A Ration Book Daughter

by Jean Fullerton

  Gripping the pushchair handle firmly, and with every pair of eyes riveted on her, Cathy continued towards her house.

  As she made her way down the street she heard murmurs of ‘traitor’, ‘turncoat’ and ‘Nazi’. And when she drew closer to her house, she noticed someone had daubed ‘traitor scum’ in red paint across the brickwork.

  Weaving her way through her neighbours, she headed for her open front door, but just before she reached it, a portly middle-aged man with thinning hair and a gloomy expression on his face came out of her house carrying a box.

  Balancing it on his knee, he opened the back of the Morris van and shoved the box inside.

  ‘What are you taking out of my house?’ Cathy asked, as she reached him.

  ‘Are you Stan’s wife?’ he asked, shutting the van.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, looking genuinely sad. ‘I didn’t recognise you. I’m Frank Appleby, Violet’s brother-in-law. We were at your wedding.’

  ‘Nice to meet you again,’ said Cathy. ‘But that still doesn’t explain why you’re carrying boxes out of my house.’

  ‘The wife got a frantic phone call from her sister about an hour ago saying she needed us to come and pick her up urgently,’ Frank replied. ‘The two of them are in there supposedly packing a couple of cases.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Couple of cases! I’ve already loaded four full boxes of junk in the van.’

  ‘But why?’

  Frank moved closer.

  ‘It’s Stan,’ he said, in a low voice with just a whiff of halitosis. ‘Violet was at the flicks with her pals and her precious bloody son was on Pathé News during this afternoon’s matinee.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the open door. ‘He was in the German Army’s British Corps. As bold as brass on the full screen wearing a German uniform and giving a heil Hitler salute for everyone to see. Someone recognised him and then, well . . . You know how these things get around.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Still, best get on or I’ll have both of them on at me.’

  He went back inside the house.

  Putting her foot on the back axle, Cathy leaned on the pushchair handle and, clearing the doorstep with the front wheels, followed him. As she did, she came face to face with a tight-faced stick of a woman who could only have been Violet’s sister Ivy.

  Dressed in a tweedy suit and unadorned brown hat, she was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a suitcase in either hand. Her husband was just behind her, carrying another brimming box.

  ‘Where’s Vi?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘Violet is in the kitchen,’ Ivy replied.

  Cathy continued down the hallway and into the kitchen, where she found Violet putting a newspaper-wrapped plate into a wooden fruit box.

  ‘Well, it seems that the truth will out, eh, Vi?’ said Cathy.

  Her mother-in-law shot her a hateful look but said nothing.

  ‘Your “hero” son has excelled himself this time,’ Cathy continued. ‘I just wish I’d been there to see your face.’

  ‘I suppose you’re enjoying this,’ Violet said, her face contorted with hate as she grabbed another plate from the dresser.

  ‘Not particularly,’ Cathy replied. ‘It’s bad enough being married to your precious son without everyone knowing he’s betrayed his country, too.’

  ‘Well, I’d take that self-satisfied look off your face if I were you,’ said Violet. ‘Because the army will stop his pay and then where will you be? And in case you’re thinking this will get you that divorce you’re desperate for, remember you’re the one committing adultery with that darkie sergeant, so no court in the land will grant you one, not when my Stanley is the innocent party.’

  ‘Innocent!’ laughed Cathy. ‘I don’t think that’s what most people would call fighting for the enemy. But don’t worry, Vi. I’m not going to bother trying to divorce Stan because I’ll be a widow soon enough – when the army catches up with him your precious son will be dangling from the end of a rope. So, scurrying off to hide at your sister’s, are you?’ said Cathy. ‘You might as well because you won’t be able to show your face around here for a while.’

  Shoving a saucer in the box, a malicious glint sparked in her mother-in-law’s eye.

  ‘You can take that smug look off your face,’ she said. ‘Because you’re his wife and people will be talking about you, too.’

