A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  The place was full of friends and neighbours, all there to celebrate Victoria’s initiation into the Church and to congratulate Ida and Jeremiah on the arrival of their daughter. The proud parents themselves were standing together by the small stage. Ida, thanks to a couple of safety pins, had managed to get into the skirt of her navy suit, while Jeremiah was resplendent in a wide-lapelled pinstripe suit and floral waistcoat.

  Reaching down, Cathy straightened the knitted blanket over the newest member of the Brogan family.

  ‘But she is very sweet,’ she said.

  ‘And very unexpected,’ said Mattie. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘At their age, too,’ laughed Cathy.

  A sad expression flitted across Jo’s pretty face. ‘Lucky them.’

  Cathy put her arm round her youngest sister’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you and Tommy will have happy news soon.’

  Jo glanced across to the bar where her husband was raising a glass with Mattie’s other half, Daniel.

  Both men were dressed in their army uniforms, which in Tommy’s case was the Signal Regiment and in Daniel’s that of the General Staff. Daniel had major pips on his epaulettes rather than his brother-in-law’s sergeant stripes but, unusually, they were both stationed in London and were doing something vitally important that no one spoke about. Despite the long hours and the occasional day of unexplained absence, Jo and Mattie enjoyed some semblance of a normal married life.

  ‘Cathy’s right, Jo, and in the meantime,’ Mattie winked, ‘you’ll have to just keep practising.’

  ‘And what are you three up to?’

  Cathy turned to see her ebony-haired Italian sister-in-law Francesca standing there, her swelling stomach pushing out the front of her emerald-green maternity dress.

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Mattie, who’d been Francesca’s best friend since they were in school. ‘We were just saying it’s a bit peculiar having a sister who’s younger than our own children.’

  ‘I suppose it must be,’ said Francesca. ‘But at least when she gets a bit older, she’ll have five small playmates.’

  ‘Have you heard from Charlie?’ asked Cathy.

  Francesca nodded. ‘I had a letter yesterday.’

  Mattie’s son started to wriggle.

  ‘How is he?’ she asked as she set Robert on the floor.

  ‘Fed up with sand and flies and missing home, but otherwise fine,’ Francesca replied. ‘He said he’s still getting a lovely tan looking for his friends but at least he has plenty of water close by, so I’m guessing his regiment is mopping up the last bits of German resistance as they push on to the Mediterranean. Plus, I had a whole paragraph telling me not to run around after Patrick too much, and to make sure I get enough rest and eat properly.’

  ‘What do you think you’re having?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, gazing down and running her hands over her bump. ‘As long as he or she is healthy, that’s all I care about.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Cathy saw Queenie coming towards them. She was also wearing her Sunday best and was dressed in a long maroon dress with a knitted cardigan, lace-up shoes and a wide-brimmed felt hat. She’d dug out a long string of pearls from somewhere, strung in three rows around her neck, and, in honour of the occasion and because it was Sunday, she also had her teeth in.

  ‘Is the fair darling still asleep?’ she asked, as she gazed into the pram.

  ‘Like a baby, Gran,’ said Mattie.

  A sentimental expression softened the old woman’s coal-black eyes.

  ‘May Sweet Mary above love and protect her,’ she said, crossing herself.

  Cathy and the other three girls did likewise.

  ‘I’m going to get Tommy to get me a top up,’ said Jo. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Me too,’ said Francesca.

  ‘Perhaps in a minute,’ said Cathy.

  Her sister left and headed towards her husband at the bar.

  Peter, who’d been jumping about on the dartboard oche with Francesca’s son Patrick and a couple of other toddlers, trotted over.

  Actually, Patrick was Francesca’s stepson from Charlie’s first marriage. However, if Stanley was in hell just now, he wouldn’t be alone, because her brother’s first wife, Stella, would be right there alongside him.

  Picking up her son, Cathy kissed him and settled him on her hip.

  ‘Mummy, see Gran’s chick chicks?’ he asked, wriggling his chubby hands at his great-grandmother.

