A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘You mean both of the Brogan boys are illegitimate,’ said Mrs Paget, her face a picture of incredulity.

  Violet nodded.

  ‘Have they no shame?’

  ‘They don’t know the meaning of the word,’ said Violet, with relish. ‘And her oldest sister just got the ring on her finger before they had to call the midwife.’

  Mrs Paget’s pale lips pulled into a tight bud.

  ‘And I didn’t mention,’ Violet continued, ‘that her other sister’s husband has a convicted criminal for a brother. He’s in prison for manslaughter.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said the vicar’s wife.

  ‘And then there’s Queenie.’

  Mrs Paget looked puzzled.

  ‘The gran, she lives with them too,’ Violet explained. ‘She’s completely barmy and ought to have been locked up in a loony bin long ago. Pretends she talks to the spirits and tries to let on she can foretell the future by reading tea leaves.’

  The colour drained from Mrs Paget’s face. ‘But that’s witchcraft and condemned by the Church,’ she said, with a slight tremor to her voice.

  ‘As I said, bad blood,’ said Violet. ‘I begged my Stan not to marry her, but . . . well, you can see what she looks like, and men, even the best of men like my dear son, can have their heads turned.’

  ‘It’s true,’ agreed the vicar’s wife. ‘Men are particularly susceptible when it comes to the temptations of the flesh. Mrs Wheeler, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ said Violet, extracting her handkerchief from her cardigan sleeve and dabbing her eyes again.

  ‘He didn’t have to go, you know, my Stanley,’ Violet added. ‘As he was chairman of the local branch of the Britons for Peace Union, he could have become a conchie. Lots of them did, but not my Stan,’ said Violet. ‘He said, “Mum, as much as I don’t want to go, this is my country and I must do my duty.” And now my poor boy is missing.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Mrs Paget, a sympathetic expression lifting her thin features, ‘we all have our crosses to bear.’

  ‘We do.’ Violet heaved a sigh and then placed her hand on the other woman’s arm. ‘But it will give me great comfort to know that while everyone thinks my daughter-in-law is a blessed angel from heaven, you know what she’s really like.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘NOW, TERRY ADAMS, there’s no need to snatch,’ said Cathy, giving the eight-year-old boy a severe look. ‘There are plenty of pilchard sandwiches and, Linda Spelman, you’ve already had two so put that fairy cake back.’

  It was just before three o’clock in the afternoon on the Wednesday before Christmas and the day of the children’s party.

  Although the air raid siren had gone off just after the blackout had come into force the night before, mercifully, just a handful of enemy aircraft had flown over, and having dropped their bombs south of the river, they’d headed back to their bases in Northern France. In view of this, and the fact that the all-clear had sounded before Cathy had had a chance to gather herself together and head off to the shelter, she’d allowed herself the luxury of a full night’s sleep in her own bed.

  Violet, regardless of there being a raid or not, spent every night in the shelter so, after putting Peter to bed, Cathy had spent a cosy hour in front of the fire listening to ‘The ENSA Half-Hour’ on the wireless.

  It was just as well she’d had a restful night as she’d been on the go since she’d arrived at the rest centre at nine o’clock that morning.

  Along with Dot, Lottie and other members of her Christmas team, she had been flat out putting up decorations, shifting benches, buttering bread for sandwiches and making sure there were sufficient toys for all the children they knew were coming and any that might turn up unexpectedly. As Christmas paper was as rare as hen’s teeth, they’d wrapped up the fifty-plus presents in sheets from old comics, which were at least colourful if not festive.

  They’d even managed to make a grotto by covering both legs of a tall stepladder with red and green crêpe paper and then sticking bits of cotton wool all over it. That was tucked into one of the corners ready for her father, whom she’d persuaded to play Father Christmas.

  Jeremiah had arrived some twenty minutes ago and was now in the small committee room changing into the costume Mattie had run up for him.

