‘Because?’ asked her mother.
‘Because Sergeant McIntosh is obviously either half African or half West Indian,’ said Cathy. ‘I didn’t want to be rude and ask him which.’
‘I should think not,’ said Ida.
‘Not that it matters,’ said Cathy.
‘Of course it doesn’t.’ Ida’s eyebrow rose again. ‘But does your mother-in-law know Sergeant McIntosh is moving in?’
‘Not yet,’ Cathy replied.
An amused expression spread across Ida’s face. ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when she finds out.’
‘Well, if she and Stan hadn’t worked a fast one with his savings then I wouldn’t have even considered having a lodger, but now, as far as I’m concerned, she can like it or lump it,’ said Cathy.
The lamps overhead went off and on again to warn people that lights out would be in ten minutes.
‘You go first,’ said Ida, finishing off her row.
Putting her knitting away, Cathy grabbed her sponge bag and pyjamas and then made her way to the washing cubicle and toilets at the very end of the platform.
Having got herself ready for the night, Cathy returned and, careful not to wake her brothers or Peter, climbed into bed as her mother trotted off to complete her bedtime ablutions.
Cathy was already under the covers when Ida returned. Rocking the bunk a little, her mother climbed in to the bottom bunk just as the lights went out.
‘Night, luv,’ her mother whispered.
‘Night, Mum,’ Cathy replied in the same hushed tone. ‘See you in the morning.’
Cathy pulled the covers up under her chin and listened to the now-familiar sounds of creaking beds, dry coughs and low voices as those sheltering deep beneath the pavement got ready for the long hours of night.
Closing her eyes, Cathy listened to the gentle sound of her son’s breathing but, despite being up since six that morning, instead of feeling sleep steel over her, the image of Archie standing on her doorstep appeared in her head. Her mind shifted the scene to the front room and then showed her his mesmerising blue eyes. Not content with that, her subconscious invented an image of him lying on the bed. Then it conjured up things she’d never ever done. Like kneeling astride him, running her hands over his chest then ripping open his shirt.
She grew hot. Very hot.
Throwing off the sheet and blanket, Cathy opened her eyes. She tried to shove the images aside. Her traitorous mind laughed and let her imagine herself naked, with Archie’s hands, his artist’s hands, roaming over her body.
Cathy bit back a moan as a heavy yearning she’d barely felt before circled her navel a couple of times then settled lower, much lower.
‘Cathy,’ her mother whispered from beneath her.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘Be careful. With Sergeant McIntosh, I mean.’
‘I will,’ Cathy replied.
And she would. Well, at least until Easter, because until then, blue eyes or no blue eyes, she was still a married woman.
Chapter Thirteen
‘THAT’S THE HOUSE,’ said Archie, as he pointed to the house with the faded brown door on the east side of Senrab Street.
Mogg put his foot on the brake and then, turning the massive steering wheel, guided the three-ton Austin to a halt alongside the kerb.
Jumping down from the cab, Archie took two strides and reached for the lion’s-head knocker but as he did the front door opened.
Although the dress she was wearing was a plain workaday dress with an apron over it, the colour, aquamarine, highlighted her tawny colouring perfectly. In fact, to his mind she couldn’t have looked better had she been dressed in the finest silk but then, in truth, he thought the self-same thing every time he saw her.
‘Morning,’ she said.
He waved. ‘Morning.’
She smiled that smile that kept him awake half the night. ‘You’re bright and early.’
‘I’m not too early, am I?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘The room’s ready so bring your stuff in. I’m just giving Peter his breakfast, so I’ll leave you to it.’
Giving him another pulse-racing smile, she went back inside the house.
Archie touched his forehead in a half salute then went to the rear of the lorry.
Chalky was already there with Mogg and Ron, who were unloading Archie’s boxes.
‘You lucky, bloody bugger, Archie,’ said Ron, the roll-up between his lips moving about as he spoke.