  Cathy shrugged. ‘People already are, thanks to you. And I’m sure I’ll give them more to talk about before I’m done. But I’m a Brogan and we’re used to it.’ She glanced at the china bowl in her mother-in-law’s hand. ‘Is that your grandmother’s tea set?’

  ‘It is,’ Violet replied. ‘You don’t think I would leave all my good china here for you to use, do you?’

  ‘Good,’ said Cathy, unclipping Peter and lifting him out. ‘Because it’s the bloody ugliest set of crockery I’ve ever set eyes on.’

  Shoving the bowl in the box, Violet shot Cathy another withering look then snatched the box from the table and marched out of the kitchen towards the front door.

  Putting Peter on her hip, Cathy followed her.

  ‘There she is,’ shouted someone, as Violet stepped over the threshold.

  A yell rose from the crowd as a rotten apple landed at her mother-in-law’s feet.

  ‘Bastard traitor,’ screamed someone else, as a tomato mashed into the wall beside the door.

  Clutching the box, Violet tucked her head in her collar just as a lump of mud thumped into the back of her head, knocking the wash-and-set she’d had at the hairdresser’s that morning askew.

  ‘Clear off,’ bellowed a gruff voice, as Violet dashed for the van where her sister and brother-in-law were already in the front seat.

  A whirl of dog dirt sailed over the heads of the crowd and splattered across Violet’s light grey coat. A cheer went up and sensing their quarry was getting away, the crowd surged forward as a volley of gutter mud and spoilt fruit rained down on Violet.

  Seeing the change in mood, the two police officers ambled forward and ushered Violet towards the waiting vehicle. The crowd followed them all the way until the constable bundled Violet in the back seat then jeered as it sped off.

  Then Cathy’s neighbours turned and trudged back to where she was standing.

  Sticking his thumb in his mouth, Peter held her tightly as they approached.

  The crowd stopped in front of her and Cathy raised her chin. Despite her mouth feeling like a bone in the desert, she studied them coolly.

  ‘Did you know?’ ask Lenny Willis, who lived three doors down, jabbing his finger at her.

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ she replied, her heart thumping wildly. ‘I’m not surprised that my husband threw his lot in with the Nazis at the first opportunity, but I’m puzzled why you lot are.’ She cast her gaze over the sea of angry faces. ‘After all, everyone in this street knew Stan was the top man in Mosley’s thugs in the so-called British Peace League. And it wasn’t me who swallowed Violet’s lies about her “hero son” and how hard done by she was because of her “wicked daughter-in-law”, so don’t you come the high and mighty with me.’ With slow deliberation Cathy’s hard gaze ran over the crowd. ‘Anyone got anything else to say?’

  Those gathered outside her house, unable to look her in the eye, shuffled on the spot and studied their feet.

  ‘Good.’ Cathy shifted Peter’s weight in her arms. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have a very tired and hungry son who needs his supper.’

  She turned to go back in the house but then she looked back at the gathered crowd again.

  ‘And I’d be obliged if whoever did that,’ she indicated the red paint splattered across the brickwork, ‘would scrub it off, because there’s no “traitor scum” living here.’

  Turning her back on them, Cathy carried Peter back into the house and slammed the door.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  LISTENING HALF-HEARTEDLY TO the plummy voice on the radio informing the audience of the programmes for the rest of the morning, Archie mar
velled at how quickly the body adapted.

  This time last week he doubted he could have identified more than half a dozen voices with his eyes closed but now, after six days living in his black world, he reckoned it would be at least double that number. And it wasn’t just people’s voices. He could distinguish Sister Torrance’s brisk footsteps from Staff Nurse Carmichael’s lighter ones. He also knew that there were two dinner trolleys used on this ward: one had a squeaky wheel while the other’s door rattled.

  In fact, it was that one, with the crockery and waste from breakfast, that the orderly had just trundled past his side-room door towards the ward’s main doors.

  Until one of the nurses had mentioned it earlier, he’d forgotten that it was, in fact, the Wednesday of Holy Week so, along with the usual morning service, there had been an extra Bible reading. As that had just finished, it meant that it was now ten fifteen.