  The children had been told to bring their own plates, cups and spoons, and these had been set out on the half a dozen trestle tables in preparation for the Christmas tea. Meanwhile, the children had played Pass the Parcel, What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?, and other party games, while their mothers sat along the sides of the hall watching their offspring dash about, shouting and laughing.

  Having almost exhausted themselves and the helpers, Cathy had called order and, after they’d been marched out to wash their hands, the children had sat down to enjoy the spread she and the rest of the team had set out that morning.

  Cathy’s gaze roamed over the table where girls in bright dresses with ribbons in their hair and boys in their school uniforms and long grey socks were happily chatting and eating. She was just calculating that she’d be able to call her father through in about fifteen minutes when the rest-centre door swung open and Sergeant McIntosh stepped in.

  Before she could stop it, her heart did a little dance.

  Evening classes had stopped for the Christmas holiday the week before, and although he’d dropped into the centre again for a cuppa last week, she’d been up to her ears sorting out three Canadian Red Cross parcels, so they’d only had time for a quick hello.

  He stared across the hall at her for a moment or two then, with his blue eyes locked with hers, he smiled and walked over.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, as he reached her. ‘I thought I’d gatecrash the party.’

  Cathy gave him a wry smile. ‘I think you’re a bit big to sit on Father Christmas’s knee, don’t you?’

  His laugh rumbled over her. ‘Aye, probably so. But the wee ’uns look like they’re enjoying themselves.’

  ‘They are,’ she said, smiling at the children polishing off the last few sandwiches and cakes. ‘It’s nice to see them forget about the destruction all around them and just be children again.’

  Cathy turned back to find herself looking up into his strikingly handsome face.

  He opened his mouth to say something but before he could, Maureen came hurrying over.

  ‘How long shall I get Mrs Drummond to wait until she fetches in the nursery children, Cath?’ she whispered.

  ‘About a quarter of an hour?’ said Cathy. ‘Once they’re in I’ll fetch Dad.’

  Maureen nodded and left them.

  ‘He’s Father Christmas,’ Cathy explained.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it and get myself a brew,’ he said.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Can you join me?’

  She glanced around. ‘Well, I’m not—’

  ‘Please,’ he added, his gaze capturing hers. ‘It is Christmas.’

  She smiled.

  ‘All right,’ she said, feeling suddenly very light-hearted. ‘But let me sort my dad out first.’

  He smiled, then made his way towards the serving hatch at the far end of the hall.

  Cathy watched him for a moment then hurried out of the hall and across to the small committee room.

  Archie had just put a saucer on the top of Cathy’s cup to keep her tea warm when a clanging bell heralded her return as she followed Father Christmas, with a bulging sack slung over his shoulder, into the hall.

  With a strapping physique, white beard, red costume and firemen’s boots, Cathy’s father certainly looked the part.

  ‘Yo ho ho,’ he shouted as he strode across the hall.

  As you’d expect, the children sitting around the table screamed and bounced on their chairs as Cathy led him across the room to the improvised grotto.

  She then helped boys and girls down from the table and ushered them into a haphazard line. Father Christmas took
his seat under the crêpe paper and Cathy stood aside while a couple of other WVS volunteers guided the children forward to receive their presents.

  Everyone was focused on Father Christmas. Everyone, that is, except Archie, who was looking at Cathy.

  He shouldn’t, of course. Even though he’d long since dispensed with religion, organised or otherwise, there were still things he regarded as wrong. And desiring another man’s wife definitely fell into that category.

  But he couldn’t help himself. She was one of those women who took your breath away but didn’t know it. Her figure was slender but womanly and although she barely wore make-up, she didn’t need to. Her complexion was clear enough, her eyes bright enough and her lips red enough without artificial enhancement.

  He guessed she was probably a handful of years younger than him, but she was not a giddy-headed girl. In truth, despite her soft smile and bright eyes, there was a sadness about her. Perhaps it was just the sadness of a wife missing her husband, but Archie sensed it was something deeper and he wished he could fathom it.

