A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

‘I thought you might fancy one of these to soak up the tea,’ he said, placing the plate in front of her.

  ‘I would, if you’ll share it with me,’ she replied, as he placed the mugs on the table and sat down.

  Picking up the knobbly lump with a handful of currants dotted on it, Cathy broke it in half.

  ‘Now,’ she said, offering it to him, ‘you’ll never guess what.’

  Taking the portion of cake from her, Archie sat down and gave himself over to the pure pleasure of watching every tilt of her head, bob of her curls and the spellbinding movement of her mouth as she recounted the rest centre’s meeting that afternoon.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘I wish I’d seen you in action.’

  ‘I was ferocious,’ she said, pulling a stern face.

  Archie laughed. ‘I have no doubt about that, Mrs Wheeler.’

  ‘Thankfully I remember you mentioning your commanding officer’s name a little while back,’ she continued. ‘So I was able to type out the letter and envelope in class this evening. All I need to do is post it tomorrow and it’ll be official.’

  ‘Well now, the squaddies of the D are a fine bunch of men and they will be most grateful for your rest centre’s consideration,’ Archie replied.

  ‘And extra cigarettes, cakes and socks,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Aye, that too,’ Archie agreed.

  She smiled and the warmth of it swelled his chest.

  They stared at each other for a couple of heartbeats then her gaze shifted past him and she swallowed the last of her tea.

  ‘I didn’t realise the time,’ she said, standing up. ‘I ought to go and give Mum a hand.’

  Archie rose to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a lift?’

  ‘There won’t be enough room on your bike, will there?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, if we juggle things a bit,’ he replied.

  Cathy looked unconvinced.

  ‘I’m sure we can squash everything on,’ added Archie. ‘And it’s only five minutes up the road, after all.’

  ‘All right,’ she said after a long moment. ‘Come on then.’

  Other than half a dozen Civil Defence lorries, Archie’s motorbike was the only vehicle in the playground.

  After strapping his rucksack on the rear parcel rack, Archie grabbed hold of the handlebars and got on his bike.

  While Cathy buttoned her coat and wrapped her scarf around her, Archie kick-started the engine, revving it a couple of times to clear the carburettor.

  ‘Just step on the footrest,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of the engine. ‘Then hold on to me and climb on.’

  ‘All right,’ she shouted back, securing her satchel behind her.

  Placing her hand on his shoulder, she did as he instructed, the bike’s balance shifting slightly as she did. However, as the Tiger’s seat was no more than six or seven inches long, as she settled into the seat, her thighs pressed against his.

  Archie swallowed hard.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Hold on then,’ he called back.

  Shoving the bike off its stand, he opened the throttle and the bike rolled forward, but as it did two small hands closed around his hips, sending his already galloping pulse into a full-out stampede.

  Up until the moment she sat down on the pillion space behind Archie, Cathy’s experience of being on a vehicle with two wheels was the few occasions when she’d ridden crossbar on her brother Charlie’s bicycle. However, as they shot forward, Cathy’s initial fear of whizzing along the road at speed gave way to quite a different thought.

  With her legs spread wide and pressed against Archie’s thighs and her hands feeling the subtle movements of his body as he adjusted his position to balance them, her imagination, which seemed to constantly speculate as to what he might look like beneath his clothes, went into overdrive.

  ‘Hold on,’ he called over his shoulder as they stopped at the junction with Cambridge Heath Road to let a couple of army trucks pass.

  Under the excuse of road safety, Cathy slipped her hands around his waist and tucked herself into him. Archie opened the throttle and swung the bike across the road to join a handful of cars and a bus travelling north.

  With the wind whipping at her hair and her body pressing against his back, Cathy closed her eyes and just gave herself up to the sheer pleasure of it.

  All too soon the bike rolled to a stop and Cathy looked across at the half-bricked-up entrance to Bethnal Green station shelter.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Archie, planting his feet on the tarmac either side of the bike to keep them upright. ‘All safe and sound.’

  Standing up on the narrow metal footrest, Cathy climbed off and stood next to him.

