by Lizzie Lane
Ruby didn’t know what to say. Even though her preliminary suspicion had proved right, it still took some believing. But there it was. Mary and her husband had never consummated their marriage.
‘The thought of it scares you?’
Mary kept her eyes lowered as she nodded, her handkerchief scrunched into a tight knot between her tense fingers.
Ruby frowned. Living in a village on the edge of countryside, it was always assumed that nobody needed to be told the facts of life because it was there all around them. And how often had they heard their father speak of taking the sow to the boar, and a few months later hearing of a load of little suckers being born.
Most people worked things out for themselves what happened between a bull and a cow, a sow and a boar, a man and a woman, though obviously not Mary. There’d always been naughty comments in the shop and elsewhere, but Mary, it seemed, had been above all that, knowing what they were saying but somehow managing to distance herself from it.
‘I’ve let Mike down,’ Mary was saying. ‘Our honeymoon was a disaster and I still can’t … though I have to … I must!’
Ruby gripped her sister’s shoulders. ‘Now look here, Mary. I’ve got something to tell you.’
She went on to tell Mary what had happened as she was trying on the green dress. ‘He thought I was you and said that he would wait until you were ready. He didn’t realise it was me and I don’t think we should tell him. Do you?’
Mary lifted her head and raised her eyes which were still moist, though she was no longer sobbing. ‘It’s all come to a head today. Andrew Sinclair more or less told me that I was frigid and that suited him fine. He would have married me like a shot. He doesn’t want a physical relationship with a wife. He doesn’t want children, all he wants is a companion.’ She laughed weakly. ‘Anyway, I don’t think his mother would have approved of him sleeping with a woman. He’s still her baby, I think.’
She looked down at the sleeping child, her expression more serene now and certainly less troubled. In fact, thought Ruby, her eyes are full of love.
Mary turned back to face her sister, her eyes shining with a new resolve. ‘But I don’t want to be that woman. Facing up to what marriage really involved was such a shock. I knew what I was expected to do, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.’ She shook her head. ‘I feel such a fool. Such a big baby. Then today I realised just how much I love Mike and how awful it would be if … if anything happened to him before we’d actually …’
‘Made love.’
Mary looked at her as though she’d made a great revelation.
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘Made love. Yes. We need to make love and perhaps …’ Her gaze travelled once again to the sleeping baby who was making snuffling noises in his sleep. ‘Make love and make one of those. Now wouldn’t that make Dad happy?’
Before they had dinner that night, Mary took two glasses and a decanter of brandy upstairs. She didn’t tell Michael she’d done it, not until they were undressing did she point it out.
‘A nightcap. Isn’t that what they call it?’ Her heart was hammering in her chest. She’d never done anything like this before.
Michael looked surprised. ‘Am I getting this right? You’re plying me with drink in order to take advantage of me?’
She felt herself blushing. This was so unlike her, and yet she felt that once she’d done it …
‘I think I could do with it. I love you, Mike, but I’m a silly goose who—’
‘Not you are not!’ He hugged her tightly to him, felt the tension in her body ease as he kissed her forehead, her head, her ears. ‘Would you like me to pour?’
She nodded.
He loosed her from his grasp and poured them a measure. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said. ‘Always and for ever.’
The brandy left a burning sensation on her tongue. It left her feeling a bit light-headed. It also helped her relax.
Suddenly she was seeing how gaunt his features had become since the first time they’d met. He’d been close to death so many times, yet didn’t go into much detail, but now she didn’t need him to. She could see it on his face and almost feel it, as though she had been there with him.
‘Michael!’ She buried her head against his chest, her tears wetting his shirt. ‘I don’t want to lose you!’
He wrapped his arms round her. ‘I don’t intend that you should.’
To her surprise she didn’t need any more brandy. An unfamiliar need seemed to explode deep inside. Her blood hammered in her head. Their kisses were passionate and taken between great gasps of breath and words of love.
Unlike their wedding night, their clothes were discarded hastily, left in crumpled heaps on the floor. There was no pretty nightdress laid out and none was needed. Mary wanted to feel her husband’s bare flesh against hers.
The bed sheets were cool against her back. His hands were sometimes rough and sometimes gentle and she welcomed each different kind of touch. She wanted him. She wanted him inside her. Her body was no longer under her control. It was his, just as his body was hers. There was surprisingly little pain, just a lingering feeling afterwards that it wouldn’t be long before she wanted him again, that she never wanted him to leave her side.
After that first time they lay stroking each other’s bodies.
‘What was it really like?’ she asked him.
‘Wonderful!’ He kissed her.
Mary laughed. ‘That’s not what I mean. I mean up there, flying over enemy territory?’
The beech trees at the edge of the churchyard creaked in the strong south-westerly wind. It had rained overnight and although grey clouds rolled across the sky like ghostly sheep, the rain held off though the grass was still damp.
