A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  ‘More beautiful than pretty,’ he replied. ‘With lovely hazel—’

  He opened his eyes to see his mother smirking at him.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Very clever, Ma.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, picking up her knitting and looping a strand of red wool over her needle. ‘“Nothing like that”! Do you think I was born yesterday? When a man mentions a woman’s name it’s always “like that” and has been since the world began. And truthfully, I’m right glad to hear it. I know losing Moira hit you hard. And why wouldn’t it? But she’d be the last person to expect you to mourn her for ever, and she would want you to be happy if you found someone else to love.’

  ‘I know, Mo was a grand woman, but it’s awkward with Cathy,’ Archie replied.

  His mother gave him a level look. ‘She’s married, is she?’

  ‘Yes. No. That is, her husband’s missing in action,’ said Archie. ‘And if he’s still alive . . .’

  ‘Does she like you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m reading too much into things and she’s just being friendly, but . . .’ An image of Cathy laughing floated into his head and a smile lifted his lips. ‘She’s funny and kind. Straight too and doesnae put up with any nonsense. And she’s bright, although she doesn’t think she is.’ He sighed. ‘But what does it matter? As I said, she’s happily married.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘What?’ he replied.

  ‘Happy,’ said his mother.

  Archie stared at her as the question rattled around in his head.

  Dragging a length of wool from the ball on her lap, Aggie spoke again.

  ‘Not everyone’s as merrily married as you were, Archie,’ said his mother. ‘And I’ll tell you plain, there’s many a woman around these parts praying each day that her husband won’t be back.’

  Kirsty stirred and Archie adjusted his arm to accommodate her. Glancing down at his sleeping daughter, his heart ached.

  If he did nothing else with his life, she was his greatest achievement, but he’d always imagined Kirsty would be the eldest of three or maybe four children. That dream had been shattered the day the police had knocked at his door and told him about Moira. For five long years he’d fought through the grief of her untimely loss and he’d buried his desire for a large family. Rightly or wrongly, since Cathy had run into his life that Sunday morning six weeks ago, the dream of holding the woman he loved in his arms and having more children had blossomed again. But was she happy?

  The memory of Cathy’s son struggling with his present from Santa returned to his mind for some reason. What had she said? What had he missed?

  Archie ran through their conversation again and then he remembered. She’d told Peter he was a soldier like his uncle not his father! In fact, he didn’t even know her husband’s name because she’d never mentioned him once.

  Hope and possibility washed over Archie as the dream that had died under the wheels of a trolley bus suddenly burst into life once more.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘AND,’ SAID VIOLET, as she surveyed the middle-aged women looking intensely at her, ‘Stan’s commanding officer finishes, “although I know the news of Stanley is a great blow, Mrs Wheeler, I hope you’ll find comfort in knowing that because he volunteered to stay at his post and single-handedly held back the enemy, he was instrumental in saving the lives of dozens of his comrades, and for that reason I am recommending him for the King’s Bravery Medal. In short, Mrs Wheeler, your husband is a hero.”’

  ‘A hero!’ muttered someone.

  ‘Awarded the King’s Medal,’ said another.

  ‘Saved dozens of lives,’ whispered yet another of Violet’s audience.

  It was just after eleven thirty on the Tuesday after Christmas and she and a half-dozen other widows of the parish were having a warming cuppa in St Philip’s church hall after mid-week communion. They needed it, too: due to the shortage of coal, the church’s heating had been switched off. It was the miners’ fault as they had downed tools again. They should be shot, the lot of them, the filthy communists, for denying decent Christian people a little comfort while they prayed.

  ‘Why did his commanding officer call Stan your husband?’ asked Elsie.

  Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Because the top brass has to write to the wife.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Elsie’s rounded face lit up. ‘It was good of your daughter-in-law to let you bring it along to show us today.’

  Violet gave a tight smile but didn’t reply.

  ‘She must be very proud,’ said Bettie.

  ‘Proud!’ sneered Violet. ‘The only army letter she’s looking out for is the one telling her my poor son’s officially dead.’

  ‘No!’ said Rose Winters, her shocked expression matching the rest of Violet’s audience.

