A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  She looked up and gave Archie an encouraging smile.

  ‘And lastly . . .’

  Cathy’s mouth lost all moisture as everything surrounding her moved away then came shooting back.

  ‘Three works, Digging Out, Blue Sky Above and The Quick Brew by A. J. McIntosh—’

  Cathy gasped and spun around.

  ‘That’s you, Archie,’ she cheered, bobbing up and down on the balls of her toes.

  ‘Aye, it is, right enough,’ he replied, grinning down at her.

  ‘It’s you,’ she repeated.

  Without thinking she threw her arms around him.

  He didn’t move for a moment then his arms wrapped around her.

  Raw need surged through Cathy so strongly she felt faint and, although she knew she shouldn’t, she closed her eyes and revelled in the smell, the feel, the manliness of him.

  He held her there for a second, or perhaps a minute or perhaps it was an eternity, she didn’t know, but then he released her.

  Struggling to get the air moving in her lungs again, Cathy stepped back.

  They stared at each other for a moment then others crowded between them. Archie smiled as they slapped him on the back and shook his hand, but his eyes returned constantly to Cathy.

  ‘Your handsome sergeant did it, then,’ Jo whispered, as she squeezed her way through the crowd of people surrounding Archie.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ said Cathy, wanting to shove Archie’s well-wishers aside and lose herself in his embrace again. ‘Perhaps we ought to leave him to it.’

  She started towards the main door.

  ‘Cathy!’

  She turned back to see Archie pressing through the crowd towards her.

  ‘You’re nae going, are you?’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s a spread being laid on and you and Jo are welcome to stay for it.’

  ‘I’d love to, but Jo’s meeting a few friends for a drink,’ Cathy replied.

  ‘Will I see you at home later?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s been lively the past few nights, so I said I’d meet Mum at the shelter,’ she replied. ‘But I’ll be back as usual to make your breakfast before you go off to work. Congratulations again, Archie, and enjoy the evening.’

  Fighting the urge to throw herself into his arms again, Cathy turned to go, but he caught her arm.

  She looked around.

  ‘I’m really glad you came, Cathy,’ he said, dropping his hand back to his side.

  She smiled. ‘So am I.’

  He gave her that crooked smile of his. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

  Cathy smiled back. ‘Yes, until tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, here we are,’ said Jo.

  ‘At last,’ said Cathy. ‘The blooming bus was packed.’

  ‘We were lucky to get on that last one,’ said Jo.

  Having got off a number 25 outside Whitechapel station, they’d walked with the narrow beams of their pencil torches lighting the pavement in front of them to Cambridge Heath Road. They were now standing outside the Blind Beggar at the corner.

  ‘Mum’ll be in the shelter by now,’ said Cathy. ‘Are you on duty Friday?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am right through until Saturday,’ said Jo.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you in church, then,’ said Cathy.

  ‘You will,’ said Jo, her face just discernible in the dimly lit street. ‘And I hope by then you will have taken my advice.’

  Cathy gave her sister a puzzled look. ‘What advice?’

  ‘To grab that handsome Sergeant McIntosh and let him put a smile on your face,’ said Jo.

  Cathy rolled her eyes.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Jo,’ she said, trying to stop her imagination conjuring up images of her and Archie entwined.

  ‘Well, you are almost a free woman,’ said Jo.

  ‘Not until Good Friday, I’m not,’ said Cathy. ‘And besides, I can’t just go and jump on him, can I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Jo. ‘That’s what I did to Tommy.’ She kissed her sister on the cheek. ‘Say hello to Mum and I’ll see you Sunday.’

  Jo continued on towards Stepney Green.

  Tucking her collar up, Cathy walked around the corner and, keeping her torch pointed downwards, continued up the road towards the Bethnal Green shelter. Although it was dark and the street was unlit, small pinpricks of light darted across the pavement as people made their way along the street. As she passed the Queen’s Arms, where Archie and his fellow artists had a swift half after class each week, the memory of his embrace flooded back. Thinking perhaps she should take her courage in her hands and do as Jo suggested, Cathy walked under the railway arch. As she emerged, she spotted a familiar figure pushing a pram on the other side of the road.

