War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  The tray containing all this wasn’t so much heavy as bulky. As she carried it through to the shop, the headscarf she’d wound loosely around her hair, like an Alice band, slipped off and her hair fell forward, obscuring her vision.

  Muttering under her breath, Ruby placed the tray on the counter and picked up the scarf. It was blue and matched her eyes.

  Rather than leave the shop and use the mirror over the fireplace, she used her reflection in the shop door to put her scarf straight again. Her hair fell in her usual peek-a-boo hairstyle. It seemed a shame to alter it, but it made sense to tie it back whilst serving in the shop.

  As she began to rewind the scarf around her head she caught sight of the mole that blighted one side of her face. Once the scarf was retied, she pulled a section of hair from beneath it, looping it over the mole that she preferred to keep hidden.

  Although her reflection in the shop door was faint, she could still see that mole. A thought occurred to her. Perhaps it’s the reason why Mary is engaged to a handsome flier and I don’t even have a sweetheart. If I were to get married, I’d present Dad with a grandchild right away, she thought to herself. That would perk him up.

  But she wasn’t getting married. She’d vowed not to fall for anyone ever again after Gareth Stead, the landlord of the Apple Tree pub, had made a fool of her. He’d been sentenced to prison shortly after he was caught dealing on the black market. Mrs Darwin-Kemp, who lived in the biggest house in the village with her retired colonel husband, had been the presiding magistrate at his trial and he’d gone down for two years.

  ‘Day-dreaming again, Ruby?’ She shook her head. ‘Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness.’ She shrugged. ‘Oh well. In this crazy world, who’s going to notice?’

  She placed the tray of cheese straws and cakes on the counter just as the jangling of the brass bell above the shop door announced a customer.

  Miriam Powell came in, her pale countenance made paler on account of her black knitted hat and a worn black coat with a threadbare collar speckled with dandruff. It reeked of mothballs.

  Ruby plastered on a smile to hide the pity she felt for Miriam, unfortunate enough to live and work with a mother who spouted religion from her thin lips. She’d always been scruffy, but never more so than she was now.

  ‘Hello, Miriam. What can I get for you?’

  ‘My usual, please. And mother said can she have some cheese straws to sell in the shop. The children like them if they’ve used up their sweet ration.’

  ‘She lets them come into the shop?’ Ruby couldn’t avoid sounding surprised. Miriam’s mother was a right old dragon and not particularly fond of children. It had always amazed Ruby that she’d actually had a child of her own, though Miriam had been a one-off.

  Miriam held her head slightly to one side as she shook it, her eyes downcast.

  ‘Oh no. Mother doesn’t let them come into the shop. She lets their parents buy for them. That is her rule. Mother sticks to her rules.’

  ‘You know what they say, Miriam. Rules are meant to be broken.’

  The moment the words were out, Ruby knew from Miriam’s face that rules in the Powell household were never broken. Miriam wouldn’t dare.

  ‘It’s a lovely day,’ said Ruby brightly as she took the money and put it in the wooden drawer behind the counter. She jerked her chin at Miriam’s coat as she passed her the change. ‘Aren’t you a bit hot in that coat?’

  She shook her head. ‘No! No! In fact I find it a little chilly.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re sickening for something. I’d get to bed if I were you.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got things to do. Mother needs me.’

  The glass in the shop door rattled as Miriam left. Ruby came out from behind the counter and watched her dashing off home, the full skirt of her black coat flapping around her legs.

  Ruby sighed and rubbed her arms. Poor Miriam. Trapped in that shop with a domineering mother, her social life comprising only of church, still in her mother’s company. At one time Miriam had been sweet on Charlie, not that he’d been interested.

  It was mid-morning when Mary returned tugging off her gloves as though they were irritating her hands.

  Ruby understood the situation in one swift look. ‘You didn’t make it.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘The city’s in ruins. I smell of smoke.’

  Ruby sniffed. ‘You’re right. You smell like a kipper.’

  ‘I need a bath.’

