Jabbing a square of meat on to her fork, Cathy offered it to Peter. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Textbook stuff, according to the nurse I saw last week,’ said Francesca, spearing a chunk of carrot. ‘I had a letter from Charlie yesterday telling me yet again to put my feet up every afternoon and get a good night’s sleep.’
Cathy raised her eyebrow. ‘He’s never had to look after a toddler all day, has he?’
Francesca smiled.
‘No,’ she said, guiding Patrick’s spoon into his mouth. ‘But I appreciate that he’s worried about me.’
‘I bet he said lots of other things, too,’ said Cathy.
‘Yes, he did.’ Francesca gave her an innocent look. ‘But nothing I’m going to repeat to his sister.’
Cathy laughed.
‘I see you’ve taken Gran at her word,’ she said, indicating the pink wool on her sister-in-law’s knitting needles.
‘Yes, I have,’ said Francesca. Placing her hand on her bump, she looked down. ‘I don’t mind one way or the other but if Queenie says I’m carrying a girl, that’s good enough for me. How did it go on Tuesday with your dad and the boys?’
‘As you’d expect,’ Cathy replied.
Francesca pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry.’
Cathy swallowed another mouthful of her stew and shrugged.
‘I’ve long stopped worrying about what my mother-in-law has to say about anything,’ said Cathy, ‘and what she says about me behind my back. Or to my face, for that matter. Now I’ve cleaned the front room from top to bottom, given the rug a good old beating in the yard and arranged the furniture in its place, I’m ready to advertise the room.’
‘Do you want me to put a card up in the café?’ asked Francesca.
‘Would you?’ said Cathy.
Taking the spoon from her son, Francesca scraped the last of his meal on to it.
‘Of course,’ she said, popping it in Patrick’s mouth. ‘Are you doing full board?’
‘I might if it’s a mother with children, otherwise I thought just bed and breakfast,’ Cathy replied.
‘That’s sensible,’ Francesca said, tearing off a piece of bread and handing it to Patrick. ‘After all, you don’t want to have some stranger sitting at your kitchen table when you’re having your evening meal.’
‘No,’ said Cathy. ‘I’ll point them in the direction of the British Restaurant at Redcoat School or the WVS canteen at the rest centre.’
‘Then just put “terms negotiable” on the postcard,’ said Francesca.
‘Good idea,’ said Cathy, wiping Peter’s face with the bib and letting him wriggle off the chair on to the floor. ‘I’ll let you have it on Sunday at church. Also’ – she gave her sister-in-law an entreating smile – ‘would you mind having Peter for a couple of mornings because . . .’ As her sister-in-law cleaned the gravy off her son’s mouth, Cathy told her how her father was struggling with the paperwork. ‘It’s just until Mum can leave Victoria with Gran for a few hours.’
‘I’d be glad to,’ said Francesca, lifting Patrick out of the highchair and setting him on his feet. ‘It’ll give Patrick someone to play with.’
‘Fight with, don’t you mean?’ said Cathy, looking across at the two toddlers as they started a tug of war with a rag doll.
Francesca sighed. ‘Well, boys will be boys, I suppose.’ She stood up. ‘Tea?’
Cathy glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and then placed her knife and fork together in her bowl.
She smiled. ‘Need you ask?’
Chapter Twelve
‘RIGHT, CHALKY AND Fred take the strain then winch the wee bugger up, gentle like,’ shouted Archie, his eyes fixed on the bomb dangling from the gibbet on the back of D Squad’s Austin.
It was the first Monday in January, just before four in the afternoon, and he and his six-strong team were in the middle of Hackney Marshes.
Defusing the bombs was all well and good, but of course that did leave Bomb Disposal with the problem of disposing of tons of high explosives. Sometimes they were able to do this on the spot by steaming the TNT into a non-explosive emulsion. However, Hexanite was much more volatile and had to be scooped out by hand, which wasn’t particularly easy at the bottom of a fifty-foot pit. During the Blitz, when there were more bombs dropped in a night than the fledgling BDUs could deal with in a month, the Ministry of Defence had taken over open spaces within the capital. Hackney Marshes and Richmond Park were the largest, which is why Archie and the squad were having their balls frozen off by an icy wind that cut like an open razor across the wide expanse of the heathland.