  Queenie caught his outstretched hand and kissed it. ‘Your mammy will bring you around soon, my sweet angel.’

  Cathy kissed her son’s soft cheek again. ‘He so loves the chickens.’

  ‘That he does,’ agreed Queenie. ‘Just don’t let him know it’ll be one of them that’ll be gracing our plates at Christmas. Oh, and cease your wondering: you’re carrying a girl,’ she added, looking at Francesca.

  Victoria gave a little cry.

  Jeremiah, who’d wandered over to the bar to chat to a couple of old friends, put his half-drunk pint down and came over.

  Although his wife had insisted he wore a tie for the ceremony, he’d ripped it off as soon as he’d walked out through the church doors, so now his blue shirt collar was undone, as was his tapestry waistcoat, revealing that his Sunday trousers were being held up by a pair of bright red braces.

  Jeremiah Brogan was a few years older than his wife, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. Rumour had it that in his younger days it would have taken three or four policemen to take him into custody, but Cathy could never recall him laying a hand on her or any of her sisters and brothers. He didn’t need to: his disapproval was punishment enough.

  There were a few streaks of grey threaded through his wavy black hair, but it was still abundant and his grey-green eyes were bright and soft as they rested on her.

  ‘Is she awake?’ he asked, looking down at his newborn daughter.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Cathy.

  The tiny infant sneezed.

  ‘I’m thinking she may be,’ he replied.

  Squeezing between Cathy and Jo, their father reached in with his beefy hands and lifted his three-week-old daughter out of her lemon and white knitted blanket nest.

  ‘You’ll spoil her,’ said Mattie.

  Jeremiah grinned. ‘That I will; for sure, isn’t it one of the joys of being a father of girls to spoil them rotten?’

  Pressing his lips into his daughter’s mass of dark hair, Jeremiah settled her into his arms and strolled back to the bar.

  Ida went over to join her husband, who held their daughter effortlessly in his safe embrace. She and Jeremiah gazed down at their sleeping offspring for a moment then exchanged a look of love and joy that twisted Cathy’s heart.

  Watching her parents’ devotion to each other, Cathy wondered, not for the first time, how, with an example of such a happy marriage to guide her, she had got it so very wrong.

  Something behind Cathy caught her grandmother’s eye and anxiety flashed across the old woman’s face.

  She looked around to see what had caused it and saw Jo helping Father Mahon into a seat.

  ‘I thought he was looking a mite weary,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s to be expected,’ said Mattie. ‘He’s had three Masses today and Father Mahon must be knocking on a bit now.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Sixty-seven in September,’ Queenie replied. ‘The thirtieth.’

  ‘Goodness, he should have retired years ago,’ said Cathy. ‘But, Gran, fancy you remembering that.’

  Queenie scowled. ‘I’m not doolally yet, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Gran,’ she replied. ‘I just meant—’

  ‘It’s his chest,’ her gran interrupted, her attention fixed on the red-faced old priest. ‘Martyr to it, so he is. Just like his mother and the rest of her family. I’m just glad your . . . she,
his mother, didn’t pass it down to the rest of the family.’

  Cathy looked confused. ‘I thought you just said—’

  ‘I’d better make sure the poor man’s all right,’ cut in Queenie.

  She hurried over.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ Cathy stared after her for a moment then caught sight of her sister’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know if I should say,’ Mattie replied.

  ‘Say what?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘It’s only something that Daniel said ages ago and . . . well . . .’

  Mattie glanced over her shoulder then leaned forward and whispered, ‘He thinks that Father Mahon is Dad’s real father.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Shhh, keep your voice down,’ said Mattie.

  Cathy laughed. ‘Honestly, Mattie. He must be pulling your leg.’

  ‘I thought so, too,’ Mattie said. ‘That is, until a couple of years ago when I saw Dad and Father Mahon together one time. And the more I think about it, I’m beginning to wonder if he might be right.’