  ‘That can be arranged as long as you stick to the few inches allowed by the powers that be.’ Their father had measured and painted a line around the bath.

  ‘Have you had a busy morning?’

  Ruby shook her head a little too vigorously. The long tress half covering one side of her face flew out of place. She swiftly pulled it back again.

  ‘Not especially. Miriam Powell came in early as she always does. She never used to look so downtrodden and scruffy.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I know it’s uncharitable, but I sometimes think she’d have a better life if her mother wasn’t around.’

  Ruby’s laughter was as bright as a bell. ‘If you mean dead, say dead. She’s always in church so the churchyard should feel like home to her.’

  ‘Ruby!’ said Mary in mock disapproval. ‘You are wicked.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Ruby, amusement written all over her face. ‘I’m just stating the facts.’

  ‘No wonder Ada Perkins hardly visits.’

  Ada Perkins, Miriam’s grandmother, lived alone in the Forest of Dean. At one point she’d taken Frances in as a refugee.

  ‘Cuppa?’ Ruby lifted the glossy brown teapot.

  ‘Lovely. I’ll tell Dad I’m home and see if he wants one.’

  She went behind the counter and made to go through to the back where the bread oven was situated, but seeing the look on Ruby’s face she stopped.

  ‘Again? All morning?’

  Ruby waved a hand dismissively. ‘Again! All morning! He’s going to make himself ill if he goes on like this. It wouldn’t be so bad if he still visited Bettina, but he only goes there to look after her garden. The rest of the time, it’s our mother’s grave.’

  They might have discussed things in more detail, but suddenly half a dozen customers flooded into the shop before they closed for lunch. One loaf after another disappeared from the shelves, and even then the shop failed to empty entirely. Everyone was talking about the previous night’s air raid and how many were killed and whether a bomb was ever likely to fall on them, though it wasn’t thought likely.

  ‘We’re too far out.’

  ‘But if they’ve got one left, they’ll drop it on us. They don’t like taking ’em home.’

  From air raids the conversation turned to recipes and the fact that everyone was baking potatoes in the ash of the fire grate, the best fuel-saving method they knew of.

  After home cooking came talk about how best to grow good vegetables and keep chickens including the best way to kill them once their egg-laying lives were over.

  ‘I favour knocking ’em over the ’ead with a block of wood before cutting their throats. Otherwise they’re still running round …’

  ‘My husband does the killing. Slits their throat without a second thought …’

  ‘Mine prefers opening their beaks and getting the knife down their throats …’

  Ruby suddenly disappeared out back, then just as quickly reappeared with a piece of paper in her hand.

  ‘Diversionary tactics,’ she whispered to Mary. ‘Before I’m sick!’

  Mary glanced at her, then the piece of paper on which was written the recipe she had been going to air on the radio that morning. Smiling, she faced the customers.

  ‘Ladies,’ she declared loudly. She waved the piece of paper in the air. ‘This is our cake recipe for this week. Butterfly cakes with chocolate. The kids will love them. I’ll stick it on the door so everyone can see.’

  She managed to stick it to the glass with a few scraps of sticky
tape left on the door from out of date official notices. Receiving new government directives was becoming a weekly event.

  The women thronged around, each one peering with interest at the latest recipe. Nutritious meals were all well and good, but cakes were a delightful luxury.

  ‘They’d be nice after a bit of stew.’

  Once stew was mentioned, the conversation veered in that direction. All the women in the shop agreed it was a good plan to keep a stockpot going all week, but everyone had their own secret ingredient.

  ‘Put the meat in first and never put the vegetables in until the end or it goes sour.’

  ‘Only if you keep it a week. My stockpot only lasts two days – and my boys insist on ’avin’ plenty of meat in their stews. They’re growing boys.’ Mrs Martin slapped her big hand down on the counter in an act of finality.

  Everyone agreed that red-blooded men needed to eat plenty of meat.

  Mrs Gates, a heavily pregnant lady, added her opinion. ‘I like my stew with dumplings, but instead of using suet I save the fat from the Sunday roast. Oh, I do like a few dumplings.’

