by Pam Weaver
As she turned to go back into the house, he tried to start the engine, but a couple of weeks sitting idle in the driveway had made it difficult to start. When Ruby came back out to tell him that the doctor was on his way, Mr Tucker was sitting in the driver’s seat with the bonnet up.
‘Would you like me to come and see if I can help with the little one?’ Ruby asked. She was aware that Jim had followed her to the door and was just behind her, watching.
‘No!’ said the man, getting out of the van quickly. Ruby was startled, so he added in a softer tone, ‘You never know, it might be catching.’
A few minutes later Rex drew up outside the door and hurried up the path, carrying his doctor’s bag. Both men went inside the house.
Bea had been on a voyage of discovery. Now an avid reader, she had stumbled across an article about a philanthropist called Andrew Carnegie. First she had to look up the word ‘philanthropist’ and found out that it was to do with being generous to people. She then went on to discover that Andrew Carnegie had strong connections with Worthing.
Born a Scot, Carnegie moved to the United States as a boy and rose to become one of the richest people in the world. After he sold his Carnegie Steel Company in 1901 for a reputed $250 million, he devoted the rest of his life to building libraries (one of which was Worthing’s) and making donations to worthy causes. To show their gratitude, Worthing Council not only named a road after him, but also made him a Freeman of the Borough.
Andrew Carnegie had died some eighteen years before, but the residue of his enormous fortune was still being shared out, and the Townswomen’s Guild had been allocated £800 to develop an interest in craftwork among its members. Armed with this information, Bea first approached Effie about holding a craft fair to raise funds for Gifford House.
Although she listened, Effie wasn’t very encouraging. ‘My dear, it will be an awful lot of hard work. Have we got time to do it this year?’
‘I’m sure our ladies will be up for it,’ said Bea, bursting with enthusiasm. ‘There’s so much terrible news these days – it will help to lift our spirits.’
‘But think of the extra cost.’ Effie frowned.
‘From what I can gather,’ said Bea, handing over the paperwork, ‘we could get a small grant to help us set it up.’
Effie scanned the piece of paper she’d been handed and grunted in a non-committal fashion.
Bea wasn’t about to give up so soon. ‘If I may make a suggestion,’ she began, ‘think of it as a modern-day parable of the loaves and fishes. We’ve got extra funds from the sale of teas and coffees to get us going, and the money we make from the raffle is excellent. If we could get our share of a grant, I’m sure each lady will pull her weight.’
The rest of the committee was just as enthusiastic, when the idea was mooted to them. That was just as well because by then Bea had already secured the church hall across the road for the day Effie deemed suitable, Saturday, October 3rd. The Parish Rooms was barely big enough for the monthly meetings, let alone for holding a sale for members of the public.
‘This will lift our spirits in these dark days,’ Effie told the members at the next meeting. ‘Each lady can use her skill to make something and enter one of the competitions.’
There was a murmur of approval as she spoke.
‘We shall offer a small prize for first, second and third places, and hopefully encourage others to join us or, at the very least, to take up a hobby of their own.’
By now the murmur had become a hum of excitement.
‘Mrs Fosdyke has a clipboard with a list,’ Effie went on. ‘We are looking for helpers for the day, and for volunteers to put up posters.’
By gleaning information from friends and patients who had run church bazaars or WI fundraisers, Bea had formed a comprehensive plan. Not only was the bigger hall secured, but she had also costed out the publicity posters, ordered certificates and badges and, with the help of Mrs Crockerton, the branch secretary, had constructed an entry form for the exhibitors. Miss Horton and her team organized who was doing what concerning the catering on the day, and decided there would be teas and coffees served through the hatch. She also made sure there were enough tablecloths to cover each table, and enough white sheets to cover the trestle tables for the exhibits. A red ribbon pinned to the table would mark off each bay, and the classes would include making an apron, embroidery, needlepoint, making a child’s toy, best-dressed doll, creating a wild-flower arrangement, a pincushion, a sun hat (although by the time of the sale, summer would be over), a knitted article, and a novelty class – in case someone made something that didn’t really fit in any of the other classes.
