A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Archie had stripped off his shirt, which lay discarded on the floor, and he stood at the sink in his vest.

  Cathy stopped dead.

  She’d guessed by the snug fit of his uniform shirt and trousers that Archie was in good shape, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined just how muscular he’d be.

  Although she knew she shouldn’t, Cathy couldn’t tear her eyes from the corded muscles of his back, shoulders and arms as he rubbed soap rigorously around his ears and through his hair.

  His skin, too, fascinated her, so brown and, except for a light dusting of hair on his forearms, so smooth and sleek.

  Dipping into the bowl again, Archie splashed water up and over his face, allowing tiny rivulets to trace along his arms as Cathy’s fingers itched to do.

  Sensing her behind him, he turned, giving Cathy’s eyes a second helping of his strong, well-developed body, including the muscles of his chest visible over the top of his vest.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, smiling at her as he dabbed his face with the towel. ‘I didn’t hear you come back in.’

  Swallowing, Cathy forced a casual smile.

  ‘I have your clean clothes,’ she said, somewhat needlessly as she was holding them in plain sight.

  Not trusting herself to get any closer to him, Cathy draped them over the back of the chair.

  Flicking the towel over his shoulder, Archie took two steps towards her and picked them up.

  Now, just an arm’s length from him, Cathy found herself gazing up into startling eyes. Except they weren’t their usual icy blue, they were darker, much darker.

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on again; shall I make us a cuppa?’ he asked, in a low voice that shivered through her.

  Although every bit of her wanted to say yes, Cathy shook her head.

  ‘I’d better not,’ she said. ‘Peter will have me up at six and I’m helping Dad at the yard tomorrow.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re always going somewhere and doing something.’

  ‘Well, it keeps me out of trouble,’ Cathy replied, the temptation to do the opposite tugging at her.

  She stared up at him for a moment then dragged her mind back from its wandering.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning,’ she forced out.

  ‘Aye, you will,’ he said, still looking down at her.

  ‘And I am very sorry about your friends.’

  ‘There is a war on, I suppose,’ he replied.

  ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier.’ Without thinking, she placed her hand on his arm.

  As she felt the muscles flex under her fingers, an emotion Cathy couldn’t quite interpret flashed across Archie’s face.

  He glanced down at her pale hand against his brown skin, then his eyes returned to her face.

  She forced a smile. ‘Goodnight, Archie.’

  ‘Sleep well, Cathy,’ he replied.

  Forcing her legs to move, she turned and walked to the door.

  Shutting it behind her, Cathy leaned back against it. In the cool dark hallway, she took a deep breath to steady her tumbling emotions.

  Sleep well! Some chance, she thought, as her heart thumped like a bodhrán in her chest.

  Hardly surprising really because, although she couldn’t explain exactly why, as he raised his gaze from her hand, Cathy had the oddest impression that she was about to be kissed.

  And she wanted to be kissed by Archie. Very much so. And not just once but over and over again.

  Pulling his battle jacket down at the front and raking his fingers through his unruly curls, Archie knocked on the half-glazed door that had been the headmaster’s office.

  ‘Come.’

  Grasping the brass handle, he opened the door and walked in.

  It was the following morning and as soon as he’d stepped over the threshold an hour ago at eight, Corporal Will had come scurrying out of the general office to tell him he was to report immediately to the Section Commander’s office.

  Major Williamson was sitting behind the oak desk with a pile of files and reports in front of him and with various charts and rotas pinned on the wall behind him. The officer in charge of No 8 Bomb Disposal Section had a sallow complexion and a face that seemed to be slipping off the bone beneath. His once ruddy red hair had long faded to cadmium orange, except for his overhanging moustache, which was stained mustard from the pipe permanently clenched between his teeth. As always, he was wearing his formal khaki jacket with the crown on his shoulder epaulettes and a string of campaign ribbons across his chest.

