Queenie crossed herself and Father Mahon did the same.
He chuckled. ‘You know, sometimes when I look down from the pulpit at Jeremiah’s brood, I’m still surprised that none of them inherited Fergus Brogan’s fiery red hair.’
Queenie didn’t comment.
‘Now,’ he said, holding his cup poised in front of him, ‘apart from filling up two pews every Sunday, what else have they been up to?’
Between mouthfuls of tea and biscuits, Queenie told him the latest news from Charlie in North Africa. She updated him on Mattie and her two and told him how little Victoria had put on three ounces the week before. Jo, like everyone else in the Civil Defence, was working twelve-hour days, which she didn’t mind at the moment because Tommy had been sent back to Bletchley for a couple of weeks, and Billy and Michael were making good progress at Parmiter’s. He didn’t ask her if she was still reading the tea leaves, which was a good thing because it saved her from lying and him from having to pretend he believed her.
‘And blessings upon blessings,’ she concluded, ‘Francesca had a darling little girl, just as I said she would. Six pounds three ounces, which is a good weight for a first born.’
‘Are they both well?’
Queenie nodded. ‘Ida and Mattie are pitching in, looking after Patrick and doing a bit of housework. Francesca’s named her Rosa after her mother.’
‘And what about Cathy?’ he asked, when she’d finished.
‘Sure, she’s been down too, with Peter, to do the washing,’ Queenie replied.
‘I meant with her husband still missing,’ said Father Mahon.
‘She’s holding up,’ said Queenie.
He studied her for a moment then spoke again.
‘I know it’s not the happiest of marriages, but she should be praying for his return. After all, he is her husband,’ he said.
‘’Tis true enough, Father, but you saw yourself what her face looked like after the last time he was home, so, wicked though it is to say, I’d be glad to dance on his grave. And don’t look at me like that, Patrick,’ she continued, seeing the old priest’s shocked expression. ‘You can give me a hundred Hail Marys until eternity, but I’ll never say different. Having endured the same myself, I’d suffer the fires of hell if I stood by and let it happen to one of mine. And if it wasn’t for respect for yourself and the Holy Virgin, I’d have summoned up the fairy folk and spirits from the old country to curse Stanley Wheeler’s devil soul before now.’
Patrick Mahon, being a man worthy of his calling, tried to maintain his censorious expression but, after a moment or two, he let out a long sigh.
‘Again, Queenie, you probably have the right of it.’ Placing his empty cup back on the tray he looked across at her. ‘And though I’d never tell the Pope should I ever meet the man, after almost fifty years of ministry, I’ve found that right and wrong isn’t as easily identified in everyday life as we’re taught it was in the Seminary.’
Leaning back, the old priest’s still bright eyes studied her for a moment then he spoke again.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how as you get older you forget what you had for breakfast but can remember things from years ago as clear as if they happened yesterday?’ he said.
‘That you do,’ she agreed.
‘This time of year, there would be sweet new grass growing in the meadow along the edge of the Brannon,’ he said, his gaze growing misty as he spoke.
‘And old man Finnigan’s herd feeding on it,’ Queenie agreed.
‘And the bluebells,’ he continued. ‘Do you remember the bluebells?’
‘That I do,’ Queenie replied, remembering them bobbing above her head in the soft spring breeze as she lay in the shade of a crab apple tree.
Father Mahon smiled and then his almost transparent eyelids fluttered down. She waited but after a few moments, thinking perhaps he’d dropped off to sleep, Queenie swallowed the last mouthful of tea and put her cup down on the tray next to his.
He opened his eyes and looked across at her.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it? God and his flock have filled my life for almost fifty years and, other than the monthly letters from my sister Bernadette back home, I’ve rarely thought of the life I left behind.’ Father Mahon’s grey-green eyes, so like Jeremiah’s, became soft as he looked across at her.
‘Do you ever think how things might have been, Philomena?’ he said softly. ‘The family we might have had?’
