But he wasn’t dead.
She knew that, as sure as breath still moved in and out of her body, but in just a few weeks, as far as the world was concerned, he would be, and then her hateful daughter-in-law would get off scot-free.
Scot-free, despite the callous way she treated her, despite christening little Stanley Peter, a popish name if ever there was one, despite installing a lodger in the front room of her house, but most of all, despite being the reason her Stanley was in the army in the first place.
Contemplating the brutal retaliation her son would inflict on his worthless wife when he returned, Violet relished the raw hatred swirling around in her mind for a moment longer and then she switched on the bedside lamp.
Placing her hands on her chest, Violet took a couple of deep breaths and gazed up at the corrugated metal of the Anderson shelter above her head.
Many of her neighbours only took shelter in their back-garden bunkers when the air raid siren sounded, however, air raid or no air raid, Violet trundled down to her refuge each night regardless.
It was no hardship because, as thoughtful as ever, her Stanley had kitted it out with her comfort in mind. He’d installed a pipe chimney so she could use the paraffin camping stove by the door to make herself a brew. In addition, he’d run an electric cable from the house for the bedside lamp and wireless to keep her company.
Violet’s gaze shifted to the photo of Stanley, surrounded by a silver frame, hanging on the wall opposite. Unlike most mothers, who displayed images of their male offspring dressed in their uniform, Violet had chosen a picture of her Stan dressed in his best suit with his hair slicked back as he smiled out of the picture at her.
Well, not her, but the photographer who’d taken his wedding-day photograph just over three and a half years earlier on 2 September 1939. The day everything went wrong. The day he’d tied himself to Cathy Brogan.
The rage that simmered constantly at the thought of her daughter-in-law started to bubble in Violet, but she damped it down.
Stanley wasn’t dead and when he came home that bitch of a wife of his would be laughing on the other side of her face.
Feeling her heart beating beneath her hand and knowing it would be a good half an hour before she could settle back again, Violet swung her legs out of the bed.
The midnight news summary would be on soon so, putting on her candlewick dressing gown, Violet turned the dial on the small Bush radio.
As the valves warmed into life, Violet lit the gas under the half-filled kettle on the camping stove and spooned tea into the pot. However, as she picked up the milk bottle, she misjudged the distance and knocked it over instead.
Pressing her lips together, Violet glared at the milk as it disappeared into the crack at the edge of the shelter. Stepping into her shoes and wrapping her dressing gown around her, she unhooked the back-door key from the nail and opened the shelter door.
Although chilly, the night air was clear, with a hint of spring in the twinkling stars above. After making use of the lavatory and wondering why, given it was such a perfect night, there hadn’t been an air raid, Violet unlocked the back door and walked into the kitchen.
Going to the refrigerator, she opened it and was just about to head back to her garden shelter when she heard the faint sound of Cathy moaning.
Putting the bottle of milk on the table, she opened the door to the hallway and listened. Her daughter-in-law moaned again but this time a deep male voice groaned too.
With her heart beating wildly in her chest and stepping carefully around the loose floorboards, Violet crept forward, the gasps and grunts echoing around the empty hallway.
Stopping in front of the front parlour, Violet’s mouth pulled into a hard line as she listened to her slut of a daughter-in-law and her sergeant fornicating.
Rage and hatred flared up so ferociously that black spots exploded around the edge of Violet’s vision. Her hand went to the door handle but just before she grasped it, she paused.
In the dark hallway, a malevolent smile spread across Violet’s face and she withdrew her hand. After all, there was more than one way to skin a cat.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘EAT YOUR BREAKFAST, Peter,’ said Cathy, pulling the grill out and turning over the four slices of national bread. ‘We’re off to see Auntie Muriel soon.’
Picking up a blob of scrambled egg, her son placed it in his mouth.
‘Good boy,’ Cathy said, smiling across at him as he sat in his highchair.
Like every other Tuesday, she was dressed in her WVS uniform ready for a long day manning the second-hand clothes section. And if Friday was anything to go by, she’d be rushed off her feet.
