‘Yes, sir.’
Monkman’s gaze shifted from Archie to the images on display and back again.
He studied Archie for a moment then resentment twisted his mouth.
‘I thought the only thing your kind painted was their faces,’ he said. ‘You know . . .’ Raising his hands, he wriggled his fingers at Archie. ‘Oooooh, to scare the white man.’
Giving the man in front of him a glacial look, Archie didn’t reply.
The lieutenant’s bloodshot eyes held Archie’s for a moment then he looked away.
‘What are you doing here anyway, McIntosh?’ snapped Monkman. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on leave?’
‘Aye, sir, from tomorrow,’ Archie replied. ‘But my billet’s been bombed so I’ll be bunking in with the lads until I find somewhere new. If you’ve no objections, that is, sir.’
Monkman chewed the inside of his mouth. ‘Very well. But make sure you hand over your ration book to Willis in the main office.’
‘I will,’ Archie replied.
They eyeballed each other for a moment then Monkman spoke again.
‘Carry on.’
Archie and his two men straightened up and saluted.
The lieutenant gave Archie another bitter look then marched back across the wooden floorboards, but as he reached the door, he turned.
‘And just so you don’t start getting any grandiose ideas about yourself, McIntosh. When I referred to those,’ he nodded towards the paintings propped up on the bed, ‘as artwork, I was being sarcastic.’
Archie raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, sir.’
Monkman’s close-set eyes flickered over him again then he turned and stomped out.
‘You know what?’ Archie said to the men standing behind him. ‘I’ll take your advice and enter them into the exhibition.’
Chapter Ten
‘I HAVE TO say, Ida, me darling, you’ve gone above and beyond, so you have, this year,’ said Jeremiah, pushing away his bowl with nothing but a couple of crumbs and a smear of custard in it.
‘Are you sure?’ said Ida. ‘I mean, apple and prune tart isn’t any substitute for a proper Christmas pudding.’
It was just after two and Cathy was at her parents’ house, where the family had just finished their Christmas lunch. The easy chairs and sofa had been pushed back to allow the table to be extended to its full length, but even then it was a tight squeeze. The only member of the family not gathered around the table was Victoria, who was in her pram, sleeping under the new pink blanket her Auntie Francesca had given her.
‘It was lovely, Mum,’ Cathy said. ‘Wasn’t it, Peter?’
Peter, who was sitting next to her, nodded.
‘Well, we have Gran to thank too,’ said Jo, who, wearing a tartan pencil skirt and red cowl-neck jumper, was sitting across the table from Cathy.
‘Yes, bit of luck that, eh, Queenie,’ said Tommy, nudging his wife. ‘Two birds getting sick like that just before Christmas.’
Queenie’s almost invisible eyebrows rose as an angelic expression settled on her wrinkled face.
‘’Twas a gift from the saints above, to be sure,’ she replied. ‘And no more than a kindness to put them out of their misery.’
‘And in the oven,’ added Jo.
Everyone laughed.
Although Cathy’s gran maintained her saintly countenance, a mischievous twinkle crept into her eyes. ‘And that’s what I’ll be telling that eejit inspector from the Ministry of Food, should he inquire.’
To go with the juicy birds, stuffed with oats and chopped cooking apples, Queenie had peeled almost her own body weight in spuds on Christmas Eve before going to Midnight Mass, while Ida, working alongside her in the kitchen, had made short work of the two heads of cabbage and five pounds of carrots she’d staggered home from the market with that morning.
‘Is there any more custard?’ asked Billy who, like Michael, was sitting at the far end of the table where their father could keep an eye on them.
As it was a special day, both boys were wearing their school uniforms.
Ida picked up the china jug and peered in. ‘A couple of dollops. If you and Michael pass your bowls, you can have half each.’
Licking his spoon clean, Billy held out his bowl and Cathy passed it to her mother. Using the battered dessert spoon standing up in the jug, Ida scraped around the inside then plopped a blob of thick, bright yellow custard in the middle of his bowl. Cathy passed the bowl back then took Michael’s and handed that to Ida, who repeated the process.
