‘Right, let’s get started,’ Monkman said, the large Perspex lenses of his goggles making him look like some oversized insect.
Stretching his fingers in his gloves, Archie picked up the canister of liquid oxygen and unscrewed the lid. A wisp of chilly vapour spiralled out. Monkman crouched down again and Archie handed it to him.
Grabbing it between both hands, Monkman tipped the canister and dribbled the freezing liquid into the clay reservoir that Archie had secured around the fuse.
A frozen cloud gushed up.
Monkman coughed as it caught him in the back of his throat and a drop spilled on the bomb’s casing.
Archie held his breath, but mercifully nothing happened. Monkman resumed trickling the freezing fluid on to the deadly fuse.
With his eyes fixed on the lieutenant, Archie stepped carefully around to the other side of the bomb. He hunkered down, knowing it was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-eight
‘THERE WE ARE, Peter,’ said Cathy, as he wriggled out of his jacket. ‘You’re just in time for Afternoon Storybook.’
She indicated the half-circle of children sitting cross-legged in front of Mrs Morgan, one of the nursery helpers, who had a book open on her lap.
Peter trotted off to take his place with the other children, but as Cathy went to hang his coat up on his allocated hook, Sally Mullens, a mother of two whose husband was in the Merchant Navy, hurried over.
‘I hope you’ve got your tin hat with you, Cath,’ she said. ‘Mrs Paget arrived about an hour ago with a face like a smacked arse, and she’s been biting people’s heads off ever since.’
‘What’s happened to bring her in on a Wednesday?’ said Cathy.
Sally shrugged. ‘Search me, but she’s been on the phone to Regional HQ ever since. I expect you’ll find out at the meeting.’
‘Meeting?’
‘Yes, she wants to see all the heads of department in the small committee room at eleven,’ Sally explained.
Cathy glanced at the clock on the wall, which showed ten fifty.
‘Well, I’d better go and get myself a cuppa before it starts,’ she said.
Leaving the nursery, Cathy crossed the corridor to the main hall, where the smell of boiled cabbage filled the air. Thankfully, since her early-morning visit to the outside bog, her stomach had behaved itself. However, after doing a quick bit of arithmetic, she’d realised that the last time she’d seen Aunt Flo was over two months ago and as she and Archie had been lovers for six weeks, her mother-in-law was right. There was something new to write to Stanley about.
Smiling at the possibility of Archie’s baby growing within her, Cathy got herself a mug of tea from the canteen and then made her way down to the small committee room as the clock in the hallway started to chime the hour.
Turning the door handle, Cathy walked in.
Mrs Paget, dressed in her tailored WVS uniform, was sitting in her usual place at the head of the table and Sally was right. She did indeed have a face like a smacked arse. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pulled into a tight bud when she saw Cathy standing in the doorway.
Taking a sip of tea, Cathy squeezed herself into a seat at the opposite end of the table between Lena Wilcox, who was in charge of the laundry, and Milly Pearson, the overseer of the home dinner deliveries to the elderly.
Cathy gave them a querying look as she sat down and they both looked blank.
As the last couple of section supervisors settled themselves around the table, Cathy acknowledged her friends with a smile. Then Mrs Paget cleared her throat and stood up.
‘Thank you all for coming at such short notice and I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here on a Wednesday morning instead of celebrating mid-week Eucharist,’ she said. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for the fact that this morning a very grave matter was brought to my attention. A matter so dire that if not dealt with firmly now, it would destroy all the much-needed war work we’re doing here. A matter,’ Mrs Paget’s hard eyes ran around the table, ‘of immorality and depravity.’
There were gasps and whispering around the table as the blood in Cathy’s veins seemed to drain to her feet.
Mrs Paget let the muttering die down and then fixed her gaze on Cathy.
‘One of our number, who you regard as a respectable wife like yourselves, has been carrying on an adulterous relationship with—’
‘Are you talking about me, Mrs Paget?’ asked Cathy, rising to her feet.
‘I am, Mrs Wheeler,’ she replied.
Somehow, despite her rising temper, Cathy managed to maintain her cool expression.
