War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  Ruby assumed it was the furniture that still held his scent, though she’d noticed of late that it was lessening. She swiped away a tear that threatened to emerge from the corner of an eye. In time the smell of him would disappear and they would be left with nothing but a memory and a few grainy pictures.

  Blinking back her tears, she shut the door behind her and went to the small room across the landing from Charlie’s. A wardrobe of elaborate design and made of ebony wood was the only piece of furniture in the room. Ruby turned the cast-iron key and opened the door. The only item hanging in the wardrobe was her mother’s wedding dress, covered in a mass of tissue paper.

  Ruby reached beneath the folds of crispy, crackly paper, now yellowed with age. Her fingers sought and found the dress itself, a soft mixture of satin, silk and lace.

  Such a shame to leave it here, unseen and unworn, though still loved, if her father’s attitude was anything to go by. He’d certainly loved the woman who’d worn it all those years ago.

  Ruby sighed. It had occurred to her that Mary would have been allowed to have the wedding dress if only tragedy had not struck. She was certain her father’s attitude would have been different if Charlie hadn’t been killed.

  With brazen swiftness, she pulled the tissue paper aside so she could see the dress more clearly. Even in the gloomy depths of the wardrobe, its beauty, its whiteness, was totally astounding. It deserved to see the light of day once more. In her head she imagined her mother flashing her an approving smile, though goodness knows she wouldn’t know what that smile would have been like. She imagined it would have brightened her face and made her eyes glow. Though Ruby had been too young at the time of her mother’s death to remember her, sometimes in the dead of night, she was almost sure she could recollect a kind arm cradling her, a sweet voice singing her a lullaby.

  The sudden creak coming from the winding staircase that led up here caused her to hold her breath, brush the tissue back over the dress and wait. She listened, her eyes on the simple pine door dividing the bedroom from the landing.

  There was no other sound of footfall, at least not coming in her direction.

  Nerves on edge, knuckles white on the hand that gripped the wardrobe door, she took a deep breath and realised she’d amplified the sound, assuming it had come from the upper staircase. In fact it must have come from the one below that: somebody on their way to the bathroom. Like Mrs Hicks, they had an inside lavatory and a bath.

  Quietly, so nobody could hear, she took the wedding dress from out of the wardrobe and tiptoed back into the other room, the tissue paper, lace and satin rustling all the way.

  The old sewing machine was made of cast iron and inlaid with mother of pearl, and was operated by hand. It dated from just after the Great War. The one they were using downstairs to make the dresses from the cloth Mrs Hicks had donated was a treadle and worked by both feet pressing down on the footboard.

  Once the bedroom door was closed behind her, she laid the wedding dress out on the bare mattress of the bed. Piece by piece, she peeled away the tissue paper, which had been sealed down each side and sewn into place. Once she’d stripped off the tissue paper, carefully folding it for future use – and just in case she was discovered and forced to cover it up again – she laid the dress flat on the bed, the arms outstretched, the skirt carefully spread.

  She admired it for a moment, imagining Mary wearing it, then imagining how her mother had looked in it. Under the circumstances, it seemed strangely apt that she’d laid it out flat on Charlie’s bed. He would approve of that. She knew he would.

  After close examination, she was satisfied that no moths had damaged the dress and it didn’t smell of mothballs. The tissue paper alone had protected it.

  It was too old-fashioned for Mary to wear in its present state. Changes would have to be made. The dress had sleeves that were bell-shaped as far down as the elbow then gathered into tight cuffs. A fall of embroidered lace fell from the neckline and almost reached the waist. The lace had also been made into a confection resembling a rose that sat on the left shoulder – like a corsage, though too heavy, Ruby thought, for modern tastes. The bodice was quite loose-fitting and bound with a satin sash. The skirt was fashioned from yards of embroidered tulle, falling in panels which were banded with silk, and underneath it was lined with satin. The dress had been made to hide a figure, rather than enhance it. If she was going to do this, she had to remodel the shape to accentuate the waist and bosom, not swamp them. She could do it. She knew she could.

