He looked up.
‘I’m just having a quick break before I tackle the last few bits,’ he said, raising the mug.
Violet forced a sweet smile. ‘Would you like a top-up, dear?’
‘Naw, I’m fine thank you, Mrs Wheeler.’
Taking another slurp of his drink, he lowered his gaze.
As his eyes returned to the newspaper, Violet’s smile disappeared.
He might have a Scottish name and accent and, granted, his mixed blood was less pronounced in him than some, but it was obvious Sergeant McIntosh was the by-blow of some passing darkie, thought Violet viciously.
‘Did my daughter-in-law tell you her husband’s missing in action?’ she asked.
‘Aye, she did. And I’m sorry to hear it and hope you hear some good news soon, Mrs Wheeler.’ Sergeant McIntosh stood up. ‘If you’d excuse me, I ought to get those last few things unpacked before I go to work.’
He went to pick up his dirty plate and cutlery.
‘It’s all right, Sergeant, I’ll rinse those before I go,’ said Violet.
‘Thank you.’ Picking up the paper, he folded it and tucked it under his arm. ‘And as I said earlier, it’s nice to meet you.’
He offered his hand again.
This time Violet took it.
He shook it once then turned and left the room.
Violet waited until she heard the door to the front room shut then she dashed to the sink.
Grabbing the bottle of Zal disinfectant and the bristle brush from the window sill, she poured the thick liquid over her hand and, heedless of the pain, scrubbed vigorously.
Chapter Fourteen
CATHY HAD JUST slipped the last paid invoice into the Dec ’42 compartment of the filing cabinet when the rumble of a five-ton Bedford heralded her father’s return from his morning’s round.
Parking it by the wall, Jeremiah climbed down from the cab. Blowing on his hands and rubbing them together, he made his way towards the office, bringing a gust of icy wind with him but quickly shut the door.
Cathy closed the drawer and smiled. ‘Coffee?’
‘I could murder a cup,’ he replied, holding his hands over the paraffin heater.
Cathy went over to the two-ring gas stove set up on a bench and relit the flame under the kettle that she’d boiled ready for his return.
‘How’re you getting on?’ he asked, as she poured the hot water over the Camp coffee at the bottom of the enamel mug.
‘Not too badly now I’ve figured out Mum’s filing system,’ Cathy replied. ‘I’ve got all last month’s accounts up to date and I’ll make a start on this month when I’m next in. Plus, I’ve booked in three house-moving jobs. One for next week to Benfleet and two the following week to Hainault and Southend and’ – stirring in a heaped teaspoonful of sugar, Cathy handed her father his coffee – ‘I’ve written in all your local factory deliveries for next week.’
‘Thanks, me darling,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I would have done these last couple of weeks without you.’
‘Been buried under a mound of paperwork, I expect,’ Cathy replied. ‘And lost business, too, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘You have the right of it there, and no mistake.’
Her father took a large swallow of his drink. Cradling the steaming mug in his massive hands, he raised his eyes and looked over the rim at her. ‘And now tell me, how are you getting on with that new lodger of yours?’
‘Oh, well enough,’ said Cathy breezily. ‘He’s out from dawn until dusk most days so other than at breakfast and when I’m serving up his evening meal, I only see him in passing.’
‘Except, of course, on a Wednesday night at your Cephas Street secretarial classes,’ he reminded her.
Cathy nodded and forced a light laugh. ‘Fancy both of us doing a class on the same night.’
Her father’s mouth lifted in a little smile and he took another sip of his drink. ‘Your mum says he’s a widower with a little girl.’
‘Yes, Kirsty. She’s seven years old and he talks about her all the time,’ she replied, thinking of the softness in Archie’s voice as he spoke of his daughter.
‘In passing,’ said her father, his grey-green eyes scrutinising her face.
Feeling as if her father had received a letter from the headmaster about her bunking off school, Cathy glanced up at the old clock pinned on the wall above the filing cabinet.
‘Oh, is that the time? I’d better get going.’
