by Lizzie Lane
In the absence of any ideas of her own, Mary had gone along with Ruby’s plan. Now she was standing here with her legs turned to jelly.
‘Dad? You’re not mad are you?’
It was hard to read his expression, partly because it kept changing, his mouth hanging open as he attempted to put what he felt into words.
Seeing her sister’s nervousness, Ruby decided it was down to her to apologise, to explain and to try and persuade him that it was the right thing to do.
Her stance was adamant, her back stiff, her face open and her eyes glowing with courage.
‘Dad, we can’t waste this dress. I’m sure Mum would want Mary to wear it down the aisle. If she was here, she’d want to see her daughter looking lovely on her wedding day. None of the bits I’ve cut off will be wasted. They’ll do very well for baby clothes – even a christening robe – once there’s a baby to make clothes for, of course.’
At the mention of baby clothes, Stan blinked. He felt as though he’d been hit on the head with a sledgehammer. His eyes went back to Mary, looking so beautiful in her mother’s wedding dress. For the second time that day he felt like crying. Not just that, he felt as though the wife lying in St Anne’s graveyard and the son lost at sea were very close, whispering in his ear that life is a banquet of changing courses. He certainly believed it now.
‘I want to speak to you both. Best you go off upstairs and take that dress off, Mary. One ruined dress is enough for one day.’ He glanced at Frances and winked. Frances grinned. Her eyes sparkled.
Both his daughters looked at him dumbfounded. He looked happier than he had for ages. Something special must have happened.
‘I’ll help you.’ Ruby followed her sister up the stairs. Once she’d reached the top she looked back down the narrow flight with its twisting quarter landing at the end, still expecting to see her father there, face red with anger, as though what she’d done had only just sunk in. But he wasn’t there and no sound came up from the kitchen.
‘Something’s happened,’ remarked Mary softly. ‘Did you get that impression?’
Ruby unbuttoned the buttons down the back of the dress, pulled it down her sister’s body and carefully, very carefully, smoothed out the creases and hung it back on the hanger.
Once Mary had pulled her short-sleeved sweater over her head and refastened her skirt, she and her sister stood facing each other, both wondering what their father would say to them once they were back downstairs.
‘I feel so guilty,’ said Ruby.
Mary shook her head. ‘I’m not sure an apology is going to be enough.’
‘I’m not going to apologise,’ Ruby retorted with a toss of her head. ‘If I get a ticking off, I’m going to the pub and I’ll get drunk. Then tomorrow I’ll chuck in the cooking job and join the navy – or the air force – not the army. Khaki isn’t my colour!’
Mary was in two minds whether to laugh or cry. She did manage to smile.
‘Oh well. I suppose we’d better go back down.’
‘Wait while I brush my hair.’
It was odd, thought Mary, that while talking enthusiastically about the wedding dress and the wedding itself, Ruby had tucked her hair behind her ears. Now she was brushing it forward so at least half of her face would be hidden just as it usually was. Nerves, she decided. Time to face the music.
Their father was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping the dented wood with the fingers of one hand, holding what looked like a letter in the other. His face had a new vigour about it. Whatever had happened was nothing short of a miracle. Even the lines across his forehead and around his eyes seemed to have diminished.
‘Frances has made tea,’ he said before looking up. ‘And she’s found some biscuits. Oatmeal, if I’m not mistaken.’
The twins regarded their cousin quizzically. Seemingly recovered from being banned from going out to play, Frances was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. Never keen on household tasks, on this occasion she seemed to be thoroughly enjoying laying out the cups and saucers on the table, setting out the milk and a small bowl of sugar.
‘I’ll be mother,’ she exclaimed cheerfully then giggled as she poured.
Mary noticed that she hadn’t warmed the pot first, but didn’t bother to point it out. Something strange was going on, some secret that Frances seemed privy to.
Ruby frowned. She’d readied herself for a severe ticking off. Red-faced anger. Shouting. Perhaps even the chance of being told to leave the house. Even that was something she could cope with.
