A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Cathy’s mouth pulled into a determined line.

  ‘I know it will be hard if . . . if . . . Archie’s sight is permanently damaged,’ she said, forcing her words over the lump in her throat. ‘But I don’t care. I love him and as soon as he is out of hospital, we’re going to set up house together as husband and wife. And if I have to scrub floors like Mum did to pay the rent and put food on the table then that’s what I’ll do.’

  Her chin started to tremble.

  Setting aside her knitting, Mattie reached across and squeezed her hand.

  ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘In the same way I would if it were Daniel lying in that bed. But if you need anything then you only have to ask.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Cathy, giving her sister a pleading look, ‘is there any chance I could borrow a fiver? I’ll pay you back and I wouldn’t ask but—’

  ‘Of course.’ Mattie smiled. ‘That’s what family’s for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you, Mattie.’

  They exchanged an affectionate look then Cathy yawned.

  ‘You’d better get some rest.’ Her sister pointed to a set of candy-striped pyjamas on top of the Morrison shelter. ‘I’ve brought you a set of mine, and there should be enough water in the kettle for you to have a wash. Then you can snuggle in alongside me in the hamster cage.’

  ‘What about Daniel?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘He got a call from Whitehall this afternoon and has had to go somewhere north for a couple of days, so I’m not expecting him back until Monday,’ Mattie replied.

  Rising to her feet, Cathy picked up the nightwear and crossed the room. She poured the remaining water from the kettle into the enamel bowl on an old washstand.

  ‘It’ll be like the old days with me, you and Jo all squashed into that old double bed,’ she said, yawning again as she unbuttoned her blouse.

  ‘And giving you both a cuddle when you had a nightmare,’ Mattie called across.

  ‘Yes,’ she called back over her shoulder as she slipped off her blouse.

  Turning back, Cathy placed her hands on her still flat stomach and looked bleakly at the mirror on the wall.

  Yes, just like the old days, except now her nightmare was real.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ‘THE DOCTOR SHOULD be here soon,’ said Cathy, who was sitting in the chair next to his.

  Entombed in his world of blackness, Archie smiled. ‘Aye, I’m sure he will be.’

  Cathy had been at his side since eight thirty, arriving just after the nurse had finished helping him with his breakfast. He guessed it must be gone eleven by now. It was hard to tell without the changing daylight to give you a clue and because, with wild thoughts driving sleep away all night, he’d nodded off to sleep mid-morning. He’d woken up in a panic, but finding Cathy there beside him had calmed him instantly. In truth, having her beside him was the only thing anchoring his sanity at the moment.

  ‘Would you like another cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine,’ he replied. ‘But you pop out and get one if you want.’

  ‘No, I’m fine too,’ she replied.

  Manoeuvring her hand in his, he entwined his fingers in hers. ‘I’m going to be all right.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ she replied chirpily.

  He knew she was lying, but then so was he.

  They were both pretending that his unseeing eyes were akin to a broken leg or a burnt arm.

  And although she’d tried to disguise the fact, Archie also knew she’d been crying. He didn’t blame her. He wanted to cry himself.

  ‘It was good of Corporal White to pop in first thing to see how you were getting on,’ said Cathy.

  ‘Chalky’s a good fella,’ Archie replied, happy to change the subject. ‘I’m glad to hear that HQ are going to send someone down to investigate the incident fully.’

  ‘So your blooming commanding officer won’t be able to cover up for Monkman,’ Cathy added. ‘It’s a pity it took—’ She stopped. She didn’t need to say it because Archie was thinking the same.

  Thinking to steer the conversation into relatively safer waters, he spoke again. ‘Is Mrs Wheeler behaving herself?’

  ‘Of course,’ Cathy replied in a tone that said otherwise.

  ‘What’s she done?’ asked Archie.

  ‘Nothing, nothing really.’ Cathy forced a little laugh. ‘You know, just being her old spiteful self.’

  She was a terrible liar but at the moment he didn’t have the strength to press her. She and Peter were safe and just now that’s all that mattered, so whatever it was could wait.