Taking her forest-green overcoat from the nail hammered into the wall, Cathy slipped her arms in.
‘No point putting Mrs Paget’s back up by being late,’ she added, buttoning up the front.
‘Francesca’s keeping Peter this afternoon, so would you mind picking him up when you take Mum and the boys to the shelter? I wouldn’t ask but I’ve got the practice test for my level-three Pitman exam in a few weeks,’ Cathy said, tucking her scarf in around her neck, ‘and I don’t want to be late.’
Picking up her handbag, Cathy stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on her father’s bristly cheek.
Jeremiah opened his mouth as if he was going to say something but, after studying her for a moment or two, he smiled.
‘Off you go then, luv,’ he said, sitting in the chair she’d just vacated. ‘See you tomorrow if I don’t see you before.’
Walking back into the yard, Cathy smiled.
She’d thought for a moment her father was going to ask her if Archie was going to be at Cephas Street that night too. She was glad he hadn’t. Glad because she didn’t want to pretend she didn’t know.
Cathy had just taken her seat in the small committee room alongside Dora, who oversaw the paper and cardboard salvage operation, when Mrs Paget swept into the room carrying a thick manila file.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ she said, giving them a tight smile as her cool eyes ran over each woman in turn.
The women muttered their acknowledgements as Mrs Paget took her seat at the head of the table.
‘Now, ladies,’ she said, opening the overflowing wallet containing the minutes of the centre’s monthly meetings, ‘as this is our first meeting of nineteen forty-three, we have a great deal to get through. So, are we all here?’
As Mrs Paget checked the women around the table against the list of section leaders, Cathy delved into her handbag and pulled out her notebook and pencil.
As the rest centre organiser ran through all the little deficiencies she’d noticed in the centre’s operation, Cathy jotted it down.
Mrs Paget’s complaints this month included squandering the centre’s sugar allowance by putting icing on fairy cakes and using the canteen’s condensed milk to make up babies’ bottles instead of insisting nursing mothers bring their own.
Glancing at Cathy from time to time, the self-styled commander-in-chief of St Breda and St Brendan’s Rest Centre ran through the good-hearted volunteers’ many faults and Cathy scribbled it all down.
Mrs Paget concluded by reminding those around the table, yet again, that she would prefer them not to refer to each other by their Christian names while on duty but address each other as Mrs whatever they were. Thankfully, everyone, including Cathy, managed not to roll their eyes.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Paget, ‘the penultimate thing that we need to discuss is the Christmas party.’
‘Which was a great success,’ chipped in Lottie.
‘Thanks to our Cathy,’ added Maureen.
The women around the table nodded their agreement.
A pinched expression tightened Mrs Paget’s narrow features.
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Although I thought the children were allowed to become a little too wild at times.’
‘It was a party, Mrs Paget,’ said Cathy, pausing in her note-taking and looking down the table at her, ‘and the only bit of fun some of those kids have had for a long time.’
‘Even so,’ continued Mrs Paget, ‘that doesn’t excuse bad manners.’ The hint of a sneer curled her upper lip. ‘Of course
, that’s assuming that the children around here have been taught any manners in the first place.’
Cathy’s mouth pulled into a hard line.
‘Our children are taught manners, good manners, Mrs Paget,’ she said, looking squarely at the other woman. ‘But unlike children who are living in the country with their nursemaids and nannies, our children have had to sleep in a hole in the ground for the past three and a half years while everything they have is being destroyed. Therefore, to my way of thinking, if they want to stuff their faces with cake and run around like banshees for an hour or two, then I say let them.’
Mrs Paget’s cheeks flamed bright red as mutters of ‘Poor little mites’ and ‘God luv ’em’ rose up.
Mrs Paget’s gaze flickered on to the notepad on the table in front of Cathy then back to her face.
‘Can I ask what you are doing, Mrs Wheeler?’ she asked.
‘Practising my shorthand,’ Cathy replied. ‘I’ve got a Pitman level-three test in a month.’
‘Would you mind not?’ Mrs Paget snapped. ‘It is a little disconcerting having one’s every word written down.’
