Mastering his temper, Archie’s eyes bored into him
‘If you’d bother to check the date of my complaint, you’d know I lodged it a full week before you molested Mrs Wheeler, sir,’ said Archie as the corner of Monkman’s left eye started to twitch. ‘And it was an accident that should never have happened. A good man with a wife and family died and another who’d not yet reached his majority is crippled for life because of your actions.’
Monkman took a long draw on his cigarette.
‘Very sad I’m sure, but there’s a war on. Men die. It’s as simple as that, which is why it was thrown out,’ he said, smoke escaping from his mouth and nostrils as he spoke. ‘And I don’t know what you’re bellyaching about, McIntosh. The men have been replaced.’
Pressing his hands to his thighs to stop them grabbing the lieutenant by the throat, Archie gave him a glacial look. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘N . . . n . . . no it will not,’ Monkman stuttered, the twitching nerve working overtime. ‘In the army, men should know their place, especially’ – he looked Archie up and down – ‘damn half-breeds, even if they’ve got stripes on their arm.’
Although his jaw clenched, Archie’s expression remained impassive as he counted slowly to ten in his head.
Monkman’s angry eyes studied him for a minute or two then he spoke again.
‘Dismiss.’
Standing to attention, Archie saluted then turned on his heels to march to the canteen, but after a couple of steps, he stopped.
‘By the way,’ he said, turning back to face Monkman, ‘if I had my way, I’d be dealing with a man who attacked a woman by offering him a square-go before pasting the pavement with him, sir.’
Chapter Twenty-five
FASTENING PETER’S TOP button, Cathy gave him a quick kiss and then straightened up.
‘Say bye-bye to Auntie Muriel,’ she said, taking his hand.
Peter waved at the matronly woman helping a little girl put a dress on her dolly. She waved back and Cathy walked him out of the nursery and through into the playground.
As it was just after four thirty, there were already a number of Cathy’s fellow WVS volunteers putting their toddlers and babies into prams ready to set off home after their stint at the centre. Older women without dependent children were just arriving to man the canteen and, if there should be an air raid, stand ready to receive people bombed out during the night.
Locating her pushchair under the bike shelter, Cathy lifted Peter in and fastened his blue leather straps.
Kicking off the brakes, she leaned on the handle and manoeuvred the pushchair on its back wheels past the tangle of prams and out through the Catholic Club’s gate.
Picking up her pace, Cathy mingled with the other people heading home after a long day. She caught sight of the clock above the jeweller’s shop showing ten to five. Just three hours and Archie would be home. Of course, now she didn’t head off to the shelter each evening at five, she had to suffer Violet for a few hours each night, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Archie had already found them a little house off Globe Road and was just waiting for her to see it and say yes before he sought permission from his HQ to move in. It was a guinea a week, a bit steep for a three-up three-down house, and it would take a big chunk out of Archie’s four pounds, ten shillings wages. However, it had a basement, which could be reinforced, and a small garden, and although she’d lose the Army’s widow pension, once they were married Archie could claim the married man’s allowance for two dependent children and a wife.
Cathy turned into Senrab Street. As she approached the house, she noticed a huddle of her neighbours chatting excitedly and laughing, with Violet at their centre, as they milled around outside her front door.
‘Here she is!’ shouted Mrs Jolliffe, the red-faced woman who lived opposite, as she spotted Cathy approaching.
From among the bevy of women, her mother-in-law’s eyes fixed on Cathy and a smug smile lifted her thin lips.
‘Tell her, Violet,’ said Ethel Basset, who lived two doors down.
‘Tell me what?’ asked Cathy, as her mouth went dry.
Like the Red Sea before Moses, the crowd of neighbours parted as her mother-in-law glided through the small crowd.
Violet held up a telegram. ‘Stanley’s been found.’
Cathy gripped the handle of the pushchair to steady herself as the ground beneath her feet threatened to rise up and meet her.