‘It’s a shame Mattie and Daniel aren’t here this year,’ she said, handing Michael his dessert.
‘Well, they’ve been with us for the past two years, so it was only right they visit Daniel’s family this time,’ said Jo.
Ida sighed. ‘It doesn’t seem the same somehow, especially with Charlie away, too.’
Jeremiah gave his wife a soft look. ‘Perhaps he’ll get leave next year.’
Ida nodded. ‘Please God it might even be all over by then.’
‘Well, I don’t want to pour salt on your strawberries, Ida,’ said Tommy. ‘We might have the Germans on the run in North Africa but I reckon it’ll be a few years before we’ll be able to do the same in Europe.’
‘Tommy’s right, Ida,’ said Jeremiah. ‘I don’t think they’ll be shipping our Charlie home any time soon, but you’ll see Patrick tomorrow when Francesca comes over, so cheer up.’
‘And you’ll have another one soon,’ added Jo.
‘Yes, I know, it’s not long until March,’ said Ida, a fond smile spreading across her face.
‘And another little soul will be joining us by next Christmas, too,’ said Queenie. ‘I feel the innocent spirits of them hovering close.’
Ida rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you hardly need the spirits to tell you that, do you? What with Mattie talking about having another and Jo and Tommy just married.’
A bleak expression flashed across Jo’s pretty face.
She stood up. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘That’s a grand idea,’ said her father. ‘We’ll listen to the King’s address then me and Tommy’ll get stuck in with the washing-up, won’t we, son?’
‘After such a meal, it’s the least we can do,’ agreed Tommy.
Jo gave a tight smile and hurried for the kitchen.
‘Do you want a hand with the tea, Jo?’ Tommy said, looking anxiously after her.
‘It’s all right, Tommy, I’ll help,’ said Cathy, rising to her feet.
Gathering together some of the dirty crockery, Cathy followed her sister out and found Jo standing with her hands resting on the sink, her head hanging down.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Cathy.
Jo looked around.
‘Not really,’ she replied, with tears shimmering in her brown eyes.
Putting the crockery on the table, Cathy crossed the space between them and put her arm around her sister.
‘Oh, Jo,’ Cathy said, drawing her into her embrace.
Her sister rested her head on Cathy’s shoulder for a moment then straightened up.
‘It’s not fair,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve been married for six months and I still come on each month as regular as clockwork. And it’s not as if me and Tommy aren’t . . . you know. Busy.’
‘These things take time,’ said Cathy, as she refilled the kettle.
‘So everyone says,’ Jo replied. ‘But Daniel only has to hang his trousers over the end of the bed and Mattie’s pregnant. Charlie and Francesca only had one night, one blooming night, before he shipped out and now she’s like a beached whale. And then there’s Mum and Dad – they still managed to have Victoria even though they are practically ancient!’
Cathy smiled and lit the gas.
‘Honestly, Jo, six months is nothing,’ she said. ‘And they do say worrying about it can stop it happening. Just enjoy being “busy” and, for all Mum saying otherwise, Gran’s normally right about such things.’
Taking out a handkerch
ief, Jo looked up.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said, carefully dabbing under her eyes. ‘Has my mascara run? Because if Mum and Gran see I’ve been crying they’ll give me the third degree.’
Cathy laughed. ‘No, you look fine. Now, don’t just stand there, set the cups on the tray.’
Jo gave her a small smile and went over to the dresser.
Cathy made the tea while her sister laid out the tray and fetched a fresh bottle of milk from the stone keep in the yard.
After rinsing the old leaves out of the tea strainer, Cathy put it and the teapot, covered in its red, white and blue knitted cosy, on the tray.
‘You take it through,’ she said. ‘I’ll put the plates in to soak then follow you in.’
Jo picked up the tray and headed for the door.
‘You’re probably right about the baby thing,’ she said, as she elbowed the handle down. ‘After all, it took you months to fall for Peter.’
Nudging open the door with her hip, Jo went back into the parlour.