  As the children moved forward, Cathy glanced across at him.

  He smiled and she smiled back.

  After saying something to another woman in a forest-green uniform, Cathy made her way towards him.

  As she approached, he stood up and pulled out the chair opposite for her.

  She gave him a grateful look, then tucking her skirt under her, she sat down, and Archie returned to his seat.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, taking the saucer off the top of the cup and moving it in front of her. ‘I hope it’s as you like it.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  Smiling, she took it and as she did her fingers slid across his, awakening his senses in an instant.

  Picking up her cup, she blew across the top. ‘Thank you.’

  Archie smiled at her like a loon for a moment then found his voice.

  ‘The young ’uns seem to be having fun with Father Christmas,’ he said, as the next child stepped up to receive their present.

  Glancing around, Cathy laughed. ‘I think my dad’s having more fun than any of them. Big kid that he is.’

  She turned back and Archie studied her face as she took a sip of tea.

  Considering he’d done it from memory, the sketch he’d made of her when he’d got back from the dance was pretty good, but each time he saw her he noticed something more.

  ‘I popped by Monday, but I didnae see you around,’ he said, taking particular note of her long lashes.

  ‘Peter was running a temperature, so I couldn’t come that day,’ she replied.

  ‘Is your lad all right now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘It was just one of those twenty-four-hour things. But you can’t be too careful.’

  ‘No, you canna,’ he agreed, remembering the worrying nights he’d spent cooling Kirsty’s fever with a flannel on her forehead.

  The hall door opened again, and a motherly middle-aged woman led the group of toddlers two by two into the room, with another member of the WVS bringing up the rear.

  ‘And here he comes now,’ said Cathy, half turning towards the newcomers.

  The little boy who’d collided with Archie’s legs a few weeks before was near the front of the crocodile, holding hands with a little girl.

  He spotted Cathy and waved.

  She waved back and then watched as he took his place in the line waiting to talk to Santa.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t spot that it’s his granddad under all that clobber,’ said Cathy.

  Love filled Cathy’s face as she watched her son stand solemnly in front of Father Christmas.

  Sadness tightened around Archie’s heart, knowing Kirsty would never remember her mother looking at her that way.

  Father Christmas said something to Peter, who nodded. Delving into his sack, Santa pulled out a present and handed it to the little lad.

  The woman in charge of the children moved him aside, then, clutching his wrapped parcel, he turned and ran to his mother.

  He stopped in front of her and held up his gift.

  ‘Is that what Father Christmas gave you,

  Peter?’ Cathy asked. Peter nodded.

  ‘Oh, shall we see what it is?’ she added.

  He handed it to her then scrambled up on to her lap. Taking back the present, the lad started tearing at the paper, but the string tied around it held fast.

  ‘Here, let me give you a hand, son,’ said Archie.

  Peter looked uncertainly at his mother.

  ‘It’s all right, Peter,’ said Cathy. ‘Sergeant McIntosh is a brave soldier like Uncle Charlie.’

  Peter offered him the parcel. Taking it, Archie unpicked the knot and handed it back to the boy.

  With eager fingers Peter unwrapped the pages of the comic to reveal a bright red wooden train engine, with yellow wheels and a green funnel.

  ‘Cho tain,’ he said, happiness written all over his face.

  Cathy’s large hazel eyes opened in surprise. ‘Oh, Peter. Isn’t that what you asked for?’

  ‘Tain,’ repeated Peter.

  He held it out to Archie, who looked suitably impressed. ‘You mustae been a rare good boy for your ma all year.’

  ‘He has.’ Cathy pressed her lips to the lad’s soft cheek. ‘He’s the best boy in the world.’

  Peter wriggled out of her embrace and slid off her lap. Sitting next to her feet he started rolling his present back and forth on the floor, making chuffing sounds.

