A Ration Book Daughter by Jean Fullerton

Author:Jean Fullerton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atlantic Books

Stroking the end of his mongoose-hair brush through the blob of Brown Madder on his palette, Archie ran the paint-loaded tip along the crooked line of Ron’s back as he hunched over a 500-kilo bomb, then blended it into the dull brown of the squaddie’s battle jacket.

It was Saturday and four days since he’d given Cathy a lift to the shelter. It was also his first weekend off since Christmas, thanks to the renewed bombardment of London by the Luftwaffe.

For once he was alone in the house: Mrs Wheeler senior was visiting her sister and had been gone since eight thirty that morning. This had allowed Archie the pleasure of watching Cathy make breakfast for him and Peter whilst all the time wishing she was doing it as his wife rather than as his landlady. Still, perhaps one day . . .

After she’d left, he’d donned the old boiler suit he’d worn at John Brown’s shipyard and lace-less plimsolls, before setting out his equipment on the card table.

Swallowing the last mouthful of tea, Archie swirled his brush in the water of the half-filled jam jar then wiped it on the rag lying on the newspaper-covered table.

He stood back and studied the canvas in the afternoon light streaming through the bay window of his room.

The image he’d been working on for the past few days was of the men bathed in the late-winter sun, unloading a bomb from their truck.

Although he was satisfied with the composition of the group, there was still work needed to convey the weariness of the men at the end of a long day’s digging and the chill of the easterly wind cutting across Hackney Marshes.

But it was better. Much better.

Just because the colours of a bomb disposal crew’s day were various shades of brown it didn’t mean there wasn’t the odd splash of brightness to be found, like the red glow of the setting sun glinting off their equipment, a purple buddleia flowering in the rubble or an ox-eye daisy clinging on at the edge of a crater.

Wiping his brush again, Archie was just about to smear it through the spiral of crimson on his palette when there was a knock on the front door.

Archie placed the brush, with the bristles upwards, back in the brush pot and, wiping his hands on his legs, he went to answer it.

Pulling the door open, he came face to face with a tall man, giving him the rare experience of looking someone almost straight in the eye.

Although the last time Archie had seen him he’d been heavily disguised as Father Christmas, Archie knew who the visitor was.

The man studied Archie for a moment then his weather-beaten face lifted in an ingenuous smile. ‘I’m thinking you must be Sergeant McIntosh.’

‘Aye, I am,’ Archie replied. ‘And I’m guessing you’re Mrs Wheeler’s father.’

‘I am indeed,’ he replied. ‘Jeremiah Brogan.’

He offered his hand and Archie took it.

Cathy’s father had a strong grip, but Archie’s handshake was its equal.

‘I’m afraid she’s not in,’ said Archie.

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