‘Hopefully,’ Effie told her starry-eyed members as she presented Bea’s plan to the meeting, ‘these categories will ensure that everybody has something they’ll enjoy.’
Mrs Wilmot had some good ideas about publicizing the event; Mrs Raymond suggested having a bumper raffle; and Miss Taylor was put in charge of collecting prizes. The hum of excitement rose to a buzz.
‘The thing we need above all else,’ Effie told them, ‘is someone of note to open the fair.’
The women looked at each other with a sense of hopelessness.
‘We could try Councillor Bentick Budd,’ someone called out. But as a member of the BUF and a controversial figure, some feared that he might attract the wrong sort of person.
‘There’s Matron from the hospital,’ suggested Mrs Wilmot, but that idea was quickly dismissed, as she might be far too busy. Several other suggestions were put forth – and even Rex’s name was bandied about – but for one reason or another, none was deemed suitable. When the conversation had died down, Effie stood up again.
‘I have been talking to Elsie and Doris Walters,’ she said rather smugly. ‘I don’t know if any of you are aware, but they both live in Steyning. I believe they are free to come on Saturday October the seventeenth. Is that a good day for our fair? Would you like me to ask them?’
‘Oh,’ said Bea. ‘I thought you wanted October the third.’
‘Did you, dear?’ said Effie. ‘Whatever gave you that idea? Anyway, Elsie and Doris can only come on the seventeenth. I do hope you can change it, dear; if not, we’ll have to put it off until sometime next year.’
The other members of the committee looked at Bea, disappointment written all over their faces. Bea struggled to control her tongue. The cow! Effie had done it on purpose, hadn’t she? ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, tight-lipped.
Effie smiled. ‘So does everybody agree that if Mrs Quinn can correct her mistake, I should ask Elsie and Doris?’
The suggestion was greeted with great enthusiasm. Elsie and Doris Walters – better known as ‘Gert and Daisy’ – had been musical artists for many years and were very well known. As for the date, everyone agreed that to do a summer fair would be far too much of a rush, but October 17th meant they would be in good time for Christmas, and yet there was every possibility that the weather would still be good.
Mrs Crockerton, who was sitting next to Bea, whispered, ‘I’ve got a gramophone record of Gert and Daisy with Stanley Holloway. They are very funny.’
‘Now that I know everyone is in agreement,’ said Effie, ‘I shall get on the telephone as soon as Mrs Quinn has rectified her mistake.’
Rub it in, why don’t you? thought Bea acidly. Everyone applauded and, as she joined in, despite being angry, Bea couldn’t help having a sneaky admiration for Effie. She certainly knew how to play to the crowd and manipulate everything to her own advantage.
‘I want you to think of this,’ Effie shouted over the noise, until everyone quietened down, ‘as the story of the loaves and fishes. If we give what we can wholeheartedly, it will multiply and help many needy people.’
As the meeting broke up for refreshments, Mrs Wilmot leaned over towards Bea. ‘Isn’t she a ruddy marvel,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘Where does she get all those wonderful ideas from?’
‘I really can’t imagine,’ Bea sniffed
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CHAPTER 14
It was amazing what a shepherd’s pie could do. The day Jean was taken ill, Ruby cancelled her bus trip to Chichester and made one for Bill Tucker and his wife. When it came out of the oven, she tried knocking on the kitchen door; but getting, as she had suspected, no answer, she pushed a note through the letter box and left the shepherd’s pie on the step. By the time she’d reached her own back door, although her neighbour’s door remained firmly closed, Mrs Tucker had taken the dish in. She called over with the empty dish a couple of days later.
‘Come in, come in,’ cried Ruby when she saw who it was. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Mrs Tucker hesitated for a second or two but, to Ruby’s delight, she came in. She was very young, maybe eighteen, but no more. Her short blonde hair was fluffed up at the sides, parted on the left and with a deep wave on the right. She had big brown eyes and an innocent face.
‘I can only stay a minute,’ she said. ‘I have to get back to Jean.’
‘How is she?’ asked Ruby. Rex made a point of never discussing his patients, so Ruby knew better than to ask him what was wrong with the baby.