Although 1943 was not yet a week old, thanks to the Bolsheviks pissing off Hitler by annihilating the best part of his Sixth Army in Russia and Monty forcing Rommel’s Afrika Korps to jump in their boats and skedaddle back to Germany, the Führer had turned his attention back to London.
The wee bugger on the back of the lorry was, in fact, a 1,000-kilogram Hermann, which D squad had spent the past few days digging out.
It had fallen to earth during the seven-hour air raid on Saturday night and had landed just fifty yards from the main telephone exchange in Ilford. They’d finally uncovered it early that morning and had rung through to Wanstead to inform HQ the bomb was exposed and had been defused.
The German’s armament factories were obviously having a New Year sale of old stock, as it was a straightforward number 17 fuse – Archie had been making them safe for the past two and a half years. To be honest, although King’s regs stated only officers could defuse bombs, during the height of the Blitz he’d defused dozens, as had many other NCOs. They’d had to, firstly because there weren’t enough officers to start with, and secondly because if they hadn’t, they’d never clear one night’s tally of bombs before the next lot were dropped. Although the regulations still stood, given that NCOs like Archie often had more experience than fresh-faced officers, the top brass turned a blind eye to it.
‘Easy now, easy,’ Archie said, as the block and tackle creaked under the weight of the explosive.
The cigar-shaped metal case inched higher.
‘Easy,’ Archie repeated. ‘And put that bloody fag out, Mogg, before I put you on a charge! The fuse might have gone but there’s still a thousand kilograms of TNT in that thing.’
The Welshman pinched out his roll-up and shoved it behind his ear.
Archie gave him a hard look then turned his attention back to the bomb, which was swaying a little as it was hoisted higher.
‘Right, that’ll do it,’ shouted Archie as the bottom of the case cleared the top of the truck sides. ‘Swing it over and on to the trolley.’
The men manoeuvred the bomb on to the six-wheeled trolley beside the truck.
Archie looked at his watch. ‘We won’t have time to burn it out before the blackout starts so once we’ve dropped it off, you bunch of wee jessies can clear off.’
In the gathering January gloom there was a flash of white teeth as the squad realised they were dismissed for the day. Knowing the drill, the team quickly secured the bomb and then, stationing themselves on either side of the long handle at the front of the trolley, like a team of prize drays, they raced across to the safety area at the far side of the wasteland.
Archie watched them for a couple of seconds, then, satisfied that everything was in order, he turned his collar up, shoved his hands in his pockets, then trotted across to the guardhouse at the bomb graveyard’s entrance.
Although you wouldn’t think anyone in their right mind would want to go anywhere near thousands of tons of high explosive, after a couple of incidents with local villains helping themselves to the TNT left in defused bombs, the army had instigated hourly patrols.
Having signed for the bomb’s delivery, Archie told the lance corporal and squaddie huddled over a paraffin heater in the guardhouse that he and the rest of the squad would be back in the morning to burn out the bomb. Retrieving his sheepskin jerkin from the store, he slipped it on, then, unchaining his bike, he
shoved on his gloves, kicked the Triumph into life and rode off.
What was left of the January sunlight was all but gone by the time Archie turned right at the bottom of Cambridge Heath Road.
Slowing down to let a mother with a bevy of children around her cross the road, Archie spied a café at the corner. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that it was almost five hours since he’d last eaten. Although the blackout blinds were down, as a couple of ARP wardens opened the door, Archie saw the inviting glow within. Waiting until there was a gap in the oncoming traffic, he turned into the side alleyway next to the café.