Answering the other woman’s enraged stare with a cool look, Cathy stopped writing .
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘Although, to be honest, I can’t imagine why a woman such as yourself would bother with such a thing.’
‘That’s easy,’ Cathy replied. ‘Because I want to earn my own living.’
‘Earn your own living!’ Mrs Paget laughed. ‘Oh, Mrs Wheeler, what an amusing notion.’ She put her hand on her chest as if she were struggling to speak through her merriment.
Although the pencil threatened to snap as Cathy’s fingers tightened around it, somehow she managed to maintain her nonchalant expression as she laid it on the fresh page.
‘Now lastly, ladies,’ said Mrs Paget, beaming at the assembled women, ‘HQ have asked that each WVS rest centre adopts a regiment or company and sends them letters and little gifts, like cigarettes or chocolate, just to keep up their morale and show them that the women at home appreciate their sacrifice.’
‘I’d vote for that,’ said Mary.
‘Count me in,’ agreed Olive, as others nodded in agreement.
‘Splendid,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘Now, I propose we adopt 61 Squadron. They’re based in Rutland, miles from anywhere, and could do with a bit of home comfort. I know it’s a formality, but if I could have a show of hand—’
‘What about the artillery division manning the ack-ack guns at Mudflat?’ asked Dot.
‘Or perhaps we could do what Old Ford WVS groups have done and link up with one of the Navy’s ships, like HMS Repulse or HMS Rodney,’ suggested Olive.
Mrs Paget gave a stiff smile. ‘While both the ack-ack gunners and the Royal Navy’s matelots are very worthy in their own way, I really think 61 Squadron, who tirelessly defend our skies against murderous Luftwaffe—’
‘Isn’t your son a member of the 61?’ asked Cathy.
The flush returned to Mrs Paget’s cheeks. ‘Well, yes, he is, actually, but I don’t see what—’
‘I propose we adopt a regiment much nearer to home,’ cut in Cathy. ‘One that we see all the time in our streets and who risk their lives every day to keep our hospitals, schools and utilities running: the North East London Bomb Disposal Unit.’
‘You’re right, Cath,’ said Lottie, sitting across the table from her. ‘Those boys are always around. In fact, only the day before yesterday they defused a dirty great big bomb in Fairfield Road that would have blown the train lines into Liverpool Street, and the parachute factories, to kingdom come.’
‘Yes, well,’ said Mrs Paget, ‘very commendable I’m sure, but—’
‘And aren’t they based somewhere around and about?’ asked Mary.
‘Wanstead,’ Cathy replied. ‘And they cover everything east of the city, right out as far as Barking Creek.’
‘Well then,’ said Polly, ‘they’re our own, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah,’ added Maureen. ‘We could adopt them as our cockney regiment.’
Dot laughed. ‘The Pearly King of Stepney’s own.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Mrs Paget, ‘but I really—’
‘Those bomb squad lads spend all their time in the cold and wet making Hitler’s bloody bombs safe,’ said Lottie. ‘I reckon sending a packet of fags or a bit of cake now and again is the least we can do.’
‘Well then, ladies,’ said Cathy, sweeping her gaze over the committee, ‘all those in favour of St Breda and St Brendan’s WVS Rest Centre adopting the North East London Bomb Disposal Unit.’
She raised her right hand.
Everyone did the same, except the red-faced woman sitting at the other end of the table.
‘Very well,’ Mrs Paget said, through ridged lips. ‘The North East London Bomb Disposal Unit will be our adopted company. Although, to be quite honest, with the monthly report to write and the catering accounts to check through, not to mention my parish duties, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to inform them of their good fortune.’
Cathy’s lips lifted in a sweet smile.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Paget, I’m happy to write to them on the centre’s behalf,’ she said, raising the pencil in her hand. ‘It will help me improve my typing speed.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘IT’S LOOKING GOOD, Archie,’ said Ted Inglis, as he studied the two-foot by three-foot canvas set up on the easel.
