A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Cathy replied. ‘We’ve even got half a dozen presents left that can go to East London children’s hospital.’

  ‘And,’ Olive winked, ‘I see your handsome sergeant dropped by again.’

  Although her heart did a little dance as Archie flashed through her mind, Cathy set her face into a deadpan expression.

  ‘Firstly, he’s not my sergeant and secondly, he just happened to be in the area.’ Picking up another used plate, Cathy put it alongside the others in the enamel bowl. ‘Now, I’ll just take these through to the kitchen,’ she said, lifting the pile from the table. ‘Leave the rest stacked at the end and I’ll come back for them once I’ve washed this lot.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Olive called after her.

  Elbowing the door open, Cathy carried the dirty crockery into the kitchen. Passing Dot and Lottie, who were setting out the plates and cutlery ready to serve up macaroni cheese for those wanting a ration-free meal before heading home, Cathy went to the deep butler sink at the far side of the room.

  Taking the dirty plates from the bowl, she lowered them into the sink and turned the tap on the Ascot heater. She picked up the pack of Oxydol from behind the cold tap and sprinkled soapflakes under the steaming water as it covered the crockery.

  She’d just grabbed the washing-up sponge when the kitchen door opened, and the elegant figure of Mrs Paget walked in.

  Glancing around, she spotted Cathy.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mrs Wheeler,’ she said, striding towards her. ‘If I could have a word.’

  Cathy turned off the hot water and plunged her hands into the soapy water.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, running the sponge over the surface of the first plate.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘Who was that darkie soldier you were talking to?’

  ‘If you mean Sergeant McIntosh,’ said Cathy, stacking the plate on the draining board, ‘he’s part of the bomb disposal division at Wanstead, why?’

  ‘I noticed you and he seemed very friendly,’ she replied.

  Cathy looked puzzled. ‘Did we?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘A little too friendly, to my mind.’

  Placing another plate on the draining board, Cathy turned to face her. ‘We were just having a cup of tea and talking.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes, we were,’ said Cathy. ‘Talking about the present he’d just bought for his daughter.’

  A flush darkened Mrs Paget’s throat. ‘He’s married?’

  ‘Widowed.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘that isn’t an excuse to be as familiar with him as you were. I tell you, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.’

  ‘We were just talking, that’s all,’ said Cathy. ‘And anyone who says otherwise has the wrong end of the stick.’

  Mrs Paget’s cool eyes studied her for a moment then she spoke again.

  ‘Very well, but let me remind you that the Women’s Voluntary Service is a respectable organisation and I expect those who work for it to keep that in mind. I would therefore be grateful if you would tell your half-caste sergeant and any of his coloured friends to find somewhere else to take their meal breaks.’

  With the glow of seeing Cathy still swelling his chest, Archie rode along Mile End Road, but just past the old workhouse the ear-jangling wail of the air raid siren cut through the cold crisp evening air.

  In the distance he could see the tell-tale red glow in the sky indicating the Royal Docks and the factories by Barking Creek were taking the brunt of the raid. Probably the Luftwaffe planes dropping their remaining bombs as they turned around and headed back to their bases in Northern France. Thankful that Cathy and her son would be safe from this raid at least, Archie opened up the throttle and sped on towards his billet some mile and a half away.

  With the ominous hum of enemy aircraft overhead, he continued eastwards to his destination. However, as his front wheel rolled on to the bumpy surface of Bow Bridge, the first bombs fell just south of where he was, close to the entrance of Blackwall Basin and Tunnel.

  Others fell almost immediately, rocking the ground beneath his rubber tyres and sending red and gold flashes across the sky. They were still south of where he was but getting closer, much closer, probably following the nearby River Lea to target the factories along its banks and the Stratford railway shunting yards just beyond.

  The ear-splitting clamour of falling bombs was joined by the whistles of ARP wardens, police claxons and fire-engine bells.