  ‘But he’s a priest,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t when he and Gran were youngsters together, running barefoot through the meadows back in Ireland.’ Mattie gave her a wry smile. ‘And he wouldn’t be the first priest to father a child. Think about it, Cathy. I know old ladies of the parish like to mollycoddle their priest, but don’t you think Gran’s just a little bit too concerned.’

  Cathy looked back at Father Mahon in his black cassock and dog collar, and her gran in her best Sunday hat.

  The old priest seemed to have recovered from whatever it was that had set him coughing so Jo had gone to rejoin her husband Tommy. Now, with just Queenie to tend to him, they sat in the same easy companionship that she had seen them enjoy together so many times before.

  She was just about to dismiss Mattie’s notion all together when her gran’s dark eyes softened and she gave the elderly priest a look that caused yet another lump to form in Cathy’s throat.

  Chapter Six

  THE OLD WOMAN standing in front of Cathy, huddled in a worn coat and with a scarf wrapped around her head, shuffled forward. Moving Peter on to her other hip, Cathy did the same and noted that she was now third in the queue.

  It was just after ten on Monday morning, the day after Victoria’s christening, and she was crammed into the waiting area of the Arbour Estate’s offices in Smithy Street and had been for the past hour and a half. She’d known it was going to be a long wait as soon as she’d turned the corner of Jamaica Road and seen the queue already snaking down the street. However, although it meant she’d be late for her afternoon session at the rest centre, there was nothing for it but to park Peter’s pushchair alongside the half a dozen others and get to the back of the line.

  She’d finally made it inside the building twenty minutes ago, where the line divided into those paying rent and those poor souls who, thanks to the Luftwaffe, were seeking accommodation.

  In truth, the offices were the downstairs rooms of a terraced house much like Cathy’s and, having squeezed through the door, she was squashed in what had once been the front parlour. There was a wide, dark-wood counter across the width of the room with a grille that reached to the ceiling. A woman sat behind the counter dealing with enquiries.

  As it was now a place of work rather than the centre of a family home, the fireplace had been bricked up and the space had no rugs, just bare boards. The wallpaper had long since faded into various shades of brown, with the occasional darker square denoting where a picture had once hung. As there had been a bomb in the street behind a few nights before, the bay window was still boarded up, which added to the gloom, as did the solitary 40-watt light bulb hanging from a flex above.

  The old woman moved forward again, and Cathy did too.

  ‘I’m going to have to put you down,’ she said to Peter as she lowered him to the floor. ‘But don’t you run off.’

  He laughed and ploughed into the old woman’s legs as he tried to dart away.

  The woman glanced around.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Cathy as she caught him.

  The woman’s worn face lifted in a kindly smile.

  ‘Don’t worry, duck,’ she said. ‘I’ve had seven of my own, so I know they’re a full-time job at that age.’

  ‘They certainly are,’ agreed Cathy, giving her son a fierce look.

  ‘And, of course, it don’t help that they haven’t got a father’s hand to pull ’em in line, neiver,’ the woman added. ‘He your only one?’

  Cathy nodded.

  ‘I suppose your old man’s in the army,’ the old woman asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cathy. ‘North Africa.’

  ‘Ah well,’ sighed the woman, ‘let’s hope now Monty’s given Rommel a right pasting they’ll be coming home soon and then perhaps your boy’ll have a little brother or sister.’

  Cathy gave a tight smile.

  The man at the counter moved away.

  The old woman stepped forward to take her place at the counter, leaving Cathy to quell the sheer panic the old woman’s words had set off in her chest.

  As Peter swung on her arm, Cathy took a couple of deep breaths to calm her thundering heart. Thankfully, after a moment or two, the old woman concluded her business. Scooping Peter up in her arms, Cathy stepped up to the counter.

  The thin-faced clerk behind the counter looked up.

  With a powdered face, rouged cheeks, heavily mascaraed eyes and two ridiculously large victory rolls at her temples, the Arbour Estate’s representative was a little overly made up for taking tenants’ hard-earned money. Cathy judged she was a few years older than her own twenty-three years, but by the look of the tailored pale blue suit she wore, plus her earrings and pearls, she had not needed to stretch a cheap cut of meat over two days.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Mrs Wheeler,’ Cathy replied, settling Peter on the counter.

