by Lizzie Lane
Baby Charlie was asleep in Mary’s arms. She kept looking down at him, humming a little tune, smelling the sweetness of him, feeling the warm weight of him in her arms. His eyes flickered open.
‘Give him here,’ said her father. ‘Let me hold him.’
Reluctantly she passed the sleeping child to her father, though her eyes stayed fixed on the round, pink-cheeked face.
The moment she’d set eyes on young Charlie, she was smitten. As for Stan, he couldn’t stop cuddling the little boy while telling him all about where he was going and what a lovely life he would have in the village.
The other people in the carriage looked on with amusement.
Mary leaned closer and whispered. ‘Dad, he’s a baby. I don’t think he understands a word you’re saying.’
‘It doesn’t matter. He likes the sound of my voice, don’t you Charlie my boy.’
A pair of dark brown eyes looked up at them from beneath a thatch of black curly hair. Young Charlie’s looks took after his mother rather than his father, but Stan Sweet didn’t care. This little boy was a victim of war as much as his parents. He was his grandson and he loved him already.
Mary had been a little down on the journey up, but occupied with keeping Charlie amused, fed and changed helped her forget about her wedding night. Mike had promised her that he would write but he’d managed to telephone her just twenty-four hours after he’d left.
The sound of his voice and what he’d said made her feel guiltier than ever about their disastrous honeymoon.
‘I’ve no wish to force myself on anybody,’ he’d said, ‘I can wait, though only because I love you.’
She hadn’t argued with him. She desperately wanted a second chance, to put right what had been so wrong.
‘So when will I see you again?’
‘That’s why I rang. Because I was called back off our honeymoon early, they’ve given me extra leave.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
God bless the RAF, she thought. He was coming home. This would be her chance to make amends.
‘Yes. Wonderful!’ He sounded edgy, almost evasive.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘This is special leave. There’s a chance I might be posted to a different outfit. I’ll tell you all about it when I get there.’
On the journey to London both she and her father had pondered where Mike might be posted.
‘In his last letter he talked about applying to be transferred to fighters just to vary his experience. He thought it might be useful.’
She suspected it might also have something to do with getting posted to a base closer to the West Country. The bomber bases were in the east of the country where the land was flat and closer to the bombers’ targets. The West Country, being further away, had mostly fighter bases.
‘Well, let’s hope it won’t be too far,’ her father had said, giving her hand a quick squeeze.
He knew nothing about their wedding night and she wasn’t likely to tell him. She couldn’t even tell her sister in case Ruby laughed and told her she should have considered becoming a nun instead. Mary would be mortified if she did that, but perhaps Ruby was indeed the right person to ask. Her sister was so much more experienced – or willing – whichever the case might be – than she was. It wasn’t even that she knew that Ruby had already lost her virginity; it was more that she clearly liked men and was so much more at ease with them than she was.
The train groped its way along railway lines cloaked in darkness, the driver easing his way forward. Every so often, he left the fireman stoking up the fire bed with coal while he hung out of the cab, using a railway issue storm lantern in order to see the signals telling him whether it was safe to continue. There had been instances of trains colliding, the driver unable to see whether the signal arms at the side of the track were up or down. They’d be best lit, but the dictates of the blackout banned this.
The journey took twice as long as in peacetime so by the time they got home Mary was using the torch to see their way ahead while carrying the baby’s few things – milk, bottles, nappies, etc., in a canvas knapsack given to them by the adoption society. Her father carried Charlie, the baby’s head resting on his shoulder, eyes closed in deep slumber.
‘He’s been so good. Good as gold,’ her father whispered, his voice full of pride.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time they gingerly made their way home from the station. Because of the blackout the bakery, like every other house and shop in the village, was in darkness.
The jangling of the bell above the shop door sounded before the weakening beam of her torch reflected off the glass. Mary made a mental note to seek out new batteries.
Frances was calling to them from the open door and just for once she’d remembered to turn off all the internal lights. The ARP warden – Malcolm Chance, their postmaster and one time member of Oswald Moseley’s blackshirts – wouldn’t hesitate to shop them if a light showed.