  He’d seen service during the last war in the Royal Engineers and had spent most of his time on the Western Front. He’d volunteered to return to his old company as soon as war was declared and had been put in charge of the newly formed bomb disposal unit.

  Having received his first command when the British Army still wore red jackets, Williamson was a bit of a spit-and-polish type of commanding officer. However, he was even-handed and fair when it came to the duty roster and time off, which is more than could be said for some Archie had served under.

  He looked up from his tasks as Archie entered.

  ‘McIntosh,’ said Williamson, putting his pen back in the inkwell.

  Archie marched across to the desk and executed a double step to attention. He saluted. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Stand easy.’

  Catching his hands together behind his back, Archie took up a relaxed stance.

  Making the chair creak with his movement, the major leaned back.

  ‘Bad business about your two men,’ he said. ‘Wood and . . . ?’

  ‘Conner, sir,’ said Archie.

  ‘How is Conner?’

  ‘Lucky to be alive,’ Archie replied. ‘Although I doubt he’ll be returning any time soon.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said his commanding officer. ‘Falling into a camouflet is usually fatal.’

  ‘It was for Wood,’ Archie replied, as the image of Fred’s lifeless and mud-streaked face flashed in his mind.

  ‘It’s the carbon monoxide left after the bomb explodes that’s the problem,’ said the officer, puffing on his pipe.

  ‘Aye, I know right enough,’ said Archie. ‘Your blood soaks up the gas and it clogs your vital organs.’

  ‘Although Monkman tells me you acquitted yourself well.’

  ‘Did he, sir?’

  ‘He did,’ said Williamson, his heavily lined face lifting into a rare smile. ‘Quite the hero of the hour pulling young Conner out—’

  ‘I just did what needed to be done,’ Archie cut in.

  ‘Even so, it was a bad business. Bad business all around.’ The major puffed noisily on his pipe. ‘Of course, no one could have known there was a damn camouflet just under the surface, could they, Sergeant?’

  ‘With all due respect, sir,’ Archie replied carefully, ‘there was evidence that indicated there might have been one lurking under the surface, as I pointed out to Lieutenant Monkman at the time,’ said Archie. ‘And I’d like that noted in your rep—’

  ‘Of course, McIntosh, but I think it’s pretty clear that it was an accident and I’m sure when HQ review the incident they will find the same,’ interrupted Major Williamson, his eyes studying Archie from beneath his shaggy brows. ‘A terrible accident that was no one’s fault.’

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, with the greatest respect, I can’t agree with that,’ said Archie. ‘In my opinion Lieutenant Monkman’s nerve has gone and he is a danger to himself and to others, and I shall be putting in a complaint to that effect.’

  Anger flashed across Williamson’s face. ‘Men who volunteer for Bomb Disposal know the dangers, Sergeant.’

  ‘Aye, they do,’ agreed Archie, ‘but the men are in danger enough from the enemy’s attempt to kill them without them having to risk the same from their officers.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s your right, Sergeant,’ said Williamson, ‘but I call it a bad show. A damn bad show.’

  Archie held his commander’s gaze but didn’t reply.

  T
he large clock hanging over the door ticked off a few seconds then Williamson sat forward.

  ‘Very well,’ said Williamson, taking up his pen again. ‘Now, on to other matters. I believe D Squad are representing the Section next week at this WVS rest centre thing.’

  ‘We are, sir,’ Archie replied.

  ‘Good, well, make sure your men behave themselves,’ said Williamson.

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Archie replied.

  ‘And as you’ve got to have an officer at this sort of thing, I’m sending Lieutenant Monkman too,’ Williamson continued. ‘He was shaken up in the mess last night after what happened yesterday, so this might cheer you all up. You know, remind him why we do this job.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Pressing his lips together, Archie’s gaze returned to the point just above his commanding officer’s head.

  Williamson looked down and started scribbling on the paper in front of him.

  ‘That’ll be all.’