  ‘I tell you, she’s counting the days, but,’ Violet folded her arms, ‘her nose is going to be right out of joint soon because my Stan’s not dead.’

  A couple of the elderly women glanced at each other.

  ‘He’s not,’ repeated Violet.

  ‘You’re right, Violet,’ said Rose. ‘We shouldn’t give up hope.’

  ‘No, we shouldn’t,’ said Peggy Watson sitting next to her. ‘Your son may well turn up somewhere.’

  ‘He will,’ said Violet. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’ She caught sight of the clock. Swallowing the last of her tea, she stood up. ‘Now, I must get on so, God willing, I’ll see you all on Sunday.’

  Forty minutes after saying farewell to Elsie and the rest of her Mothers’ Union acquaintances, Violet reached the top of Jubilee Street and then turned left on to Oxford Street. It usually took her half that time to get this far, but a bomb had landed at the end of Sidney Street the night before. It had blown away a row of houses, two pubs and the corner shop. Those houses not destroyed were badly damaged and, for fear that they might collapse, the area had been cordoned off. There’d been a couple of ambulances standing by while the heavy-rescue crew dug for survivors.

  Of course, she thought, as she strolled towards St Dunstan’s between the piles of rubble that had once been homes and businesses, if people had listened to that nice Mr Mosley, none of this would have happened.

  But no. Men who wanted to avert war with Germany, like Stan and his friends at the British Peace League, patriots who had this country’s best interests at heart, weren’t listened to. And that’s why things were in such a mess now. Who knows, with his brains and charm, Stan could have been an important person in Mosley’s government by now, but instead he was so-called missing in action.

  The fury that was always bubbling just under the surface in Violet flared up again.

  And why, why is my poor boy stuck in the middle of the God-forsaken North African desert in the first place instead of at home where he belongs? Because of Cathy Brogan and that bloody family of hers, that’s why.

  Reaching the Clare Hall public house, Violet waited until a convoy of army lorries with squaddies sitting in the back passed, then she crossed the road into Diggon Street.

  Nodding her head to neighbours in acknowledgement as she passed, Violet marched into her own street.

  As was usual for this time of day, the scrubbed white half-circles on the pavement outside every front door were shining in the dull winter light. Every front door but one, that is: hers, which was open. Parked in front of it was a lorry piled high with furniture and with the words ‘Brogan & Sons’ painted in gold on the side.

  Pressing her lips together, Violet marched up the street and arrived at her house just as Cathy’s father, dressed in old corduroy trousers, a leather jerkin and a red scarf tied at his throat, stepped out into the street.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped.

  ‘And the top of the morning to you, too, Mrs Wheeler,’ he replied, doffing his cap.

  Violet scowled. ‘I said, what are you doing—’

  ‘My dad’s delivering some furniture and helping me shift a few pieces around,’ said Cathy as s
he stepped out on to the street.

  Although it was one of her days at the rest centre, she wasn’t dressed in her WVS uniform. Instead, she was wearing an old dress with a wraparound apron over it and her hair was pinned up beneath a scarf turban.

  ‘Furniture?’ asked Violet. ‘What furniture?’

  Curling his fingers in his mouth, Cathy’s father let out a two-tone whistle and his two boys hurried out. The bastards, thought Violet, a sneer twisting her lips.

  ‘Give us a hand with this, Michael,’ Jeremiah said, heaving a washstand from the back of his van. ‘And, Billy, you bring the bowl and jug.’

  Lifting the painted wooden frame between them, Jeremiah and Michael carried it into the house while Billy, flowery china bowl under one arm and matching pitcher in the other hand, followed them in.

  Violet watched them trudge their boots into her house then her attention returned to Cathy.

  Folding her arms, a hint of amusement flitted across her daughter-in-law’s face.

  ‘I gave you a chance to pay your fair share,’ said Cathy. ‘But as you won’t, I’m taking in a lodger to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table.’

  ‘You’re doing what?’ asked Violet, thinking she couldn’t possibly have heard right.

  ‘Mind your back.’