‘Uncle Stan! Have you got the baby? Can I see him? Can I?’ Frances didn’t attempt to keep her voice down.
‘Shush,’ Mary called back. ‘You’ll wake up the whole village.’
‘We’ve got him,’ said Stan Sweet, sounding as though he’d won a million on the football pools, though to his mind his grandson was a better prize than that. ‘Where’s our Ruby? Go and tell her we’re back.’
A figure loomed up behind Frances, smothered in darkness.
Stan presumed it was Ruby. ‘Ruby! He’s here. He’s a right little corker!’
‘It’s me, Stan.’ Even before the torch caught her face, both Mary and her father recognised the voice of Bettina Hicks. ‘I couldn’t wait to see the little chap. Now come on in and get your hat and coat off. I’ve made a stew for your supper and the kettle’s boiling.’
‘Bet, you’re an angel. I could murder a cup of tea!’ Stan exclaimed.
Once they were inside, the door was closed against the darkness, the blackout curtain drawn across covering both the beige blind and the shop door.
Mary and her father blinked as the lights went on. They’d got used to the darkness and also to the gloominess of the lighting in the railway carriage.
On clapping her eyes on the baby, Bettina Hicks clasped her face in her hands. ‘Oh, my! Isn’t he beautiful? So beautiful. May I hold him?’ She looked pleadingly at Stan.
For a moment Stan Sweet tightened his arms around the child as though loath to let him go. ‘He’s a bit of a buster,’ he proclaimed. ‘Might be a bit heavy for you.’
‘I’ll sit down,’ said Bettina firmly once they were in the kitchen. ‘Mary can pour the tea and Frances can dish up the stew. It’s rabbit stew and I made dumplings. Please,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s been such a long time since I held a baby.’
Stan Sweet couldn’t ignore the tone of her voice or the imploring look in her eyes. She was a good sort, was Bettina, and he’d treated her badly during the past few months. Anyway, it was thanks to her that young Charlie had been born, seeing as it was at her house that Charlie and Gilda had made him – so to speak.
‘Well?’ Stan shrugged off his coat. ‘Go fetch our Ruby to come and see her nephew. She’s missing out. Where the devil is she?’
Bettina didn’t look up from cooing at the baby and stroking his soft pink cheeks. He was still sleeping soundly. ‘She’s not here, Stan. She had a date.’
‘Had a date?’ His expression clouded as he looked around him as though half expecting her to leap out from playing hide and seek.
Frances piped up from counting Charlie’s fingers and feeling for the tiny toes in the canvas boots he was wearing.
‘She’s gone out with a man on a motorbike. I saw her go.’
Stan’s face clouded over. ‘What man?’
Frances chattered on, unaware of her uncle’s angry expression, too wrapped up in baby Charlie. ‘His name’s Ivan. He’s that pilot from Poland. He bailed out from his plane in the middle of Clancy’s field when everybody was at our Mary’s weddin
g. Ruby stopped them from sticking him with a pitchfork. And she gave him a pasty. He was very hungry, though I expect he would be after shooting down enemy bombers, don’t you think?’
Stan Sweet prided himself on supporting anyone who had the guts to challenge the people who had killed his son; however, the fact that Ruby was not here to greet them and the baby overrode anything else. Her first duty should have been to her family. It didn’t occur to him that his daughter might not be as engrossed in his grandson as he was. He expected everyone to feel as he did; in fact he couldn’t imagine them thinking any other way.
Just as he was about to put his feelings into words, some of which would be downright angry, the sound of a motorbike engine came from outside, then fell to silence as it stopped outside the bakery.
The women showered attention on the baby rather than acknowledge Stan’s bad mood.
Stan glowered at the clock. It was half past ten. Hard to credit how much time a baby snatched from your life, he thought. Half past ten and they’d only just got back from London and Ruby was just getting home.
‘She should have been here! Damn it! She should have been here!’