  Navigating past buses that had stopped so their passengers could seek shelter, Archie slowed down. He had just crossed Bow Bridge when a bomb found its target behind him, landing almost in the river and sending a fountain of water skywards. The vacuum of the explosion sucked at his clothes and hair, causing him to slow down even more as he lowered his feet to skim the tarmac. With the acrid smell of scorched munitions and sulphur in the air, Archie motored on past the paint factory towards his billet.

  Swerving to avoid a block of masonry lying in the middle of the carriageway, he turned left into Wise Road.

  However, as he rolled to a stop, he stared wordlessly at the quiet residential street.

  A bomb, probably a 500-kilo one judging by the depth of the crater and spread of the damage, had landed on the neat row of terraced houses, flattening them like a foot on a sandcastle.

  The impact had pulverised four or five houses on both sides of the street, leaving smouldering rubble where cosy homes had stood only a few hours before. Unsurprisingly, the blast had punched out every window in the street and there was glass and shattered wood everywhere. Although not totally obliterated, the houses just outside the initial blast area were damaged, too, and one of them was Mr and Mrs Charlton’s house where he lodged.

  The three-bedroom terraced house looked as if someone had taken a large carving knife and sliced off the outside wall, which lay with barely a brick disturbed on the rubble. Exposed to the elements, for all to see in the glow of the burning buildings, was Mr and Mrs Charlton’s brass bed minus its sheets and blankets, which were hanging from an exposed beam like a patchwork flag.

  The tallboy hadn’t escaped and all its drawers had been forced out by the blast, allowing Mr Charlton’s long johns and his wife’s corset to spill out. Downstairs, the sofa had been shoved across the parlour with the force of the explosion and it lay against the upright piano, while on the carpet his landlady’s extensive collection of china figurines lay headless and armless among the shimmering shards of glass.

  Drawing to a halt outside what had been the front door, Archie pulled his bike on to its stand as the all-clear sounded. Seeing the street’s ARP warden knocking on doors a little way down, Archie strolled over.

  ‘Do you need a hand, pal?’ asked Archie.

  The warden, an elderly man with a walrus-like grey moustache, looked around.

  Confusion flashed across his face for a second then he spotted Archie’s regimental insignia and he chuckled.

  ‘You know, for one minute there, mate,’ he said as Archie reached him, ‘until I saw your badge, I was wondering what one of those Negro GIs was doing strolling around Stratford. And thanks for the offer, but I think we’re all right,’ he replied. ‘A couple of the heavy-rescue lads are just checking the garden shelters while the rest of them dig out a couple trapped in their Anderson at number twenty-eight, but other than that I think everyone is more or less accounted for. You billeted here?’

  Archie nodded. ‘Number seventeen. Look, just so you know, I’m not looting; I’m going to pop in to fetch some of my stuff.’

  The warden’s moustache shifted back and forth on his top lip. ‘I don’t know, the house’s been badly damaged. It could be unstable, and I wouldn’t want you falling through the floorboards.’

  Archie grinned. ‘I dinna want to do that maself; I’m on forty-eight-hour leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Off you go then, lad,’ said the warden.

  Archie
turned and walked towards what was left of his billet.

  ‘And watch where you put your size tens,’ the old man called after him.

  Archie raised his hand in acknowledgement.

  Taking out his torch, he crunched over the front door, which now lay flat on Mrs Charlton’s hall runner, and headed for the stairs. Keeping close to the solid wall adjoining the house next door, he made his way upstairs to his room.

  Like the other two bedroom doors, his had been blown off its hinges by the blast and now lay at a forty-five-degree angle against the end of his bed.

  Stepping carefully over it, Archie entered the room and shone the beam around.

  His easel was on the floor with the watercolour painting he was working on beneath it. The brush pots had shattered, scattering the brushes all over the rug, and his paint box was on the floor. Thankful that he’d remembered to secure the lid properly the day before, it was still closed tight, and the half a dozen completed paintings and newly stretched canvases alongside them were still propped up against the far wall.