  ‘Mum!’ she shouted.

  Ida stopped and looked around as Cathy hurried over to her.

  Peter, who was sitting on the toddler seat across Victoria’s pram, spotted her and stretched out his arms.

  ‘I thought you’d be down in the shelter by now,’ said Cathy, kissing her son’s soft cheek as she hugged him.

  ‘I would have been,’ her mother said. ‘But when the boys got home from school, your dad needed them to help him on a delivery to Plaistow and they didn’t get back until gone seven. He was on duty at eight, so he dropped us off ten minutes ago at the top of the road.’

  ‘Where are the boys?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘They ran on ahead,’ her mother replied. ‘But I told them to wait for me by the entrance. Did you and Jo have a nice evening?’

  As they strolled past Bethnal Green Gardens and library, Cathy told her mother about her evening at Whitechapel Art Gallery.

  ‘And the best of it was that Sergeant McIntosh had three pictures chosen for the national exhibition,’ Cathy concluded.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said her mother. ‘Dad said his painting were very good.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Cathy, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘You can’t blame your dad for dropping by to make sure your sergeant is on the level,’ said her mother. ‘You may be all grown up now, but you’ll always be his little girl. Now, let’s get along to the shelter so we can get these little ’uns to bed. I’m dying for a cuppa.’

  Smiling, Cathy hooked her arm in her mother’s and squeezed. ‘Me too, Mum.’

  The clock on St John’s Church opposite the Bethnal Green shelter was showing a quarter past eight by the time Cathy and her mother reached the junction with Green Street.

  ‘There’s a bit of a crowd tonight, isn’t there?’ said Cathy.

  ‘I expect that’s because the cinema down the road has just finished for the night,’ Ida replied. ‘Plus, as it’s a clear night, people know there’s likely to be a raid.’

  ‘Well, in that case, you’d think there’d be a warden around and that they would have opened both gates,’ said Cathy as they reached the square brick-made entrance.

  ‘I expect they’re here somewhere.’ Ida looked around. ‘Where are those boys?’

  ‘There they are,’ said Cathy as she spotted them loitering with a couple of other lads. ‘Billy! Michael!’

  Her brothers ran over.

  ‘Right, you two, carry these,’ said Ida, unloading the basket and blankets from under the pram and handing them to the two boys, ‘while me and Cathy carry the babies.’

  Tucking the pram alongside the railing next to a dozen or so others, Ida lifted out the sleeping baby while Cathy unclipped Peter from his seat and settled him on her hip.

  ‘We nearly lost Mr Bruno last night,’ she said, handing him his teddy. ‘So make sure you hold him tight, Peter.’

  With the two boys laden with their shelter provisions walking in front of them, Cathy and Ida joined the dozens of people streaming into the shelter.

  Squeezing through the narrow entrance, they entered the halflit interior.

  Adjusting Peter, and with her mother holding Victoria close, Cathy started to make her way down the stairs. As always, warm breath and damp clothes had caus
ed condensation to form on the cold walls, and the stone steps were slippery under foot.

  They were nearly at the bottom when, above their heads, the air raid siren let out a mournful wail. People behind them pushed forward and a woman carrying a child and her shelter provisions stumbled. She swung out to grab the side rail, knocking the old man next to her off his feet. Both were just righting themselves when a series of ear-bursting explosions swallowed up all sound and the earth shook like the devil’s hordes were breaking through.

  People screamed and surged forward into the packed stairwell. The woman holding the child went down again and others behind her tripped and piled on top of her.

  Someone fell against Cathy and she almost toppled over but managed to step down on to the next step. Someone cannoned into her, propelling her closer towards the tiled wall at the bottom of the stairs. She caught sight of the boys, pushing through the tumbling people and disappearing around the corner on to the next set of stairs.

  The earth rattled again as people pressed in on her. Trying to shield Peter from the crush, Cathy stood on tiptoes and drew breath. A woman, her mouth gasping and the whites of her eyes bright with fear in the gloom, pressed into Cathy, thrusting her forward.

