Wartime Brides and Wedding Cakes

by Amy Miller

  ‘But…’ she said.

  ‘But nothing,’ said John, breaking out into a cough. ‘Have you read the newspapers lately? There’s a war on, you know. This is the way it’s got to be, but we will not give up.’

  After his speech, he coughed and coughed. Audrey patted him gently on the back.

  ‘John,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re ill. I can’t let you work here with that cough.’

  ‘I’d rather die on the job than die in that hospital bed,’ he said. ‘Let me be, Audrey Barton. Just let me be.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘I’ve made some soup,’ said Audrey, placing a steaming pot of vegetable soup on Pat’s kitchen table, where they would be staying until the bakery was deemed safe to return. ‘I know nobody really feels like eating after today, but we have to keep our strength up.’

  Isabel’s funeral had been packed. The congregation, made up of young and old, flowed out of St Katherine’s Church and onto the street, and even when the wretched air-raid siren had sounded its warning, nobody moved from their pews and the vicar continued the service with his head held high. Her death, on the night of Maggie’s wedding, had stirred something in the whole community – a determination and need to pull together and be together. When the congregation’s voices joined in the hymn ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, Audrey was so moved by the passion with which people sang, she felt as though the roof of the church might lift off at any moment. Seeing Maggie so unhappy, after previously being on such a high, broke her heart, but she’d resolved to stay strong in the face of adversity, to not allow sadness to defeat her.

  Now, Audrey, Lily and Joy, Elsie and Mary, sat around Pat’s kitchen table. William had gone on fire-watching duty and John was at the bakery, seeing to the ovens. Maggie had returned home with Nancy and Gwendolen, having to abandon her first few precious days of marriage.

  ‘I don’t know what will happen to Gwendolen now,’ Audrey said, ladling the soup into bowls. ‘I think she needs some kind of help, really.’

  ‘Perhaps this will make her pull her socks up,’ said Pat, sitting up straighter in her chair. ‘The woman’s got to take responsibility for herself and her family. She doesn’t have a choice, does she? Just like the rest of us! It’s black and white, Audrey, there’s no “wondering” about it!’

  Audrey sat down in her seat and thought for a moment, while Pat tutted irritably. She knew Pat thought her daughter-in-law was a soft touch, and she was going to let her comments pass, but the thought of Arthur popped into her head.

  ‘People aren’t black and white, though, are they?’ she said. ‘They’re a bit of every colour in between, if you ask me. It’s like that man, Arthur, that I met. You know, the one who brought my ring back? The woman in the café told me he’s a conscientious objector…’

  ‘He never is!’ said Pat, putting her spoon down on the table. ‘What good would a conscientious objector be if Hitler was marching down the high street and knocking on the door?’

  ‘Maybe he’s brave,’ said Audrey. ‘Maybe it’s braver to stand up for what you believe in, than go with the crowd.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ said Pat. ‘I don’t know how you can say that when your own husband is out there fighting somewhere, Mary’s father was killed, and William has come back wounded. Elsie’s father is in a prisoner-of-war camp. You can’t stick up for a man who’s basically a coward—’

  Audrey knew she should button her lip and control her tongue, but she was sick of war and fighting and violence and bad news, and no matter what, she always found herself fighting the corner of the underdog.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ she said, as calmly as possible, ‘is that people are not black and white, they’re complicated. People’s reasons for doing things are complicated, aren’t they? Arthur is a very nice man and we have no right to call him a coward, just as people have no right to call Elsie’s father a spy or Lily “shameless” for having a baby even though she’s unwed. I’ve said it before but I’ll keep on saying it till I’m blue in the face: if we showed more empathy and understanding and simple human kindness, we would all be much better off.’

  ‘You’re entitled to your opinion,’ said Pat, her cheeks pink, ‘but my son is out there putting his life on the line for people like Arthur and—’

  At this Pat, uncharacteristically, burst into a smattering of tears. Audrey put her arms around her mother-in-law. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken out like that.’

  ‘Oh, don’t take any notice of me,’ said Pat, quickly recovering. ‘Goodness me, I don’t know what came over me.’