  Relieved to find his painting equipment more or less intact, Archie balanced the torch on the top of the dresser. Grabbing his kitbag from the floor, he pulled open the drawstring and propped it up against the chair. He went to his chest of drawers, scooped out his underwear and socks and threw them into the bag, then went back and did the same with his three laundered army shirts. He picked up the frames with Kirsty and Moira’s photos in and placed them carefully on top of the folded clothes, then he piled his civvy clothing in, before throwing in his washbag. Putting his paint box and brushes on top, Archie pulled the threaded cord tight and secured it. Leaving his haversack by the door he then pulled out his large portfolio case from beneath the bed, slid his paintings and canvases in and fastened the zip.

  Looping the kitbag cord across him and pulling a dangling string free from the smashed venetian blind, Archie picked up the portfolio case, hooked his easel over his shoulder and retraced his steps downstairs.

  As he stepped out into the street he came face to face with his landlady, with a head full of curlers, and her husband in his tartan dressing gown, their faces ashen as they looked up open-mouthed at what remained of their home.

  Putting down his portfolio, Archie put his hand inside his airman’s jerkin and pulled out his wallet. Opening it he took out a brown ten-bob note.

  ‘Mrs Charlton,’ he said.

  Dazed, she looked at him.

  ‘I’ve taken ma gear,’ Archie said. ‘And here’s next week’s rent.’

  He offered her the money.

  She stared at him for a moment then took it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m away then,’ he said, nodding towards his bike parked nearby.

  She nodded but didn’t speak.

  He held out his hand. ‘Mr Charlton.’

  The other man took it. ‘Sergeant McIntosh.’

  They shook once then Archie picked up his portfolio again.

  Mrs Charlton’s face crumbled.

  ‘Oh, Ernie,’ she sobbed.

  Her husband put his arm around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

  Archie gave them a sympathetic look then turned away.

  Having secured the portfolio on the passenger seat of his motorbike with the cord from the blind, he kick-started the Triumph. As the two-stroke engine ticked over, Archie balanced his kitbag on his back and then, with his easel over his left shoulder, he grasped the handlebar and swung his leg over.

  Rolling the bike off its stand, he kicked it into gear and pulled on the throttle. Wending his way between the fallen masonry, shattered glass and broken bricks towards the Romford Road, Archie realised he’d forgotten to wish them Merry Christmas, but under the circumstances it was probably just as well.

  The puddles were just starting to get a thin layer of frost on them by the time Archie roared into Wanstead High School’s gravel yard some three-quarters of an hour later.

  The half a dozen canvas-covered lorries belonging to the various bomb disposal teams stationed at North East London BD base were parked neatly against the back wall of the playground, and although many of the officers’ cars had already gone from the yard, he noticed Monkman’s and Captain Moncrief ’s vehicles were still there.

  Steering his bike past the pile of sandbags on his left, Archie drew to a halt under the shelter of the old bike racks.

  Putting his Triumph on its stand, Archie untied his portfolio and, shouldering his knapsack, strolled towards the main building.

  It was a long cold ride to Glasgow, so he’d swung around via Euston station earlier in the week and booked himself a seat on tomorrow night’s mail train.

  Stepping through the blackout curtain, the smell of boiled cabbage wafted over him from the canteen in the main hall opposite. Through the half-glazed window he could see the unlucky crew designated on duty over Christmas eating their evening meal under the paper chains and Chinese lanterns that the kitchen staff had put up the week before.

  To his left, the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of the clerks bashing away at typewriters echoed out from the main office, while further down the hall Bill Willis was stretching high on the cork noticeboard pinning up a fresh set of Ministry of Defence regulations about mislaying personal kit, the correct filling out of meal chits, or some such trivia that no one even looked at let alone took notice of.

  From a wireless somewhere, a brass band played ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.

  Standing to awkward attention for a moment as two of the newly arrived lieutenants walked past on their way to the officers’ mess, Archie then headed upstairs to where the squads were billeted.