  It was also a week since the accident and the day Sir Mungo Henderson would be returning.

  Unable to sleep more than an hour or two in a stretch, Archie had been awake well before the chattering nurses had arrived for the morning shift at six thirty.

  He’d nabbed one of them straightaway and had asked them to bring him a bowl for a wash. He’d just wiped the soap from his face when the hospital’s barber, a chatty fella called Joe, arrived on the ward. Archie had collared him, too, and so by the time Matron did her rounds at eight, Archie was up, washed, shaved and sitting in the chair beside his bed dressed in his uniform. He might be in hospital but he wasnae going to act like an invalid.

  She’d protested as usual, telling him yet again that patients should wear pyjamas and be resting in bed. In response, Archie had given her a half-hearted apology, which had sent her away tutting.

  As the early-morning bustle of breakfast and bed baths subsided, Archie had resumed his morning occupation of listening to the wireless.

  However, although his eyes were covered, Archie’s mind was forever conjuring up images. The soft spring breeze from the window brought the blue of a summer’s sky vividly to mind, along with the ethereal texture of swollen white clouds. The whiff of flowery perfume as a nurse made the bed had pinks, yellows and lilac popping in his mind.

  It wasn’t just colours. It was the shape of his daughter’s cheeks as they lifted in a smile and the curve of his mother’s sinewy arms as she kneaded bread; but the images that returned again and again were the colour, texture and form of the woman he would love for eternity: Cathy.

  None of which he could now see and it was possible he would never see again. He knew he was alive, and had a loving family, but the thought of spending the rest of his life in utter darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

  He wouldn’t see Kirsty grow into a young woman; and would she, as a bride, have to lead him down the aisle rather than the other way around? And before that day came, how could he support her and his mother if he couldn’t work?

  And then there was Cathy. The woman he loved so much that being apart from her was a physical ache. The woman he’d dreamed of building a future and a family with. How could he burden her with a blind husband? And not even a real husband, because they would be man and wife without the benefit of a wedding certificate.

  How could he do that to her? In fact, if he loved her, truly loved her, he should send her away, let her get on with her life and find someone new.

  A wry smile lifted the corners of Archie’s mouth.

  He should do just that, but selfishly he couldn’t.

  Truthfully, it would be a bitterly hard battle to face a life lived in darkness with her, but it would be an impossible task without her.

  Footsteps sounded outside and he recognised Cathy’s light tread as she walked into his small side room.

  ‘It’s only me, Archie,’ she said.

  He felt her hand on his shoulder, and a faint smell of gardenias drifted up as a pair of warm familiar lips pressed on to his.

  His arm wound around Cathy’s shoulder and he gathered her to him, savouring her kiss for a long moment.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked softly when he finally released her.

  ‘All the better for having you here,’ he replied, in the same hushed tone.

  The signature tune of Music While You Work started, and foreboding gripped Archie.

  Shoving away the black cloud that hovered over him, Archie squeezed her hand. ‘How are you and Peter getting on at your sister’s?’

  ‘Peter loves it with his auntie and cousins. It’s such a change to get home and be greeted by a friendly face. I got there just as the air raid siren went off last night,’ she said. ‘Peter was asleep but . . .’

  Archie forced his turbulent mind to concentrate on Cathy’s voice as she recounted the events of the previous night, but as she started to tell him about Peter’s fight with his cousin at the breakfast table, the sound of footsteps coming to a stop outside his room sent Archie’s heart hammering in his chest again.

  There was the rustle of starched fabric as two pairs of heavy feet marched into the room.

  Cathy fell silent.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant McIntosh,’ said Sir Mungo’s well-modulated tones.

  ‘I hope so, Sir Mungo,’ said Archie, forcing the words out.

  ‘As do we all,’ replied the ophthalmic specialist. ‘Good morning to you.’

  Somewhere to the left of him, Cathy murmured a reply.

  ‘The chart, if you please, Sister.’