  She fussed around with her handkerchief, while the others murmured words of comfort. Despite the soup being delicious, nobody could really eat anything at all.

  ‘I think all our feelings are a bit raw,’ said Lily, resting a hand on Audrey’s arm. ‘It’s no wonder after today, is it?’

  ‘I think maybe William and I should wait until next year to marry,’ said Elsie. ‘It seems insensitive.’

  Audrey glanced at Elsie, who had suffered disappointment after disappointment, but who had worked her socks off to keep her family going and her relationship with William alive, despite his trauma. She had been so excited about marrying him and wasn’t that what they all needed? A love story with a happy outcome? The whole community needed it, not just their family – especially now. Someone had to make something good happen.

  ‘No,’ said Audrey. ‘We’ve all had a lot of knocks to deal with lately, and your wedding will be just what we need – something to look forward to and work together on. Elsie, you and William deserve a nice day to celebrate your being together. God knows, life is short! Let’s make the most of the good times.’

  Pat, clearly knocked for six by her own display of emotion, stood up from the table and went over to the dresser, where she fetched a bottle of sherry and the sherry glasses. She poured everyone a small glass and handed them round.

  ‘Let’s raise a toast to the good times,’ she said. ‘And to the memory of Isabel.’

  ‘Isabel,’ the women said in unison, lifting up their little glasses of sherry while sitting in the kitchen, with the light fading beyond the nets.

  Audrey smiled at the assembled group, smoothing out the tablecloth with her palms, remembering Isabel’s sweet smile on Maggie’s wedding day, silently promising to carry a little of her essence in her heart, forever more.

  * * *

  With a deep sigh, Maggie sat on the edge of Isabel’s narrow, creaky bed, still wearing the simple black dress and cloak that she’d worn to the funeral. In her fingers, she held a small lock of Isabel’s soft hair that the undertaker had given her. George had promised he would get the lock of hair made into a brooch, a mourning brooch, so that she would always be able to treasure her sister’s memory.

  ‘Sweet George,’ Maggie whispered, thinking of her new husband who had been such a gentleman these last few days, helping with the funeral arrangements and paperwork. Their wedding night had been so tragically interrupted and while Maggie had returned to the dank, tiny house with Nancy and Gwendolen, George was preparing to be posted overseas. The wedding now felt like a distant dream, her happiness utterly crushed by the loss of dearest Isabel. Her poor sister had never been fortunate and had absolutely hated her job at the laundry – and now she was dead before her life had even really started. Glancing around the bedroom and seeing ghostly images of Isabel everywhere, Maggie felt overcome with sadness. She would never see her again, never hear her laugh, never wash her one pair of blasted socks.

  ‘Oh, gosh!’ said Maggie, as tears spilled onto her cheeks. ‘What will we do without Isabel?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ said Gwendolen, suddenly appearing at the bedroom door, with Nancy just behind her. Maggie jerked her head up and wiped her eyes, surprised by the steely expression on her grandmother’s face. Isabel had been killed while helping to get a drunken Gwendolen to safety – and though she would never say as much, Maggie couldn’
t help but blame her grandmother in some way.

  ‘I know you blame me and that’s just the way it is,’ said Gwendolen, taking the words right out of Maggie’s thoughts. ‘But blame won’t get us anywhere. What we need to do, what I need to do, is look after you girls properly. We need to brush ourselves down and get on with our lives. Folk round ’ere ’ave all lost someone, thanks to this war. Isabel’s death has been a wake-up call, I can tell you. I know I’ve been poisonous, but—’

  Suddenly unsteady on her feet and with tears in her eyes, Gwendolen seemed to lose every ounce of her energy and Nancy held her by the arm to lead her to sit down on the bed. Gwendolen wiped her eyes and sat up straighter, admonishing herself, before addressing Maggie and Nancy again.

  ‘I promise you I will change,’ she insisted, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘I’ve lost my ’usband, my daughter and son-in-law and now my granddaughter, and for so many years I’ve tried to blank out my sadness. It’s ’bout time I stood up for what’s left of m’ family. I’m sorry, girls. I’m sorry, Nancy. I’m sorry, Maggie.’