‘Jammy, that’s what I call it,’ agreed Chalky. ‘Not only does all his gear survive when he’s bombed-out, but then he gets himself digs with a little sweetheart who makes Rita Hayworth look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.’
‘Well now, lads,’ said Archie, forcing an earnest expression on to his face. ‘You’ll find no argument from me on that score.’
‘Sod off,’ said Mogg, slinging Archie’s kitbag at him.
Grinning, Archie caught it and swung it over his shoulder.
Grabbing the handle of his paint box, which Chalky had just set on the pavement, Archie strolled into the house. Placing his belongings on the Indian-style rug, he walked back outside to find Mogg and Ron unloading the last of his sketchpads and canvases.
‘That’s the lot,’ said Ron, handing him the small suitcase with his personal paperwork and family photos in.
‘Thanks, pal,’ Archie said.
Chalky climbed back in the lorry and the lads drove way.
Archie went back in the house and was greeted by Cathy standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘I’ve just put the kettle on – do you want a cuppa before you unpack?’ she asked.
‘That sounds grand,’ said Archie.
Leaving the case just inside his room, Archie shut the door and followed her into the kitchen.
Cathy was standing by the dresser pouring milk into two cups while Peter was still in his highchair, eating his way through a plate of scrambled egg. He looked up and waved at Archie as he walked in.
‘Hello there, young man,’ said Archie, smiling at him. ‘How’s that ferocious wee bear of yours?’
Peter laughed and offered Archie the mangled bread and butter soldier in his hand.
‘Thank you kindly, lad,’ said Archie. ‘But I’ve had my breakfast.’
Satisfied Archie didn’t want it, Peter crammed the finger of bread in his mouth.
Pulling out a chair, Archie sat at the table, enjoying the Monday morning scene. The clean crockery was upturned on the draining board, the family washing was soaking in the zinc bucket under the sink and the smell of toast filled the room, all with Cathy at its centre.
The kettle lid started to rattle as it let out a low whistle. Cathy flicked the switch to extinguish the blue and gold flames beneath the kettle then poured the steaming water into the pot.
‘Oh, before I forget, I’ll give you the keys.’ Fitting the knitted cosy over the pot to let the tea brew, Cathy pulled two keys on a ring from the pocket of her apron.
‘The larger one is for your room and the Yale is for the front door.’
She handed them to him.
‘And in return’ – Archie took his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open – ‘here’s this week’s rent.’ He pulled out the eight shillings he’d tucked away before he’d set out that morning. ‘The pay clerk wasn’t in when I left HQ this morning, but I’ll be able to get my ration books from him when I go back to collect my bike.’
‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s stuffed hearts tonight and they’re off rations anyway so tomorrow will do.’
She took the coins from him then turned and poured the tea.
‘No sugar,’ she said, placing a mug in front of him.
‘You remembered,’ he said, gazing up at her.
She gave him a shy smile. Moving over to the sink she bent down and grasped the handle of the washing bucket.
Archie jumped up.
‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, crossing the spa
ce between them.
Without thinking, he reached down and his hand closed over hers.
She looked up and, her face just inches from his, their gaze met.
Cathy’s eyes darkened, which made his chest swell and sent his pulse racing.
The thought that he only had to move a little closer to taste her lips flashed through his mind but, as it did, Cathy let go of the bucket and stepped back.
Archie tore his eyes from her, lifted the brimming pail of washing from the floor and deposited it on the draining board.
‘There you are,’ he said, hoping only he could hear the gravel in his voice.
The golden curl that never stayed where she put it escaped again.
‘Thank you,’ Cathy said, tucking it back behind her ear.
She stared up at Archie for a couple of heartbeats then she placed her hand on the rim of the bucket.
‘I ought to get on if I’m going to get this lot on the line before midday.’
‘Me too.’ He picked up his mug. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
He smiled and she smiled back, then, to avoid doing something that would have him back on the street before he’d even unpacked his case, Archie turned and walked out of the room.