The twins exchanged worried frowns. The exchange did not go unnoticed by their father.
‘Sit down.’
There was no loud voice, no angry words. Both Mary and Ruby were surprised that he seemed so calm and collected. And was that a smile they could see on his face?
Neither twin picked up their teacups, each of them gazing intently at their father’s face, sensing that he had something important to tell them.
To one side of them Frances crunched her way through one half of a biscuit dipping the other half into her tea. She grinned at her uncle. He winked at her in a conspiratorial way and she winked back.
‘Right,’ said Stan, an odd fluttering feeling in his stomach. It was as though he really did have a host of butterflies inside him, all aching to be released. It was a thoroughly alien sensation after these long months of feeling he had a stone in his stomach, a cold, dead weight.
When he’d digested the incredible news handed to him by Bettina, Stan Sweet had felt something inside him crack – a bit like an icy puddle in the depths of winter. He had every intention of taking his grandchild, Charlie’s son, under his wing. All that concerned him now was how Ruby and Mary would react to the news.
He’d instantly regretted telling Frances first. The twins should have been first to hear the news. Young Charlie – he was already thinking of him as young Charlie, not the baby – was their nephew.
The moment had come. He took a deep breath and pushed the letter across the table. ‘Read that.’
Mary picked it up, her eyes searching his face for some idea of what it was about. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was something different about him. The last time she’d seen him was at breakfast and he hadn’t been smiling then.
‘Read it,’ he said again.
Mary read it.
Ruby looked from her father to her sister, waiting her turn to read while studying Mary’s face for some sign of what this was all about.
Mary gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’ She held her hand to her cheek as she read it through. The exclamation was followed by a gasp then another, as though she’d been holding her breath as she read it through.
Finally she looked up at her father. ‘Charlie!’
‘Charlie?’ echoed Ruby, impatient to know what this was all about. ‘What is it? Tell me. Is he alive?’ It couldn’t be true! Surely they would have known before this if he was.
Stan Sweet shook his head, a little sadly. ‘Not that Charlie!’
‘A little Charlie!’ Frances drew everyone’s attention with her excited voice and vibrant grin.
Ruby looked at everyone in turn, noting the sparkling eyes, the looks of excitement and astonishment.
Mary confirmed the news. ‘It’s true. It’s a little Charlie. We have a nephew, Ruby. This is amazing!’ Then a sad look came to Mary’s face as she passed the letter to Ruby. ‘Poor Gilda.’ She looked at her father. ‘When is he coming to live with us?’
Her father sat back in his chair, his tea untouched. He folded his hands in his lap, interlocking his fingers as he did so. ‘I think that’s for you two to decide. Our lives are about to be turned upside down. The future we thought we were facing has changed. Young Charlie will see to that, no doubt. Bringing up children is not an easy task.’
When she came out from behind the letter, Ruby’s surprised expression was no different to that of her sister. ‘A baby! Our Charlie has a baby.’
‘It’s incredib
le isn’t it?’ Stan Sweet mopped at his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. ‘It’s as if … well … as though Charlie’s been reborn.’
Ruby sat back in her chair, her eyes perusing the letter for a second time. Finally she looked up. ‘I won’t say I can’t believe it, because I can. That night she and our Charlie …’
She stopped herself from going further. The night Mrs Hicks had been away, Charlie had stayed the night with Gilda. He’d declared that Gilda was nervous of being alone and that he would sleep on the settee. Everyone knew they were attracted to each other. Nature and romance had obviously run their course.
Stan felt a new sense of vigour course through his body. Nobody was going to stop him having his grandson live with him and that included the spiteful tongues of those in the village who enjoyed spreading malicious gossip. ‘What happened can’t be undone. I, for one, am over the moon to have a new life enter our home. Do any of you have an objection to young Charlie coming here to live?’