‘Can you believe it?’ said someone.
‘And after so long,’ added another, as Violet’s words screamed around her.
A hand rested on her shoulder. ‘It’s a miracle.’
‘Isn’t it marvellous, Cathy?’ asked Mrs Sutton from across the road.
Cathy stared at them, open-mouthed, unable to think or speak.
A sentimental expression spread across Violet’s face.
‘I think she’s a bit overwhelmed.’ Stepping forward, her mother-in-law placed a hand on Cathy’s arm. ‘But you can stop worrying now, dear,’ she said, her artless expression giving way to a smug one. ‘You’re not going to be a widow after all.’
*
The last rays of April sunlight were tinting the west-facing upper window pink when Archie steered his Triumph around the corner and into Senrab Street. Slowing the bike to a halt, he put his feet to the ground and cut the engine.
It was now almost eight and a little later than he’d anticipated as the training session had run over. Understandable, really, because the German’s new Y fuse was nothing like they’d encountered before so the boffins had had to develop the technique for disarming it from scratch. And after what he’d seen today, Archie hoped he wouldn’t be encountering one any time soon.
Yawning, he stepped off the bike. Grasping the handlebars, he rolled it down the side alley and through the back gate. Pulling it on to its stand, he pulled the tarpaulin cover over it and headed across the small yard to the back door.
Imagining Cathy waiting for him, Archie opened the door and found only Mrs Wheeler senior in the kitchen.
He glanced at the clock.
‘I know I’m usually tucked up in my little bunk by now but . . .’ She gave him a sweet smile. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Er, no, thank you,’ he replied. ‘Where’s Mrs Wheeler?’
‘She’s just settling little Stanley down for the night,’ she replied. ‘She’ll soon be—’
The door opened and Cathy walked in, hollow-eyed and with the colour all but gone from her face.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
Looking bleakly across at him, Cathy opened her mouth but didn’t speak.
‘She’s a bit emotional,’ said Violet chirpily. ‘And who can blame her after getting such happy news?’
Archie looked puzzled. ‘News?’
Mrs Wheeler’s smile went from sweet to syrupy and she looked at Cathy.
‘Do tell him, dear,’ she said.
With her gaze locked with his, Cathy found her voice. ‘The Red Cross have found Stanley.’
Archie looked at her incredulously. ‘What?’
‘Yes, isn’t it marvellous?’ Violet chipped in. ‘Of course, they aren’t sure exactly where he is just now, but as soon as they locate him and inform the Ministry of War what POW camp he’s being held in’ – her eyes narrowed as they slid from Archie to Cathy and back again – ‘I’ll be writing to him to tell him all about everything that’s been going on.’
Somewhere about a mile or so away an air raid siren went off.
‘Oh,’ said Violet, her bright smile returning to her face. ‘That’s my cue to get into the cosy little shelter.’
She went to the stove. Archie and Cathy stared wordlessly across the room at each other as she filled her hot-water bottle from the kettle. Jamming the stopper on, she turned to face them.
‘Well, that’s me done,’ she said, smiling at them both. ‘Have a nice evening.’
Tucking the rubber bottle under her arm,
she opened the back door and left.
As the key turned in the lock, tears welled in Cathy’s eyes and her face crumpled.
‘Archie,’ she sobbed, reaching out for him.
Throwing his gloves on the kitchen table as he passed, Archie crossed the space between them and gathered her into his arms.
Archie woke with a start. Finding the space beside him in the bed empty, he sat bolt upright.
He looked around and saw Cathy naked and standing by his easel in the bay window.
She was holding his sketchpad and looking at the drawing of her he’d done a few days before. She opened the curtains, allowing the mellow April sunlight to flood into the room.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Five thirty!
She’d usually slipped in beside Peter in the Morrison shelter long before now.
Hearing him move, she turned and smiled.
She was still a little red around the eyes but as they rested on him, they were filled with happiness and love.