  All the same, it was worrying.

  Ruby chewed at her bottom lip. There was plenty of material to play with, though the thought of cutting off layers, particularly the lacy rose, was disconcerting. It would take a lot of skill, but she was sure she could do it. What concerned her more was her father’s reaction: he would be furious. Yet somehow she knew her mother would approve. All she hoped was that her father would come round. And Mary would be pleased – once she knew about it. But Ruby wanted this to be a surprise. Her sister wanted a white wedding dress and she would have a white wedding dress. Ruby could secretly adapt the blue dress into a bridesmaid dress for herself. She made up her mind: this was the dress her sister would wear to her wedding, though drastically altered. Besides, keeping her hands busy would keep John Smith from her mind. Banish him. It was best not to think about him.

  The scissors sparkled like silver when she looked down at them in her workbox in front of the attic window. For a moment she hesitated, her cautious side asking her to reconsider. Her wilder, more wilful side urged her to start snipping. Her wilful side won.

  ‘Well. Here goes.’ She picked up the shears, took a deep breath and began to cut. The rose was the first to go, falling like a real one at the end of the summer. The sleeves were next. Her intention was to cut off the tight lower sleeve and re-cut the full part to form a bell-shaped sleeve that would skim Mary’s elbow. The cape-type collar would also have to go. The under-bodice would need reshaping. Luckily the neckline was very similar to the modern sweetheart design and would stay. The extra layer of tulle at the front had a gap about twelve inches from the bottom showing the satin underskirt. She was undecided on what to do with that yet, although it would be nice to keep something of the old design, a little piece of her mother.

  She fingered the net, surprised at how soft it felt. If she did this right, there should be enough tulle left over for a veil, a short one, but a veil nonetheless.

  Her eyes settled on the fabric rose she’d cut off from the shoulder. Joined to a length of tulle it should make a very pretty headdress.

  The satin underskirt would also have to be modified, but that, she decided, should be quite easy. It was just a case of removing a few panels from the skirt, especially from the train at the back. The dress would still be ankle-length, but the hemline would be at the same level all the way around except for the inverted ‘V’ at the front where the tulle was cut upwards and the satin underskirt exposed.

  As she went along she would cut, sew and fit the dress to the person who would be wearing it, but in this case her instinct told her to keep it a secret. Anyway, she didn’t need to have Mary to hand for fittings. They were of identical size so would try it on herself at each stage of making it.

  Once she’d started cutting, she found she couldn’t stop. It was like running downhill in high-heeled shoes: once you’d started, the speed of your descent increased until it was a headlong rush.

  At last there was no dress, just the pieces that had once contributed to the whole.

  With a sinking feeling, Ruby looked at all the pieces laid out on the bed, two arms, a bodice, big pieces of material and smaller pieces. The lower arms lay to either side of what remained of the main dress like truncated limbs.

  ‘Oh God,’ she murmured, suddenly struck by the enormity of it all. ‘What the bloody hell have I done?’

  She sat down on the bed, her fingers teasing the six pearl buttons running up from the cuff of one sleeve. Her mother must h
ave gasped when she’d first seen herself in it. So must her father, white suiting her mother’s peachy complexion and swept-up hair, the scooped neckline emphasising the length of her neck.

  ‘Dad will kill me!’ she muttered.

  Another harsh truth struck her: she now had a white wedding dress to make plus two blue dresses, one for Frances and one for herself. Would she get it all done in time?

  ‘Well, you’ll bloody well have to,’ she muttered. In her mind she imagined Mary scolding her for swearing, reminding her that she’d promised not to swear now Gareth Stead was no longer around.

  Mary wasn’t around at present, though Ruby did have a quick look over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s enough to make anyone swear,’ she whispered. ‘What the bloody hell have I done?’