  Archie stood to attention and saluted the top of his commanding officer’s head, then he turned and quick marched out of the office.

  With the soft lilt of the Manchester Light Orchestra drifting out of the wireless on the dresser, Violet sank her teeth into the second triangle of her mid-afternoon sandwich.

  The strawberry jam between the slices of national bread oozed out on her tongue. Thinking it was worth every bit of the two shillings she’d slipped Willy Tugman, Violet closed her eyes and savoured its sweet fruitiness.

  It was about three thirty in the afternoon and she had arrived back from the church’s bric-a-brac fundraising sale for Jewish refugees some thirty minutes ago.

  Surprisingly, instead of the usual tat there were a few nice items, like embroidered dressing-table doilies, wicker baskets and papier-mâché waste bins. She hadn’t bought anything, of course, because as Stanley always said Jews were money-grabbing enough without doling out charity to them.

  However, she’d shown her face so, Christian duty done, she was now sitting in the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea in front of her and her naughty little indulgence.

  And it was no more than she deserved for being forced to live under the same roof as Cathy and her loathsome lodger.

  A sour expression twisted Violet’s mouth at the memory of the low murmur of her daughter-in-law and the darkie sergeant’s voices in the kitchen that morning as she was getting dressed upstairs.

  She couldn’t hear what they were saying but when she came down she could see them smiling and laughing with each other. Disgusting!

  Taking another bite of her sandwich, Violet licked a dollop of jam off her lower lip. As she rolled the sticky sweetness around in her mouth, she felt a little jab of guilt but brushed it aside because sugar was bad for children’s teeth.

  She took a sip of tea and was just getting ready to take another bite when she heard the back gate squeak open followed by heavy wheels rolling over gravel.

  Cramming the rest of the sandwich in her mouth Violet threw a mouthful of tea after it then jumped up. She grabbed the plate and jam-covered knife and plunged them into the sink. Wiping her mouth on the tea towel she flicked it back over the drying rail above the stove.

  The back-door handle rattled.

  Lunging at the table, she just managed to grab the jar of Hartley’s jam and put it behind her back as the door opened and Sergeant McIntosh, with a deep scowl on his face, strode in.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs Wheeler,’ he said, looking at her from under his furrowed brow.

  ‘You look like you’ve had a bit of a rough day,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, you could say that,’ he replied, unbuttoning his sheepskin jerkin.

  ‘Well then, I’ve just made a fresh pot and a cup of that will perk you right up,’ she suggested.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It will take more than tea to do that,’ he replied, raking his fingers through his hair. ‘But if it’s not too much bother it might help a bit.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all.’ She gave him her syrupiest smile. ‘Could you pass me the milk?’

  Hanging his tatty biking jacket on the hook behind the door, he turned towards the fridge.

  Violet’s kind expression vanished and she swiftly placed the pot of jam on the chair she’d just vacated.

  Holding a bottle of milk in his hand, Archie turned back.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, crossing the room and taking it from him. ‘You sit yourself down.’

  He pulled out the chair on the other side of the table from her and did as she suggested.

  Satisfied that her secret was out of sight, Violet went back to the dresser and took a mug from the shelf.

  ‘I thought Mrs Wheeler junior might be back from the rest centre by now,’ Archie said, as she poured the tea.

  I bet you did, thought Violet, remembering the shameful way he looked at her daughter-in-law.

  ‘She’s probably popped into her mother’s,’ Violet replied. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  Violet turned back, only to find he’d slipped his battle jacket off and over the back of his chair. Her eyes narrowed because not only had he loosened his tie but he’d unbuttoned his collar too, something Stanley would never have done in her kitchen. There was also a copy of that disgraceful Communist rag the Daily Mirror on the table.

  Forcing a smile, she placed his drink in front of him.

  ‘I hope it’s how you like it,’ she said.

  ‘As long as it’s wet and warm it’s fine by me.’