  ‘Thank you, Archie.’

  He smiled. ‘My pleasure.’ His eyes flickered up to her hair.

  ‘I know, I must look a bit of a fright,’ she said, trying to tug her windswept tresses into some sort of order.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘But perhaps next time you might benefit from a scarf.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks again for the lift and I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night.’

  ‘You too,’ he replied.

  Repositioning her satchel, Cathy crossed the road to join the small group of people making their way underground.

  She stopped at the entrance and looked back.

  Archie was still there, astride the bike, with his long legs holding it steady.

  She waved and he waved back then he revved the engine, performed a U-turn across the street, and sped away.

  She watched him for a moment then headed down into the shelter.

  As it was now almost half past nine, people were already bedding down for the night, so she wasn’t surprised to see Peter fast asleep at the end of her bunk when she reached her mother’s billet.

  Ida was sitting in the deckchair breastfeeding Victoria, a tea towel draped across her to save her neighbours’ blushes.

  ‘I was beginning to worry,’ said her mother, as Cathy reached her.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ Cathy said. ‘I got chatting.’

  Her mother’s eyes flickered over her. ‘You look a bit flushed. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Cathy smiled. ‘Never better.’

  ‘And for goodness’ sake,’ her mother added, ‘what on earth has happened to your hair?’

  Cathy felt her cheeks grow warm.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, twiddling with a couple of curls, ‘Archie gave me a lift on his bike. Lucky he did, or I’d have been even later.’

  ‘Yes, well, at least you’re here now,’ said Ida. ‘And you’d better get yourself sorted or you’ll be brushing your teeth in the dark.’

  Taking her pyjamas and toilet bag from the basket she’d left with her mother, Cathy grabbed her dressing gown from the end of the bunk and walked along the line of bunks until she reached the washing cubicles at the end of the platform.

  Having washed, changed into her nightclothes and brushed out the tangles in her hair, Cathy poured her enamel bowlful of dirty water into the drain then stepped out of the plywood compartment just as the lights went off and on, signalling five minutes until lights-out.

  Her mother was already in bed with Victoria snuggled in a multicoloured knitted blanket at her feet.

  Cathy climbed up into her bed. After giving Peter, asleep at the other end, a light kiss on the forehead, she slid under the covers. As always, the rough cotton sheet was a little damp but that would soon go.

  The lights went out and, apart from the odd baby grizzling, the shelter fell silent.

  Cathy closed her eyes and although it was wrong, so wrong, she relived every nerve-tingling, heart-racing and need-inducing moment of hugging herself against Archie McIntosh’s strong body.

  Stroking the end of his mongoose-hair brush through the blob of Brown Madder on his palette, Archie ran the paint-loaded tip along the crooked line of Ro
n’s back as he hunched over a 500-kilo bomb, then blended it into the dull brown of the squaddie’s battle jacket.

  It was Saturday and four days since he’d given Cathy a lift to the shelter. It was also his first weekend off since Christmas, thanks to the renewed bombardment of London by the Luftwaffe.

  For once he was alone in the house: Mrs Wheeler senior was visiting her sister and had been gone since eight thirty that morning. This had allowed Archie the pleasure of watching Cathy make breakfast for him and Peter whilst all the time wishing she was doing it as his wife rather than as his landlady. Still, perhaps one day . . .

  After she’d left, he’d donned the old boiler suit he’d worn at John Brown’s shipyard and lace-less plimsolls, before setting out his equipment on the card table.

  Swallowing the last mouthful of tea, Archie swirled his brush in the water of the half-filled jam jar then wiped it on the rag lying on the newspaper-covered table.

  He stood back and studied the canvas in the afternoon light streaming through the bay window of his room.

  The image he’d been working on for the past few days was of the men bathed in the late-winter sun, unloading a bomb from their truck.

  Although he was satisfied with the composition of the group, there was still work needed to convey the weariness of the men at the end of a long day’s digging and the chill of the easterly wind cutting across Hackney Marshes.

  But it was better. Much better.

