Bette Day’s nostrils flared a little as she topped up the cup.
It was Wednesday at about eleven thirty and the midweek service had just finished. The curate, Father Silas, had taken the service under the direction of the vicar and he’d given them a homily about forgiveness, which was all well and good but not when you had to live with the likes of Cathy Brogan.
Picking up her drink and taking a biscuit from the plate alongside, Violet turned and surveyed the room to find a free chair.
She spotted Winnie Master sitting at a table in the corner so, in anticipation of finding out whose husband was sneaking through which back door in the blackout, she started towards the part-time ARP warden.
‘Mrs Wheeler!’
She turned to see the vicar’s wife, not a hair out of place and impeccably dressed as always, homing in on her.
Violet smiled. ‘Good morning, Mrs Paget, and can I say what—’
‘May I have a word?’ she cut in. ‘In private.’
Grabbing Violet’s elbow, she propelled her across the room and back into the church.
The verger and his team were straightening the kneelers and collecting stray service books so, without pausing, Mrs Paget headed for the rear of the side chapel.
‘Is anything wrong?’ asked Violet, as they stopped at the back of the pews.
‘Wrong!’ snapped the vicar’s wife. ‘Yes, Mrs Wheeler, something is very wrong. Why wasn’t I informed that the sergeant from bomb disposal is your lodger?’
‘He’s not my lodger,’ Violet replied. ‘If it were up to me, he’d be out on his ear.’
‘Well, be that as it may,’ continued the vicar’s wife, ‘I will not have him and your daughter-in-law dragging down the reputation of my rest centre.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘And after yesterday’s little incident—’
‘What incident?’ asked Violet, her ears pricking up. The vicar’s wife frowned. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, Mrs Wheeler?’
‘Totally, Mrs Paget,’ said Violet.
Mrs Paget glanced around. ‘They were discovered . . . together.’
Violet’s eyes stretched wide. ‘No! Not . . .’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Mrs Paget. ‘Not by me, thankfully.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I had my suspicions when he started hanging around the rest centre before Christmas. I didn’t want to seem uncharitable, so I told your daughter-in-law to direct him to one of the other centres nearer to the dock where others like him hang out. But now it seems rather than do as I instructed, she’s his— I’m sorry, I’m so appalled I can’t even say the word.’
Despite heavily hinting the same to everyone in the market and beyond, Violet was pretty sure nothing was going on – she would have heard – but nonetheless . . .
‘I had heard rumours,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t want to believe that even she would sink so low.’ She covered her eyes with her hand. ‘Oh, my poor Stanley,’ she continued in a faltering voice. She looked up. ‘I imagine you’re going to throw her out of the WVS.’
‘If I had proof, I would,’ said Mrs Paget.
‘I thought you said someone found them together,’ said Violet, imagining the field day she could have telling everyone in the market tomorrow.
Mrs Paget pulled a regretful face.
‘It’s their word against his.’ Her plucked brows pulled together. ‘But believe me, Mrs Wheeler, the moment I have irrefutable proof of your daughter-in-law’s immoral behaviour, her feet won’t touch the ground and she’ll be out of the WVS.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘QUICK, CATHY,’ SAID Jo, ‘before the lights change, or we’ll have to walk back from the bus garage.’
Holding on to the upright pole on the number 25’s platform, Cathy glanced behind her. Seeing no bicycles coming up on the inside, she jumped on to the pavement.
‘Goodness,’ said Cathy as she adjusted her hat. ‘That was a bit of a mystery tour around Bethnal Green, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, better than disappearing into that crater we saw opposite the almshouses on Mile End Road,’ said Jo. ‘I bet Francesca felt that one fall last night in the café cellar.’
It was about five thirty on the first Wednesday in March and almost a month since the incident with Monkman.
Cathy and her younger sister were standing on the south side of Whitechapel High Street, just down from the pile of rubble that had, until last year, been St Mary’s Church.
