A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘To the air base,’ Cathy continued, holding the spoon out for her son again.

  ‘You’re making a mummy’s boy of him,’ continued the old woman.

  Ignoring her, Cathy scraped up the last mouthful of the liver and potato casserole.

  ‘And here’s the last plane flying home safe and sound,’ she said, as Peter gulped down the last morsel.

  ‘I said—’

  ‘You don’t have to repeat yourself, Vi,’ Cathy cut in. ‘I heard you this time and every other time you’ve said the same thing.’

  ‘Well, you are,’ her mother-in-law added. ‘From the time he could walk, I used to smack Stanley on the back of his legs every time he wet himself and he soon learned.’

  ‘I bet he did,’ said Cathy. ‘And I bet you plastered his thumbs in mustard to stop him sucking them, too.’

  ‘It’s better than having a kid with buck teeth, isn’t it?’ said Violet.

  Cathy ignored her and turned her attention back to her son.

  ‘Say goodnight to Grandma,’ she said, wiping his mouth with the end of the tea towel around his neck.

  Peter gave Violet a little wave then looked back at his mother.

  ‘Nanny and boys?’ he asked.

  ‘In a while.’ Cathy lifted him down and set him on the floor. ‘Go and fetch Mr Bruno while I clear away.’

  Peter toddled off.

  Cathy watched him for a moment then looked back at her mother-in-law.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you, Vi,’ she said, giving the hateful old woman a syrupy smile.

  Her curlers shaking with rage, Violet glared at her for a long moment, then with the pompoms on her tartan slippers bobbing, she stomped out of the back door, slamming it hard behind her.

  Picking up the dirty crockery, Cathy placed it in the sink but as she reached out to turn on the tap, there was a knock on the front door.

  Wondering if she’d perhaps left a light showing, she dried her hands and walked down the hallway. Throwing back the latch, she opened the door.

  ‘I’m sorry about the—’ Cathy’s eyes flew open. ‘Sergeant McIntosh!’

  ‘Mrs Wheeler!’

  They stared wordlessly at each other for several moments as Cathy’s heart thumped wildly in her chest.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  Archie delved under the sheepskin jerkin and pulled out the postcard.

  ‘I’ve come about the room,’ he replied. ‘Your sister-in-law in the café on Whitechapel High Street said you were looking for a lodger.’

  ‘I am,’ she replied as she studied his mouth.

  ‘She thought that although you were looking to take in a family, you might consider me,’ he continued, cutting across her speculation.

  He gave her that quirky smile of his and Cathy’s heart raced off again.

  ‘Yes.’ She blinked and scraped her scattered words together. ‘Yes. I would. Consider you, that is.’ She smiled. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

  She opened the door and he strolled in, bringing the faintest hint of male aroma with him.

  Cathy shut the door then turned to find herself staring at Archie’s blunt and slightly stubbly chin. She raised her eyes and found his unbelievable blue eyes gazing down at her.

  Turning away, she grabbed the door handle to the front room.

  ‘This is the room,’ she said, pushing the door open.

  Archie walked in. Cathy followed and stopped by the bedside table.

  He was standing on the other side of the bed with his back to her, his legs slightly apart and his hands on his hips. Before she could stop them, Cathy’s eyes roamed across the breadth of his shoulders then down to his neat rear.

  ‘All the furniture is new, as are the curtains,’ she said, in a tight voice as her gaze moved on to his long legs, snugly encased in his khaki battle trousers.

  Dragging her eyes away, she took a step forward.

  ‘Well,’ she said, straightening out a wrinkle on the patchwork bedspread, ‘what do you think?’

  Having tried and failed to get his pounding heart in check while studying the plaster architrave, Archie turned and smiled.

  ‘It’s a good size,’ he said, acutely aware of the large double bed between them.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, gazing across at him.

  Archie looked at the window to stop the image of taking her in his arms and pressing his lips on to hers forming in his mind.

  ‘And it’s west facing.’

  ‘The room keeps the light right through until ten o’clock in the evening during the summer,’ Cathy added. ‘So it’s perfect for your painting.’