  Maggie and Nancy shared a wary glance at their grandmother’s words, though both girls had tears on their cheeks. Maggie, who normally seethed with resentment whenever her grandmother spoke, saw Gwendolen through new eyes: she was a woman who couldn’t withstand all the tragedy life had dealt her. Once she had been young, just like Maggie, with a new husband she loved and hopes for the future. Life had taken her on an unexpected journey that she hadn’t been able to cope with.

  ‘I want to make it up to you,’ said Gwendolen quietly. ‘For Isabel.’

  With gnarled, liver-spotted hands that were criss-crossed with protruding blue veins, Gwendolen shakily reached out for Maggie and Nancy’s hands. For a long moment neither sister moved, until Maggie took the lead and curled her own hand around her grandmother’s. It was the first loving gesture they’d shared in years.

  ‘For Isabel,’ said Maggie, offering all she had: a small, sad smile.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘This is a very peculiar arrangement,’ said Flo, irritably, waiting for her bread. Weeks later, and the bakery shop was still being repaired – and the sound of sawing and hammering was a constant background noise – but Audrey had created a makeshift ‘shop’ from the hatch window on the side of the bakehouse building. The gate to the backyard was fixed open and the customers lined up, next to the cucumber plants, chickens and Anderson shelter, where leeks and lettuces sprouted from the roof, for their bread. Even rain didn’t put off the customers. Since Lord Woolton had said on the wireless that housewives should keep one day’s worth of bread in their house as a standby, the queue never seemed to go down.

  ‘Won’t be long before we’re back to normal again,’ said Audrey, optimistically. Her body ached all over from working all hours in the bakehouse and on the shop, but she understood Flo’s frustration. Women had to spend hours waiting in shop queues, and the bakery shop had always been a place where the customers gossiped in relative comfort. ‘Meanwhile, would you like to try the “National Loaf”?’ she asked.

  Audrey lifted the dense wheatmeal loaf up for Flo and the rest of the queue to see. The women tutted, turning their noses up at the grey-looking loaf that was gradually being introduced in bakeries across the country, and that Barton’s was obliged to bake.

  ‘It’s grey!’ called out one customer. ‘And there’s no crust on it at all.’

  ‘Looks like you could knock someone out with it!’ said Maggie, with a wink.

  Audrey grinned at Maggie, who in spite of all she’d suffered – and with George now posted overseas – still managed to bring a smile to work. She was full of admiration for her.

  ‘Not on your life, Audrey!’ said Flo. ‘Looks like Hitler’s secret weapon to me! White tin and two rolls, please, and you’ll never find me ordering anything else!’

  ‘Didn’t you say white bread is going to be banned?’ said Elizabeth, who was standing behind Flo.

  ‘There’s been talk of it,’ said Audrey, thinking of the letter she received from the Ministry of Food saying the matter was being discussed, since there was a shortage of white flour and wheatmeal was better for the nation’s health. ‘But no decision has been made. For the time being, we’re baking as normal, but trying out this wheatmeal or “National Loaf” recipe too.’

  ‘Can you imagine life without white bread?’ said Flo, paying for her bread. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Give me some good news, Audrey, please! Have you heard from that husband of yours? My boys haven’t written in weeks.’

  Audrey stood with her hands on her hips, framed by the hatch. Thinking about Charlie, her heart sank. It had been weeks since she’d heard from him too and though she refused to believe the worst, doubts about his safety crept into her head. She opened her mouth to reply to Flo when a young woman, no more than twenty, carrying a baby, appeared in the yard, looking rather lost. Dressed in skirt and blouse, with her mid-brown hair pinned back from her face, she carried the baby in one arm – and with the other hand, she carried a suitcase. All the ladies in the queue stopped gossiping and peered at her.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Audrey said, inwardly rolling her eyes at the ‘inquisitive’ customers.