‘She never did?’ said Mary Weston, a look of complete horror on her fat face.
‘She most certainly did,’ said Violet, raising her voice for the benefit of those standing in the queue. ‘“Vi,” she said, “I’m taking in a lodger and if you don’t like it you can sling your effing hook.”’
Mary’s look of incredulity deepened.
‘She actually swore at you?’ she asked, as the dozen or so women lined up outside Empire and Country Grocery shop pursed their lips and tutted.
Violet nodded. ‘And she threatened me with a knife.’
‘You ought to get the police on to her,’ said Mary.
Violet sighed. ‘It’s her word against mine.’
‘And you say he’s moving in today?’ said Mary.
Violet glanced at the clock over the jeweller’s shop, which was showing half past ten.
‘Probably already got his feet under my kitchen table by now.’
‘Still, it could be worse,’ said Mary, as the queue shuffled forward.
Violet gave her a cool look. ‘I don’t see how.’
‘Well, at least he’s a soldier,’ Mary replied. ‘If he starts playing up, you can complain to the army.’
‘Soldier!’ sneered Violet. ‘Someone who’s wangled himself a cushy number away from the real fighting, don’t you mean? My son Stanley is a real soldier. One who’s getting a medal for bravery in the face of the enemy,’ she reminded her, ‘while she’s moving some coward into his home.’
The thin-faced woman in front of Mary turned around. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying and if it’s any comfort I think the way you’ve been treated by your daughter-in-law is a disgrace.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Violet, giving the woman a plucky little smile.
‘I agree,’ said the grey-haired woman with a squint behind Violet, joining in the conversation. ‘I’m not one to gossip but she’s a Brogan and that family are nothing but a bunch of pikeys.’
‘Bloody left-footers,’ muttered another. ‘Stick together like a dog shit on a shoe, they do.’
‘They’re as bad as the Yids,’ said another woman, peering at Violet through gold-rimmed spectacles.
A squat woman with frizzy red hair rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t start me on them. Bloody racketeers.’
The crowd around Violet muttered their agreement.
‘Of course,’ said Violet, wanting to steer the conversation back to her many afflictions, ‘you know where my daughter-in-law got her gutter language from, don’t you?’
The crowd shook their collective heads.
‘That mad old bat Queenie Brogan,’ said Violet.
‘Bloody bonkers she is,’ said Mary as they all took a few more steps forward.
‘Completely,’ agreed the thin-faced woman next to her.
‘Did I hear you mention Queenie Brogan’s name?’ asked a woman three people behind Violet in the queue.
‘Do you know her?’ asked Violet as she turned and looked at the woman wearing an old-fashioned cloche bonnet pulled down over her ears.
‘Know her! I should say,’ the woman replied. ‘I got in an argument with her about a year back and within a month this happened.’
She whipped off her hat and everyone gasped.
‘A full head of thick brown hair I had until I crossed swords with Queenie Brogan,’ she said, pointing at the little clumps of grey hair dotted across her bald head. ‘So you want to watch yourself because your daughter-in-law could have the same powers.’
The crowd nodded their agreement.
Despite knowing she would have been six foot under long ago if Cathy had possessed such powers, a terrified expression spread across Violet’s face.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mary. ‘It’s a known fact, Violet, that witch-craft don’t work on good Christians like you.’
The queue moved forward again, and Violet stepped up to the marble-topped counter.
Willy Tugman, the owner of the Empire and Country, spotted her and before the young girl who served in the shop could step forward to take Violet’s order, he intervened.
‘It’s all right, Polly,’ he said, ‘I’ll serve Mrs Wheeler.’
He walked to the end of the counter and Violet followed.
‘Now, what can I get you, Mrs Wheeler?’ he asked.
Violet listed a handful of everyday items, including her tea and sugar ration plus a bar of soap and a tin of peaches that were on points that week.
He lined the items along the counter and Violet handed over her ration and points book.