With the arrival of warmer spring days, there had been a flurry of mothers swapping their children’s winter clothes for summer ones. On top of which, thanks to the efforts of the Royal Navy, many more merchant ships were making it across the North Atlantic, so the supply of parcels from the generous citizens of Canada and America had almost doubled.
But then, today wasn’t like any other Tuesday and tomorrow wouldn’t be like any other Wednesday. In fact, no day was the same any more because of Archie.
He had changed her days and her future.
With a small smile lifting her lips, Cathy pulled out the grill again and, using the tips of her fingers, removed the toast. Dropping it on a plate, she moved the frying pan from the back of the stove to the front. As she lit the gas, the kitchen door opened and Archie walked in.
‘Morning,’ she said, her heart doing a little dance at the sight of him. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Aye,’ he replied, his blue eyes capturing hers. ‘After a bit of rolling about. You?’
‘I had a very satisfying night, thank you,’ she replied, cracking an egg into the frying pan.
He blew her a kiss then turned to Peter.
‘Good morning, General,’ he said, snapping to attention and saluting the lad.
Giggling, Peter put his hand flat on his forehead in response.
‘You’re looking a bit dapper this morning,’ said Cathy, adding a rasher of bacon to Archie’s plate.
Archie pulled down the front of his battle jacket that she’d pressed for him the day before.
‘I thought, as the captain and scientist from HQ were coming to tell us how to deal with the new fuse, I’d better make an effort,’ he replied.
A chill trembled through her.
She knew what his job involved and, like every other woman whose love was putting their life on the line to keep them safe, most of the time she could deal with it, but sometimes, just sometimes, when she lay in his arms, the fear of losing him was almost unbearable.
Damping down her bubbling fear, Cathy gave him a bright smile. ‘Well, you look very smart.’
Giving her a look that sent her pulse racing, he dropped his jerkin over the back of the nearest chair and strolled over.
‘And you,’ he said, placing his hands around her waist, ‘look utterly beautiful.’
Archie’s right arm wound around her while his left hand smoothed up her spine.
Placing her hands on his hard chest, Cathy glanced at the back door. ‘Archie, you shouldn’t, what if old face-ache walked in?’
‘Let her,’ he replied, drawing her into his embrace. ‘I don’t care. She’ll know soon enough and so will everyone else and then,’ he kissed her again, ‘you won’t have to slip away in the wee small hours. And I’ll be waking up with you beside me every morning.’
‘Yes, you will,’ she said, yearning for the day.
‘And anyway,’ he added, ‘we’ll hear the key.’
‘But—’
His mouth stopped her words and Cathy gave herself up to the magic of his lips and embrace for a moment, then, remembering the sizzling frying pan, she pushed him away.
‘Stop it,’ she said half-heartedly.
‘You didn’t say that last night, as I recall,’ he said, drawing her back into his arms. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact, because I distinctly
heard you tell me to—’
‘Archie!’ Suppressing a smile, she gave him a hard look.
‘All right,’ he said, raising his hands and stepping back. ‘That’s the look that any sensible man would take heed of.’
Turning off the gas under the frying pan, she left the stove but as she reached up to collect their plates, Archie grabbed her again and turned her around.
‘But unfortunately, I’m no a sensible man.’
‘Archie, I said—’
His mouth covered hers again.
She yielded for a moment then she shoved him away, giving him another exasperated look.
He raised his hands again but this time he backed away properly.
‘That’s better,’ she said, straightening her clothes. She smiled. ‘And there’s tea in the pot.’
She turned back to the stove but as she manoeuvred Archie’s fried eggs on to the buttered toast, she caught a whiff of fried fat, causing the bitter taste of bile at the back of her throat.
Cathy swallowed it down and, taking a deep breath, dished up Archie’s breakfast.
Archie had just finished pouring them both a cup of tea as she returned to the table.
‘Thanks, that looks delicious,’ he said, smiling up at her as she placed a plate with two fried eggs on toast and a rasher of bacon in front of him.