  ‘Of course, Sir Mungo,’ Sister Torrance replied.

  Metal rattled on metal as she took the observation chart from the end of Archie’s bed.

  There was a moment of silence then the consultant spoke again.

  ‘Now, Sergeant, can you tell me . . .’

  Sir Mungo ran through a couple of mundane questions which Archie did his best to answer over the choking lump in his throat and the roar of blood through his ears. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the consultant addressed the Sister.

  ‘If I could have the blinds down, please?’

  There was a rattle behind Archie as she closed the Venetian blinds.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sir Mungo. ‘Now, Sergeant McIntosh, Sister here is going to take off the bandages, but you must keep your eyes closed until I ask you to open them. Do you understand?’

  Archie nodded.

  He heard feet shuffling and chairs scraping on the floor. As gentle fingers touched his forehead, fear gripped Archie’s chest, squeezing the air from it.

  In the past day he’d been telling himself that he was going to be fine, that he’d soon be seeing the world again in all its bright colours, but once the bandages came off . . .

  The final layers were peeled away.

  With his eyelids pressed tightly together and hardly daring to breathe, Archie waited.

  There was a pause and then Sir Mungo spoke again. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Sergeant.’

  Cathy held her breath in a vain attempt to steady her wildly beating heart as she silently prayed, God, let him be able to see.

  Feeling sick, she waited for what seemed like for ever, but then slowly Archie opened his eyes.

  He gazed around for a moment then his face crumpled. Raising his right hand, he covered his eyes.

  ‘Archie?’ said Cathy.

  He looked up, and his eyes, glistening with unshed tears, ran slowly over those in the room before coming to rest on her.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, his ice-blue eyes filled with love. ‘I can see.’

  Suppressing the urge to jump up and down with joy, Cathy smiled, and Archie returned her smile with that quirky one of his.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the consultant.

  Archie watched as the middle-aged consultant, with a full head of steel-grey hair and a stout figure, took an ophthalmoscopy from his jacket pocket.

  Moving closer, Sir Mungo pressed the instrument to his own eye then peered into Archie’s. Seemingly satisfied with what he found, the ophthalmic specialist stood up again.


  ‘There’s still some residual damage,’ he said, pocketing his instrument. ‘But the injured cells at the back of your eyes seem to be healing well. Is your vision clear?’

  Archie looked around the room again then studied his hand. ‘It is.’

  ‘What about this?’ The consultant took the chart from the end of his bed and handed it to him. ‘Can you read the print at the bottom?’

  Archie’s eyes skimmed down the sheet.

  ‘Aye, well and fine,’ he replied, handing it back. He squinted. ‘Mind you, everything seems a mite bright.’

  ‘It will do for a while,’ the consultant replied. ‘You’ll have to wear dark glasses for a few weeks but only until your eyes are fully healed.’

  ‘And when will I be able to return to duty?’ asked Archie.

  ‘I’d say a couple more weeks after that,’ Sir Mungo replied. ‘By then your sight should return to normal. But I’d like to see you myself at Moorfields before you return to duty. Sister will arrange the appointment.’

  ‘When can he come home, Doctor?’ asked Cathy.

  ‘I’ll get the limbs and appliance chap to sort him out a pair of dark glasses, but we’ll be kicking him out tomorrow.’ Sir Mungo’s round face lifted in a jovial smile. ‘Unless you’d like us to keep him out of your hair a little longer.’

  Cathy laughed.

  ‘No, tomorrow’s grand. I don’t want him cluttering up your ward any longer.’

  ‘Well, then, as that seems to be settled, I’ll wish you all a good day. Sergeant.’

  He offered his hand and Archie took it.

  ‘Thank you, Sir Mungo,’ he said, as they shook.

  ‘Mrs McIntosh.’ The consultant nodded at Cathy then swept out of the room with Sister Torrance half a step behind.

  They looked at each other for a moment, then Archie stood up. Crossing the space between them, he took Cathy’s hands and drew her into his embrace. As his arms enfolded her, Cathy burst into tears.