Having secured his bike to a lamp-post, he rubbed his hands together to restore the circulation and strolled around to the front. The bell over the door tinkled as Archie pushed it open and stepped into the warm fug. The unmistakable smell of home cooking made his mouth water.
As it was early evening the place was packed to the brim. People in various shades of navy and khaki, with the odd splash of airforce blue, were tucking into their meals before going on duty. There were also a couple of women in the forest-green uniform of the WVS, which instantly made him think of Cathy.
That, of course, was a complete lie. He didn’t need anything to remind him of her because, in truth, apart from Kirsty, he thought of little else.
A few people looked up as he strolled in, the usual look of surprise on their faces, but their interest didn’t linger and they returned to their meals.
Loosening his jerkin, Archie wandered across to the counter where a middle-aged man and a very pregnant dark-haired woman were serving. Spotting him waiting, she waddled over.
‘Evening,’ she said, giving him a friendly smile. ‘You look like you could do with something hot and wet.’
‘Aye, I most certainly could,’ Archie replied. ‘Tea, please, in the largest mug you have.’
‘Coming up,’ she said.
While she poured his drink, Archie studied the menu chalked on the blackboard fixed to the wall.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked, placing a huge china mug in front of him.
‘I wouldnae say no to a bowl of yon beef stew,’ he replied.
She smiled again. ‘Find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it over.’
She shouted his order through the hatch then went to serve another customer. Picking up his mug, Archie turned and spotted a couple of auxiliary firemen getting up from a table at the back. He made his way over to the small table and sat down.
Slipping off his gloves and shoving them in his pocket, Archie hung his jerkin over the back of the chair. Cradling the mug, he pressed his icy hands around it, the heat bringing the blood painfully back to his fingers.
As he thawed, Archie glanced around and spotted a couple of paintings hanging on the wall behind the counter.
The pregnant young woman, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl and a plate of thickly cut bread and butter, squeezed her way between the tables to where he was sitting.
‘One large portion of beef stew,’ she said, placing it in front of him.
‘Grand,’ he said, as the meaty aroma wafted up. ‘I see you have a painter in the family.’ He indicated the landscapes.
‘My brother,’ she replied. ‘They are of the place in Italy where Papa and Mama’s families are from. We’ve never been there but Giovanni painted them from a photo my mother brought with her to England.’
‘They’re very good,’ he said.
‘We think so.’ She smiled. ‘Although he’s a bit fed up at the moment as he doesn’t get much time to paint.’
‘I know how he feels,’ said Archie.
She looked surprised. ‘You’re an artist?’
He laughed. ‘That’s egging it a wee bit, but I dabble with the brushes. Mostly scenes of the bombing and the men in my squad up to their ears in mud at the moment. But portraits are what I really enjoy. Using light and shade to show the personality of the sitter.’
‘I suppose you’re too busy to get your brushes out,’ she said.
‘Aye, true enough, the Luftwaffe keeps me on my toes,’ Archie replied. ‘But my digs were bombed out the day before Christmas Eve and I’ve billeted with the team ever since. They’re good lads, right enough, but . . .’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Let’s just say my easel wouldn’t stand a chance amongst a dozen squaddies.’
‘Enjoy your meal,’ she laughed.
She left and Archie tucked into his meal.
He was just scraping the last gravy from the bottom of the bowl when the young woman waddled towards him again with another steaming bowl in one hand and a mug in the other.
‘Treacle pudding and custard,’ she said, placing them both before him. She pointed at the embroidered badge of an inverted bomb on his uniform. ‘On the house.’
‘That’s very kind,’ he said.
‘It’s just a small thank-you from all of us,’ she replied.
She turned to leave him again when a young boy of about two dashed out from behind the counter and ran between the tables towards her.
He stopped next to his mother and stared at Archie.
‘Hello, soldier,’ Archie said, giving the toddler a friendly smile.
Hugging his mother’s legs, the little lad continued to stare.
‘Patrick,’ said his mother, placing her hand on his curly black hair. ‘Say hello.’
Patrick said nothing.
