mrs S. Wheeler. Not N. Wheeler,’ said Cathy, waving the envelope at the old woman.

  Violet shrugged. ‘So, I made a mistake. But it doesn’t alter the fact that you’re behind with the rent.’

  Giving Cathy another hateful look, her mother-in-law turned, and clutching her green rubber hot-water bottle, walked out of the back door, slamming it behind her.

  Cathy stared after her for a moment then placed her hands on the table and hung her head.

  ‘Mummy.’

  Forcing her brightest smile, Cathy looked up at her son.

  ‘Right, Peter, do you want some din-dins?’ she asked, taking his bowl from the table.

  Her son nodded in reply.

  Retrieving the casserole dish from the oven, she portioned out the mutton stew she’d left in there before going to the centre and put it into their bowls.

  Placing a bowl in front of Peter, she sat down next to him and offered him a teaspoon. ‘There we go, young man. Eat it all up and then we can go to the shelter to see Nanny and the boys.’

  Peter took the spoon and his soft cheeks lifted in a smile.

  She smiled back and ran her fingers lightly over his fair hair. There was no denying he looked like his father, but, despite him being a living reminder of her husband, Cathy loved him utterly.

  Chapter Five

  ‘THERE YOU ARE, get your smackers around that,’ said Chalky as he handed Archie a fresh pint of bitter.

  Closing his fingers around the chilled glass, Archie raised it high.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said to his squad, who stood alongside him at Stratford Town Hall’s long mahogany bar.

  They responded in kind, then turned as one and surveyed the crowded dance floor.

  It was the last Friday night in November and if the clock over the door was correct it had just gone ten thirty. For once Archie had given in to the men’s cajoling and joined them for a night out. And why not? Plus, he had all weekend to finish the painting he had on his easel, so beer and perhaps a dance or two wouldn’t do any harm. After all, didn’t all work and no play make Jack a dull boy?

  Being the end of the working week, the Town Hall’s main function area was a sea of khaki and navy, with a smattering of air-force blue worn by Brylcreemed boys who’d travelled in from their Essex bases. Dotted among the uniforms were brightly dressed girls with smiling red lips and swirling skirts, as determined as their dance partners to live for today. The seven-piece band was surprisingly good, and added to the fun of the evening by energetically working their way through the most popular tunes of the day.

  ‘I spy with my little eye, lads,’ said Mogg, his pint poised in front of his lips.

  Archie followed his gaze across to the other side of the room where half a dozen girls, all with bouncy curls, high heels and colourful dresses, gathered together on the edge of the sprung dance floor.

  Sensing they we
re being watched, the girls glanced over and started whispering together.

  ‘Mine’s the redhead,’ said Fred, raising his glass to them.

  Tim gulped a mouthful of beer and set down his glass. ‘I’ll have the blonde on the left.’

  Ron straightened the front of his battle dress. ‘I’ll take that saucy brunette next to her with the big Bristols.’

  ‘’Ang on, lads,’ cut in Chalky. ‘Let Archie get a look-in.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Fred. ‘What one do you fancy, Sarge?’

  Archie’s gaze drifted across the dance floor. The bevy of girls eyeing them up were pretty enough but ...

  ‘Dinna fret about me, lads,’ Archie said, shifting his attention back to the drink in his hand. ‘I’ll fend for myself when I’ve a mind.’ He sipped the froth off the top of his pint. ‘But I’ll nae spoil your fun.’

  Grinning, the men smoothed their hair with their hands, straightened their ties and then, glasses in hand, strode across the dance floor.

  Leaning his elbow on the bar, Archie took another mouthful of beer and watched the dancers gliding around the dance floor.

  Something red flashed at the edge of Archie’s vision.

  ‘Hello.’

  He turned to find a tall blonde with mud-brown eyes standing behind him.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied, noting her pointed chin and slightly offset mouth in passing.

  ‘You got a light?’ she asked, brandishing a cigarette between her fingers.

  Sliding his hand in his trouser pocket, Archie pulled out his lighter. ‘Sure.’

  He flicked it into flame. Cupping her hands around his, she drew on her cigarette.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, blowing a thin stream of smoke out of the side of her cherry-red lips. ‘I’m Rose.’

  ‘Archie.’

  ‘And’ – she lay her hand lightly on his arm just below his unit’s embroidered flaming bomb insignia – ‘a sergeant in the Bomb Disposal, I see.’

  He smiled. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she replied. ‘Gin and it.’

  Archie beckoned the barman over and gave him her order.

  ‘You ’ere by yourself, Archie?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m with that bunch of jessies.’ He indicated his men skylarking about on the other side of the crowded room.

  She glanced over. ‘They seem to be enjoying themselves.’

  They were. Fred was already in a clinch with the redhead he’d singled out, Tim was sitting with his arm around the blonde, while Ron was smooching his well-endowed brunette on the dance floor.

  Rose’s drink arrived and she took a sip.

  ‘You from up north?’ she asked.

  ‘Scotland,’ he replied. ‘Glasgow, in fact.’

  ‘Funny,’ she giggled, ‘you don’t look Scotch.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit draughty for m’ kilt tonight,’ he replied.

  She laughed again and then leaned into him.

  ‘Is it true you don’t wear nuffink under it?’ she asked, the smell of sweet perfume filling his nostrils.

  His smile widened. ‘It’s a closely guarded secret that I can’t tell a Sassenach.’

  Pressing against him, Rose gave him a lavish look. ‘Well then, Archie, I shall have to find out for myself, won’t I?’

  Downing another mouthful of beer, Archie put his glass down on the bar. ‘You fancy a dance, Rose?’

  Placing her drink alongside his, she smiled. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Taking her hand, Archie walked her on to the dance floor. The band struck up for a quickstep so, drawing her into his arms, Archie stepped off.