  Holding Peter tight, Cathy turned as she crashed into the wall. People piled on top of her, squeezing the air from her body and pinning her against the damp tiles.

  In the half-light cast by the single 25-watt bulb, Cathy looked around. Like a grotesque medieval painting of hell, all around her were the tangled, lifeless bodies of men, women and children. The gruesome scene in front of her eyes was amplified by the piercing screams and pleading voices echoing around the tiled walls of the staircase.

  Peter stretched out for something. Cathy looked around and saw Mr Bruno had been snatched from his hand in the squash and was now trapped under a booted foot.

  As the weight pressed in on her, panic pulsed through her. Suddenly, the memory of Archie smiling down at her with those lovely blue eyes of his and saying ‘see you in the morning’ flashed through Cathy’s mind.

  Her head started spinning as blackness crowded her vision. Forcing her mind to think, Cathy dug in her elbows. Hugging Peter tight, she summoned every ounce of strength and twisted out of the suffocating crush around her. Pain tore through her as she gulped in air, her lungs aching as they expanded again.

  As the dizziness subsided and her breathing eased, Cathy frantically searched among the contorted faces and mangled bodies for her mother. She spotted Ida, clutching Victoria to her, trying to squeeze herself free from the wall of people around her and on her.

  ‘Mum!’ Cathy called out.

  ‘Take the baby!’ Ida shouted.

  Swinging around, Cathy thrust Peter at Billy who, mercifully, had come back to see what was keeping them. Now, his eyes wide with horror, he snatched Peter from his sister.

  Stepping over a woman lying white-faced and unmoving beneath an old man, Cathy dug her shoulder into someone’s back and pushed them out the way. Planting her feet wide, she reached across and took Victoria from her mother’s outstretched arms.

  Swinging around, she found Michael standing ready. She thrust the infant at him then turned back to her mother, but as she reached for Ida, the column of people around her mother toppled over as others piled on from above.

  Ida gasped and her eyes rolled up into her head.

  ‘Mum!’

  Shoving people aside and treading on arms, legs and unresponsive bodies, she reached her mother, whose head hung motionless as she lay trapped.

  High above them, the air raid wardens’ whistles pierced the air and the sound of people shouting joined the moans of those people jammed in the stairwell.

  Scrambling up to her mother, Cathy shoved an ashen-faced woman off Ida then grasped her mother’s floppy hands. Putting her foot on someone’s hunched shoulder to give her leverage, she strained back and pulled. Nothing. She pulled again and Ida slid forward. Letting go, Cathy grasped her around her elbow. Someone else grabbed Ida’s arm and Cathy looked around to see Michael beside her.

  ‘On three.’

  He nodded.

  ‘One, two, three.’

  Straining every muscle, Cathy and Michael heaved, their faces contorted with effort.

  Nothing happened for a moment, then suddenly Cathy and Michael staggered back as Ida slipped out from under the pile of the dead and dying.

  Others from below had now joined them, trying to unravel the limbs of those packed on top of each other.

  Between them, Michael and Cathy dragged Ida down the few steps to where Billy sat with Victoria in his arms and Peter between his outspread legs.

  Loosening her mother’s coat and scarf, Cathy rubbed her chest. Ida didn’t move, so, taking her arms again, Cathy pulled her upright and propped her against the wall.

  ‘She’s not dead, is she, Cath?’ asked Billy.

  Praying to every saint in heaven, Cathy leaned forward and put her face close to her mother’s. She felt Ida’s breath on her cheek.

  ‘Thank God, no,’ she sobbed, rubbing her mother’s hands. ‘Come on, Mum.’

  Ida coughed.

  ‘That’s it, Mum,’ said Cathy. ‘Take a deep breath.’

  Ida’s eyelids fluttered a little then were still again.

  Resting her hand on her mother’s shoulders, Cathy hung her head.

  Other people were now running up the stairs from below and pushing past Cathy, desperate to reach those poor suffocating souls who could be heard begging for help as they lay among the dead.

  ‘Right, boys,’ said Cathy, stirring herself back into action. ‘We’re going to have to move her. Billy, you take Victoria and Peter to our bunk while me and Michael carry Mum.’