‘Of course not.’ Ruby heaved her shoulders in a casual shrug. She was as excited as the rest of them. Besides, there had been no mention yet of the wedding dress. News of the baby had superseded everything. ‘He’s Charlie’s boy. Gilda’s parents-in-law are right: since his mother has passed on, and her family have disappeared in Austria, it stands to reason he has to be with his father’s family who do want him.’
‘And we do want him,’ her father said pointedly. ‘Are we all agreed on that?’
Ruby was in no doubt that he was asking her to confirm that she could cope. After all, Mary was getting married. She was the one staying and although her father had coped with bringing up his children without a wife to help him, he’d been younger then. She was glad to see her father looking so happy, but her own life would be affected by the new addition to the family.
Mary remained silent as she contemplated the consequences for them all, her hands clenched on the table in front of her, eyes downcast. She was thinking of Gilda, and of the sacrifice she had made to protect her son.
‘Mary?’ Her father had noticed her reticence. He eyed her expectantly. She knew he wanted her approval quite badly.
She raised her eyes and passed the letter back to him across the table. ‘Sorry. I was thinking of Gilda, buried in that rubble and protecting her son with her body.’ Taking a deep breath, hands still clenched in front of her, she looked wide-eyed at her father. ‘Of course he belongs here. He’s Charlie’s son, a little piece of him he left behind when he died. I’ll help as much as I can, even after I’m married. When can we collect him?’
Stan Sweet was sitting on the pig bin, smoking his pipe and enjoying the crisp early evening. The sky twinkled with stars and the smell of rich earth and pipe smoke obliterated whatever might have wafted up from the pig bin, which was sealed anyway. It was a wonderful night and had been a wonderful day.
He heard the back door open and close, though, of course, no light fell out. Ruby had turned off the light before coming out. He was aware of her lithe figure courtesy of the stars and a crescent moon. He knew what she was out here for, could tell without looking at her that she was all at once apologetic and nervous.
All the talk over supper this evening had been about the baby. The upcoming wedding had been all but forgotten for once.
‘Dad?’
‘I think I’ll plant some winter carrots. The more the merrier, eh?’ He chuckled and puffed a ring of smoke into the air.
Somewhere a nightjar was singing and despite the profusion of vegetables that now far outnumbered flowers in Stan Sweet’s garden, the scent of honeysuckle was strong. So too was the smell of the rose bush they’d given Charlie the Christmas he came home.
Rubbing her clammy palms together, Ruby plunged straight in. ‘You haven’t said what you thought of Mary’s wedding dress. Mum’s wedding dress. I know I shouldn’t have, but …’
Ruby looked for any sign of reaction in the strong square features she’d known all her life.
Stan remained silent, his eyes still fixed on the far end of the garden where raspberry canes rubbed shoulders with rhubarb and blackcurrant. Autumn, he hoped, would be bountiful.
‘I can hear it in your voice, Ruby. What is it you want to say about that dress?’
Ruby looked down at the path. At one time a few stray tufts of grass sprouted in the gaps between the flagstones, but not now. Stan Sweet spent every spare moment tending his vegetables; the path was too well trodden for grass to grow in the cracks.
‘Mary really wanted to wear our mother’s dress and at some time – if and when I get married – I would like to wear it too. It’s second best to having her there at our weddings. When we asked, you said no, but I believed you might change your mind. That’s why I altered it without telling you. I’m sorry.’
She waited for him to respond. The light from the moon lit one side of his face when he turned to look at her. Suddenly he shook his head and laughed.
‘I thought about pulling you up about it when I first found it cut about up in the attic just after we heard about young Charlie. It did take me aback I must admit. But after a bit of thinking I decided to say nothing. I thought about what your mother would want and realised she would want you to wear it. In fact if she was here, she’d insist on you wearing it. Like you and Mary, I thought it only right to have Mary wearing her mother’s wedding dress even if it meant having it altered. Like you’ve just said, it’s second best to having her there. This way she’ll be there in spirit, if not in fact.’