  ‘You’re a good dancer,’ Rose said, as they passed the band on the stage for the second time.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘You’re mighty nifty yourself.’

  She wasn’t but then he was also a gentleman.

  ‘And you’ve got lovely blue eyes,’ she added.

  Archie smiled. ‘So I’ve been told.’

  Tucking herself closer into him, Rose ran her hand slowly up his back.

  ‘You know,’ she said, gazing adoringly up at him, ‘I spotted you as soon as I walked in.’

  ‘I shouldnae wonder at it,’ Archie replied, with a low laugh. ‘I’m the only brown face in the place.’

  ‘No, not just that, you daft apeth.’ She pressed her thigh into his, promptly igniting his interest. ‘Rose, I thought to myself, that chap over there is something special.’

  ‘Did you?’ Archie replied.

  His arm tightened around her and excitement flashed in her eyes.

  ‘Do you fancy going somewhere a little quieter?’ she asked, nuzzling closer.

  ‘Where did you have in mind?’

  ‘Well, me and my friend share a room in a house in Windmill Lane.’ She winked and rubbed her thigh against his again. ‘And, well, she’s on a night shift so I have the place all to myself.’

  Archie’s gaze ran over her notable cleavage, her tightly fitted red dress and her peep-toe high heels.

  Why not? After all, it had been a while. And wasn’t he forever telling himself that it was time to move on?

  ‘Have you?’ he replied, wondering if there was a French letter machine in the Gents.

  Smiling, she pressed her cheek against his.

  ‘Yes, all night,’ she whispered, her breath hot on his skin.

  He turned to look at the woman in his arms.

  Her red lips were moist and open, her full breasts pressed into his chest and her hips were rocking against his hardened penis.

  With her heady perfume wafting over him, Archie lowered his head, but before his lips closed over hers, the image of Cathy in her forest-green uniform talking to the little girl flashed into his mind. Her golden hair, grey-green eyes, curvaceous body and dazzling smile . . .

  Archie stopped dancing.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he said, removing her arms from around his neck.

  Confusion clouded her face.

  ‘What’s the matter, Archie?’ she asked. ‘Did I say something?’

  ‘Nae, you didn’t,’ Archie replied. ‘Nice to meet you, Rose, and enjoy the rest of your evening.’

  He turned, and weaving his way between the dancers and drinkers, Archie made his way out of the hall.

  Archie had only got as far as Stratford Market station when the air raid siren on top of the Town Hall started its mournful wail, so by the time he’d reached Wise Road some ten minutes later, the drone of the approaching aircraft was almost overhead.

  Strolling down the side of his digs, Archie took the keys from his pocket and let himself in to the house. He made himself a cup of tea and then went up to his room.

  Archie regarded his easel for a moment then lifted off the calico covering the painting beneath. Draping the fabric over the back of the chair, he took a sip of tea and studied the canvas.

  It was an image of Chalky, Tim Conner, Mogg Evans and Arthur Goodman at the bottom of a shored-up trench, bent double over a bomb. He’d started it over a month ago, and had managed a few hours here and there in the last couple of weeks. Now, with a full weekend in front of him, he hoped to progress the work enough to take it to his art class on Wednesday, but at the moment he had something else he needed to get down on paper.

  Throwing the calico back over the painting, Archie picked up his foolscap sketchpad that was resting against the wall.

  As he grabbed the Oxo tin that held his pencils, the first bomb hit the ground, about half a mile away to the south of him, judging by the vibrations through the floorboards.

  Archie sat on the bed and, after unlacing and removing his boots, swung his legs up on to the patchwork counterpane. Shuffling back, he rested against the wall.

  Another explosion set the light above him jumping for a moment or two. Propping the pad on his thigh, Archie opened the battered tin box and selected an HB pencil.

  Flashes of red and gold from exploding bombs force
d their way through the sides of his blackout curtains but the image of a pair of hazel eyes filled his mind and, oblivious to everything else, Archie started sketching the stunningly beautiful face that had blighted Rose’s bald-faced advances an hour before.

  ‘It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’ said Cathy, as she looked down at the sleeping baby.

  ‘What, you mean Victoria being our sister?’ said Jo, who, dressed in a pale blue suit and matching pillbox hat, was looking over the ivory-coloured handle of the Silver Cross at the newest member of the Brogan family.

  ‘Not so much odd as strange,’ said Mattie, standing on the other side of the pram dressed in her Sunday best, with her son Robert on her hip.

  It was the last Sunday in November, Advent Sunday, in fact, and she and her sisters were in the Catholic Club bar on the first floor, having just returned from their baby sister Victoria’s christening at St Breda and St Brendan’s.

  Whether for family weddings, birthday celebrations, Christmas parties or funeral wakes, Cathy had been in and out of the Catholic Club for as long as she could remember.

  Situated above the WVS rest centre where she helped each week, the large square room had a long mahogany bar at one end and a small stage at the other. Despite the fine mesh and the gummed tape criss-crossing the high windows, protecting the glass from stones thrown by local lads and, more recently, from bomb damage, they let in enough of the chilly winter sunlight to save switching on the cluster of upturned lamps hanging from the ceiling. The faded photos of past club presidents and other notables that had once lined the walls had long been taken down and replaced by government posters urging people to Dig for Victory and Buy War Bonds.

  The dozen or so tables and chairs that were usually dotted about the place had been squashed together against the side walls to accommodate the trestle table where the tea, sandwiches and cake were laid out.

  Naturally, as with all boys of their age, Billy and Michael both had hollow legs and had been hovering by the spread ever since Cathy and her sisters set it out. However, now they’d eaten their fill of sardine and spam sandwiches and eggless fruit cake, they were loitering around on the other side of the room with their bottles of lemonade and a couple of their choirboy chums.