‘I wouldn’t listen to gossip, if I were you,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘Certainly not when it comes from my mother-in-law’s mouth.’
A triumphant smile slid across Mrs Paget’s face and, bending over, she retrieved Archie’s sketchpad from beside her chair. With her gaze fixed on Cathy, she flipped over a few pages and turned the pad around.
‘But it isn’t just gossip, is it, Mrs Wheeler?’ she replied, holding the pad so everyone could see Archie’s drawing of Cathy.
Again there were gasps and mutters as people recognised the nude subject, then a dozen pairs of eyes went from the sketch to Cathy and then back to the sketch.
There were giggles and a few furtive glances cast Cathy’s way as she stared at the arrogant woman at the opposite end of the table.
Fury burned through her and for a couple of seconds the urge to run and hide swept over her, but she shoved it aside.
Pulling her shoulders back, she raised her head and matched the other woman’s bald-faced stare.
‘You do know it’s a criminal offence to handle stolen property, don’t you?’ she said, giving the vicar’s wife a glacial look. ‘And that sketchbook you’re holding belongs to someone else.’
‘So, you don’t deny it?’ said Mrs Paget. ‘You don’t deny that you are in an adulterous relationship with that sergeant who lodges with you?’
‘No, I’m not denying it,’ Cathy replied. ‘In fact, I’ll tell you straight, seeing how you seem to be making my business your own: I’m setting up house with Archie McIntosh and although it’s a little early to be sure, I hope I’m also carrying his baby.’ She smiled. ‘But I’m sure my dear mother-in-law has already told you that.’
Mrs Paget’s eyes bulged as an unhealthy flush crept upwards from the white bow tied at her throat.
‘We’re fighting this war to preserve England and its values,’ the vicar’s wife hissed. ‘One of those values is the sanctity of marriage. You took a vow, a sacred vow, to forsake all others, and you have broken that vow to both God and your husband.’ Mrs Paget’s eyes narrowed to pinpricks of malice. ‘I’ve spoken to HQ and they agree with me: in view of the circumstances, you are no longer welcome as a volunteer helper at this rest centre.’
The women around the table again looked shocked but this time there were angry faces among them and murmurs of ‘no’, ‘that’s not fair’ and ‘you can’t do that’.
Stepping out from behind the table, Cathy walked past the wide-eyed, open-mouthed women to where Mrs Paget was standing.
Looking into Mrs Paget’s flushed face, Cathy held out her hand.
The vicar’s wife held Cathy’s unwavering gaze for a moment then threw the sketchpad on the polished surface of the committee table.
‘You should hang your head in shame for this,’ she sneered.
Cathy picked it up.
‘Well, I’m not,’ she said, carefully closing the pages. ‘Quite the opposite. I’m proud of the picture and to be loved by Archie McIntosh, and I don’t care what you or anyone thinks.’
Tucking the sketchpad under her arm, Cathy turned and, under the sympathetic eyes of her friends and fellow section leaders, walked out of the committee room.
‘If you could have seen her face, Mum,’ said Cathy. ‘For all her pious talk about the “sanctity of marriage” and “vows”, she was just relishing the chance to get back at me.’
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‘For what?’ asked Ida, deftly securing the nappy around Victoria’s nether regions while balancing her on her lap.
‘For stopping her giving the good toys that had been donated to our children to rest centres in “better areas”, for getting the centre to adopt Archie’s bomb disposal company instead of her son’s RAF base. And because of Archie’s colour; she hated him on sight,’ said Cathy.
It was now just after one thirty and in the same way she’d needed her mum when she’d fallen out with Deirdre Toomey in the playground, or the time she’d found out that Alfred Burnett was walking out with Olive Looker, Cathy had come straight around to her mum’s after marching out of the rest centre.
Having fed her and Peter with Spam sandwiches and made copious cups of tea, Ida had patiently listened for three-quarters of an hour while Cathy sobbed out the whole story of her and Archie and what had happened that morning. They were now sitting under the window at either end of the sofa while on the wireless BBC ‘Workers’ Playtime’ boosted morale from somewhere in Britain.