  Cathy watched the lad for a moment or two then her gaze returned to Archie and she took another mouthful of tea.

  ‘Are you going home to see your family for Christmas?’ she asked.

  ‘I am,’ he replied, feeling the familiar ache in his heart at the thought of them. ‘I got a travel pass this morning and I’ll be catching the train from Euston tomorrow so I’ll be home ready for when Kirsty wakes up on Christmas morning. In fact, that’s why I spent this afternoon buying Christmas presents.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘Why do men always leave it so late?’

  ‘Because we’re such dafties at it,’ he replied.

  She pulled a face. ‘Dafties?’

  ‘Useless.’

  She laughed again.

  ‘But this year,’ he delved into the top pocket of his field jacket, ‘I think I’ve come up trumps because I’ve got this for my daughter.’

  He pulled out a flat square box and handed it to Cathy.

  She took it and opened the lid.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, admiring the silver St Christopher he’d paid a full two guineas for.

  ‘My ma bought her one a while back but the chain broke, and it was lost,’ he continued. ‘The last time I drove down Mile End Road I spotted that little jewellery shop squashed between what looks like two halves of a department store.’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, you mean Spiegelhalter’s.’

  ‘That’s the place,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d see if I could find her another.’

  ‘Lucky you were passing by today,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ he replied.

  They looked at each other for a second or two then Cathy closed the lid and handed the box back. ‘I’m sure she’ll love it.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied, putting it back in his pocket. ‘In fact, I managed to get my ma a brooch, too.’

  ‘What about your wife?’ Cathy asked. ‘I hope you got her something or you’ll be in tr—’

  ‘My wife is dead,’ Archie replied.

  Cathy’s sunny expression vanished in an instant.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Was it recent?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Five years last month. It was a real peasouper of a day and she was waiting for the tram in Union Street. There was a rush as it arrived, and she and another woman stumbled in front of it. They were killed instantly so that was a blessing but. . .’

  ‘Your poor daughter,’ she added. ‘She couldn’t have been more than a baby when she
lost her mother.’

  ‘Kirsty was just shy of her second birthday,’ he replied, as the memory of holding his daughter in his arms as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the ground flooded back. ‘She lives with me ma now. And I’m mad to see her. I bet she’s grown another inch since July.’

  ‘And I’m sure she feels the same.’ Cathy frowned. ‘It’s so hard for children having their father disappear for months, even years on end.’

  ‘Hard for wives, too, I imagine,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, in a tight voice.

  ‘Well, I hope, Mrs Wheeler, it won’t be too long before your husband’s home again,’ he said, thinking, not for the first time, what a fortunate man he was.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she replied. ‘But he’s missing in action.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Archie replied. ‘But I’m sure the Red Cross will find him before too long so don’t give up hope.’

  A desolate expression flashed across her face, but she forced a plucky little smile.

  They looked at each other for another moment then she glanced around.

  The women of the WVS were starting to clear away the remnants of the sandwiches, cakes and jellies as the last few children collected their presents from Father Christmas.

  Turning back to face him, Cathy swallowed the last mouthful of her tea.

  ‘I ought to go and give a hand,’ she said, putting the cup down.

  She rose to her feet and Archie did the same.

  Looking up at him, her captivating smile returned. ‘It’s good to see you again, Sergeant, and I hope you have a wonderful Christmas at home with your family.’

  ‘You too,’ he said.

  Scooping her son and his train off the floor, she settled him on her hip and walked back to join the rest of the volunteers.

  Waving at Peter, who was studying him over his mother’s shoulder, Archie watched her go.

  He wanted to call, ‘See you in the New Year’, but he bit back the words.

  Although the pain of Moira’s death would always be there, he knew he was ready to love again; but perhaps, as she was a married woman, for both their sakes it might be better to let Cathy believe he was still mourning.

  *

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Olive as she scraped uneaten crusts into the pigswill bin.