‘Now and again, Patrick,’ she replied. ‘But we can’t go back.’
‘No, we can’t go back.’ He gave a breathy little chuckle. ‘You know, talking about my sister, a couple of times recently your Cathy has put me in mind of Bernadette at the same age.’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘SLEEP TIGHT,’ SAID Cathy, kissing Peter on the forehead. ‘Mummy will come to bed later.’
Peter stuck his thumb in his mouth and, hugging Mr Bruno to him, closed his eyes.
Straightening the covers over him again, Cathy crawled backwards out of the Morrison shelter. Rocking back on her heels, she stood up and straightened her skirt.
It was the first Thursday in April, April’s Fools day, in fact, and four weeks since the horrific night in Bethnal Green shelter. The signature tune of ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ was drifting through from the kitchen, making it just before seven o’clock.
Cathy had just finished her new bedtime routine of putting Peter to bed in the Morrison shelter, which her father and Jo’s husband Tommy had spent all of one Sunday afternoon putting together for her. It was a reinforced steel box with mesh sides, into which she’d squeezed the double mattress from her bed for her and Peter to sleep on.
It now sat squarely in the middle of the back parlour and during the day, as the accompanying leaflet advised, she draped a flowery tablecloth over it and used it as a table.
Turning down Peter’s night light, Cathy walked back into the kitchen. Violet, who was filling her hot-water bottle from the kettle, looked around as she walked in.
As always at this time of night, she was wrapped in her dressing gown with her hair full of curlers.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just let Stanley come down to the shelter with me,’ said Violet as she forced the stopper in.
‘If you don’t know that by now, Vi, then there’s not much point in me explaining it,’ Cathy replied.
Cathy walked across to the dresser. Reaching up to the wireless on the shelf above, she turned the volume knob to full.
‘And you’ve got a bloody cheek having that great monstrosity in the middle of my parlour,’ shouted Violet, as the Airforce Band blasted out ‘The Six Five Special’ through the wireless’s woven grille. ‘You wait until my Stanley hears about this. And he will.’
Lifting the lid of the saucepan, Cathy threw a pinch of salt into the chopped cabbage she’d prepared earlier and then did the same to the peeled potatoes.
‘Don’t think I don’t know you’re counting the days until Easter,’ her mother in-law bellowed.
Cathy didn’t deny it. It was twenty-two days to be precise!
Singing along, she took the kettle her mother-in-law had just emptied and refilled it under the tap then placed it back on the gas ring.
Violet gave her a sour-faced look and then her eyes shifted to the two chops sitting on the plate beside the cooker.
‘I suppose that’s for you and him,’ she said.
‘If you mean Sergeant McIntosh, yes, it is,’ Cathy replied, feeling a little ripple of excitement pass through her.
‘How come he has pork chops and all I got for supper was a couple of grizzly bangers with a scrap of potato?’ asked Violet.
‘Because Sergeant McIntosh pays eight shillings a week, that’s how come.’ Cathy gave her a sweet smile. ‘If you fancy a couple of chops, why don’t you ask Willy Tugman to slip a couple into your basket alongside the rest of the stuff you get from him under the counter.’
Giving Cathy a look that could have sliced stone, her mother-in-l
aw stormed through the back door.
Reaching up, Cathy turned the music down and glanced at the clock as she lit the gas under the vegetables.
Five past seven.
With the clocks going forward a couple of weeks ago, the evenings were getting lighter and spring was well and truly around the corner.
Although it was half an hour until blackout, Cathy stretched up and closed the blinds then turned on the light.
The 40-watt bulb dangling from a cord overhead spluttered into life, filling the kitchen with a mellow light.
She glanced at the back door her mother-in-law had just stormed out of. Knowing very soon Archie would be walking through it, Cathy felt a little ripple of excitement run through her again.
It was also four weeks since Archie had first taken her in his arms and into his bed and she’d almost lost count of the number of times he’d done so since.