‘I’ll tell you, Mum, it was horrible,’ said Cathy, remembering the scene in the small committee room. ‘There were at least a dozen women in that room.’
‘Never you mind about that,’ said her mother, turning Victoria the right way up and propping her up on a couple of cushions. ‘As your dad always says, if it wasn’t for the Brogans, the neighbours wouldn’t have anything to talk about.’
‘Even so,’ said Cathy.
Reaching across, her mother placed her work-worn hand on Cathy’s and squeezed. ‘It doesn’t matter, I tell you, and after everything you’ve been through with Stanley and his cow of a mother, all we want is for you to be happy.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’
Cathy and her mother looked around to see Queenie, wearing her everyday coat and hat, standing in the kitchen door.
‘What in the name of Heaven has happened to you, Cathy?’ her gran asked.
‘It’s that bloody woman,’ said Ida.
Queenie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s she done now?’
Cathy told her gran a cut-down version of the meeting.
‘Also,’ Cathy concluded, looking from one to another, ‘I should tell you about —’
‘You and your handsome sergeant?’ her gran cut in.
Cathy looked incredulous at her grandmother. ‘How did you know?’
Queenie rolled her eyes. ‘Sure, didn’t I see him as plain as day in your tea leaves? And the baby—’
‘Baby!’ gasped Ida, looking at Cathy, who gave her a shy smile.
Queenie waved away her words and picked up Archie’s drawing pad off the sideboard. ‘And is this the sketch?’
‘It is,’ said Cathy, looking squarely at her grandmother.
Queenie flipped over a few pages and then her eyebrows rose.
‘Your sergeant’s got a fair eye for detail, so he has,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t advise you to show it to your father.’
Closing it, she put it back where she’d found it. Queenie’s wrinkled cheeks lifted in an amiable smile. ‘Now, me darling girl, where might that cow of a mother-in-law of yours be found just now?’
‘So, Violet, a few of us are thinking about going to the matinee of the new Stewart Granger film at the Paragon on Saturday, do you fancy coming too?’ asked Dot Tomms, looking at Violet through the thick lenses of her spectacles.
‘I haven’t felt like enjoying myself these past five months but now . . .’ Violet gave a little tinkling laugh. ‘I think I feel like a bit of a treat.’
‘Good for you, Violet,’ said Ruby Wagstaff, a smile beaming out of her round face. ‘I think I’d feel the same if my son had just been found alive.’
Violet smiled.
She was pleased. Not only because Stanley had been found but because of her little discovery.
It was shameful. And Mrs Paget had said the same when Violet had turned up at the vicarage and shown it to her.
Oh, how she would love to have been a fly on the wall when Mrs Paget raised that item on the morning meeting. And finding her slut of a daughter-in-law puking up down the toilet was just the icing on the cake.
‘Any news of where he is?’ asked Joan Robinson, who, despite the altar flowers looking like a patch of weeds each week, was in charge of the church flower rota.
Violet shook her head.
‘But I imagine the Germans will have put him in one of their most secure jails. After all, my Stan was never one to hold back from a fight,’ said Violet, imagining her son single-handedly fighting off dozens of Germans. ‘Did I tell you he was the East London heavyweight cham—’
The double doors at the end of the hall burst open and Queenie Brogan, her coat streaming behind her and her hat askew on her white hair, marched into the room.
She stopped a few feet in and, with her feet apart and her hands on her hips, the old woman’s flint-like eyes scoured the sea of faces until they reached Violet.
‘You!’ she shouted, jabbing her finger at her. ‘You fecking gobshite, Violet Wheeler.’
With their teacups poised in their hands, the women in the hall stared open-mouthed at Queenie as, hands clenched at her side, she marched over.
With a face tight with fury, the old woman stopped in front of Violet.
She glared at her for a moment then smashed her fist down on the table, rattling crockery and spilling tea.
A couple of women screamed, while those sitting around Violet shrank back.
Fighting the urge to jump up and run, Violet gave her a cool look.