She kissed his forehead then sat in the chair next to him. ‘Then eat it before it gets cold.’
He picked up his cutlery. ‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘I had a bit of toast when I made Peter’s before you came through,’ she replied.
Archie nodded. Spearing a chunk of fried bread on his fork, he dabbed it in an egg yolk. ‘I meant to say—’
The sound of the key rattled in the back door.
It opened and Violet, wrapped in her dressing gown and with curlers in her hair, walked in.
Her gaze flitted from Cathy to Archie and back again.
‘Good morning, Mrs Wheeler,’ said Archie, scraping the last of his egg up with the remaining wedge of fried bread and popping it in his mouth.
She didn’t reply, but instead stood clutching her water bottle to her chest.
Downing his last mouthful of tea, Archie placed his cutlery together on his empty plate and pushed it away.
‘Well now, bombs and fuses wait for no man,’ he said, standing up.
Taking his sheepskin from the back of the chair, he shrugged it on. Then, pulling a serious face, he saluted the toddler again.
Peter waggled his spoon at him, flicking a blob of egg into his hair in the process.
Archie looked across at Cathy. ‘I’ll see you tonight, Mrs Wheeler.’
‘Yes, have a good day. Oh, I managed to get my hands on a couple of onions yesterday,’ Cathy said, bringing him back to the present. ‘So it’s liver and onion casserole tonight.’
‘That sounds grand,’ he replied, pulling his cycle gauntlets from his pocket. ‘See you tonight.’
Cathy smiled. ‘Yes, see you tonight.’
With a last look at her, Archie opened the door and stepped out of the house.
Ignoring her mother-in-law, Cathy started clearing away Archie’s used plate and cup.
With Violet’s hateful stare boring into her back, Cathy laid them in the enamel bowl and sprinkled soap flakes on them.
‘Hurry up, Peter,’ she said pleasantly, pouring water from the kettle into the bowl. ‘Then we can go to see Auntie Muriel.’
Taking Peter’s old vest that served as a washing cloth from behind the tap, Cathy wiped it over the plates.
Behind her she heard the catch of the door to the hallway click shut as Violet left the room.
Resting her hands on the edge of the sink, Cathy’s shoulders sagged for a moment.
The opening bars of Vera Lynn’s ‘It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow’ drifted out from the wireless.
Cathy raised her head and gazed out of the window at the early-morning sunlight.
It wouldn’t be a lovely day tomorrow but as soon as she had the letter declaring Stanley officially dead, she could start her new life with Archie, the man she would love into eternity. She smiled. Just seventeen short days.
‘So as you can see, gentlemen,’ said Captain Newitt, tapping the chart hanging on the wall beside him with the end of the pointer, ‘a Y fuse is a real beauty and it’s only thanks to one being recovered intact from a bomb on the Bakerloo Line a few weeks ago that we know how they work.’
It was just before twelve thirty and Archie was sitting in one of the classrooms in the Bomb Disposal School at the Duke of York’s HQ on the King’s Road.
The officers and other NCOs like him were scribbling away in notebooks, all desperate to get back to their job of saving British lives and infrastructure but also to avoid blowing themselves up in the process.
However, despite being squashed in a room with forty others for the past three hours, as an engineer, Archie couldn’t help but admire Germany’s latest invention. It was, as the captain said, a real beauty. With three mercury tilt switches in gyroscope formation, which would trigger the detonator at the slightest move, it was genius, except for the fact that it was specially designed to blow bomb disposal personnel to kingdom come.
‘So, we’ve told you the bad news,’ continued Captain Newitt. ‘After lunch we’ll be looking at how you’re going to defuse the little blighters. Dismiss.’
Archie rose to his feet and stood to attention as those around him did the same. They stood silently until the officer and his assisting lieutenant had left the room and then the men stood easy and started milling about.
The officers, who had commandeered the best seats by the window, pushed past the NCOs and headed out to the officers’ mess on the top floor of the building. Monkman was among them. As he passed, he looked across at Archie and his eyes narrowed.