The bus pulled off and people hurried past on their way home at the end of the working day. Cathy’s eyes focused on the building opposite. Its doors were wide open and a small well-heeled crowd were making their way inside the Whitechapel Art Gallery.
Her heart did a little double step as expectation bubbled around in her stomach.
‘Jo,’ said Cathy, ‘perhaps we should—’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Jo, slipping her arm through her sister’s.
‘Dare what?’ asked Cathy.
‘Bottle out,’ Jo replied. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested in art,’ said Cathy.
‘I am.’ Jo winked. ‘But I’m interested in seeing this Sergeant McIntosh of yours more.’
‘You have,’ said Cathy. ‘When you came out to fetch me back into church.’
‘That was months ago,’ Jo replied. ‘And I only just glimpsed him. So stop shilly-shallying about and let’s go.’
Jo looked both ways. Satisfied the coast was clear, she frogmarched Cathy across the road.
They handed over their coats to the girl in the cloakroom and were given a two-page black-and-white programme listing all the exhibits in return.
‘I must just spend a penny before we go in,’ said Cathy.
After doing what she had to do, Cathy studied herself in the mirror as she washed her hands.
She’d tried on and discarded three outfits before she’d settled on her navy dress with pencil skirt, three quarter-length sleeve and scoop neckline with a white Peter Pan collar.
‘You look fine,’ said Jo, joining her at the sinks.
‘Are you sure?’ said Cathy, twisting to look at her rear in the reflection.
‘I am,’ Jo replied. ‘And, before you ask, yes, your seams are straight. Now come on.’
After wiping their hands on the towel roll hanging next to the sinks, they headed out, but as they reached the entrance to the exhibition, Cathy caught her sister’s arm.
‘And just so you know,’ she said, giving her a firm look, ‘Sergeant McIntosh isn’t my anything.’
Jo grinned. ‘If you say so, Cathy.’
She trotted off into the main gallery.
Sighing and wondering if the whole evening was going to be a total disaster, Cathy followed her in.
She saw her sister gazing up at a large canvas entitled We Will Fight Them.
It depicted a platoon of rather elderly Home Guards standing on the White Cliffs of Dover, brandishing their bayoneted rifles across the Channel.
‘I bet Hitler spotted that lot through his binoculars and called off the invasion,’ whispered Jo, as Cathy joined her.
‘Behave,’ said Cathy, in the same hushed tone, suppressing a smile.
They moved on to the next painting entitled The Land Thanks You, which was an image of a farmer on his tractor surrounded by Land Girls in tan jodhpurs and green woollies, waving at a squadron of Spitfires overhead.
‘Cathy!’
She looked around to see Archie, dressed in the uniform she’d steamed and pressed for him the day before.
To be honest, since the day of the presentation Cathy had taken it upon herself to do lots of little things for Archie. Things like darning a threadbare sock she’d found in the washing or making his favourite meal if he had been out in the rain all day. However, no matter how small they were, Archie always noticed and rewarded her with his thanks and that sideways smile of his. Now he strode across the central space towards her.
‘Hello,’ he said, his eyes warm as the
y rested on her.
She smiled. ‘Hello, Archie.’
‘Have you just arrived?’
‘Yes, I’m not late, am I?’ she asked, as her gaze ran over his face.
He laughed. ‘Of course not. They aren’t doing the presentations for a while yet.’
His attention shifted and Cathy remembered her sister.
‘This is my sister Jo,’ she said.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.
‘Jo, this is Sergeant McIntosh,’ Cathy said.
‘Nice to meet you, Sergeant McIntosh,’ Jo replied. ‘Cathy’s told me a lot about you and how brilliant your paintings are.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s kind of her to say, but perhaps I should show you them so you can judge for yourself. They’re on the far wall with the rest of Cephas Street entries.’
He led them past the displays of paintings, sketches and even the odd sculpture to the rear of the gallery, where the evening class’s artwork was displayed across the back wall.