  ‘Looks like you got yer own dumpling,’ one of the other women said to her.

  Much laughter followed. Mrs Gates had five children already. Her husband had been called up. Rumour had it he’d made sure she wouldn’t stray by getting her pregnant before leaving.

  ‘He needn’t think he’s done for me,’ Mrs Gates declared loudly. ‘Does he think I’m daft? Him away down the pub with his mates and all them loose women floating around. He does like his sauce, do my Bob, and what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.’

  The women laughed. So did Ruby. Mary turned pink. Such talk embarrassed her.

  ‘Are you going to do this every week?’ Mrs Gates asked jerking her chin at the recipe stuck to the door.

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Ruby looked at her sister. ‘What do you think, Mary? Something sweet from the Sweet sisters?’

  Everyone laughed and remarked what a good line that was.

  Mary scrutinised the recipe prominently displayed on the door.

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I think putting a new recipe up there every week is a good idea.’

  Mary glanced at the clock. It had been like a women’s church club that morning, talking about growing food, cooking food – and even how best to kill it, but now it was getting close to midday and the last customer had left. The shelves were almost empty. The surplus she’d give to some deserving family, though not before she’d taken a loaf for themselves and some for using in recipes. Breadcrumbs were becoming an acceptable alternative to pastry.

  The bell above the door jangled as Mary brought down the blind. ‘Sweet things from the Sweet sisters,’ she said to her sister. ‘When did you first think up that line? It’s really catchy.’

  Ruby grinned. ‘Just thought it up on the spot!’ Her grin turned to a grimace. ‘Anything rather than hear more about how best to kill a chicken!’

  ‘We’ll do the same next week. Shall we take it in turns?’

  ‘If you like, but in the meantime can I suggest you have your bath? I quite like smoked kippers, but I can hear the neighbourhood cats mewing around the back door.’

  Mary laughed before turning pensive. ‘I suppose Dad will be back for lunch, though he usually isn’t gone this long.’

  Ruby shrugged. ‘It must be something I said …’

  Mary paused. ‘What did you say to him, Ruby?’

  Ruby shook her head defiantly and peered beyond her sister to the shop door at the same time as reaching for a duster. ‘Nothing much. My, but look at that glass. Finger marks all over the place.’

  ‘Ruby! What did you say to him?’

  The finger marks weren’t that stubborn to remove, but Ruby pretended they required her undivided attention. But her sister’s look meant she had to give a response.

  ‘I said that you’d prefer to be married in white. I asked him whether he’d allow you to wear our mother’s dress.’

  ‘Oh, Ruby!’

  Ruby spun round. ‘Well you do, don’t you?’

  Now it was Mary who averted her eyes. There were so many things she wasn’t sure about.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I wish I’d had more time to think about it … the wedding I mean. Everything.’

  Ruby frowned. She’d been surprised when Mary announced she had accepted Michael Dangerfield’s proposal. Mary had always been cautious, the twin who thought things through very carefully before committing herself. Agreeing to marry a man she had known for only a short time had seemed out of character, but that was her business. Could she be having second thoughts?

  ‘Still,’ Mary said, looking suddenly brighter. ‘The blue dress will look lovely I’m sure.’

  Ruby was certain she had not misread the look that had flashed over her sister’s face. ‘You could always postpone the wedding until Dad gives in and lets you have Mum’s dress to wear.’

  Mary clenched her hands together. ‘I can’t. Everyone is counting on me.’

  Her sister could hardly believe her ears. What she’d said was outrageous. ‘Mary, you shouldn’t be getting married because everyone is counting on you. It’s a lifelong commitment between you and Mike.’ She paused as a thought came to her. ‘You do love him, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘Some other time. I’m going to have a bath.’

  Left alone in the shop Ruby contemplated those words. Everyone is counting on me. She shook her head. They were the wrong words. Mary should have said I love Mike and we’re going to get married as planned, regardless of whether I’m wearing white or blue. The fact that she hadn’t was worrying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BAKERY WAS shut, lunch was overdue and still Stan Sweet hadn’t come home.