‘She’s here now, Stan.’ Bettina could see how agitated he was because this was a special day. However, Ruby had only missed their arrival by minutes.
Face flushed with anger, he was just about to rush out there and give both Ruby and her young man a piece of his mind, when Bettina suggested, quite forcefully, that it was time young Charlie was put to bed.
‘It’s been a long day. You’re tired and so is this child. Now then. Are you going to take him up, Stan? Or do you want Mary to do it?’
Her eyes met his in warning. He knew what she was silently advising him: leave them be. Ruby had come home and the baby wasn’t going anywhere. There were tough times ahead and he’d need both of his daughters and his niece to give a hand. Her too, she hoped.
The tension in Stan’s shoulders lessened. Up until then he could have been described as hard as a block of wood or a wedge of cheese. He nodded and gruffly agreed. Bettina smiled and turned to Mary.
‘Do you mind if I go up and give you a hand, Mary?’
Ruby had enjoyed a lovely evening, one full of sweetness, conversation and shared thoughts and reminiscences.
They’d driven to a small country pub at Upton Cheyney, no more than a hamlet of old stone houses and cottages situated up a turning off the main road. The pub bar was divided into small rooms, most unable to take more than eight people at a time.
Ivan and Ruby had one to themselves.
Ivan had told her about learning to fly when he’d been studying law in Holland. He also spoke about the horror of his country invaded by a foreign power, and as he did, he clenched his hands in front of him, his eyes staring into distant scenes only he could see.
‘We were helpless. Our army still had horses; our air force was out of date. The Germans had tanks and modern aircraft, Stuka bombers that made a screaming noise as they dived to bomb their targets. I went back to Poland only for a few weeks. When I saw what was happening I got out as quickly as I could, back to Holland, and then I came here. I have been very happy here. Very happy.’
It was impossible to read the look in his eyes, but she caught something there, something that he wasn’t telling her. She presumed it was about Poland and what it had been like to be enslaved.
When he kissed her goodnight, she promised she would see him again and he gave her the telephone number at the base.
‘I like you,’ he said in his matter-of-fact way.
‘And I like you!’ She meant what she said.
‘And I like your cooking.’
‘I’m glad.’
He touched her mole with his fingertip. ‘And I like your beauty spot.’
They kissed again, his lips warm and soft as velvet. She wished the night could go on for ever. A clinch with him was nothing like being in a clinch with any of her previous dates or even, God forbid, Gareth Stead. Ruby shivered at the very thought of Gareth’s hands on her and the way his lips had seemed to suck her into his mouth. Ivan was different: she loved his accent, his romantic ways, a kiss on the hand, the clicking of heels. So very different.
His lips only reluctantly left hers.
‘I’ll write to you,’ she exclaimed breathlessly. He retained his hold on her, holding her tightly against his body. He wanted her and she wanted him. Perhaps this was the one she would give into; after all, he had swept her off her feet.
‘I will write to you,’ she said again. ‘At the base. Would that be all right?’ She wasn’t sure what the form was, whether he could receive telephone calls.
‘I would like that, but my writing is not good … my English …’
She thought his English was fine. ‘Whenever there is a word you don’t know, call me, or write to me. I’ll explain. I promise I will.’
‘You have a telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘I telephone you.’
Ruby almost fainted at the thought of him ringing her, of that lovely accent speaking to her over the telephone.
‘I will telephone you,’ he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear. ‘There is a dance at the base soon. You will come?’
She liked the way he said, you will come, a command rather than an invitation. It made her feel cherished, especially the way he said it. She loved his accent.
‘A dance? Lovely. Just try and stop me.’
She glanced in the general direction of her father’s shop. The building itself wasn’t easily seen except for the outlines of the chimneys and rooftop against a sky that glowed indigo at its outer edges.
Due to the thickness of the blackout curtains it was hard to tell whether anybody was still up, though she guessed they were. The baby would see to that. At this very moment somebody might be peering out at her through a window. She couldn’t tell.