Since they had clashed on the day of the presentation, when Monkman had molested Cathy, Archie had done his best to keep out of the lieutenant’s way. This hadn’t been difficult given they’d been more or less stood down until the scientists at Woolwich figured out how to deal with these new Y fuses. However, now Archie and the rest of the company would soon be back digging up and defusing bombs, avoiding his senior officer would prove more difficult.
Archie matched his hostile stare.
Monkman held his unwavering gaze for a couple of seconds then looked away and walked on.
‘Cor blimey, if it ain’t that miserable old haggis,’ a voice said from behind.
Archie turned.
‘Stormy,’ said Archie, offering his hand to the ruddy-faced Londoner with wiry ginger hair. ‘So the Boche haven’t got you yet, then?’
Sergeant Ernest Gale, who like Archie had been tinkering with bombs from the start of the Blitz, held up his left hand minus a little finger.
‘They tried.’ He took Archie’s hand. ‘Where’re you stationed now?’
‘Wanstead. You?’
‘Hackney, just up from Shoreditch church,’ Ernie replied. His eyes flickered on to Archie’s sergeant’s stripes. ‘I see we’ve both moved up in the pecking order.’
‘Aye,’ said Archie. ‘But then if you’ve survived six months tinkering about with thousand-kilo bombs with hair-trigger fuses, you’ve got more experience than some of these wet-behind-the-ears officers they churn out in this place.’
‘Too right,’ said Ernie. ‘But never mind all that, how are you?’
‘I’m fair,’ Archie replied.
‘Still painting?’
Archie told him briefly about his three works touring in the Home Front Exhibition.
‘And yourself? How are you and the family faring?’ asked Archie. ‘You’ve three boys, I recall?’
‘I did have,’ Ernie replied. ‘But me and Ethel have got four kiddies now. Just before Christmas. Little Linda. And she’s already got me wrapped around her little finger. What about your . . . ?’
‘Kirsty,’ said Archie. ‘She’s a fine young lass. At school now
and writing her old dad a letter a week.’
Ernie whistled through his teeth. ‘They do grow fast, don’t they?’
‘Too fast,’ Archie agreed, as the familiar ache for his daughter made itself known.
Ernie gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Must be hard with her up there and you down here.’
‘It is, but she and Ma are joining me soon.’ A wide smile spread across Archie’s face. ‘I’m getting married.’
‘You old dog, Archie,’ Ernie said, slapping him on the upper arm. ‘When?’
‘In about six weeks. To Cathy,’ Archie added, the sound of her name swelling his chest.
‘Well, good luck to you both.’ Ernie glanced at the door. ‘I’d better catch up with my lot before they scoff everything.’
‘Aye, but it’s good to see you, Ernie,’ said Archie.
‘You too,’ said Ernie, slapping him on the arm again. ‘And good luck again.’
Ernie turned and joined the sea of khaki making its way towards the door.
Feeling ready for whatever it was on the canteen menu, Archie picked up his notebook and followed but as he stepped into the corridor, he noticed Monkman loitering at the bottom of the stairs.
Archie strolled towards the double doors of the canteen but as he came abreast of him, Monkman stepped into his path.
‘What do you think you’re bally well playing at, McIntosh?’ Monkman forced out between his teeth, looking up at Archie.
‘I don’t know you’re meaning, sir,’ he replied.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘No, sir!’ barked Monkman. ‘And stand to attention when a superior officer is addressing you.’
Archie pulled himself up to his full six foot two inches.
‘No, sir,’ he replied, looking coolly down at the lieutenant.
‘I’m talking about this bloody complaint you had the nerve to put in about the unfortunate camouflet accident,’ Monkman said, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth.
‘With all due respect, sir, it wouldn’t have happened if you’d taken note of—’
‘I know what this is about,’ the lieutenant cut in. ‘It’s about that business with your bit of skirt. It’s your way of getting back at me.’
A Ration Book Daughter Page 30