Water spilled over one of the saucepans with a hiss and as Cathy turned down the gas to a simmer, she heard the squeak of the side gate opening.
Taking a knife, Cathy scraped a knob of lard on to the blade and flicked it into the frying pan on the front ring. She watched it melt for a moment then laid the chop in it.
The door opened and Archie, wearing his sheepskin jerkin over his battle dress, strolled in. Cathy’s heart did a little double step.
Truthfully, it always would because she had a love for Archie that would last a lifetime and beyond.
‘Just in time,’ she said, placing the second chop into the sizzling fat.
‘Good, because I’m starving,’ he replied, hooking his outer jacket up on the back of the door.
She laughed. ‘That’s what you say every night.’
Taking off his riding gauntlets, Archie locked the door. He hooked the key on the nail hammered into the wall next to it and strolled over.
‘That’s because I am.’ Standing behind her, his arms wound around her waist, he drew her close. ‘And not just for food.’
He kissed the sensitive spot just behind her ear and planted feathery kisses down her neck.
Cathy leaned into his hard chest for a second then straightened up and pushed him away.
‘Archie McIntosh,’ she said, ‘will you nae control yourself, mon, and sit doon?’
Grinning, he gave her a noisy kiss on the cheek and let her go.
‘I see you’ve been working on your Scottish accent, then,’ he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
Cathy pulled a face and turned the chops over.
‘Good day?’ she said, moving them around in the fat with the slicer.
‘Not bad, I suppose,’ he replied, as he unbuttoned his jacket and eased back in the chair.
As she dished up their supper, he told her about what he’d been up to.
‘Of course,’ he concluded as she put their plates on the table, ‘it’s all very well waiting for the scientists at Woolwich to come up with a fix for this new Y fuse, but if the Germans start hitting cities again before we know how to deactivate it then all hell will break loose.’
‘Is there no sign of it being figured out?’ she asked, sitting down opposite him.
‘I think someone might have come up with something,’ he replied, picking up his cutlery. ‘Someone from HQ is coming down to give us a briefing next Wednesday.’ He cut off a portion of meat. ‘What about you? What have you and Peter been up to?’
As they ate their meal, Cathy ran through her afternoon at the rest centre and how Peter was learning his colours, then, as they worked their way through their bread-and-butter pudding, she told him about her visit to Francesca to see her newest niece, Rosa.
An odd smile spread across Archie’s lips when she’d finished.
‘What?’ asked Cathy.
‘I was just thinking this is how it’s going to be,’ he said, scraping the last of his pudding from the bowl. ‘You and me, sitting across a table at the end of the day.’
Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Boring old Mr and Mrs McIntosh.’
Leaning across, he took her hand.
‘Aye, perhaps, but happy,’ he replied, his eyes full of love.
Cathy smiled. ‘Yes. Happy. Very happy.’
They gazed at each other for a long moment then Cathy withdrew her hand.
‘Tea?’ she said.
‘I wouldnae mind,’ he replied.
Cathy stood up and reignited the gas. She went to take two mugs from the dresser but before she could reach up for them, Archie’s hands encircled her waist. Turning around within his grasp, she looked up and saw the now-familiar glint in his blue eyes.
‘I thought you wanted tea,’ she said, giving him a look from under her lashes.
‘I did,’ he replied, in a low voice. ‘But now I fancy something else.’
He nudged her with his hardness and a slow smile spread across Cathy’s lips.
‘Well, then,’ she said, reaching across and flipping off the gas switch, ‘the tea will have to wait.’
A chill roused Cathy from wherever it was she’d drifted off to and her eyes blinked open. Sitting up, she looked around. Archie was sitting stark naked on the chair with his sketchpad in hand.
‘What’s the time?’
‘No more than ten thirty,’ he replied. ‘I had a wee peek at Peter not ten minutes ago and he’s fast asleep.’
Cathy relaxed back on to the pillow. ‘I thought for a moment I’d overslept.’