  Mary was bent over the gas stove, the oven door open.

  ‘Oh there you are,’ she said, her voice muffled as she ladled mutton fat over the crisp pastry topping of mutton and carrot pie. ‘I wondered where you were.’

  ‘The dresses have to be finished and I’m the one who has to make them.’

  Mary glanced at her sister long enough to gauge a shifty look in her eyes. She put it down to something secret about the wedding; perhaps she was making a little extra something for her trousseau.

  ‘Do you need me to give you a hand?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Certainly not. Anyway, you’re all fingers and thumbs. Are you all set for your talk tomorrow?’

  Mary picked up a knife and cut into the pastry, just enough so some of the mutton fat seeped through into the filling, which wasn’t mutton. She’d had to use corned beef, the rest made up with root vegetables. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Are you putting that back into the oven?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘Just long enough to keep it warm. I think I can turn the oven off.’

  ‘So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow’s talk?’

  The pie safely back in the oven, Mary picked up the precious notebook in which they wrote their recipes. ‘Buns, cakes and tarts and how best to make jam from carrots.’

  Ruby threw back her head and laughed. ‘The humble carrot! Where would we be without it?’

  ‘I think I shall use that line you came up with, Ruby. Sweets from the Sweet girls. It’s very catchy. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Of course it is. It might make us famous. We might get people stopping us in the street and asking for our autographs.’

  Mary paled. ‘You don’t think so, do you? I don’t think I would like that.’

  Ruby grinned. ‘I’m only joking. I just can’t believe we didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘So you’ll use it at this talk you’re giving to the women’s group in Warmley at the end of the week?’

  ‘At a school hall, that’s if I can get everything finished in time. Call me when supper’s ready.’

  The front room where the treadle sewing machine lived felt incredibly cool after the warmth of the kitchen and Ruby was glad of it.

  Her face felt as though it was on fire, though she didn’t feel embarrassed, just scared and guilty and just ever so slightly selfish. She’d gone ahead and cut up her mother’s wedding dress without her father’s permission. He’d probably explode when he found out. Whatever had she been thinking of?

  On sitting down in front of the sewing machine, she buried her face in her hands. What could she do about it now? Nothing. The deed was done. She couldn’t possibly sew the dress back together. Whatever happened, whatever her father’s response, she would have to deal with it. There was no alternative.

  Sewing was a skill that came easily to her, the material sliding easily beneath her fingers, the blue dress Frances was to wear already shaped and half-finished. Feeding the fabric through the machine was second nature, she could do it blindfolded, and because of that she could think of other things while the machine rumbled on and on, material in one end, a garment out at the other.

  At this moment John Smith was on her mind. She found herself quite looking forward to him driving her to Warmley for her talk and had already decided she would apologise for her behaviour the other day and tell him how much she’d enjoyed his company on the drive to Gloucester. I might even suggest going to the pictures, she thought to herself. There’s no rule says that he should do the asking is there?

  Another idea suddenly hit her. In an effort to make up with him, she could ask him to the wedding. Mary had already suggested it, and Ruby had said she didn’t want to. She might question Ruby’s change of heart, but that didn’t matter.

  That evening before supper in the warmth of the kitchen, she made Frances try on her bridesmaid’s dress. Like the white wedding dress she was secretly redesigning, it had bell sleeves and a long skirt. It even had a sweetheart neckline very similar to the one on the white wedding dress.

  ‘You made that quick,’ Mary remarked. ‘When will I be able to try on my dress?’

  ‘Soon.’ Ruby hid her guilty expression behind the dress she was pulling off over Frances’s head. ‘I knew this little madam was impatient to try it on. Isn’t that right, Frances?’

  ‘At least it’s blue,’ their cousin commented, pulling her day dress over her vest and knickers.