  ’Well done again, Archie,’ said Ted, as they stepped out of the Whitechapel Art Gallery.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Archie, ‘for being such a good teacher.’

  ‘I may have taught you about paints, brushes and techniques, Archie’ – the art instructor’s long face lifted in an ironic smile – ‘but you were born with an artist’s eye for shape, form and colour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Is it half ten already?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Archie. ‘With free sandwiches and cake, no one wanted to leave.’

  Ted laughed. ‘Well, I’d better get a move on or I’ll miss the last train. Are you on your bike?’

  Archie shook his head. ‘My billet’s only a short stroll away so I think I’ll walk.’

  ‘I expect you could do with a bit of a walk to help you calm down after the excitement of the evening,’ said Ted, tucking his woolly scarf across his chest.

  Archie smiled and thrust out his hand. ‘Goodnight, Ted.’

  ‘And you,’ Ted replied as they shook.

  Turning, he walked swiftly away toward Liverpool Street station.

  Archie watched him for a while, then, ensuring his field cap was set at the correct angle, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed off in the opposite direction.

  Ted was right, it had been an exciting evening and although he was overjoyed to have had three of his works chosen for the national Home Front Exhibition, what had really made his evening was holding Cathy in his arms.

  Of course, it was only a spontaneous gesture on her part to congratulate him, but at least he now knew the pleasure of her body against his, even if the memory of it wouldn’t help him sleep.

  With a grin on his face, Archie crossed Osborne Street. He passed the bombed-out ruins of St Mary’s on his right and carried on down the High Street past the Salvation Army hostel and Whitechapel Bell Foundry.

  However, as he reached Whitechapel station, Archie heard the sound of bells cutting through the silence of the night. Two ambulances, their bells echoing between the buildings, screeched around the corner and into the front of the London Hospital on the other side of the road.

  Puzzled because he’d heard no air raid sirens, Archie picked up his pace. As he reached Cathy’s sister-in-law’s café, he spotted a
n auxiliary constable using the police telephone box outside the Blind Beggar.

  He marched over.

  ‘You all right, pal?’ he asked, as the officer replaced the receiver.

  ‘Or is there something I can do for you?’

  The constable, an older man with a fulsome moustache and unruly eyebrows, looked him over then spotted the Bomb Disposal badge on his uniform.

  ‘Not for me, son,’ the policeman replied. ‘But for those poor souls in the Bethnal Green shelter caught in the accident.’

  An icy claw closed around Archie’s heart. Cathy!

  ‘We’re not sure exactly how many fatalities there are yet, but—’

  Turning on the balls of his toes and with his heart pounding, Archie dashed off down Cambridge Heath Road.

  Dodging around an ambulance, and with the blood thundering through his ears, Archie tore across the road, then belted along the pavement, past the shrubs bordering Bethnal Green Gardens, towards St John’s Church at the end of the road.

  With his lungs on fire after the half-mile sprint, Archie swung around the corner into Green Street. He skidded to a halt as the full horror of what had happened was laid out before him.

  Ambulance crews were stretchering people away from the scene while wardens, their arms supportively around them, led people away. A couple of auxiliary policewomen were gathering a group of wide-eyed and white-faced children away from the people sitting head in hands on the kerb. However, what set his mind screaming was the row of two dozen or more mauve-tinged bodies, with small children dotted among them, lined up along the railings with coats thrown over their faces.

  No, please God in Heaven, no!

  Raking his fingers through his hair and with his heart beating wildly in his chest, Archie’s eyes darted along the row of bodies.

  Seeing none that remotely resembled Cathy or Peter, Archie closed his eyes for a second then turned towards the shelter entrance. Next to it was a haphazard pile of baskets, handbags, blankets and other personal effects, which the rescuers had thrown aside. His gaze wandered on but then Archie caught sight of something tucked beneath a battered briefcase.

  With fear gripping his chest, Archie skirted around a first-aider holding an oxygen mask over a child’s face as they lay on a stretcher, and hurried over to the case.