  Glaring at Cathy, Violet stepped back as Cathy’s father strode out of the house carrying Peter’s old crib on his shoulders.

  ‘I’m taking in a lodger,’ Cathy repeated, as her father marched back in the house. ‘I’m putting them in the downstairs front parlour. That no one goes into from one year to the next.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Violet, itching to smack her hand across her daughter-in-law’s smug face. ‘And what about my furniture?’

  ‘I’ve moved it into other rooms, that’s all,’ Cathy replied.

  ‘That’s all?’ screeched Violet, as her temples pounded. ‘That’s all, you say. You’ve moved all my expensive furniture out of my best room so a stranger can move in and you say that’s all.’

  Cathy gave her a mocking look then turned and went back into the house.

  Violet followed her.

  After almost being knocked sideways by Cathy’s scruffy brother as he tore past her, Violet found her daughter-in-law making tea in the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s Stanley?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Peter’s at my mum’s,’ Cathy replied, turning her back on Violet as the kettle on the gas started to whistle .

  Violet stared at the point between Cathy’s shoulder blades and imagined plunging her best carving knife between them.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested, but a letter from Stanley’s commanding officer arrived this morning,’ she said.

  ‘I guessed as much when I found an empty envelope addressed to me in the dustbin,’ Cathy replied, as she poured out three mugs of tea.

  ‘Well, do you want to know what it said?’ asked Violet.

  Picking up the tea, Cathy gave her a sweet smile.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied as she swept out of the room.

  ‘It said Stanley’s a hero . . .’ Violet shouted after her.

  Without breaking her stride, Cathy walked through the front door.

  With her lips pulled into an almost invisible line and with her fists clenched, Violet glared down the hall after her hateful daughter-in-law.

  Having given her father and brothers their hot drinks, Cathy returned. Striding past Violet again, she went to the pantry and pulled out the old one-handled shopping bag where she kept the potatoes. Plonking it on the draining board, she took a pot from the rack and, after filling it with cold water, placed it alongside.

  Violet unclipped her handbag and extracted her son’s letter.

  ‘It says Stanley is a hero.’ She flourished the sheet of paper at Cathy. ‘Do you hear? A hero.’

  Selecting a knobbly spud, Cathy picked up the kitchen knife and started peeling the brown skin.

  ‘He sacrificed himself,’ Violet continued, ‘to save hundreds of soldiers’ lives.’

  Cathy cut the potato into quarters and dropped them into the pot.

  ‘And on top of that, he’s going to be given a medal. The King’s Bravery Medal.’

  Pausing in her task, Cathy stretched out and turned on the wireless on the window sill.

  ‘The King’s Bravery Medal,’ shouted Violet above Edmundo Ross and his orchestra. ‘Do you hear? My Stanley is a hero—’

  ‘Hero!’ Cathy swung around. ‘You don’t have to tell me what kind of man your precious Stanley is, Vi, because I know, believe me, I know,’ she said, pointing at her with the vegetable knife. ‘He’s a Nazi lover, who terrorised our Jewish neighbours by putting dog shit through their letter boxes, smashing up their shops and setting fire to their homes. So you can tell all your cronies at the Mothers’ Union what a bloody wonderful hero Stan is, but remember I – and plenty of other people – know different.’

  ‘You mean your poxy sister and her husband, who made up lies about Stanley,’ snapped Violet.

  ‘Yes, my dearest sister Mattie and her husband, both of whom nearly died stopping your Stanley and his chums landing Nazi spies in London docks.’

  A claw of fear gripped Violet’s chest at the memory of the police officers standing on her doorstep, informing her that Stanley had been arrested for treason.

  ‘So, remember, Vi,’ Cathy’s voice continued from what seemed like a long way away, ‘your Stanley was lucky he was paroled into the army for his crimes and not left to swing at the end of a rope.’

  *

  Waiting for a number 254 heading for Hackney to pass and careful to avoid getting the pushchair’s wheels caught in the tramlines, Cathy crossed Whitechapel Road.

  ‘Grangrad,’ said Peter, pointing a mitten enclosed finger at a couple of auxiliary firemen standing by their red-painted fire wagon in front of the Blind Beggar to the right of them.