Willy crossed off the appropriate squares and handed them back.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘Just my usual order,’ she replied. ‘Would you put it in my bag?’
Slipping her shopping bag off her arm, she placed it at the end of the counter, out of the view of her fellow shoppers.
Willy turned his back on his young shop assistant and whipped out a package wrapped in newspaper from under the counter. He tucked it at the bottom of her bag then piled the rest of her shopping on top.
‘That’s one and a tanner,’ said Willy.
Violet handed over half a crown.
Willy pulled open the cash drawer under the counter, took out thruppence and offered Violet her change.
Thinking of the jar of jam and packet of chocolate digestives sitting under the other items at the bottom of her basket, Violet smiled and took the money from him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, picking up her shopping bag. ‘See you Thursday.’
Violet left the shop and glanced at the octagonal clock across the road again. Cathy would be hanging the washing up about now and then she’d be off to her mother’s for a few hours, leaving Violet alone to enjoy a jam sandwich and a couple of chocolate biscuits in peace.
She frowned.
Well, not quite alone, but she’d be telling this battle-shirking lodger in no uncertain terms that other than for breakfast he was not to show his face outside his room.
Looking forward to sinking her dentures into a juicy layer of strawberry jam and sucking the chocolate off a couple of biscuits, Violet reached her house.
Turning the key, she pushed the door open but as she stepped into the hall, the door to the front parlour opened.
Violet’s jaw dropped on the floor as a tall, West Indian soldier with a square jaw, wide flat nose and a crown of curly black hair stepped out in front of her holding a box.
His white teeth flashed into a smile.
‘Good day to you,’ he said, his alarmingly bright blue eyes boring into her. ‘I dinna mean to startle you there, but I’m thinking you must be Mrs Wheeler senior. I’m Sergeant McIntosh,’ his smile widened, ‘your new lodger.’
Open-mouthed, Violet l
ooked down at his hand for a moment then back to his brown face.
‘You don’t happen to know where my daughter-in-law is, do you?’
His smile widened. ‘In the backyard.’
With a monumental effort, Violet managed to force a smile. ‘If you’d excuse me.’
With the blood pounding in her ears and a scream trying to escape, Violet marched through the house, across the kitchen and through the back door into the garden, where Cathy was pegging up a nappy.
Storming across the paving stones, she glared across the washing at her daughter-in-law.
‘I’ve just met your lodger,’ she ground out between clenched teeth.
‘Have you?’ Cathy replied, taking another damp square of towelling from the bucket at her feet.
‘Yes, I have,’ snapped her mother-in-law. ‘And he’s a bloody darkie.’
‘He’s a Scot, actually,’ Cathy replied, jamming a peg down over the corner she was holding. ‘From Glasgow, to be precise. And in case you didn’t notice the badge on his arm, he’s Royal Engineers, in the bomb disposal regiment.’
‘I don’t care,’ Violet replied. ‘They dress the chimps up in top hat and tails at London Zoo but they’re still monkeys. And what will the neighbours say?’
‘Whatever they like, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Cathy.
‘It’s all right for you, but I have a respectable reputation,’ said Violet. ‘On top of which, I’m a member of the Church of England, so I can’t have a heathen living under my roof.’
‘He’s not living under your roof, Vi.’ Cathy gave her mother-in-law a sweet smile over the top of the washing line. ‘He’s living under mine. Remember, I pay the rent.’
A throbbing started in Violet’s right temple and little lights started to pop on the edge of her vision.
Imagining winding the washing line around her hateful daughter-in-law’s neck and choking off her air, Violet glared at Cathy for a moment. Then she turned and marched back towards the house.
Stopping at the back door, she slowly counted to twenty before walking in. Her mouth pulled into a sour line at the sight of Cathy’s lodger sitting at her kitchen table as bold as brass, holding a half-drunk cup of tea and a copy of that socialist rag the Daily Mirror in front of him.
A Ration Book Daughter Page 18