Cathy stared after her for a moment then picked up the stack of plates and took them to the sink. Lowering them in, she turned on the tap and shook in some Fairy soap flakes then rested her hands on the edge as they dissolved into bubbles.
With the smell of the family’s Christmas dinner still lingering in the air, Cathy gazed around the familiar room, and happy childhood memories came flooding back to her.
She, Mattie and Jo had fought like cats in a sack on a daily basis and had fallen out with each other as regularly as the mantelshelf clock struck the hour, but each night, the three of them had snuggled together under a pile of blankets in the creaky old double bed in the front bedroom, warm, happy and surrounded by their parents’ love. And although her big brother Charlie had sensibly kept out of their girlie squabbles, he’d been quick to step in between them and playground bullies. Billy had slotted in from the start and, although a latecomer to the Brogan brood, Michael now seemed as if he’d always been one of their number. Soon Victoria, too, would find her place among them all.
And that had been Cathy’s dream when she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm just three short years before: a happy family with a handful of children and a loving husband.
Jo wasn’t quite right. It hadn’t taken Cathy long to fall for Peter – just two weeks. Two weeks of Stan climbing on and climbing off her in the dark, with barely a word and never a kiss. Of pain too, even when he spit on his hand and rubbed it on her as he entered. Hardly the stuff of Hollywood.
It was her fault, of course, that it had all ended up as dust under her feet. She’d seen only the dream of the family she yearned for but had been blind to the man she’d foolishly chosen to build it with.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Cathy stood up and collected the mugs from the dresser, but as she did she caught her jumper on the corner of the drawer.
Annoyed at her clumsiness Cathy looked down at her clothes.
Like Jo, Cathy had put on something special for the day. In her case, it was the skirt from her plum-coloured suit with her ribbed cream sweater. It was the jumper she’d been wearing the night she met Archie McIntosh after her typing classes.
An image of Archie’s eyes as they flickered over her flashed through her mind and a sensation her husband had barely disturbed throbbed through her.
A little smile lifted the corner of Cathy’s mouth.
Perhaps the dream of a loving marriage and a large family wouldn’t be lost after all.
With the mellow tones of the Band of the Grenadier Guards playing ‘We Three Kings’ drifting over him, Archie pressed his lips on to Kirsty’s soft curls.
He was in his flat on the second floor of a double-fronted Victorian mansion, which had been divided up to make a two-bedroom dwelling on each floor. It was situated in Drumchapel, an area that was definitely a step or two up from where he’d grown up. Although truthfully, with water running down the wall when it rained, bedbugs and cockroaches, not to mention the not infrequent murder of a neighbour, anywhere was a step up from the tenement block where he’d started life. He and Moira had moved to the flat just after Kirsty was born, as Yarrow shipyard ran buses from there for workers, which saved him thruppence a day in fares.
Although the flat looked much the same as when Moira was alive, his mother, who had moved in after his wife died, had added some bits of her own. He didn’t mind, it was her home, too. In fact, when he and Moira had married, he’d asked her to join them but she’d said that newlyweds needed time to work out how to live together, and although it had been terrible circumstances that had finally brought her to live under his roof, he was glad she was there for all sorts of reasons, not least so Kirsty was being looked after by someone who loved her as much as he did while he was away.
Archie kissed his daughter’s forehead again. She didn’t stir. He wasn’t surprised, she’d been up since first light to see what Father Christmas had left.
Having saved his sugar ration for two weeks, along with a set of coloured pencils, a new drawing pad and an orange his mother had found from goodness knows where, Kirsty had woken up to discover a bar of Fry’s chocolate in the grey school sock that she’d hung at the end of her bed.
Despite her gran’s insistence that she wash and dress first, Kirsty had put on the St Christopher Archie had bought her as soon as it was out of the box. She’d thanked him with a noisy kiss and a choking hug, so he guessed it was a good choice. She’d given him a multicoloured scarf. It was her first attempt at knitting and although it was a bit short, with a couple of holes, he’d assured her he’d wear it, and he would, too, every day.