‘Morning,’ she said, turning to face him as naturally as Eve in the Garden of Eden. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day?’
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ he said, taking note of the pattern of the sunlight on her body. ‘When did you wake up?’
‘About an hour ago, I suppose; it was still dark,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Are you all right, sweetheart?’ he asked.
She hadn’t been and had sobbed for a full fifteen minutes after her mother-in-law had left them. Feeling helpless and as if someone had ripped out his innards, he had just held her close.
Rather than give voice to their feelings, they’d expressed them by making love with such desperation it had left them both drained of every emotion. The last thing he remembered was holding her in his arms, studying every inch of her beloved face as she slept, after which he too had fallen into a fitful but dreamless sleep.
Cathy’s smile widened. ‘Never better. I lay there watching you sleep for a while then I got up and opened the curtains to see the sun rise. I also thought I’d see how you’re getting on with this.’ She turned the image towards him.
‘And what do you think?’ he asked.
‘I think you’re very talented to have created something as beautiful with just a pencil and a sheet of paper,’ she replied.
‘Aye, but I had a beautiful subject,’ he said, running his gaze appreciatively over her. ‘And I’ve been working on it.’
‘I can see,’ she replied. ‘You’ve added in shading to show the curves and roundness of my legs and hips, and the way you’ve caught my likeness is . . . well, it’s as good as any photo.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ he said. ‘I was thinking of using it as a basis for a watercolour portrait.’
He waited for her to object; after all, it had started as just a doodle between themselves, but now the colours he would need to create Cathy’s fair skin tone, the golds, reds and browns he could employ to bring out the myriad tones of her hair and the berry blush of her mouth, kept flashing into his mind.
Cathy’s eyes returned to the sketchpad.
‘You know, Archie, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, still studying his work. ‘Stan being alive, I mean. And it doesn’t matter either that we can’t be married. I don’t care. I don’t care what people say or what they call me. I don’t care about any of that as long as you love me.’
Letting the bedcover fall from him, Archie stood up.
‘I do, Cathy.’ He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘God in heaven knows, I do.’
Cathy raised her head, her eyes locked with his.
‘I know, and I love you just as much,’ she said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I’m your wife, Archie. And we’re going to move into the house off Globe Road with Kirsty and your mother. In time, please God, instead of just the four of us we’ll be six or seven, or even more. We’ll be married in all the ways that matter and if someday we can sign a bit of paper that says we are, then we will, if not . . .’ She shrugged. Her gaze returned to his drawing for a moment then she turned it around so he could see his own work. ‘I love this sketch. I really do. And do you know why?’
‘Tell me,’ he said, walking over to her.
‘Because this is me,’ she replied, looking up at him as he stood before her. ‘Not the stupid little girl who was so intent on being the prettiest bride and getting one over on her elder sister by walking down the aisle first that she was blind to the violent brute she was marrying. But me now, Catherine Celia Brogan, who loves and is loved by you, Archie James McIntosh, a man worth ten of any other. So, if you want to make this sketch into a painting six foot high and display it in every gallery in the land then I’d be glad to stand beside it. As I’ll be glad to stand by you for the rest of my life.’
Feeling as if his heart was going to burst with love, Archie stared down into Cathy’s stunningly beautiful face for a moment.
Taking his sketchpad from her he dropped it on the floor, then, with his eyes locked on hers, his arms wrapped around her slender waist.
He drew her to him as desire and need pulsed through him, mingling with overwhelming love.
In one swift movement, he swept her into his arms, intent on taking her back to the bed, but his second stride kicked his sketchpad under it.
‘Your drawing,’ Cathy said, looking over his shoulder at it.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, lowering her on to the bed and covering her with his body. ‘I’ll get it later.’