  ‘It is.’ Archie frowned. ‘Sorry, I should have asked if you minded rather than just—’

  ‘No.’ Her gaze flickered on to the bed for a split second. ‘I don’t mind.’

  They stared at each other across the multicoloured counterpane for what seemed like an eternity, then the door burst open.

  ‘Bruno!’ shouted Peter, dashing into the room clutching a well-loved brown teddy to his chest.

  He saw Archie and stopped in his tracks.

  Archie hunkered down. ‘Hello again, young man. Who’s that you’ve got there?’

  ‘Bruno,’ he announced, flourishing his toy bear at Archie and, in words understandable only to himself, Peter told him all about his teddy.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Archie when the lad had finished.

  Cathy laughed.

  ‘It’s a bit chilly in here; would you like to have a cuppa in the kitchen while we discuss things,’ she said.

  ‘I’d love one but only if I’m not putting you out, Mrs Wheeler,’ he replied.

  She smiled.

  ‘Shall we make Sergeant McIntosh a cuppa, Peter?’ she asked her son, stroking his sandy-coloured hair gently.

  The lad nodded and trotted off towards the kitchen. Cathy moved to the door.

  ‘It’s just down the end of the hall,’ she said.

  Walking around the edge of the bed, he followed the boy out and Cathy closed the door behind them.

  Although the temperature in the street was hovering just above freezing, the kitchen at the back of the house still retained the homely warmth and smell of the evening’s cooking.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ she said, indicating a couple of dirty plates in the sink as she filled the kettle.

  Pulling out a chair, Archie sat down at the table and studied her womanly curves as she made the tea.

  ‘It’s five shillings a week in advance for bed and breakfast,’ said Cathy, as she placed a mug in front of him then took the chair opposite. ‘But for an extra three I’d be happy to do your laundry and have a hot dinner ready for you each night, as long as you can either bring your rations from your billet or let me have your ration book.’

  Archie took a sip of his tea.

  ‘A home-cooked meal at the end of the day instead of army canteen food sounds bonny,’ said Archie, already looking forward to gazing across the kitchen table at her each night.

  ‘And I know it was a little cold in there just now,’ she continued, ‘but as long as I’ve got the coal, I’ll set a small fire in there each night before you get back to take the chill off. And there’s a lot of light-fingered tea leaves around here so if you want to make sure your petrol doesn’t evaporate overnight, I’d park your bike in the backyard if I were you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Archie.

  As he drank his tea Cathy told him she would give him a key so he could come and go as he pleased. Gas supplies permitting, he could have hot water for a drink or the washbowl in his room whenever he liked but he could also use the kitchen sink for a strip wash if he needed to.

  ‘And,’ she concluded, ‘as long as you don’t burn the house down, feel free to make yourself a slice or two of toast or something if you’re a bit peckish.’

  Archie laughed. ‘I promise the house will still be standing when you get back home from the shelter each morning. I’m afraid King’s regs mean that I have t
o tell HQ where I live so it is possible that there might be a copper banging on your front door in the middle of the night if top brass have a flap about something, just in case your neighbours start wondering what’s happening.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said. ‘When would you like to move in?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Archie replied.

  ‘Would next Monday morning be all right?’ she asked. ‘It will give me time to get the room organised.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the duty officer and make sure I’m not rostered on duty until the afternoon,’ Archie replied, still not quite believing what was actually happening.

  Cathy took a sip of tea. ‘Did you have a nice time at home at Christmas?’

  ‘Aye, I did,’ he replied. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Quiet,’ she replied. ‘Peter and I, we went to Mum’s on Christmas Day and then round to my sister Mattie for Boxing Day. Did Kirsty like her present?’

  ‘She loved it and wouldn’t take it off,’ he replied, pleased she’d remembered his daughter’s name.

  ‘I bet she loved having you home more,’ she said.

  ‘Not as much as I did seeing her,’ said Archie. ‘She’d sprouted up a good two inches, too.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘They grow up so quickly.’

  ‘They certainly do.’ Archie swallowed the last mouthful of tea. ‘But now, Mrs Wheeler, I’ve taken up too much of your time and I must let you get to the shelter.’