That was twelve hours ago and now, with just the washing-up from their Christmas lunch to do, they were relaxing by the fire listening to the BBC Forces Service.
‘So will you be looking for other lodgings?’ asked his mother, Aggie, sitting knitting in the other fireside chair.
She, like Kirsty, had been up since dawn, but in her case it was to prepare their Christmas feast of rabbit stew, swedes and potatoes and treacle tart. Now, the day’s work done, she had removed her apron and, dressed in her Sunday-best frock and slippers, was having a well-earned rest with her feet up on the pouffe.
‘I’ll have to,’ Archie replied. ‘D Squad are grand lads, right enough, but there’s hardly room to swing a cat in the barrack room, let alone set up an easel. I’ll start looking once I get back, and I’ve been thinking . . . We talked about you and Kirsty coming down to join me a while back and you weren’t too keen, but I’m wondering if you’ve had any more thoughts on the matter, Ma?’
‘Well now, son, it’s a big step for me; I’ve never been to England, never mind London. And Mr Carr at the munitions factory’s been good to me and I wouldn’t want to let him down.’
‘I know, Ma,’ said Archie, ‘but there’s plenty of work in London if you want it, plus, it wouldn’t have to be in a factory either – there are plenty of jobs in offices, shops and with the local council.’
‘I can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to come home smelling of something other than engine oil,’ said Aggie.
‘And now your brother George has moved to Falkirk, it’s not as if you’ve got family keeping you here,’ said Archie, pressing home the point.
‘That’s true,’ his mother agreed. ‘And I’ve not heard from Moira’s sister since their mother passed on three years ago.’
‘And if we were all together under one roof you could drop down to part-time hours and ease up a bit,’ added Archie.
‘I hope you’re not saying I’m getting old, Archie,’ she said, looking over the rim of her spectacles at him.
He grinned. ‘No, Ma, I wouldnae dare.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ she said, ‘but you may have a point, and a nice little job in a library or chemist does sound mighty tempting. Perhaps with the world upside down it would be better for all of us to be together.’
‘Shall I start looking for a place after Easter?’ Arch
ie asked.
She nodded and then her eyes flickered on to her granddaughter snuggled in Archie’s arms. ‘She should be in her bed.’
‘Aye, she should,’ Archie agreed, kissing his daughter’s forehead again. ‘But I’ll be gone in the morning.’
‘True.’ Her gaze shifted back to the sleeping child in his arms and a soft expression lifted her face. ‘I can’t tell you, son. Every morning for the past week she’s told me, “It’s just five, four – or whatever the number was – days until Da’s home, Gran.”’
Archie smiled. ‘I’ve been doing the same myself. I said as much to Cathy.’
His mother looked up at him. ‘Cathy?’
Archie laughed. ‘Well, I should say Mrs Wheeler. She helps at one of the rest centres in East London. I dropped into the party she was organising.’
His mother raised an eyebrow.
‘I know what you’re thinking but it’s nothing like that,’ Archie laughed. ‘I stopped her son dashing into the road a few weeks back and I’ve run into her a couple of times since. That’s all.’
‘If you say so,’ Aggie said.
‘I do,’ he replied, giving her a firm look.
She regarded him steadily for a moment or two then reached for her cup of tea, which was resting on the table next to her chair.
Adjusting his sleeping daughter in his arms, Archie leaned his head back and let the music wash over him.
With the warmth of the front room surrounding him and the soft harmonies filling the air, Archie’s mind wandered off and, as always, his thoughts headed in the direction of Cathy Wheeler.
What was she doing? Was she at home with Peter or at a large family gathering? Perhaps she was listening to the same wireless programme as he was or maybe she was gathered around a piano with friends and family having a sing-song.
His imagination conjured up an image of her not in her WVS uniform but in the slacks and figure-hugging cream sweater she’d been wearing when he’d met her after the art class at Cephas Street School.
A smile crept across his face as he pictured her mouth and imagined it under his.
‘She’s pretty, then?’ said his mother from what seemed like a long way off.
A Ration Book Daughter Page 14