  ‘That’s right, Granddad’s a fireman,’ said Cathy, smiling at her son, who was wrapped up like a knitted parcel against the icy wind.

  ‘Aunnie Fran,’ said Peter, pointing at the steamed-up windows of Alf ’s Café on the corner of Brady Street.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cathy. ‘You can tell Auntie Fran and Patrick all about the firemen when we get there.’

  Peter nodded.

  Not wanting to navigate the pushchair between the tables crowded with ARP personnel and shoppers eating their midday meal, Cathy continued past the café’s main entrance to the side door which led to the living quarters at the rear.

  Stopping in front of it, Cathy knocked, then, pulling on the handle, pushed it open.

  ‘Only me,’ she shouted through the blackout curtain, which had been pulled across the doorway to stop the draught getting in rather than the light getting out.

  ‘We’re in here,’ her sister-in-law Francesca shouted back.

  Manoeuvring the front wheels through the door, Cathy parked the pushchair in the square hallway. Lifting Peter out, she unwrapped him and set him on his feet. Knowing where he was, her son trotted off in search of his two-and-a-half-year-old cousin.

  Taking off her coat, Cathy followed him into the parlour behind the shop.

  Like her family home in Mafeking Terrace, Francesca’s living room had a cast-iron fireplace with an over-mantel mirror above. There was an old-fashioned one-armed sofa against the wall with a tartan blanket draped over it, two chairs either side of the fireplace and a fringed circular rug covered the terracotta tiles. An ornately inlaid wooden cabinet under the window displayed half a dozen sepia photos of men and women dressed in their village costumes and standing against painted mountainous backgrounds.

  Pride of place among the old photos was the tinted portrait of Francesca’s late mother, Rosa, her rosary draped over one corner of the gilt frame.

  Standing alongside the old photos was one of Francesca’s brother Giovanni, in his Pioneer Corps attire, but the one that caught her eye was the photo of Cathy’s brother Charlie i
n his Bombardier uniform, holding Patrick in one arm and Francesca in the other. Both were smiling and had love and happiness shining out of their eyes. It had been taken after their wedding, during the one day they’d had as a married couple before Charlie shipped out last June. One day and one very productive night, thought Cathy with a wry smile as she looked at her heavily pregnant sister-in-law, who was tying a bib around her son. Francesca looked up as Cathy walked in.

  ‘Just in time for dinner,’ she said, lifting Patrick into his highchair.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll get something when we get to the rest centre,’ said Cathy.

  ‘You won’t,’ said Francesca. ‘Not if I don’t want your gran after me for letting you go hungry. It’s beef stew.’

  Cathy laughed. ‘How can I say no?’

  ‘You can’t,’ Francesca replied. ‘There’s a clean bib on the fireguard for Peter if you need it,’ she called over her shoulder as she headed through the beaded curtain to the café.

  Cathy took a couple of cushions from the sofa and piled them up on a chair. She covered them with a towel from the drying rack, plonked Peter on top and tucked him under the table opposite his cousin. She was just tying his bib on when Francesca returned carrying a tray loaded with four bowls and a plate of buttered bread.

  Resting the tray on the table, she removed the two smaller bowls and placed them in front of the two toddlers.

  ‘There we are, boys,’ she said, handing them each a teaspoon. ‘And try not to get it in your hair.’

  Cathy laughed and took her bowl. ‘How are your dad and brother?’

  Between mouthfuls of dinner, Francesca gave Cathy a rundown of how busy the café was, how her dad doted on Patrick and how, thankfully, after almost a year building something for the army in the Outer Hebrides, her brother Giovanni had been transferred to Cambridge to build an airbase for the Americans.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Cathy said, scooping another portion of her stew on to her fork.

  ‘Papa’s wholesale butcher had a consignment of beef arrive from Canada a few days ago,’ Francesca explained. ‘So I guess every restaurant north of the Thames will be serving beef this week. Queenie brought Dad half a dozen eggs around the other day, so I put a couple of pounds of shin in the café fridge to take to your mum on my way back from seeing the midwives at Munroe House tomorrow.’