She tucked her fingers beneath the collar of Ivan’s jacket, tilted her head back and playfully kissed his chin.
‘So smooth,’ she whispered.
Her tilted back head was enough of an invitation to receive more kisses and a closer pressing of bodies.
It was as if their lips had become magnetic, unable to resist meeting and not letting go. They clung together like that until Ruby pulled away.
She glanced again at the bakery. Her father would be livid. She hadn’t been there for the homecoming, and him so engrossed in everything and anything to do with her brother’s baby.
‘I have to go,’ she said.
He groaned as she drew away from him. He had been about to kiss her again, and although she wanted that, it was getting late. It was time to go.
She touched his mouth with her fingers, felt them purse under her touch. ‘I’m all kissed out, and besides, I think I can see my father looking out of the window.’
It was rubbish. She couldn’t see a thing, but that didn’t mean her father wasn’t looking out of the window and more than ready to give her the dressing down she deserved. The guilt she’d put to one side for the evening slowly resurfaced.
Ivan was, of course, ignorant of this.
‘Saturday,’ he said. ‘I will see you Saturday. For the dance. That is when it is. We always have dances on Saturdays. Not every Saturday. But often.’
Unwinding his arms from around her body, Ruby gave him one last kiss, nothing more than a quick peck.
‘I have to go.’
Her voice was breathless and her heart was singing and it was so terribly difficult to turn her back and walk away. Even then she threw him a smile and a wave, though he wouldn’t have seen it, not in that incessant blackness.
The bell above the shop door jangled as she pushed it open. The smell of bread wafted out along with what seemed to be a rich stew, the one Bettina had promised to make. And there would be tea, of course; there was always tea.
Ruby grinned. Very weak tea nowadays, the leaves used more than once. There was still some sugar left in the sack she’d purloi
ned from Gareth Stead, but not much. Mary’s wedding and the delicious cakes they sold in the shop saw to that.
Pushing open the kitchen door, Ruby was met by the warmth of the gas stove and an atmosphere. Her father’s face looked as though it had been carved from stone. He was not pleased; not that it was going to stop her from being full of vim and vigour.
Frances was there too. Ruby ruffled her hair. ‘Hi, poppet.’
‘The baby’s here,’ Frances exclaimed. ‘He’s here and tomorrow I’m going to take him out in the pram. Do you want to come?’
‘If I can, I most certainly will,’ Ruby replied while feeling her father’s eyes cast sternly in her direction.
Mary was looking distracted. ‘I’ve put him to bed. He was tired out. As we all are.’
‘So am I. Run off my feet today.’
Mary didn’t seem to have heard her. Ruby didn’t bother to repeat herself. Mary was like that a lot of late.
‘He’s a lovely baby,’ added Bettina Hicks.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Ruby responded. ‘He’s Charlie’s, so is bound to be lovely. I’d like to see him as soon as possible, right now I think would be a good time.’
‘We’ve just put him down. You should have been here earlier,’ growled her father.
‘I had a date.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘He’s Polish.’
‘So I hear.’
‘He’s a flier. Just like Mike, though he hasn’t asked me to marry him and live happily ever after like Mike did Mary. Well, not yet he hasn’t. I just don’t seem to have your luck, Mary. You must tell me your secret some time.’
A red flush appeared on Mary’s neck spreading fast up on to her face.
‘He flies Hurricanes,’ she declared proudly. ‘Did you know that there are more Hurricane fighter planes than Spitfires? Apparently they’re easier to repair than Spitfires and no pilot has managed to tear the wings off a Hurricane. It has happened to Spitfires when the pilots got a little overexcited.’
She held her bright expression even though everyone was eyeing her silently.
‘Very interesting.’
The speaker was Bettina Hicks. She was sitting at the kitchen table, both hands resting on the handle of her cane. Out of all the people in the room, Bettina was the one who, with one look, seemed to read what you were thinking. That’s how it felt now, as though Bettina knew exactly what Ruby had been up to and what was on her mind.