He grinned. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve hours yet.’
His gaze returned to his drawing pad.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Just a wee doodle,’ he replied, skimming his pencil across the paper. ‘Now put your arm back behind your head.’ Raising his eyes, Archie smiled. ‘Please.’
Cathy adjusted her position as requested.
Archie’s gaze ran slowly over her again before his attention returned to his work.
Without moving her head, Cathy looked across at Archie.
Well, after all, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
He was sitting with his right ankle resting on his left knee with the drawing pad leaning against his thigh, which gave her an interesting view of things. The soft light from the standard lamp above him accentuated the muscular curve of his shoulder and arm as his hand moved across the paper.
The desire that had been sated only a while before bubbled up in Cathy again.
She had to be honest. The thought of posing naked for Archie had crossed her mind more than once in the past couple of weeks, but imagining it was just a pale imitation of the emotions pulsing through her at the moment.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, pausing to study his work for a moment, ‘I might start looking for a place. Unless you want to wait until . . .’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘He will have been missing for six months in just over three weeks.’
He smiled. ‘If you’re sure—’
‘I am,’ Cathy cut in.
If the Red Cross hadn’t located Stan by now, they never would.
‘Where are you thinking of looking?’ she asked, shoving all niggling thoughts of her loathsome husband from her mind.
‘I thought the other side of the Mile End Road,’ he continued, his eyes returning to his work. ‘I spotted some nice little houses just off Globe Road.’
‘Well, as soon as you find somewhere, we’ll move in,’ said Cathy. ‘And then you can bring Kirsty down to join us. I can’t wait to meet her.’
Pausing in his work, Archie looked up.
‘I’ll be fetching Ma, too,’ he said, studying her closely.
‘Of course you will, Archie,’ said Cathy, smiling back at him. ‘And I look forward to meeting her, too.’
His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘You do know how much I love you, don’t you?’
A lazy smile spread across Cathy’s face. ‘I think you might have mentioned it.’
They gazed at each other for a couple of heartbeats, then Archie’s pencil returned to the paper
.
Cathy settled back again and studied the man she loved as, with a slight frown across his brow, his skilled hand moved the pencil across the paper.
Three weeks and a day and it would be Good Friday: she would be free. Free to marry Archie and start her life over again.
A slither of cold air from under the door rippled over Cathy and she shivered.
‘There’s a draft in here,’ she said.
Archie’s eyes flickered on to her breasts and he grinned.
‘I can tell.’
Looking over at him, Cathy’s mouth lifted slightly at the corners and his blue eyes changed from being an artist’s to a lover’s in an instant.
‘Do you want to take a look?’ he asked, lifting the drawing pad and putting his foot back on the floor.
Swinging her legs off the bed, Cathy strolled across to where he sat.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, holding the sketch so she could see it.
Tilting her head, Cathy looked down at the drawing and studied herself through Archie’s eyes.
It was her but not as she thought of herself, a tired mother running from pillar to post just to keep food on the table and a roof over her head. Here, she was a desirable woman who was loved.
‘Do I really look like that?’ she asked, noting the heavy shading of her nipples and pubic hair.
Throwing the pad on the floor, Archie’s arms wound around her and, in one swift move, he sat her astride his lap.
‘Better,’ he replied, as his hands ran over her stomach and cupped her breasts. ‘Much better.’
Arching her back, Cathy closed her eyes, ready to give herself up to Archie’s embraces, but as she did, the chair beneath them creaked.
Rocking forward, Archie rose to his feet and, with Cathy’s legs firmly wrapped around him, he took her back to the bed.
Waking with a start, Violet Wheeler’s eyes flew open and the dark dream at the edge of her consciousness disappeared before she could focus it in her mind. But, in truth, she didn’t need to because it was the same one that had brought her awake with a start ever since the letter informing her that her Stanley was missing in action had arrived.
A Ration Book Daughter Page 29