  The woman on the other side of the counter ran her red-painted fingernail down the cut-out index at the side of the page then flipped it open to the ‘Wh’ page.

  ‘Address?’

  Peter lunged at the pen sticking out of the inkwell, but Cathy caught his hand. ‘A hundred and three Senrab Street.’

  The clerk’s hazel eyes skimmed down the page.

  ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs Wheeler. I see you owe us some rent.’

  ‘I do,’ agreed Cathy. She pulled the crumpled envelope from her pocket. ‘But it’s only one week so why have I been sent this?’

  Peter thrust his arm through the cubby hole to touch the pages of the ledger with sticky fingers, but Cathy pulled him away.

  ‘It’s our new policy,’ said the clerk, giving the boy a disapproving glance.

  Cathy gave her a querying look. ‘Policy?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that, as you can see’ – she pointed to the people crowded around the clerk at the other end of the counter – ‘with the increased demand for accommodation, we can’t afford to have tenants who don’t pay their rent.’

  ‘But it was only one week,’ said Cathy, gripping on to Peter as he tried to squirm off the counter.

  ‘Yes, and in future, anyone who misses a week’s rent will get a final demand and if it’s not paid within three days then I’m afraid we’ll have to take action.’

  ‘Action?’

  ‘You’ll be evicted.’ The clerk’s crimson lips lifted at the corners in a condescending smile. ‘There’s a war on, you know, and—’

  ‘There are plenty of people cashing in on it,’ cut in Cathy.

  A flush coloured the clerk’s throat, but she maintained her chilly smile. ‘In addition, from the first of January the rent on all our properties will be going up by five per cent.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Nine pence,’ the clerk replied. ‘Now, have you got the rent?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Opening her handbag, Cathy pulled out her purse. ‘There you are.’

  She slid the white
pound note and a brown ten-shilling note from her emergency fund through the mesh hatch.

  ‘That’s what I owe, and this is this week’s rent, too,’ she said, placing it in front of the patronising clerk.

  The woman scooped up the money and, pulling out a deep drawer beneath the counter, deposited the cash. ‘Have you got your rent book?’

  Taking the brown book with ‘Arbour Estate’ printed across the top from her handbag, Cathy pushed it through the grille.

  Picking up the pen, the clerk tapped off the excess ink and noted payment in the ledger then on the book, before sliding it back through to Cathy.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Cathy slid it back into her handbag, and the clerk’s disdainful smile returned.

  ‘Not at all, Mrs Wheeler.’ She placed the pen back in the inkwell. ‘But I’d advise you to keep our new policy in mind in future.’

  ‘I’m hardly likely to forget it, am I?’ Cathy replied.

  Holding Peter under the arms, she swung him off the counter. At the same time his chubby hand shot out and grabbed the pen, knocking over the inkwell.

  It rolled haphazardly around before tipping off the edge of the counter and into the clerk’s lap.

  The clerk’s powdered face took on an expression of horror as she stared down at the black stain spreading across the pale fabric of her skirt.

  Taking the pen from her son’s hand, Cathy placed it on the counter then, with him tucked on her hip, she left the choking atmosphere of the waiting room. Back out in the chilly street, Cathy wended her way between the parked prams until she found hers.

  Lifting Peter off her hip, she gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Nice shot, Peter,’ she said, as she placed him in his pushchair. She looked at her watch. ‘Let’s go and see if Granddad’s back in the yard after his morning rounds.’

  Cathy was relieved to see that the double gates of her father’s scrap-metal yard were wide open when she turned into Chapman Street some thirty minutes later. Her father’s business was situated halfway down the row of arches between a Brittans motor repair shop and Rodin’s the cooperage. Bouncing Peter over the cobbled street, Cathy crossed the road and walked into her father’s yard.