‘Aye, I’m pretty happy with it myself,’ Archie replied, noting a couple of places that would benefit from a bit more attention.
‘Is it one of those you’re putting into the exhibition?’
Archie nodded. ‘The other paintings I’m entering in the “Images of Defiance” feature the lads digging out and manhandling bombs. This one shows them having a break before descending back into the shaft again.’
The art instructor nodded. ‘The human side of bomb disposal. What are you going to call it?’
‘It’s called The Quick Brew,’ Archie replied. ‘It’s all but done; I just want to add a couple of dabs here and there to highlight the reflection of the winter sun on the kettle and shovels.’
‘And your signature,’ said Ted. ‘Don’t forget that.’
Grasping his hands behind his back, the tutor, dressed in oversized, paint-splattered overalls and with hair that would have set Archie’s mother tutting, moved on to the next pupil, and Archie’s gaze returned to his work.
If he said it himself, and he shouldn’t, it wasn’t half bad. It showed the men as they really were each and every day: dirty, wet and tired.
He and the squad had been sent out first thing to deal with a bomb lodged alongside a granary on the River Lea in Leyton. Although it hadn’t taken them long to clear the site around it, it had taken hours to get the fuse out, thanks to Lieutenant Monkman shilly-shallying about with various bits of equipment.
Archie had already released the charge on the old pre-15 fuse when Monkman arrived. The lieutenant had only needed to take a hammer and chisel to it, and then they could have all gone home. Instead, of course, he’d muttered about getting the clock stopper and then the steamer to extract the explosives in situ. In the end, when the senior officer stomped off to phone the boffins at Woolwich, Archie had bashed the fuse out himself.
By the time they’d got back to Wanstead, after ferrying the bomb to Hackney Marshes, it was almost five so, after stripping off his protective overalls, showering and gulping down a curling spam sandwich and a stewed cuppa in the squaddies’ mess, Archie had slipped into the art class just as it started at six.
However, although his eyes now rested on his watercolour, Archie’s heart quickened as the clock above the classroom door ticked away the seconds to eight thirty, which was when the class ended.
‘Thank you, everybody,’ said Ted. ‘If you could leave the room tidy: the calligraphy class will be using it tomorrow afternoon. And I’ll see you next week.’
Taking a last look at his work, Arch
ie screwed the tops on the paint tubes and after stacking them in order, closed his paint box.
Satisfied the lock was secure, he slid the box into his old rucksack and pulled the drawstring tight. Setting it on the floor, he lifted his picture off the wooden tripod and carried it across to the drying rack.
Waving farewell to his fellow artists, Archie slung his knapsack over his shoulder and strolled out into the communal area between the second-floor classrooms.
He spotted Cathy standing by the stairwell, with a satchel over her shoulder. She was chatting to a young woman with red hair and glasses.
He studied her unobserved for a moment then, sensing his gaze on her, she looked across.
Joy flashed in her lovely eyes, setting Archie’s heart off on a gallop.
She said goodbye to her companion and headed towards him.
‘Sergeant McIntosh,’ she called, zigzagging through the people who were making for the stairs.
‘Hello,’ he said, imagining swooping her into his arms as she reached him.
‘Thank goodness,’ she said breathlessly, stopping just in front of him. ‘I was beginning to think I’d missed you, Archie. Have you got time for a quick cuppa?’
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘Good, let’s get a table downstairs before they all go.’
Trying to decide what he was most happy about: her waiting for him or the thought of gazing across a table at her for half an hour, Archie followed her down the stairs, shielding her with his body from people pushing past.
‘Grab that table by the wall and I’ll get us a tea,’ she said.
‘You will not,’ Archie replied. ‘You’ve been up since before I left, so you go and rest up a while and I’ll fetch us our drinks.’
Leaving her to nab a seat, Archie went and queued up at the counter alongside a couple of ARP wardens who were getting something hot inside them before starting their evening blackout patrol.
Having ordered their tea and added a rock cake, Archie handed over a few coppers then carried the refreshments to Cathy, who was sitting at the table.
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