  Cathy’s fingers tensed as the sound of footsteps heralded people entering the room.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant McIntosh,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Alder,’ said Archie. ‘I think we met briefly yesterday.’

  ‘We did indeed,’ the doctor replied. ‘Good morning, Mrs McIntosh.’

  ‘Morning, Doctor,’ she replied, her grip on Archie’s hand tightening.

  ‘And this is Sir Mungo Henderson,’ said Dr Alder, ‘a fellow countryman of yours, Sergeant, and the senior ophthalmic professor at Moorfields, which, as you may know, is the world’s foremost eye hospital.’

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ the professor replied, in a voice that would have made a BBC announcer sound like a cockney barrow boy.

  ‘Sergeant McIntosh is a hero,’ said a female voice.

  ‘So I hear, Sister,’ Henderson replied.

  Cathy relinquished his hand and it was grasped by a rougher, hairier one.

  ‘Good to meet you, Sergeant.’

  Archie shook the professor’s hand.

  Henderson cleared his throat. ‘Now, to business. Dr Alder has asked me for a second opinion.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sir Mungo, I’ll take off the bandages,’ said the sister.

  ‘That’s not necessary, thank you, Sister,’ the professor replied.

  Cathy reclaimed Archie’s hand. ‘Aren’t you going to examine my husband’s eyes?’

  ‘No need to, my dear,’ Sir Mungo replied, ‘because it will tell me nothing more than I can read in his notes. According to Dr Alder, the white and iris of both your husband’s eyes are clear and undamaged, and are apparently unusually blue for someone of his racial mix. However, the problem isn’t in the part of the eye we can see, but rather the area we cannot.’

  Archie’s mouth lost all moisture. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I understand from what you told Dr Alder of the accident when you were admitted that you were in close proximity to an intense burst of light, after which you lost your sight,’ said Sir Mungo.

  ‘Aye,’ Archie replied, as the incident flashed across his mind.

  ‘And in doing so you’ve damaged your optical nerves and the special cells at the back of your eyes,’ said the professor. ‘Much like a roll of camera film if you exposed it to sunlight.’

  ‘But it’s only temporary, isn’t it?’ asked Cathy, the hope in her voice palpable.

  There was a telling pause and then Sir Mungo spoke again. ‘It’s too early to say, Mrs McIntosh.’

  Archie’s heart thumped painfully in his chest as the urge to scream rose up in him. He heard Cathy’s handbag clip open, he guessed to retrieve her handkerchief.

  Archie swallowed and took a breath.

  ‘How long before you do know, Sir Mungo?’ he asked, hoping only he could hear the waver in his voice.

  ‘A week,’ the professor replied. ‘I’ll come back next Wednesday to supervise personally, if you don’t mind, Dr Alder.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the ward doctor replied, sounding relieved.

  ‘What are your instructions for Sergeant McIntosh’s care?’ asked the sister.

  ‘The old tried-and-tested, Sister,’ replied Sir Mungo. ‘Rest and plenty of it, plus three square meals a day.’

  ‘What about dressings?’

  ‘Change them when you have to but only if you have to,’ Sir Mungo replied. ‘And tell your
nurses no bathing them with anything, and Sergeant . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘When your dressings are changed, although it might be very tempting, you must keep your eyes tight shut. If you repeatedly picked off a scab, eventually the skin would become coarse and ridged. The same may be true of your eyes if they are exposed to light again before they have a chance to heal. It may cause irreparable damage. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do,’ Archie said.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you in Dr Alder and Sister’s capable hands and I’ll see you next week.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Archie replied.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Mungo,’ said Cathy.

  Rubber soles squeaked on the lino as Sir Mungo and his retinue left their position at the foot of Archie’s bed.

  ‘Cathy?’

  The chair scraped along the floor.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said, close to his ear. ‘I’ll always be here, Archie.’

  He opened his mouth to speak but the enormity of what might be his future life overwhelmed him. With Sir Mungo’s words circling around his mind, Archie put his hand over his unseeing eyes.