  ‘I’m looking for a convalescent home around here,’ the young woman said. ‘We were sent here by the Invalid Children’s Aid Association, but I seem to have lost the address – I had it written down. A man in the street said you might know where it was?’

  Audrey nodded. She’d heard about the convalescent home in Southbourne where women brought their babies who had suffered in the Blitz in London and Bristol. The babies, aged between one and three, had been sent to Bournemouth with their mothers for some rest and recuperation.

  ‘I can show her the way, Audrey,’ said Flo.

  Audrey came out from behind the hatch, with two hot rolls. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked. ‘I’m Audrey Barton. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Christine Johnson,’ said the young woman.

  ‘Take these,’ Audrey insisted, even though Christine protested. ‘And if you don’t know anyone around here, why don’t you come back and visit us again? My stepsister Lily has a young child. You two might be good companions for one another.’

  Christine smiled and, as she turned to leave, bumped into Pat, who was hurrying into the bakery yard, clearly bursting with news.

  ‘Sorry, dear!’ said Pat, rushing towards Audrey, a lock of grey hair escaped from her hat. ‘Did you hear? About the pilot?’

  ‘What pilot?’ said Audrey, her mind fretting over the names of all the pilots she knew – the sons, brother and nephews of customers. Scanning the customers’ faces, she felt sure they were all feeling the same nerves.

  ‘A plane came down off Hengistbury Head during a training exercise last night,’ she replied. ‘The plane landed in the sea and was spotted by a soldier who was on the Head. He jumped into the sea and tried to get to the pilot, who was tangled up in the wreckage. Sadly, the pilot drowned, and when the soldier tried to swim back to the beach, the rip current was so strong and the water so rough and the weather so bad, that he got into terrible trouble. Another man, passing, got into the water and rescued him from drowning.’

  ‘My goodness!’ said Audrey, accompanied by expressions of intrigue from the other women in the queue.

  ‘And guess who the man was, who jumped into the sea?’ asked Pat, raising her eyebrows and looking pointedly at Audrey. ‘Arthur, the man who found your wedding ring in his bread.’

  Audrey felt a smile burst out onto her face. She lifted her hands to her cheeks, which had turned pink.

  ‘Perhaps he’s a braver man than I gave him credit for,’ said Pat, sharing a smile with Audrey.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Beauty is duty, eh?’ said Christine to Lily, as they stood next to one another in the gardens of the convalescent home in Southbourne, where Christine and her baby Aggie were staying, and dahlias and geraniums bordered a green lawn
. Christine was referring to the government’s instruction that girls and women should stay pretty in wartime to boost morale, but was jokingly applying the phrase to baby Aggie and Joy, who were sitting on a blanket, pretty as new roses.

  ‘A beautiful face is a brave face,’ said Lily in reply, and both girls laughed. They’d seen the posters and advertisements in magazines, aiming to encourage women to keep up their appearance, no matter what troubles they faced.

  Audrey had told Lily about Christine and that she might need a friend, so she had visited the home, with Mary in tow and instantly liked her. They sat in the grounds of the grand white villa on Viewpoint Avenue now and played with the baby girls, who were picking up and dropping, or trying to chew two wooden cubes. Mary’s face was smeared with blackberry juice stains, since she’d spent the afternoon collecting blackberries from the hedgerows. The Ministry of Food were offering threepence per pound of blackberries for preserving – and scouts and schoolchildren were making the most of the offer. Mary, it seemed, had probably eaten her fair share too!

  ‘Talking of beauty, I think we better clean you up, Mary,’ Lily said, wiping her hanky over Mary’s face, rubbing at the stains. At that moment, an aeroplane roared over the roof, terribly low, and Aggie burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, it’s okay, baby girl,’ said Christine, quickly picking up her daughter and holding her close to her chest, covering her ears with her hands and rocking her gently from side to side until she calmed down. ‘It’s part of the treatment programme,’ she told Lily. ‘The babies here are traumatised by the sound of aircraft, so we have to sit outside and expose them to the sound, but make them feel safe afterwards so slowly they don’t see the aircraft as a threat.’