  Just because the colours of a bomb disposal crew’s day were various shades of brown it didn’t mean there wasn’t the odd splash of brightness to be found, like the red glow of the setting sun glinting off their equipment, a purple buddleia flowering in the rubble or an ox-eye daisy clinging on at the edge of a crater.

  Wiping his brush again, Archie was just about to smear it through the spiral of crimson on his palette when there was a knock on the front door.

  Archie placed the brush, with the bristles upwards, back in the brush pot and, wiping his hands on his legs, he went to answer it.

  Pulling the door open, he came face to face with a tall man, giving him the rare experience of looking someone almost straight in the eye.

  Although the last time Archie had seen him he’d been heavily disguised as Father Christmas, Archie knew who the visitor was.

  The man studied Archie for a moment then his weather-beaten face lifted in an ingenuous smile. ‘I’m thinking you must be Sergeant McIntosh.’

  ‘Aye, I am,’ Archie replied. ‘And I’m guessing you’re Mrs Wheeler’s father.’

  ‘I am indeed,’ he replied. ‘Jeremiah Brogan.’

  He offered his hand and Archie took it.

  Cathy’s father had a strong grip, but Archie’s handshake was its equal.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not in,’ said Archie.

  Jeremiah looked surprised. ‘Is she not?’

  ‘No, she went out to the market just after ten,’ Archie replied.

  ‘She said something about dropping in on her sister Jo.’

  An enlightened expression spread across the older man’s rugged face. ‘Now you mention it, I think she said something of the same yesterday.’

  ‘And her mother-in-law is out also,’ added Archie.

  Smiling pleasantly, Jeremiah Brogan didn’t move.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ asked Archie, opening the door wider.

  ‘Only if I’m not intruding on your leisure,’ Jeremiah replied, stepping over the threshold and into the hall.

  Archie closed the door.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Brogan?’ he asked, as the two men stood chest to chest in the narrow hallway.

  ‘It’s kind of you to ask, Sergeant, but no,’ Jeremiah replied, his amenable expression at odds with his intense scrutiny. ‘Cathy tells me you’re an artist.’

  Archie’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘Well, an artist might be pushing it, but I do paint a bit. In fact, I was working on a new piece when you knocked. Would you like to see?’

  ‘If it’s no trouble,’ Jeremiah replied.

  Opening the door to the front parlour, Cathy’s father strode in with Archie just a pace or two behind.

  ‘She’s done a grand job with this room,’ Jeremiah, said, as his eyes skimmed over the colourful bedspread and heavy drapes.

  ‘Yes, it’s very comfortable,’ said Archie. ‘And there’s plenty of space for my equipment.’

  ‘I can see,’ said Jeremiah as he stopped in front of the painting illuminated in the pool of winter sunlight streaming through the west-facing window.

  ‘I’m just at the preliminary stage,’ Archie said, indicating the bare sections of canvas where he’d pencilled in the truck and the team’s equipment.

  ‘It’s very good,’ said Jeremiah. ‘It puts me in mind of Paul Nash’s work.’

  ‘I’m flattered you think so, Mr Brogan,’ said Archie.

  The older man raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t seem surprised that a bog-trotting tinker should know about such a thing.’

  ‘As a half-caste Jock I’ve learned never to judge a book by its cover,’ Archie replied.

  Jeremiah gave a short laugh then glanced around the room.

  He spotted the image of Kirsty on the mantelshelf and wandered over.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘Aye,’ Archie replied, fatherly pride filling his chest. ‘That’s my bonny lass, right enough. She has her mother’s looks, God rest her soul. That’s her,’ he said, indicating the other photo, a rosary draped over the frame.

  ‘You’re a Catholic, then?’

  ‘I was christened as such, but to be honest I’m nae much of a church-goer,’ Archie replied. ‘I leave the God-bothering to me ma.’

  ‘Me too.’ Jeremiah nodded. ‘Our priest, Father Mahon, and my ma were children together back in the old country and sure you’d think he was kin the way she fusses over him.’ His attention returned to the picture of Archie’s daughter.