‘These are mine.’ He indicated the five large boards in the middle of the display. ‘So, what do you think?’ he added, his nonchalant tone at odds with the anxiety in his eyes.
Open-mouthed, Cathy stared at Archie’s five paintings, unable to speak as she took in the dirty, back-breaking, dangerous work of the bomb squad that Archie had brought so vividly to life in his work.
‘Oh, Archie,’ she said, running her gaze over the paintings yet again. ‘They are truly wonderful.’
He gave her a bashful smile. ‘Och, it’s kind of you to say, Cathy, but—’
‘My sister’s not being kind,’ interrupted Jo, her expression sober as she studied the works. ‘Your paintings are wonderful, Sergeant McIntosh. And they ought to be in the National not the Whitechapel Gallery.’
Jo stepped forward to take a closer look and Archie took her place beside Cathy.
‘I’m really glad you came, Cathy,’ he said in a low voice.
She looked up into his blue eyes and smiled. ‘I’m glad you invited me, Archie.’
‘Sergeant McIntosh,’ her sister’s voice cut between them, ‘do you know that three of your paintings have a highly commended card on them?’
She pointed at a red square tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of the frame.
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘I saw as much when I arrived. Even though I doubt any of my paintings will get put forward, at least I won’t go home empty handed.’
‘I didn’t know this was a competition,’ said Cathy.
‘Well, it’s not really,’ Archie replied. ‘But “Images of Defiance” is part of a series of art exhibitions being put on all over the country. Any works judged good enough will become part of a national exhibition that will be shown in town halls up and down the country as a bit of a morale booster for the Home Front.’
Something caught his eye across the other side of the room and exasperation flitted across Archie’s face.
‘I’m sorry, Cathy,’ he said, ‘Ted, who runs my art class, is beckoning me over.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Cathy. ‘You go.’
Giving her a regretful smile, he sauntered off. Cathy’s eyes followed the roll of his shoulders and hips as he went.
Jo slipped her arm through Cathy’s and guided her along the rows of artwork.
‘For goodness’ sake, Cathy,’ she said, as they stopped in front of a series of sketches featuring bombed-out churches, ‘why on earth didn’t you tell me about your Sergeant McIntosh?’
‘I’ve only seen the odd glimpse of his work and I didn’t know how good he was,’ Cathy replied, as they moved on to stand in front of a watercolour of barrage balloons.
Jo rolled her eyes. ‘Not his painting, you daft item. Him! What he looks like.’
Cathy’s gaze shifted from her sister over to where Archie was chatting to a scruffy individual with long hair and two men in pinstripe suits.
‘He is a bit good-looking, isn’t he?’ she said, as they moved on again.
‘“Good-looking”!’ said Jo. ‘He’s blooming gorgeous. Those eyes! And saints in Heaven, doesn’t he fancy you or what?’
Excitement fluttered in Cathy’s stomach.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied, pretending to concentrate on the drawing in front of her.
‘I’m not, but you will be if you don’t grab him with both hands.’ Jo winked.
‘Jo!’
Her sister laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.’
She strolled on to look at the next exhibit.
Under the pretence of looking at the catalogue, Cathy stole another glance at Archie.
He was standing with his legs apart, the snug fit of his combat trousers showing his flat stomach and muscular legs clearly. There was little room for movement in his battle jacket either, as his chest and shoulders stretched the off-the-peg uniform to its limits.
Yes, she had thought about it, and a whole lot more.
Leaving her sister, who was several exhibits ahead of her by now, Cathy walked back to where Archie’s paintings were displayed.
As she stopped in front of them again, Archie came over to join her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Ted wanted to introduce me to the Ministry of War fellas who are choosing the pieces for the round-Britain shindig.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want their job as there are lots of good pieces on display,’ said Cathy. ‘But I think yours should be among them.’ She looked at his five entries again. ‘And I’m not just saying that, Archie.’
They stood in silence for a moment then he spoke again.