  ‘Oh, Cathy, I can’t—’

  ‘No!’ she said. Her hands gripped his biceps, her nails biting into his flesh. ‘Whatever you were going to tell me you can’t do, you bloomin’ well can, Archie McIntosh. We can. From now on we face everything life might throw at us together, do you understand?’ She shook him. ‘Do you understand?’

  He let out a long sigh. ‘I do.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, releasing her grip a little. ‘You’re alive. And soon we’re going to be a family, with me and you, your ma, Peter and Kirsty and the . . . and that’s all that matters.’

  She was right, of course she was, and he had to hang on to that because, just now, the thought of never being able to see Cathy’s face, or his daughter’s, or to be able to pick up a brush again made him almost wish the white light that had robbed him of sight had been the 1,000-kilo bomb detonating.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you, Violet, but I thought that was a load of old cod’s wallop,’ said Elsie, who was sitting alongside her in the nine pennies.

  ‘The B pictures always are, but at least they’re only half an hour,’ Violet replied, looking at her friend in the dim silver light from the cinema’s screen.

  Violet and the dozen or so other Mothers’ Union members were sitting downstairs in plush, garret-coloured theatre seats, roughly halfway back from the screen.

  With seating for three and a half thousand people, the Troxy was billed as the largest cinema in England and this afternoon nearly every seat was filled, thanks to the fact that the film Violet and the others had come to see featured Stewart Granger, a rising star and a bit of a heart throb amongst the matrons of East London. In fact, Violet had spotted several of her neighbours and a number of market acquaintances in the audience.

  People who’d already sat through the Saturday special matinee programme filed out and others took their places. As always, in the lull between the end of the short supporting film and the main feature, the Government’s Ministry of Information took the chance to remind people what was expected of them as part of the war effort. And, as always, people responded by totally ignoring what was on screen and chatting amongst themselves.

  ‘Your lodger was the talk of the market this morning, Violet,’ said Minnie, sitting beside her.

  ‘Was he?’ Violet replied.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Dot, the images from the screen flickering across her lenses. ‘Defusing that big bomb and saving all those little kiddies.’

  ‘He’s a real hero,’ added Ruby.

  Others around her muttered their agreement.

  As a jolly trumpet heralded the start of an information film encouraging people to dig for victory, Violet’s mouth pulled into a tight line.

  ‘He might have dug it out, Ruby,’ said Violet, ‘but I think you’ll find it was the officer who did the actual defusing of the bomb.’

  ‘Not according to Sadie Cohen, he didn’t,’ said Eliza Benton, sitting in the row behind. ‘Her Sammy was one of those trapped. She was outside when the officer was brought out dribbling and shaking. One of the squaddies told her he’d gone to pieces and the sergeant had taken over.’

  ‘Like we said, Violet,’ added Minnie, ‘that Jock sergeant’s a real hero.’

  Elsie’s thin face took on a sad expression. ‘It’s a pity, though, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You know, about his eyes . . .’

  Matching Elsie’s sombre features, the women around Violet nodded.

  A little smile lifted the corner of her lips. Yes, what a great pity.

  A pity the ruddy bomb didn’t go off and blow him to kingdom come.

  The opening bars of Pathé News blasted out and Violet settled down to watch. In strident British-bulldog tones, the commentator showed how the Royal Air Force were harrying the last remaining scraps of Rommel’s army in North Africa and how the grubby Arabs were cheering the British troops. There was another tedious piece focusing on a bunch of Land Girls using a horse-drawn plough, followed by a couple of shots of over-paid American GIs somewhere in England undertaking ground-assault manoeuvres.

  The news reel moved on.

  ‘But while Britain stands firm against Nazi evil,’ continued the commentator as the film showed a clip of soldiers, bayonets in hand, running across the sands, ‘our brave boys . . .’

  A cheer went up in the auditorium and the women around Violet screamed and shouted with the best of them.

  Elsie blew a kiss at the screen. ‘God bless ’em.’

  ‘Give the bloody Krauts some cold steel, boys,’ shouted Minnie, her hands cupped around her mouth.

  ‘. . . are putting a spanner in Hitler’s evil plan with every inch of ground they take back. But Goebbels . . .’