  Ron and Tim, who were lounging on their bunks smoking, looked around sharply when Archie walked in.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Chalky’s phoning his missis and Mogg caught the midday train to the Valleys; the rest are down the pub,’ Ron replied. ‘But what are you doing here, Sarge?’ he added, swinging his legs around and sitting up. ‘I thought you’d be getting ready to head off to Scotchland.’

  ‘Aye, I would’ve been had it not been for Fritz dropping a whacking great five-hundred-kilo right next to ma digs,’ Archie replied.

  He told them about the damage to Wise Road and how he’d rescued his personal items.

  ‘You were bloody lucky,’ said Tim when he’d finished.

  ‘Aye, that I was,’ Archie replied. ‘But sadly, lads, and although it pains me to have to do it, I’ll be having to slum it with you scurvy rabble until I can find somewhere else. I’ll take the spare bunk in the corner.’

  Tim grinned. ‘You’ll be nice and warm there, Sarge, cos Ron next door farts all night.’

  Archie gave him a pained look and strolled over to the narrow single bed in the corner of the old classroom.

  Resting his easel against the bed, Archie placed the portfolio with his canvases in it on the khaki blanket then put his kitbag down on the floor.

  Hunkering down, he reached under the bed, pulled out the metal box provided for stowing personal belongings, then slipped his easel alongside it. Adding his paint box, Archie pushed it back under the bed then hung up his shirts in the narrow locker beside the bed. He was about to slip his portfolio under his bed when Tim piped up again.

  ‘Let’s have a gander, Sarge.’

  ‘They’re nothing special,’ said Archie.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ron.

  Archie looked between them for a moment then, unzipping the portfolio, he pulled out the painting he’d finished a couple of days before and leaned it against the headboard.

  ‘It’s called Digging Out,’ Archie added, stepping back so they had a clear view.

  Ron and Tim stared wide-eyed at the image of the three men at the bottom of a shaft as they crouched beside a Satan.

  ‘Cor, Sarge, it’s bloody good, ain’t it?’ said Tim.

  ‘Bloody is,’ agreed Ron. He pointed at the figure in the front of the picture. ‘Is the one with a shovel
Mogg?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Archie. ‘The local war committee is putting on an exhibition called “Images of Defiance” at the Whitechapel Gallery in March and I’m thinking of submitting it, and this one, too.’

  He pulled out another image of the squad, dirt-splattered and dishevelled, hauling up bags of mud on the winch.

  ‘It’s called Just a Few More Feet,’ Archie added.

  Tim laughed. ‘Look, Ron, that’s you there in the background having a quick fag. And Chalky.’

  Ron’s face creased in a smile. ‘I don’t know nuffink about la-di-dah art like they have up West, Sarge, but even a blind man could see you’re a dab hand at the old painting lark. You should put them both in.’

  Archie smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Ron’s right. Seriously, Sarge,’ said Tom, ‘you definitely should.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, I am surprised,’ Monkman’s cultured tone said from behind him.

  Alarm shot across the two men’s face. They snapped to attention and gave a sharp salute.

  Archie turned and found the lieutenant leaning on the doorframe with a smirk across his narrow face.

  Resting the painting in his hand next to the other one, Archie drew himself up to attention and saluted too.

  ‘Naughty, naughty, Sergeant,’ Monkman continued, wagging his finger at Archie. ‘I ought to call the Military Police.’

  Standing away from the doorframe, Monkman marched a little unsteadily into the barrack room and stopped in front of Archie.

  ‘You know, don’t you, Sergeant,’ he said, looking up into Archie’s face, ‘that looting is a hanging offence?’

  ‘Aye, I ken, sir,’ Archie replied. ‘But these paintings are mine.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ scoffed Monkman, the smell of spirit wafting up as he spoke. ‘On your pay you couldn’t afford a damn seaside postcard never mind original artwork.’

  ‘You misunderstand my meaning, sir,’ said Archie, looking him in the eye. ‘They are mine because I painted them.’

  An incredulous expression crept across the lieutenant’s face. ‘You painted them?’