Chapter Twenty-six
‘AND THIS IS the kitchen,’ said Archie, as Cathy, holding Peter’s hand, followed him out of the back parlour and into the rear of the empty house. ‘I know it’s not as big as the one you’re used to, but—’
‘No, it’s fine, Archie,’ said Cathy, looking around. ‘It’s about the same size as my parents’ and there’s a larder. Plus, there’s room for a table and a nice view of the garden, which is east facing. It will have the sun all morning so I can dry the washing.’
It was just about ten thirty in the morning and the Monday after they’d found out Stan was alive, and they were standing in a three-up three-down house in Alderney Road around the corner from Stepney Green station.
As Archie had been working all weekend, they had taken advantage of his first day off in two weeks to look over the house he’d found for them. Although he was off duty, he was still on active service, so he was wearing his uniform. However, Cathy had discarded her WVS uniform for a red sweater and tartan slacks, and was a little disconcerted to find she’d put on weight since she’d last worn them – it had been a struggle to fasten the button.
The house Archie had found for them was in a row of Victorian terraced houses, so it was almost exactly like her childhood home, but the layout was the mirror image of her parents’ home. Facing the road and with the stairs immediately in front, to the left was the best parlour with a bay window and its original Victorian wrought-iron fireplace. Behind this room was the everyday parlour with French windows opening on to the concrete patio at the side of the kitchen. However, at the end of the hall there was an additional scullery with a window that looked out on to the square of yard. After passing through the scullery you reached the kitchen that ran down the side, where they were now standing.
Peter wriggled in her grasp, so she let go of him and he stomped around, punching his arms back and forth and making chuff-chuff sounds.
Going over to the sink, she looked down into it.
‘It could do with a bit of a going-over with a Brillo Pad and some Vim,’ she said, glancing at the brown rings around the plughole. ‘But there’s an Ascot.’ She indicated the white enamel cylinder fixed to the wall beside her. ‘So no more boiling water to wash.’
‘And plenty of hot water to bath the children in front of the fire on Fridays,’ Archie added. ‘Of course, we’ll have to buy a cooker before we move in, but I thought we could have a dresser there.’ He indicated the space next to where the gas fittings jutted out from the
wall. ‘And maybe a couple of cupboards there.’ He pointed at the gap below the small side window.
‘Good idea,’ Cathy replied.
Taking a step forward, she gazed around the room again. ‘Shall we look upstairs?’
Archie smiled. ‘After you, madam.’
‘Let’s go and look at your new bedroom, Peter,’ she said.
Peter stopped racing around the empty space and ran back into the hallway.
‘Wait for us!’ she shouted, as she and Archie hurried after him. Peter was already on the bottom step, picking at the loose wallpaper, when they reached him.
‘Up we go, lad,’ said Archie, taking his hand.
As her son hung on to Archie and took big strides up the stairs, Cathy followed behind until they reached the square landing at the turn of the stairs.
‘I thought this could be Peter’s room,’ said Archie, pushing open the door to reveal a small box room.
Peter thundered in and Cathy strolled after.
‘Peter, how would you like to have this as your bedroom?’ she asked.
Her son rushed to the window and jumped up and down to see out, raising dust under his Start Rite shoes.
Cathy smiled at Archie. ‘I think he likes it.’
‘And the other two are up top,’ said Archie, striding out of the room.
Peter went to run after him, but Cathy caught his hand and followed.
Taking the half-dozen stairs two at a time, Archie went to the top landing.
‘I thought Kirsty could have the back room,’ he said, as Cathy reached him.
Letting her son run into the empty room she poked her head around the door and inspected the second bedroom.
‘We’ll have to get an electric fire for her and Peter’s rooms, but both are more than big enough to take a single bed and wardrobe.’
‘And this,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her into the large room at the front of the house, ‘is ours.’
This room sat over the front parlour and it, too, had a bay window. Also like the lower room, the old-fashioned wrought-iron fireplace was still in place. However, unlike downstairs, floor-to-ceiling cupboards were fitted into the alcoves on either side of the chimney breast.
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