A Ration Book Daughter Read online

With people donating their spare pots and pans to the war effort instead of selling them, her father had started a removal and delivery business buying and selling second-hand furniture.

  So now, instead of being confronted with rusting metal machinery and twisted spokes, the place was filled with double wardrobes, chests of drawers, rolled-up rugs and mismatched chairs, along with smaller items like scrubbing boards and zinc tubs.

  Her father was nowhere to be seen so, wheeling Peter’s pushchair past the green Bedford lorry with ‘Brogan & Sons’ painted in smart gold lettering on the side, she headed for the office at the back.

  Well, ‘office’ was a bit of a grand name for it, as her father had hammered together a random selection of front doors and inserted what had been someone’s front window in the middle of one wall to let in some light. Although he came home each night with his cash box and ledger tucked under his arm, the office had a desk and a set of beaten-up filing cabinets where he locked his order sheets and the essentials for any successful business: his tea, biscuits and mugs.

  Parking the pushchair next to a washing mangle, Cathy unclipped Peter and, holding his hand, she opened the door and walked in.

  Jeremiah, who was sitting at his desk writing in the foolscap diary in front of him, looked up.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ he said, a broad smile lifting his unshaven face. ‘And Peter, too. This is a grand surprise on a dreary day. But I thought you were at the rest centre this afternoon.’

  Cathy sat down and unwound Peter’s scarf. ‘I am, but we thought we’d pop in and see Granddad before we went, didn’t we, Peter?’

  ‘See Gangad,’ Peter repeated.

  ‘No, Peter,’ Cathy said, as he stretched out his hand towards the small paraffin stove in the corner. ‘It’ll burn you.’

  Peter retracted his hand.

  ‘There’s a good lad,’ said Jeremiah. ‘If you sit on your mum’s lap, I’ll give you a bickie.’

  Peter clambered up and, reaching into the drawer behind him, his grandfather pulled out a custard cream.

  ‘Where on earth did you get that?’ asked Cathy, her eyes practically on stalks as she looked at the rare luxury.

  ‘The fairies left a packet of them in your mother’s cupboard it seems, just after my ma returned from some egg bartering,’ her father replied, with a raised eyebrow.

  Cathy laughed. ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘I have,’ he replied. ‘There were half a dozen notes sitting in the letter box this morning, all wanting me to shift people or to deliver something. To be honest, I’m fair rushed off my feet, especially now your mother can’t man the yard in the mornings. She says she’ll start doing the odd morning once Victoria’s weaned and she can leave her with a bottle, so I’ll struggle on until then. I’m also going to get Billy and Michael down here after school a few days during the week and on Saturdays to help me with deliveries. I was on my father’s waggon when I was ten and Charlie did the same when he was their age, so it won’t do them any harm to see the sort of graft it takes to earn a crust.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Cathy. ‘And perhaps after Christmas I could pop down a couple of times a week and help in the yard, just until Mum’s ready to come back.’

  ‘What about Peter?’ asked her father.

  ‘Well, Francesca’s giving up work in a few weeks and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having him as it would be company for Patrick. And now I’m doing office skills at evening classes, it would be good to get in some practice working in a proper business.’

  ‘Well, although Brogan & Sons is no rival to Pickfords just at the moment, I wouldn’t mind a bit of help with the paperwork. Especially the government stuff. Saints alive, there’s enough of it to sink a battleship and sure aren’t they the ones who are after telling us not to waste paper.’

  ‘Also,’ Cathy took a deep breath, ‘I went to the bank last week and . . .’

  She told him about her conversation at the bank.

  ‘The scheming old cow,’ said her father, when she’d finished. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘At the end of the day, it’s Stan’s money. All two hundred pounds of it. And even if I tried to take her to court, it would probably cost me the best part of it to challenge it.’

  Her father’s eyes opened wide. ‘Two hundred quid. I thought he was a porter at Spitalfields not a bank robber.’