  Mary was drying her hair in front of the fire when Ruby declared her intention to go and fetch him. She was stirring a thick stew made from pork bones and plenty of vegetables. Once the meat had fallen off the bones she’d taken them out and added rolled oats to the stew to thicken it.

  ‘I’ll tell him he’s missing a lovely stew and it will be ruined if he doesn’t get back here soon.’

  ‘I’ll make sure to keep an eye on it.’ Mary did not raise her eyes but concentrated on making her hair nice and dry.

  Snatching her coat and scarf, Ruby flounced out, annoyed with her sister for a host of things: for being the way she was, for not demanding their mother’s wedding dress, for not confiding in her as Ruby had expected her to.

  The fresh breeze blew in Ruby’s face as she walked briskly along West Street before turning into Court Road down over the hill and over the hump-backed bridge.

  As she made her way up the incline towards the church, she turned up the furry collar of her coat until she could feel the soft fabric tickling her ears. The collar had been plain but a little frayed. Mrs Hicks had given her an old fox fur which she’d cut up and made into a fur collar sewing it neatly on to the old one.

  Ruby commented on how new it looked. Bettina even had the original box.

  ‘It seems a shame to cut it up,’ she’d said to Bettina. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’

  Mrs Hicks had sighed but been resolute. ‘My late husband bought it for me. I could never admit to him that I hated the glassy eyes of that fox looking at me. It made me feel guilty. The poor creature was far happier running around a field. Cut it up, dear. Do as you like with it.’

  So Ruby had cut off enough to cover the frayed collar of her coat and made a hat out of the tail. Like Mrs Hicks, she didn’t like the glass eyes and the snapping mouth that served as a clasp to pin both ends together. She’d been about to throw the head away but Frances, home for Charlie’s funeral at the time, had intervened, stating she would take it with her if she should ever go back to the Forest of Dean where she’d been evacuated. The reason wasn’t clear, but
Frances was adamant. Shuddering with distaste, Ruby gave her the whole of the head with its glassy eyes and spring-loaded jaw.

  Ruby stopped at the church gate, her eyes scouring the lichen-covered gravestones, the sad-eyed angels, the army of crosses and stone books engraved with the names of those lying there.

  A few dead leaves blew through the long grass from the edge of the churchyard and across her mother’s grave. There was no sign of her father.

  She eyed her mother’s headstone as though that might give her inspiration. A bouquet of spring flowers, yellow and purple, overflowed from the marble urn in the centre of the grave. The smell was fresh and sweet, and despite the overcast sky and lack of spring weather, there was something hopeful and happy about it.

  She reached out and touched the headstone. The speckled marble felt oddly warm, which surprised her. She’d expected it to feel cold. Perhaps it was due to that unexpected warmth that she suddenly found herself wanting to speak to her mother. She’d never done so before. Only her father did that.

  She heaved her shoulders in a huge sigh and knelt down, her knee resting on the marble sill that surrounded her mother’s plot.

  One voice inside told her she was about to talk to a stone – nothing more. Another voice said otherwise and urged her on.

  ‘It’s Ruby, Mum. I hope you can hear me. It’s about Dad. He’s depressed, Mum. It’s ever since we lost our Charlie. You’d think our Mary getting married would buck him up, but it hasn’t. He’s happy for her, yes, but there’s a big gap in his life. Charlie’s gone. His only son. Sometimes I think he’ll never get over it and that worries me. I’ve heard it said that grief can shorten your life. I don’t want him to die, but nothing we do seems to help. I just wish something would happen to take him out of himself, but that would take a miracle. I wish there was some way you could help. I wish there was something I could do, but try as I might, things stay the same. If there is a God and a heaven, perhaps you might put in a good word.’

  She got up on to her feet shaking her head and almost laughing, thinking how foolish this was. As though talking to her mother’s headstone would solve anything. That’s all you’ve been doing, she thought to herself. The dead hear nothing and can do nothing.