‘She had tonsillitis,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘It was quite nasty, but nothing too serious.’
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘She’s on the mend now,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘Lots of jelly to eat. Right now she’s helping her daddy with a jigsaw puzzle.’
They smiled at each other. Ruby pushed a cup of steaming tea in front of her neighbour. ‘I didn’t know your husband’s aunt very well,’ she began, ‘but she seemed a nice woman. We sometimes shared guests. If she was too full, I would take hers; and if I was all booked up, I’d send them next door.’
Mrs Tucker lowered her eyes. ‘Sadly, I never met her. Eric used to come and stay with her when he was a boy. There was an old man living in this house then.’
‘Eric?’ said Ruby.
‘My husband,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘He’s Eric and I’m Lena.’
‘Oh,’ said Ruby, surprised. ‘I thought your husband’s name was Bill Tucker.’ She laughed. ‘I can’t think where I got that idea from.’
Lena seemed surprised too. ‘Our name is Farmer,’ she said, her face colouring slightly.
Ruby was puzzled. How odd. She needed to change the subject. ‘The old man your husband remembered living here was Linton Carver,’ she said. ‘He always seemed old to me while I was growing up in the town, but in actual fact he wasn’t that old. He had war injuries.’
‘Shame,’ said Lena, finishing her tea quickly. ‘Well, thanks again for the pie. It was lovely.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Ruby, sensing Lena was about to go. ‘Look, when Jean is better, why don’t you both come round for a cup of tea? My husband has a little monkey. I’m sure Jean would enjoy feeding it.’
‘A monkey!’ cried Lena. ‘But aren’t they dangerous?’
‘It was wild when he caught it,’ said Ruby, ‘but it’s quite tame now. It sits on his shoulders most of the time.’
‘Well, well,’ said Lena, standing to her feet.
Ruby watched her walking back down the path and gave her a little wave at the gate. She seemed a nice enough woman. Who knows, given time they might become friends.
Ruby woke with a flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Today was her twenty-first birthday. She had come of age. There were no plans for the morning, but she had been told to go to her mother’s house for 3.30 p.m. Nothing had been said, but she guessed there would be a little family party, with presents and cake. Ruby felt as excited as a silly schoolgirl.
She had kept the calendar free that day, although she would be having another set of refugees the following Saturday, and on that score things were going well. By now she had worked out what jobs were the most difficult ones for the girls to comprehend, when it came to going into service, and had put together the knowledge she had gained into a small booklet. The only trouble was, it was laboriously slow writing it all out by hand over and over again. Rachel suggested getting a typewriter, but it still meant making numerous duplicate copies. For that reason she thought about getting it properly printed, but worried about the cost. She had a stream of visitors and she was getting faithful returners, so she knew her reputation for a clean house and a comfortable stay was growing all the time. Perhaps in a few more weeks she could contemplate getting a booklet priced up by the printers.
As for the problem with Jim, mostly they kept out of each other’s way. He had gone back to doing his crosswords, although he was often distracted by the comments on the letters pages. Sometimes he agreed with what the letter-writer had to say, but more often they had him reaching for his own pen to make a reply. There was one name that stood out from the rest. Those letters were always signed ‘B. Simmons Jr’. The writer came from Upper High Street, Worthing (the Herald printed his address in their columns), but his letters were also in the pages of several other newspapers and magazines. Jim studied the way B. Simmons Jr wrote his letters.
The subject matter varied. It seemed that the man had an opinion on just about everything, and Jim began to understand that his letters were the answer to an editor’s prayer. Terse and almost abrupt, they contained no waffle, no fanciful turns of phrase and no awkward sentences. Brief and to the point, the letters penned by B. Simmons Jr were easy enough to slip into any small space on the page. ‘The football-pools winnings should be taxed,’ he thundered in the News Chronicle. Although he didn’t do the pools himself, Jim was irritated by that letter and, when he found himself reaching for his pen to write a reply of disapproval, he suddenly realized why B. Simmons Jr was so successful. A strong opinion evoked a response; that response meant selling more papers, and increased sales would keep the shareholders happy.