  ‘I was a bit surprised myself when the bank manager told me what was in the account, but however he came by it, it’s Violet’s now,’ said Cathy, repositioning Peter on her lap. ‘Plus, in the solicitor’s letter it states that as long as Stan’s name is on the rent book, she can’t be asked to leave. Which means that although as his wife I have to pay the rent to keep a roof over our heads, Stan’s mother is entitled to stay. My problem is that Stan only signed over the minimum amount of his army wages to me, which is topped up by the Army’s Family Allowance, but in six months’ time, Stan’s wages will stop and all I’ll get is a widow’s pension, so my money will be cut in half.’

  ‘Well, you know me and your mum will always help you out if you’re short,’ her father said.

  ‘I know,’ said Cathy. ‘But I’m a grown woman now and I have to stand on my own two feet. That’s why I signed up for secretarial evening classes – when Peter is a little older, I can get a job to support us both. But that’s a few years off, so I’m going to do something about my situation now rather than wait until Easter when Stan is officially declared dead . . .’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to take a lodger.’

  Peter grabbed at her father’s keys that were lying on the desk. Jeremiah gave them to him.

  ‘What do you think Violet will say?’ her father asked. ‘Probably raise merry hell, but I don’t care,’ Cathy replied, already imagining the argument. ‘And that’s another reason why I’ve popped down to see you. I need a double bed with a decent mattress, a ward-robe, chest of drawers, a washstand and bowl and a small desk. I might need a cot, too, or a child’s bed if a mother and child take the room.’

  Her father scratched his head. ‘It might take me a week or two to get them, luv.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Cathy. ‘I’m not going to advertise the room until after Christmas. And as I’m going to put them in the downstairs front parlour, would you mind helping me shift things about in the house.’

  ‘Of course not,’ her father replied. ‘Just tell me when and me and the boys will be down.’

  A sad expression stole across his face.

  ‘You know, luv, me and your mum are so proud of you taking everything on your shoulders, and glad as I would be to see you free of that bastard’ – reaching out, he laid his hand on her forearm – ‘perhaps we should keep in mind that Stan may yet turn up.’

  An image of Stan’s belligerent features and his bruising hands flashed across her mind as the bitter taste of bile stung the back of her throat.

  Hugging Peter closer, Cathy pressed her lips on his soft curls. She closed her eyes for a moment then raised her head and looked at her father.

  ‘I know, Dad,’ she replied, forcing her words out despite the fear that gripped her chest. ‘But even if he is alive, it won’t change anything, because I swear by the Virgin Mary and all the saints above that, no matter what, I’ll never live under the same roof as Stanley Wheeler ever again.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘ARE YOU SURE it’s not too much for you, Mum?’ asked Cathy, as her father stopped his lorry alongside the kerb.

  ‘Of course not,’ her mother replied, putting her free arm around Peter, who was sitting between them. ‘He’s never any trouble, and the boys can help me.’

  It was just after five thirty on Wednesday, two days after she’d been to the rent office.

  Jeremiah, dressed in his auxiliary fire brigade uniform, was at the wheel of his Bedford lorry, while Cathy, Peter and Ida, who held four-week-old Victoria in her arms, sat alongside him in the cab. Billy and Michael were sitting in the lorry’s c
avernous rear and had been holding on to the two prams while the truck had bounced along the two-and-a-half-mile journey to Cephas Street School.

  Although the blackout had started over an hour ago, the early December night was clear. There was an almost full moon overhead and even though he was driving on muted headlights, her father could see his way clearly.

  Of course, it was because of the brightness of the moon that they were all in the van. After another week of fog so thick you couldn’t see across the street, an icy blast from the North Sea had dispersed the area’s protective shield. It was for this reason that Ida, like many others who’d enjoyed several nights safe in their own bed, was trekking down to the shelter again. Cathy would join her there after her evening class.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re sure,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I am,’ said her mother. ‘Now run along.’

  Giving Peter a quick kiss on the cheek, she opened the cab door and climbed down.

  ‘Be a good boy for Nanny,’ she said, taking her basket from the floor. ‘And I hope you have a quiet night, Dad.’