  Ruby folded the dress over her arm. A stitch or two and it would be ready for pressing. She turned to her sister. ‘I wondered if you would mind me inviting Johnnie Smith to the wedding.’

  Just at that moment her father came in from the garden, the smell of turned soil and dusk coming in with him.

  ‘That all right with you, Dad, if I ask Johnnie Smith to the wedding?’

  Both her tone and her facial expression were blithely innocent, a classic case of butter not melting in her mouth.

  Stan Sweet looked unconcerned. ‘That’s for your sister to decide. I don’t mind much either way.’

  The two sisters looked significantly at each other behind his back as he hung up his hat and coat.

  Mary sighed, her eyes locked with those of her sister. ‘I think he deserves to be invited.’

  ‘As long as you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. If you remember rightly, I suggested it the other day and you said you didn’t want him to come.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve changed my mind. It was good of him to take me to Gloucester to collect Frances.’

  ‘I think so too.’

  And so it was that, at the sound of the car pulling up to take her to the talk in Warmley a few days later, she had the wedding invitation in her hand when she opened the door. Only it wasn’t John Smith.

  ‘I’m Brenda Manning, your new driver,’ said the freckle-faced redhead standing there. ‘I hear we’re off to a cooking demonstration. Is there likely to be any free food going at the end of it? Don’t mind telling you, I’m starving.’

  ‘Where’s Corporal Smith?’

  The redhead was one of those fidgety types who swayed when she spoke, as though fearing she’d be struck dumb if she didn’t keep moving.

  ‘I understand he asked to be transferred for personal reasons.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  STAN SWEET CLENCHED his jaw so hard, his teeth ached. His eyes were fixed on the spumes of earth erupting beneath the onslaught of his garden spade. The furrow for the onions would be much deeper than was strictly necessary. The vigorous way in which he attacked the soil wasn’t strictly necessary either. His muscles ached with the effort, but still he proceeded to slice, hack and stab at the soil.

  Only those who knew him understood that gardening was the only way he could cope. The more gardening he had to do the better, and venting his anger and despair with a spade, a garden fork or a hoe was the only reason he still applied himself to his garden and to that of Bettina Hicks. He wouldn’t come near the place otherwise. Life was utterly grey, the only brightness the vivid redness of his anger.

  He used to be good company for Bettina. He’d enjoyed chatting with her over a cup of tea or something stronger. That was before Charlie had died,
before his world was torn apart. After that he’d found it hard to take up where they’d left off.

  Every so often she asked him in for tea. In the past he would have accepted her invitation. But not now. Sometimes he merely turned her down flat. Sometimes he pretended he hadn’t heard her calling – like now. She’d go inside once it was clear that he wouldn’t answer.

  ‘Stan! Stan!’

  He glanced beneath his arm. She was still there, looking prim and pretty in a pale grey dress, her hair a slightly lighter colour and in what they’d used to call pompadour style.

  She kept calling! Couldn’t the woman take no for an answer?

  He peered beneath his arm on the upward stroke of his spade. She was hanging by one arm from the back door, her other hand resting on her walking stick.

  It struck him that she was being unusually persistent today, calling and calling despite him ignoring her. He chose to believe she was just being obstinate, determined to have him in for a cup of tea and biscuit.

  Leaving the spade standing proud in the earth, he went round the back of the early runner beans. Half hidden behind the seven-foot-high sticks, he thought that would be that. She would go back inside and leave him alone.

  Squeezing a handful of green leaves in his hand, he peered around the bean sticks and saw she was still there, still calling him and waving, beckoning him as though she had something important to say. He thought he saw her handkerchief in one hand, or what looked like a handkerchief. Something white anyway.

  There couldn’t be anything important to say between us now, he thought. There’s nothing much I want to hear – from anybody, not from anybody.

  The dull ache in the small of his back reminded him that he’d done enough on his own garden today. Although he hadn’t done much here, he judged it was time to go home. Especially now Bettina Hicks had come out to bother him.