  Under the pretext of tucking her skirts under her, Violet took hold of the pot of jam and sat back down opposite him.

  Wedging the jar between her thighs, she picked up her half-drunk cup of tea.

  ‘How are you settling in, Sergeant?’ she asked, placing both elbows on the table.

  ‘Well enough, now I’ve got the lay of the land.’ He took a sip of tea and then tapped the newspaper beside him with his finger. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen the papers today, Mrs Wheeler, but Montgomery is poised to retake Tripoli.’

  A pained expression formed on Violet’s face.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t read the newspapers any more, not since . . .’ Taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed beneath her right eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is there any news of your son?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She forced a plucky smile. ‘But I’m certain there will be any day now.’

  He smiled sympathetically but didn’t reply.

  She wasn’t surprised.

  Anyone with half an eye could see that he was after getting his feet right under the table, into Stanley’s shoes and his bed.

  Let him!

  Because Sergeant McIntosh would be smiling on the other side of his face when Stanley came home. He’d sort him and that slut of a daughter-in-law out good and proper.

  ‘It seems like only yesterday when he and dear Cathy got married.’ Violet sighed. ‘You should have seen her, Sergeant. She was such a lovely bride.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he replied flatly.

  ‘It was the day before war broke out.’ A blissful smile spread across Violet’s face. ‘Such a happy day and such a tragedy that two people so much in love should have been torn apart so soon.’

  ‘So many have,’ he replied.

  ‘Did my daughter-in-law mention that my Stanley was chairman of the British Peace League before war broke out?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘In fact, she doesn’t mention her husband all that much at all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Violet, slipping her hand beneath the table to adjust the jar between her aching thighs. ‘She adored Stanley and it must be too painful for her to talk about him. Of course, with his asthma he could have had a medical exemption but not Stanley. Too patriotic, you see. He’s no shirker, not like those bloody conchie cowards.’ Pausing, Violet applied the handkerchief to her eyes again. ‘Even if he does get the medal his commanding officer has put him forward for, it
won’t ease dear Cathy’s broken heart, will it?’

  Something flickered in the back of the sergeant’s eyes, but his pleasant expression didn’t falter.

  Swallowing the last of his tea, he stood up. ‘If you’d excuse me, Mrs Wheeler, I’ve a letter from my mother that is in need of a reply.’

  ‘Of course.’ She gave him her sweetest smile again. ‘As we’re living under the same roof it’s nice to have the chance to get to know you a bit better, Sergeant.’

  He picked up his cup and took a step towards the sink.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ he said, continuing across the kitchen.

  With her mind focused on the jammy knife in the sink, Violet started to rise but as she did the glass jar slipped from her grip and bounced on her foot.

  She stood up and looked down just in time to see it roll out from under the table across the lino and come to a stop against Sergeant McIntosh’s army boots.

  With her eyes glued to her black-market jam, Violet watched as he reached down and picked it up.

  He studied the jar for a moment then a contemptuous expression spread across his face.

  He offered it to her and wordlessly Violet took it.

  With his gaze still on her he lifted his jacket from the back of his chair.

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Wheeler,’ he said, picking up the newspaper. ‘I certainly do know you a whole lot better after our little chat.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘ALL RIGHT, LADS,’ said Archie, striding into No 8 Section of North East London Bomb Disposal company’s barrack room. ‘Let me have a wee squint at you to make sure you’re fit to be seen in decent company.’

  The half a dozen men lacing their boots, knotting their ties and Brylcreeming their hair left their tasks and stood at ease at the end of their khaki-covered beds.

  Archie, too, had recently emerged from the tiled shower room and had donned his freshly pressed uniform and parade boots in readiness for the squad’s afternoon jaunt.

  Pulling down the front of his parade jacket, he walked over to where his men stood ready for inspection.

  Chalky snapped to attention as Archie stopped in front of him.

  ‘Had your hair cut, Sarge?’ he asked, as Archie gave him the onceover.