  ‘It’s a rare joy to be the father of girls, is it not, Sergeant?’ Jeremiah said.

  ‘It certainly is, Mr Brogan,’ Archie agreed. ‘And you more than anyone can know.’

  ‘’Tis true.’ A sentimental expression stole across the older man’s face. ‘Blessed I’ve been with four sweet darlings.’

  ‘They’re a joy, right enough,’ agreed Archie.

  ‘And the first time they wrap their tiny fingers around yours, sure don’t they capture your heart for all time?’ Jeremiah added.

  ‘You’re nae wrong,’ Archie laughed. ‘You’re nae wrong.’

  Jeremiah nodded sagely then the shrewd spark returned to his eyes. ‘As a father of a girl-child yourself, you’ll understand me when I say they may be grown and have children of their own but they are still my little girls, and from the moment I took each of my darling daughters in my arms I swore that I’d have to be mouldering in my grave before I let anyone hurt any of them.’

  ‘I would do much the same for Kirsty,’ Archie replied, answering the other man’s unwavering gaze with a forthright stare of his own.

  He stood there, eyeball to eyeball with Cathy’s father for a moment or two, then the smile returned to Jeremiah’s face.

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t be keeping you from your work,’ he said. ‘As I’m thinking between the digging them out and making bombs safe, you have precious little leisure.’

  ‘You’re nae wrong on that score either. This is my first weekend off for a month,’ Archie agreed.

  Jeremiah strolled back across the room and Archie followed him out to the hallway.

  He opened the door and, with his hands deep in his worn corduroy trousers, Cathy’s father stepped back into the street.

  Archie offered his hand. ‘Good to meet you, Mr Brogan.’

  ‘You too, Sergeant McIntosh,’ Jeremiah replied.

  He went to release his grip, but Archie held his hand firm.

  ‘And it’s good to know we are of a mind in regard to daughters.’

  Chapter Sixteen

>   WITH THE RAIN dripping off the edge of his khaki waterproofs, Archie waited for Mogg to reel the bucket of soil clear, then he grasped the edge of the wooden parapet and leaned over.

  ‘How’s it going, lads?’ he shouted, his voice echoing down the shaft.

  Fred and Tim, who were wading about in a foot of filth at the bottom, looked up.

  ‘Poxy London clay,’ Fred shouted back, teeth flashing white in his mud-streaked face.

  With mud all but covering their canvas boiler suits, Archie could understand his lance corporal’s sentiments.

  It was just after three on the last Wednesday of January, two weeks since he’d moved in as Cathy’s lodger. He and the squad were down by the Thames in Beckton, where the River Roding drained into the Thames, and right by the two Victorian cast-iron gasometers belonging to the Gas Light and Coke Company’s gasworks.

  Archie had only just finished signing off the ARP paperwork and logging last week’s work into the company’s duty book when the cat-A yellow chit had arrived on his desk.

  That was two days ago and they’d been trying to locate the ruddy UXB ever since.

  ‘Aye, well, keep at it, lads,’ Archie shouted back.

  ‘What happens when we reach Australia, Sarge?’ Tim shouted up.

  ‘Catch me a kangaroo,’ Archie replied. ‘But until then just keep wielding those shovels, boys.’

  The two men at the bottom of the shaft laughed and Archie straightened up.

  Checking the safety ropes were still anchored to the parapet and had enough slack for the two squaddies to work, he turned to see Arthur, water also dripping from his camouflage poncho, coming towards him.

  ‘Any sign of the bugger?’ he asked.

  ‘Not so much as a bloody tail fin,’ Chalky replied. ‘At this rate we’ll be digging-out till the weekend.’

  His corporal gave him a cynical look. ‘If Lieutenant Monkman had listened to you, Archie, we wouldn’t have wasted half a day tunnelling in the wrong place.’

  As an NCO wasn’t supposed to criticise officers in front of the men, Archie didn’t reply.

  Monkman had pulled up in his Rover 10 Tourer just after they’d arrived on site and, after having a bit of a poke around, had set them digging over the bomb’s entry point.