Not only did the same letter-writer crop up in the national dailies, but he also had an opinion on local issues. After he pressed for more seats in Homefield Park, and got them, he won the admiration of the people of the town. Jim made a conscious decision to channel his own efforts into something worthwhile. He might not be able to achieve much in the physical sense, but he could wield a pen and take up a cause.
He and Ruby still shared a bed, but after all that had been said on that fateful night, they had started off by sleeping at the very edge of their own side. As the weeks went by, although they no longer kissed each other goodnight, they were more relaxed under the sheets. They still didn’t touch, but now they both slept soundly. Neither of them discussed what had happened, which meant that the bitterness of heart they both felt – albeit for different reasons – remained.
For her birthday, Jim had bought Ruby a birthday card and a necklace. She guessed he must have asked her mother or Rachel to do the actual shopping, because Ruby was sure Jim hadn’t been into town for months. It didn’t really matter. It was the thought that counted, and they were both very pretty. She thanked him, but didn’t give him a kiss.
The postman brought a flurry of cards: one from Edith and Bernard, a couple from the girls she used to work with at Warnes, one from Mrs Whichelow on behalf of the Deborah Committee, and even a card from Isaac Kaufman, the German-Jewish refugee who had lodged with them at Newlands Road. She couldn’t think how he had remembered her birthday, unless her mother had told him.
Ruby treated the day as any other and stuck to her usual routine until two-thirty, and then she washed and changed her frock. She wore a royal-blue waltz frock that she’d bought in Smith & Strange with money that Bea and Rex had given her. It had a sweetheart neckline and puff sleeves. Gathered under the bust, its panelled skirt swung out attractively as she moved. As it happened, the necklace Jim had given her complemented it perfectly. By three, she and Jim were on their way to her mother’s house, with Ruby pushing him in the wheelchair. As they approached Heene Parish Rooms, Rex, looking smart in a dark-blue blazer and white open-necked shirt, stepped out in front of them, giving Ruby a surprise.
‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said, taking her into his arms.
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Immediately Ruby felt the tears welling up. All those years when she’d wished her father would hug her and say, ‘Happy birthday’ and had been disappointed . . . But now here he was. She still couldn’t quite believe it.
Percy stepped out onto the street behind him.
‘What are you both doing here?’ Ruby squeaked.
‘We’ll sort Jim out,’ said Rex. ‘You go on inside.’
Her brother bent his head and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Sis.’
‘Are we in the Parish Rooms?’ said Ruby incredulously.
Playfully the two men pushed her through the door, where she was met by a sea of faces – friends, relations and neighbours all calling out ‘Happy birthday!’
Ruby could hardly believe her eyes. All the people who mattered to her were here. Her mother and her sister May; Cousin Lily and Nick; Aunt Vinny and her man friend, Bert Cable; and Rachel and Alma. The room was filled with women in colourful afternoon dresses, men in casual suits and children in pretty party frocks. Everywhere she looked, people were smiling at her and wishing her many happy returns. Ruby was hugged and kissed to death. Huddled together in a corner, she spotted Edith Parsons and Bernard, Florrie Dart, Phyllis Dawson and Doris Fox, the girls she had worked with at Warnes all that long time ago.
‘How wonderful to see you!’ she cried. The sister from the ward where she’d worked in the hospital was there too, and then she spotted Isaac Kaufman.
‘But you sent me a card this morning,’ cried Ruby as she hugged him.
‘I didn’t want you to guess that I was coming,’ said Isaac. ‘It was a little surprise.’
‘A lovely surprise,’ Ruby smiled happily. He was sitting with Rivka and Elisheva, the first two girls she had schooled to become domestics. Elisheva, who now called herself Elizabeth, looked well; but Rivka had dark circles under her eyes, and although Ruby could tell she was putting a brave face on it, she didn’t look happy. Ruby longed to talk to her, but there wasn’t time. Already her mother was tugging at her arm to come and see the birthday cake. It was truly amazing. Florrie Dart, her old neighbour, stood beside the table, grinning from ear to ear.