‘This meeting is for Mothers’ Union members only,’ Violet said, forcing herself to hold the old woman’s piercing stare.
‘’Tis as well then, isn’t it, that I’m not here for a cup of tea,’ Queenie replied.
‘It was my Christian duty to tell Mrs Paget about your granddaughter’s shameful behaviour—’
‘Christian duty, is it? You fecking hypocrite. Well, you enjoy your moment of triumph, because when your dear friends hereabouts find out the truth about your darling son, and be sure they will, you’ll find no hole deep enough to hide yourself in.’
Queenie’s eyes lost their focus for a moment and, raising her hand and looking heavenwards, she muttered something. Her gaze returned to Violet.
Some of the women in the hall grabbed the crosses hanging around their necks as the old woman stretched out her gnarled hands.
‘I’ll tell you this and tell you no more, Violet Wheeler,’ she said in a voice that carried to the back of the hall. ‘You will see your son’s face again, and soon, but it will give you no pleasure.’
Her eyes bore into Violet for a moment longer, then, straightening her battered hat, she turned and marched back to the entrance.
Grasping the brass handle, Queenie Brogan pulled the door open but then she stopped and looked back at Violet. A chilling smile spread across her ancient face. ‘No pleasure at all.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘WHAT TIME IS it now?’ Monkman asked Archie.
Resisting the urge to say five minutes since you last asked me, Archie glanced at his wristwatch.
‘Twenty-five past four,’ he replied, looking at the officer through his goggles and a haze of icy steam.
‘It should have worked by now,’ snapped the lieutenant.
He was right, but then, as Archie was happy to concede, disarming a Y fuse was still very much in the learning phase.
However, oddly, considering he was crouched next to a bomb that had the potential to obliterate him from the face of the earth, what concerned him more was Monkman.
‘We’re almost there, sir,’ said Archie calmly, as he studied the frosty ring that was just a quarter of an inch from the last length of cotton.
‘That’s all very well for you to say, but you’re not holding this bloody canister,’ Monkman replied.
‘I’ll take over if you need a rest,’ said Archie for the third time.
Monkman ignored him and, wit
h shaking hands, tipped the flask further.
‘Gentle, now,’ said Archie as the icy liquid spurted out. ‘You don’t want to split the—’
‘Bloody shut up, will you? Just shut up,’ shouted Monkman, his eyes fixed to the glowing fluid trickling into the clay cup.
Archie clamped his mouth shut and prayed the liquefied oxygen would complete its task soon.
A couple more minutes dragged by and then, finally, the ring of hoar frost, glittering on the dull grey metal of the six-foot-long bomb, reached the last cotton marker.
‘At last,’ said Monkman, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead. ‘Tools!’
Reaching into the toolbox, Archie was about to hand him the narrow jemmy when there was a metallic squeak followed by a heart-stopping crack.
Monkman screamed and sprang up. With his eyes wild, he staggered back, stumbling over the bricks and mortar scattered around him. He started for the stairs, but Archie stepped in his path.
‘Out of my way,’ Monkman shouted, shoving Archie in the chest.
Archie stood his ground. ‘We have twenty minutes—’
‘I said, get out of my way,’ yelled Monkman, ripping off his mask and gloves and throwing them aside.
Archie grasped the officer’s lapels and shook him.
‘Pull yourself together,’ he said, fixing the lieutenant with a glacial stare. ‘If the fuse was going to blow, we’d already be in heaven. If we don’t defuse it, and soon, a dozen women and children will—’
‘I don’t care,’ bellowed Monkman, pulling himself out of Archie’s grip. ‘Do you hear? I don’t care.’
Regaining his balance, Monkman scrambled again for the stairs, shoving mangled debris aside. He wrenched a filing cabinet out of his path and pushed it to one side. It crashed against the bomb, sending sparks into the air as it scraped down the side of the casing.
Archie stepped forward and grabbed the officer’s shirt and tie with his left hand then, balling his right hand into a fist, pulled back his arm and landed the lieutenant a blow square on his chin.
Incredulity flickered across Monkman’s face for a split second before his eyes rolled up into his head and his knees buckled.
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