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears,’ said her father, smiling across at her. ‘Now off with you before you get a hundred lines for being late.’

  Grinning, Cathy slammed the lorry door and stepped back to avoid the exhaust fumes as Jeremiah pulled away.

  Hooking her basket over her arm, she turned and walked through the arched entrance to the school’s playground to join the few dozen people also making their way into the building.

  Cephas Street Secondary School, which was a ten-minute walk from Bethnal Green station, was one of the many solid three-storey, brick-built schools the Victorians had commissioned in a drive to educate London’s poor, although the building was now empty of pupils as many had been evacuated at the beginning of the war. Crunching across the gravel, Cathy headed for the main entrance and pushed open the half-glazed doors, which had protective tape pasted across the panes of glass. Making sure she’d closed the door behind her, she moved the blackout curtain aside and stepped into the corridor.

  The St John’s Ambulance had set up a casualty station on the ground floor, so the hall in front of her had a dozen or so hospital beds lined up neatly along the far wall. The beds were divided by screens and were used for caring for the more seriously injured. Patients with bumps and bruises were treated in one of the chairs positioned next to stainless-steel trolleys. The staff, in anticipation of a busy night, were busy rolling bandages and decanting surgical spirit into smaller bottles ready for use.

  Although the ground floor of the school had been given over to war work, the upper two floors were still used for lessons and meetings.

  Turning right, Cathy joined the crowd of people heading up the stairs to the top floors where the Workers’ Education Association had set up evening classes.

  Walking past the refreshment area on the first floor, where a number of people who’d come straight from a day’s work were having their evening meal, Cathy carried on to the top floor, where the practical lessons were taught. Passing the tailoring class on her right and the cookery class on her left, she headed for the classroom at the end of the corridor.

  Miss Browne, a thin woman wearing a tweed suit and gold-rimmed glasses, was already standing by her desk on the raised area at the front of her class, the double blackboard behind her, when Cathy entered.

  The classroom’s thirty desks were arranged in neat rows facing the front, and on each desk, draped with a canvas cover, was a typewriter.

  Hanging up her coat on the row of pegs by the door, Cathy wove her way between the desks to her place in the third row, greeting her classmates as she went. Taking her place behind the desk, she took the dust cover off the black enamel Imperial typewriter and tucked it away on the shelf below. As the last few members of the class came in, Cathy reached into her basket on the floor beside her and pulled out her Pitman’s Intermediate Typing book. Placing it on the desk, she delved back in and took a sheet of foolscap paper from her folder and loaded it into the typewriter’s carriage. After ensuring it was straight, Cathy adjusted her chair to avoid getting cramp in her shoulders, then looked ahead.

  As the large hand on the white-faced clock above her head reached the number twelve, Miss Browne cleared her throat.

  ‘Good evening, class,’ she said. ‘As you all did so well in the speed and accuracy test I set you last week, this evening I’m going to move on to typing detailed reports. Essential for those of you who aspire to jobs in local government or in legal firms.’ She placed her hand on the large stop clock beside her on the desk. ‘If you could turn to exercise nine in your books, we’ll begin.’

  There was a rustle of paper as the class turned to the appropriate page. Propping the book to the left of her, Cathy placed her fingers lightly on the middle row of keys and waited.

  ‘You have three minutes,’ said Miss Brown. ‘Starting now!’

  The clatter of metal typewriter letters striking paper filled the room. Cathy, her eyes skimming across the top line of the text, set her fingers flying across the keys.

  ‘Well done, girls,’ said Miss Browne, beaming at them through her spectacles. ‘You’ve all worked very hard tonight. Next week we will look at the particular requirements needed when typing legal documents, so I’ll see you all then.’

  Cathy arched her back to ease the tightness in her spine and neck caused by almost two hours hunched over a desk.