Colour flushed the woman’s cheeks. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Archie replied. ‘Lots of people are lost for words when they see my handsome face.’ Turning in his chair, Archie bent forward and offered the boy his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Patrick. I’m Archie.’
‘Archie’s a brave soldier just like your daddy, Patrick,’ the young woman said.
The boy studied him for a moment or two then grabbed Archie’s fingers.
‘Pleased to meet you, Patrick,’ Archie repeated. ‘I’ve got a little girl a bit older than you back home.’
Patrick nodded then saluted.
Straightening up in his seat, Archie saluted back.
Patrick studied him for another moment or two then dashed back behind the counter.
‘Your boy’s a canny little lad,’ Archie said, picking up the spoon.
‘You’re very good with children,’ she said.
‘Aye, I suppose I am, now you mention it,’ Archie replied. ‘But to my way of thinking they’re who I’m fighting this bloody war for. It’s their lives and futures that I have in mind when I’m lying with ma head inches from a five-hundred-kilo bomb, not Churchill.’
A thoughtful expression settled on the young woman’s face. She studied him for a moment then she smiled.
‘Enjoy your pudding,’ she said and walked away again.
Archie made short work of the dessert and then slurped down the last of his tea. He stood up and, after donning his jacket again, took the empty bowl and mug back to the counter where the young mother was tidying away.
‘Just like me ma makes,’ he said, smiling at her as he placed the crockery on the marble surface. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘One and three,’ she replied.
Rummaging in his trouser pocket, Archie pulled out a handful of coins and handed over a shilling and six pence.
She gave him a silver thruppeny piece, which he dropped into the jar with a picture of a tank on it that stood next to the till on the counter.
‘Thanks again,’ he said, turning to go.
‘Sergeant,’ she called after him as he reached the door.
He turned back and she beckoned him back to the counter.
‘Just a moment.’ She waddled off into the back of the shop but returned almost immediately holding a postcard in her hand.
‘My sister-in-law is looking for a lodger,’ she said, turning the card over in her hand. ‘It’s a clean house and just a stone’s throw from here in Senrab Street, number twenty-four. She only gave me the card on Sunday, and I haven’t had time to pin it up in the window . . .’ S
he glanced at the clock. ‘If you’re quick you could catch her before she leaves for the shelter.’
She offered him the card and Archie took it and put it in his pocket.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I’m not promising, mind,’ said the young woman. ‘She’s got a little boy too, so I know she was thinking of perhaps taking in a mother with children rather than a single man, but,’ she smiled, ‘as you’re bomb disposal she might, well, take pity on you and your easel.’
‘Senrab Street, is it?’ he said, buttoning his jerkin.
‘Straight down Sidney Street, opposite,’ she said, indicating with her hand. ‘Then left into Oxford Street and I think it’s the third or fourth on the right; but there’s a pub called the Clare Hall right opposite so you shouldn’t miss it.’
‘Much obliged, Mrs . . . ?’
‘Brogan,’ she said.
Archie touched his forehead, then shoving his hands into his gloves and setting the bell above the door ringing again, he strode out of the café.
‘And the spitfire swoops down and . . .’ Cathy moved the potato-laden spoon around in an arch before offering it to Peter.
Peter laughed and opened his mouth.
‘Back to the airfield,’ Cathy added, popping another portion of his evening meal between his cherub lips.
He swallowed it down.
‘Good boy.’ She loaded the spoon again. ‘And now it’s the Lancaster’s turn to—’
The door opened and Violet, in her dressing gown, with her head full of curlers and a hot-water bottle under her arm, walked in.
The old woman’s gaze flickered from Cathy to Peter and then back again.
‘He should be feeding himself by now,’ she said.
Cathy gave her son a bright smile as she wheeled the spoon in the air again. ‘Circle around and land back home—’
‘Stanley was feeding himself at that age and’ – she glanced at the half a dozen nappies drying on the rack over the cooker – ‘he was potty trained.’
A Ration Book Daughter Page 16