  Putting down his empty mug, he stood up and Cathy did the same.

  ‘It’s all right, you stay in the warm, I’ll see myself out,’ he said.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ she replied.

  She headed off down the hall towards the front of the house with Archie, buttoning up his jerkin, following on behind.

  ‘There is just one other thing, Sergeant,’ Cathy said, as she put her hand on the front door latch. ‘My mother-in-law, Violet, lives here with me and Peter. And well . . . the truth is, she’s set in her ways so wasn’t keen on taking a lodger. It might take her a bit of time to get used to having you here, especially with her son still missing in action.’

  Archie nodded. ‘I understand.’

  He smiled, and Cathy opened the door.

  He walked past her and stepped out on to the pavement.

  ‘Until next Monday then,’ he said, pulling his gloves from his pocket and shoving his fingers into them.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, giving that dazzling smile of hers. ‘Until next Monday.’

  They stared at each other for another moment then Archie walked to his bike. He rocked it off its stand, swung his leg over and kicked down on the starter pedal. Thankfully, despite the cold, his Triumph fired immediately.

  Giving it a quick rev to clear the carburettor, Archie pulled on the clutch and nudged it into gear with his left toe.

  He relaxed his grip on the clutch, but before the cogs bit together, Archie turned his head and saw that Cathy, now with Peter in her arms, was still standing on the doorstep.

  He gave her a little wave and she waved in reply.

  Archie turned back.

  So, he’s her son, is he, Cathy, and not your husband? thought Archie.

  As his Tiger sped away, a smile spread wide across his face.

  Carefully picking her way between the families already bedded down for the night in the shelter, Cathy guided Peter towards the family’s three-tier bunk.

  Her mother, who was sitting on the bottom bunk and balancing Victoria on her knee as she changed her nappy, looked up as Cathy approached.

  ‘You’re late, luv,’ she said, through the safety pin clenched between her teeth.

  ‘I was held up,’ said Cathy, placing her basket on the floor.

  Sitting on the bunk alongside her mother, Cathy delved into her basket and pulled out Peter’s nappy and fleecy pyjamas.

  The ground around them shook as a bomb landed close by, sending a whoosh of air through the railway tunnel and causing the lights hanging overhead to dance wildly on their flexes. Babies and small children started crying as those sheltering in the arched dome of the underground station were showered with grit from above.

  ‘And just in time,’ her mother added.

  ‘Bedtime, Peter,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Noooo,’ he whined as she grabbed him. ‘Mical and Bibby.’

  ‘The boys are doing their homework,’ Cathy said, as, sobbing, Peter tried to escape her grip. ‘See them in the morning. Come on, Mr Bruno is very tired.’

  Peter threw his teddy on the floor.

  ‘Poor Mr Bruno,’ said Ida. Pulling a sad face, she picked up the toy.

  Peter stretched his hands towards her. ‘Mine.’

  ‘Only if you do what your mummy says,’ Ida replied.

  Peter stuck out his bottom lip but didn’t fight as Cathy put on a double nappy to see him through the night and slipped him into his pyjamas. Wrapping him back in his coat, she sat him between her and her mother and then pulled out the smaller of the two flasks. Removing the Bakelite beaker, she popped off the cork then poured the warm milk into the cup and handed it to her son.

  Taking the copy of Noddy Goes on Holiday that Mattie had bought him for Christmas out of the basket, Cathy opened it. As her son drank his nightcap, Cathy read a chapter to him while at the other end of the bunk bed her mother swaddled Victoria in knitted blankets and tucked her at the foot of the bottom bunk. Taking a rubber dummy from her pocket, Ida stuck it in her mouth for a couple of seconds then popped it into the baby’s.

  ‘Right, time for night nights, Peter,’ Cathy said, when she reached the end of the chapter. ‘Give Nanny a kiss.’

  Her son handed back his cup. Going to his grandmother he puckered up ready. Ida gave him a kiss and handed him his ransomed toy.

  ‘SargTosh,’ he said, holding it up for her to see.