‘Which one do you like the most, Cathy?’ he asked.
‘I couldn’t rightly say,’ she replied.
A group of people walked past. Archie’s arm brushed hers lightly as he moved forward out of their way.
‘But if you had to choose, which would it be?’ he asked. Thinking of the conversation she’d just had with Jo, Cathy’s heart fluttered at his nearness.
Trying to get her tumbling emotions back on to an even keel, Cathy studied his exhibits again.
‘That one’ – she pointed to the one at the far end – ‘because of the way we’re at the bottom of the dark shaft looking up at a sunny blue sky. And that one,’ she indicated the middle one of the five. ‘Because the way the men are bent over means you can really feel the weight of the bomb they’re lowering on to the truck. But I suppose if I had to choose, I’d say my favourite is the one of your squad having a cup of tea together. There’s destruction all around them and an unexploded bomb to find, but, like the rest of the nation in the middle of their fight against evil, they’ve stopped to have a cup of tea. Ordinary life carrying on regardless.’
Archie raised an eyebrow. ‘Keep calm and carry on?’
‘Isn’t that what we’ve been told to do?’ Cathy smiled up at him.
‘It’s yours,’ Archie said in a low tone.
‘Mine?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m giving it to you.’
‘But you can’t,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s so good, much too good to just give away.’
‘Well, I have, to you, Cathy,’ he said. ‘And if by some miracle I become a famous artist, you can sell it for a fortune.’
‘But—’
‘Please, Cathy,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I want you to have it.’
Open-mouthed, she stared up at him.
His expression changed, setting Cathy’s emotions tumbling again.
An ear-splitting buzz cut across the room as a man, standing beside a sculpture made from empty food cans, switched on the microphone.
‘That’s Mr Gillespie, from the Ministry of War,’ Archie whispered.
Cathy looked around and spotted her sister on the other side of the room. Jo indicated she was going to stay where she was rather than try to push through the crowd, and Cathy nodded.
Realising the speeches and presentation were about to start, those still wandering around appreciating the artwork ret
urned to the main part of the gallery. To prevent her from being jostled, Archie took up position behind her.
‘Am I on?’ asked the man from the ministry. His voice stretched around the high ceilings of the gallery and people covered their ears.
Someone twiddled a knob somewhere and the noise disappeared.
‘Right,’ he said, taking a breath. ‘Good evening, everyone, and thank you for coming to support our Home Front artists. For those of you who don’t know . . .’
Cathy tried to concentrate as Mr Gillespie explained the reason behind the exhibition and the proposed nationwide tour, but with the faint musk of Archie behind her and the feel of his chest skimming the tips of her shoulder blades, she barely took in a word.
‘And now, without further ado,’ Mr Gillespie concluded after almost ten minutes, ‘I would like to hand over the microphone to Mr Winterton, who is the permanent under-secretary to Sir Alistair St John at the Ministry of War. Mr Winterton, a world-renowned expert in the seventeenth-century Flemish school of painters, has been instrumental in getting the Home Front Art initiative off the ground. I therefore call upon him to announce the pieces of artwork chosen from the Shadwell, Stepney, Wapping and Whitechapel exhibition. Mr Winterton.’
As the audience clapped loudly, the man from the ministry stepped up to the microphone.
‘Thank you,’ he said as the applause died away. ‘Firstly, let me say what a pleasure it is to be here and what a magnificent display of creativity surrounds us, so much so that any one of the artworks shown here today would be worthy of being included for display in the country-wide Home Front Exhibition. Sadly, I can choose only a handful and they are as follows.’
He cleared his throat.
‘The All-clear by A. Hanson.’
Someone gave a whoop at the back of the gallery and there was a ripple of applause.
Cathy’s heart jumped up into her throat.
‘Watching the Skies, D. L. Mills.’
A cheer went up followed by mute hand clapping.
Another name was read out, which Cathy didn’t hear because of the blood hammering through her ears.
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