  As an image of the studious-looking head of German propaganda came on the screen the applause was replaced by boos and jeers.

  ‘Bloody pig,’ muttered Ruby, shaking her bony fist.

  ‘. . . is dreaming up new ways to sabotage our efforts with his propaganda,’ continued the report. ‘He tried to drain our island spirit with Lord Haw-Haw . . .’

  William Joyce’s face replaced Goebbels’ and the shouts of fury grew louder.

  ‘String him up,’ shouted Elsie.

  ‘Hanging’s too good for him,’ a man bellowed to the side of Violet.

  ‘Knowing we English are too wise to fall for his lies, German High Command has come up with something else,’ said the reporter, his voice taking on a graver tone.

  Before their eyes, the picture of Lord Haw-Haw was replaced by a line of German soldiers standing to attention as an SS officer inspected them.

  ‘They look like just another line of Hitler’s lackeys, don’t they? But look closely, ladies and gentlemen,’ continued the commentator. ‘Look closer at the insignia on their arms.’

  The camera closed in on a shield-shaped badge with a Union Jack at its centre, below which was embroidered the words ‘British Free Corps’.

  ‘Yes, I know, you can hardly believe your eyes,’ the reporter added. ‘This is Hitler’s latest effort to make our great nation cringe with fear.’

  ‘Traitors,’ shouted Dot.

  ‘A bunch of simple-minded misfits . . .’

  The camera scanned along the line of faces and then focused on the man at the end.

  Blood pounded in Violet’s ears, blotting out the commentator’s modular tones. She rose to her feet and stared at Stanley in an SS uniform as the image filled the fifty-foot-wide, thirty-foot-high screen.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Ruby. ‘Isn’t that your Stan, Violet?’

  Staring blindly at the screen, Violet didn’t reply.

  ‘It is, you know,’ agreed Dot. ‘It’s your lad.’

  ‘You’re right, Dot,’ Elsie agreed. ‘That’s Violet’s boy, Stan Wheeler. I’d know him anywhere.’

  A man sitting in front of them turned around.

&nb
sp; ‘You’re saying you know that bastard?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ piped up Minnie. She pointed at Violet. ‘It’s her son, Stanley.’

  People all around them were standing up and glaring at her.

  ‘But he’s a hero,’ Violet muttered, her eyes glued to the screen. ‘He stayed behind to save his comrades. He’s getting a medal.’

  ‘Medal!’ shouted the man in front, his face contorted with anger. ‘Medal! What he’s going to get is six foot of rope when our boys get their hands on him!’

  The shouts of ‘traitor’ got louder as people all around stood up.

  ‘He’s a ruddy coward, that’s what he is,’ shouted someone a few rows away.

  A man climbed over a couple of seats and glared in Violet’s face. ‘Our lads are dying to save this blooming country while those bastards turn their coats and volunteer to fight for Hitler.’

  Averting her eyes from the disgusted sneers on her friends’ and neighbours’ faces, Violet stumbled her way to the end of the row, only to find the stairs leading up to the foyer crowded with people.

  Holding her handbag close, she lowered her head and hurried through the jostling and jeering crowd towards the exit.

  ‘Not long now, Peter, and we’ll be home,’ Cathy said to her grizzling son as she turned into Commercial Road.

  It was now coming up to five and she’d just picked him up from Mattie’s. Many of the shops lining the main thoroughfare from Aldgate to Limehouse were already putting up their shutters ready for a well-earned day off tomorrow. After passing a couple of roads running off to her right, Cathy turned into Head Street then right again into her own road.

  However, instead of just a few children playing on the cobbles in the peaceful residential street, there was now clusters of women outside some of the doors. If that wasn’t odd enough at this time of day, at the far end of the street there were a couple of policemen loitering about and a van parked outside her own house.

  Mary Tyler, who lived across the road from her, spotted Cathy and said something to the three women, standing with their arms folded, next to her. They all looked at Cathy then one of their number waved to another huddle of women, who also turned in her direction. Several other groups did the same, all muttering and giving her the once-over.