  Cathy’s mother gave her a questioning look and Cathy felt her cheeks grow warm.

  ‘Come on, Peter, into bed,’ she said, making a play of popping the cork back on the flask.

  Standing up, she quickly removed his coat then hoisted him up and tucked him into his place at the foot of the single top bunk they shared.

  Stretching up, she kissed his forehead. Holding Mr Bruno tight, her son snuggled under the covers and closed his eyes.

  She watched him for a moment or two, then, feeling her mother’s eyes on her, she turned around.

  ‘SargTosh?’ said Ida, as Cathy sat back on the bunk.

  ‘Sergeant McIntosh – Archie. My new lodger,’ she replied.

  Another bomb came crashing down close by and the light fixed to the ceiling high above them went out. People screamed and shouted for help in the dark and someone along the way from them started praying for deliverance. The generator situated in the westbound tunnel started to hum and a yellow glow illuminated the shelter.

  ‘Fancy a cocoa, Mum?’ Cathy asked, as people started to settle down again.

  ‘I could murder for one,’ Ida replied.

  Having queued for ten minutes at the WVS canteen for their drinks, by the time Cathy returned, her two brothers were already top and tailed in the middle bunk. Billy reading a Beano at one end and Michael engrossed in a Hotspur at the other.

  Her mother, who had retrieved the two deckchairs from under the bunk, was sitting beside it, knitting. Placing Ida’s cocoa on the floor next to her, Cathy sat down in the other faded candy-striped chair.

  Bombs still landed with monotonous regularity around them, rattling the ironwork in the shelter, but they seemed a little further away now as the waves of enemy aircraft targeted other neighbourhoods.

  The faint sound of the BBC’s nine o’clock pips heralded the Home Service’s hourly news bulletin and Ida told the boys to go to sleep as people the length of the platform began to settle for the night.

  Someone further down the platform started playing ‘We’ll Meet Again’ on a harmonica and a few people joined in, their voices harmonising in the cavernous shelter.

&nb
sp; Pulling her cloth knitting bag from the basket, Cathy took out the jumper she was making for Peter.

  ‘Archie’s a bit familiar for someone you’ve just met,’ her mother said as Cathy started the first row.

  ‘He’s actually Sergeant McIntosh of the Royal Engineers,’ she replied, slipping the stitch. ‘He’s in charge of a bomb retrieval and disposal squad and I haven’t just met him, Mum, we met on the Sunday the bells rang for El-Alamein. Peter ran out of the church and Sergeant McIntosh stopped him ending up under a bus.’

  ‘That was months ago,’ said Ida. ‘I’m surprised you remember his name.’

  ‘Well, oddly, and just by coincidence, he popped into the rest centre for his midday meal a week or so later, and again at the Christmas Party, where Peter met him,’ Cathy explained.

  Her mother raised her eyebrow.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ Ida said.

  ‘You don’t need to. I know what you’re thinking,’ said Cathy.

  Swapping her needles over, Ida looked down at her work. ‘I thought it was only your gran who could read minds.’ She raised her eyes. ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘Well, I have run into him at the evening institute once or twice,’ said Cathy. ‘And I did have a cup of tea with him at the children’s Christmas party, but other than that, I hardly know him.’

  ‘So how come he’s your lodger?’ asked Ida.

  Cathy told her mother about the postcard she’d given to Francesca.

  ‘So, what’s he like this Sergeant McIntosh?’ asked Ida.

  ‘He’s from Scotland, Glasgow, in fact,’ said Cathy. ‘I think he’s probably about Charlie’s age and he was married but his wife died in a tram accident five years ago, leaving him with a two-year-old daughter called Kirsty. She lives with his mother. And he paints.’ She laughed. ‘Portraits not walls.’

  ‘You’re right, Cathy,’ said Ida, ‘I can tell you hardly know the man at all.’

  ‘Mum!’

  Cathy gave her a hard look, which bounced right off Ida.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, he’s tall,’ said Cathy, as the image of Archie standing on her doorstep materialised in her mind. ‘Well-built but not beefy and . . . and he has the most startling blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Real sapphire blue they are, which is really surprising because . . .’