‘Oh, Dad!’
Ruby flung her arms around his neck and kissed both cheeks, relishing the sweaty wholesomeness of his smell, overlaid by the tang of Old Holborn.
‘And I can make romper suits with what’s left. Even a christening robe.’
After she’d gone back inside, Stan got up from the pig bin, doused his pipe and rolled down his shirtsleeves.
He needed to apologise to Bettina Hicks. He also had to share with her how much he was looking forward to seeing one daughter married and a grandson coming home.
CHAPTER TEN
June 1941
‘RECONSTITUTE THE EGG powder, season lightly then pour into a shallow greased basin. Stand in a pan with a little boiling water and simmer gently until set. Allow to cool then mix with chopped parsley or cress if you have some. I think you’ll find this mixture makes a very nourishing and tasty sandwich. Add a little mustard and milk to bind, if you prefer. Oh, and remember to dip your knife blade into hot water before spreading the margarine – or butter if you’re so lucky, though I would add that this particular mixture does spread quite well over bread by itself …’
There were titters of approval before the applause and a queue formed at the end of the table where Brenda Manning, Ruby’s new driver, was handing out leaflets.
Most of the women working at the aircraft factory in Filton where Ruby had given her talk were unskilled labour and had replaced men who had been called upon to serve their country. Despite many of the women being draftees, they were a cheerful lot, even though they had to wear shapeless dungarees made to fit a man’s figure, certainly not that of a woman. Colourful headscarves wound into turbans helped to lift the dull colour of their clothes, and even though boots were available, most of the women preferred to wear their own shoes. Older women went for sensible shoes, but there was a regular flash of colour from painted toenails protruding from peep-toed court shoes.
The comments came quick and fast. ‘Good job you told me what to do with that egg, love. I took one look at it and thought it was custard powder.’
‘Or face powder,’ chortled another.
‘Or powder for my Sammy’s bottom,’ said another.
Ruby laughed. ‘I guarantee you can use it to make custard. I don’t recommend using it for the face or the baby! A spot of rain – or any other liquid – and it’s likely to set to the consistency of concrete!’
The women laughed before melting away back to their work. Coming from beyond the canteen doo
rs, the sound of machines rattled into life.
The women all had their own ideas about making pastry and cakes when fat, sugar and eggs were in such short supply. One egg per person per week – if available, was, in reality, roughly one every two weeks for each of the women who lived in the city and didn’t keep chickens! At least the packets of dried egg went further, though not much, a whole packet every four weeks.
‘Not a bad bunch,’ she remarked as she helped Brenda pack everything into the wicker hamper and her brief case.
‘Yes.’
Brenda seemed to be putting heart and soul into packing things away. Usually she chattered on about the people they’d met today, poking fun at some and saying what darlings others were, including some of the aircraft engineers who were either too old or too important to be drafted into the forces.
Today was different. Brenda had been quiet from the moment she’d picked Ruby up that morning.
Once they were in the car, and the acres of factory, aerodromes, test beds and runways were behind them, Ruby asked Brenda if anything was wrong. Brenda’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. Her expression was strained. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’
‘Sorry? For goodness’ sake, Brenda, what have you got to be sorry about?’
‘I’m leaving the RTC. I was going to tell you this morning, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it – not seeing as you’ve already had one driver leave—’
‘Because of me? Am I the problem?’ Ruby tried to think of how she might have upset her.
‘No!’ Brenda suddenly burst into tears. The car wobbled from the centre of the road to the kerb before it stalled. Once it did so, Brenda’s head dropped on to her folded arms and she sobbed pitifully.
‘Brenda!’ Ruby gripped her shoulder, feeling it shaking beneath her hand. ‘Have I done something to offend you?’
Brenda shook her head, her face hidden, fingers gripping the steering wheel as though afraid it might fall off. ‘No. It’s me. I’m the one who’s let you down. I’ve got to leave. I’ve got to get married.’