  Pulling the paper out of the typewriter’s carriage, she placed it carefully back in the manila wallet. She’d only used one side, and as a quire cost 2/3p in Woolworths – and that’s if they had any in stock – unless every inch of it had been used, Cathy squirrelled it away for later. Centring the old typewriter’s carriage, Cathy fitted the cover back over the machine. Then, stowing her pens, rubber and sharpener back in her old school pencil case, she tucked it and her textbook back in her basket and stood up. She hooked the basket over her arm and, collecting her coat as she passed, filed out of the classroom behind her fellow pupils.

  Thinking of nothing in particular, Cathy headed towards the stairway and joined those making their way down. However, as she reached the floor below, she was confronted by two men carrying a table. Stepping back to let them pass, she looked across the open expanse of the first-floor’s central hall and her heart did a little quickstep.

  There, talking to a group of men and with a hint of a frown, was Archie McIntosh.

  Although he was in uniform, his tie was loosened and he had his hands in his pockets.

  She should have looked away, but she couldn’t. Instead, Cathy’s eyes took on a life of their own as they drank in Archie’s broad shoulders and chest before moving lower to his slim hips and long legs.

  Almost every man she met wore one uniform or another, but none looked as good in it as Archie McIntosh. Although his khaki battle jacket and combat trousers were army issue, they fitted him as if made to measure.

  Despite people bustling around her, Cathy was rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the unbelievably good-looking bomb disposal sergeant.

  Perhaps she should pop over and say hello.

  But what if he didn’t recognise her? It would be so embarrassing.

  Wouldn’t matter; after all, she was only being polite.

  Blast, she was wearing slacks and a favourite jumper, would he . . . ?

  Cathy pulled herself up short.

  What on earth was she thinking?

  She turned to go but then his serious expression changed in an instant and he laughed. A great, chest-rumbling, unguarded laugh that, even at this distance, Cathy felt as much as heard.

  Her eyes ran over him again and then, adjusting her grip on her basket, she made her way towards him.

  ‘I’m serious, Archie,’ said Ted Inglis. ‘You really should enter your stuff into the “Images of Defiance” exhibition.’

  Archie smiled. ‘Maybe.’

  Ted shook his head. ‘There’s no maybe about it.’ He slapped Arc
hie on the upper arm and grinned. ‘Your stuff is good, really good.’

  The art instructor’s hooded eyes shifted off Archie’s face and on to a point behind his right shoulder.

  Archie turned and found himself staring down at Cathy Wheeler’s beautiful face.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, that smile of hers lighting up her face. ‘I don’t know if you remember me, Sergeant McIntosh—’

  ‘Aye, I do,’ he cut in. How could he forget? ‘But what are you doing here?’ he asked, his heart thundering in his chest.

  ‘Secretarial and typing classes upstairs,’ she replied.

  Caught in her hazel-eyed gaze, Archie’s mind went blank for a second then he remembered the man standing next to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ted, I—’

  ‘That’s all right, Archie.’ Ted looked from Archie to Cathy then back again and he smiled. ‘The rest of the class and I will be in the Queen’s Arms.’

  Taking a long multicoloured knitted scarf from his pocket, Ted wound it around his neck and sauntered towards the exit.

  Archie looked back at Cathy.

  ‘Er, the canteen’s still open, so can I get you a brew?’ he asked.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I should really be getting to the shelter.’

  ‘Just a wee one,’ he added. ‘Ma treat.’

  Cathy pressed her lips together for a second then shook her head. ‘I really just popped over to say hello and I ought to be getting to the Bethnal Green shelter.’

  ‘That’s just around the corner from here, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, about a ten-minute walk up Cambridge Heath Road.’

  ‘Then let me keep you company,’ he replied, not liking the thought of her walking along the dark road in the blackout.

  Her brow furrowed into a delightful frown. ‘But the Queen’s Arms is in the opposite direction.’

  ‘I could do with the exercise,’ he replied, patting his stomach.

  ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble,’ she said.

  ‘After you,’ said Archie, ridiculously pleased she’d agreed.

  Cathy headed for the staircase, allowing Archie to appreciate how the navy slacks she was wearing hugged her in a very pleasing fashion. Very pleasing indeed.