Stan Sweet went down on one knee beside his wife’s grave, pulling out weeds as he told her what was going on. ‘I’ve had to do a bit of apologising of late. I got a bit down after our Charlie was killed and, well, I put my friendship with Bettina Hicks on hold, ignored her, in fact. I felt I didn’t deserve to be happy once our Charlie was gone. Then everything changed. I found out that our Charlie had a son with that Jewish girl Gilda. You may recall I told you all about her, how her husband got executed, accused, so she said, of printing anti-fascist leaflets. Poor girl. Now she’s gone, killed by the same people who killed her husband. They’ve been dropping bombs all over. She was in London and her house was bombed. Anyway, I think I’ve already told you much of this already, but I just had to say what a joy the baby has brought into my life. Our grandson!’ He chuckled. ‘Would you believe it? It’s like having a ray of sun shining through after a very dark storm. New hope, I suppose, something special for the future. Life goes on and we must go on too.’
The whole family had breakfast together on the day Michael was scheduled to return to base.
Michael and Mary were sitting together directly opposite Ruby. What was more they couldn’t seem to stop smiling and touching each other.
Ruby noticed the lingering looks, their fingers intertwining and Mary brushing her husband’s hair back from his forehead. Something had changed – for the better – and she could guess what it was.
It appeared nobody had seen the change in the two of them except for Ruby.
‘Right,’ said Stan Sweet. ‘Let’s all go with you to the train station and give you a good send off.’ He was in the process of making his way to the hallway when Ruby headed him off.
‘No, Dad.’ She said it quietly and firmly.
‘No?’ He eyed Ruby dubiously, puzzled until she whispered to him that his daughter and new son-in-law might want some time to be alone together. Nobody knew when Michael was likely to get more leave. They escorted Mike and Mary halfway to the station, then left them to walk on alone so they could share their goodbyes in private.
Although she was happy for her sister, Ruby also felt envious. They might have got off to a rocky start, but her sister had undoubtedly found the love of her life.
‘All’s well
that ends well,’ she whispered as she waved them goodbye along with the rest of her family plus Bettina Hicks.
Only Bettina, lately returned home from visiting her friend, heard what she’d said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE SWEETS’ HOME had changed for the better since the baby’s arrival, and so had Stan. His world revolved around the smiling little chap who had dropped like a bomb into their lives.
‘Nothing’s too good for my grandson,’ he’d declared loftily insisting that Charlie should have the best of everything and nothing second-hand. He had given in on the cot once used by his own children, seeing as it was already there on the premises and in good condition. He hadn’t taken the wartime government’s rules and regulations into account when it came to actually getting everything new.
Gilda, quite rightly, had used up the rations allocated to her as an expectant mother and purchased what was needed, including a pram, all of which had been destroyed on the night the bombers came. There was a scheme in existence for those who had lost their belongings in the blitz. It didn’t apply to the grandparents who were taking the child in, after all they had not lost anything. Not that it worried Stan Sweet. As he never failed to remind everybody, they’d gained something very precious.
Mary and Ruby took turns with regard to cooking demonstrations and looking after the baby. Frances had also become a willing nanny to young Charlie, playing with the little fellow as he edged towards becoming a toddler. Life revolved around the little chap’s needs, though the bakery carried on and so did Ruby’s affair with Ivan Bronowski.
Mary wrote a letter to Mike every other day. Ruby had stopped looking for letters from John Smith, though every now and again his surly smile crept into her thoughts. Ivan helped her cope.
Three months after Charlie’s arrival, just two days after his first birthday, the wicker hamper was filled. Yet another cooking demonstration was on the horizon and it was Ruby’s turn. Everything was ready. All she had to do was wait for her driver – whoever that happened to be this morning.
‘I just hope whoever it is, isn’t late,’ she grumbled. The last driver she’d had had got lost. ‘A few more like that and I’ll drive myself.’
When the shop bell jangled it came as something of a surprise to see that it was dead on nine o’clock. On time!
John Smith was standing on the doorstep. ‘Reporting for duty.’ He stood to attention and saluted stiffly as he might for an officer, certainly not for a woman about to deliver a talk on menu planning using basic ingredients.
‘John! You’re back.’ She couldn’t help sounding surprised. He’d hinted he might be, but also hinted he might ship out to seek more active service. Now he was back. She guessed it might not be for long.
Although the urge was strong, she resisted throwing her arms around his neck.
He didn’t smile, but there, that was his way, a brittle shell hiding a humorous interior.
‘There was nobody else available to drive you around, just in case you were wondering.’
‘I wasn’t wondering. Not really. Anyway, I thought you were off to where the war is really going on.’
‘In time.’
‘Goodness. What am I going to do without you?’
His grin widened. Although John had been her driver since the very first, she’d avoided studying his features to any great extent, only on a very perfunctory, need-to-know basis. Now she looked at him more closely. He had a bump in the middle of his nose as though it had been broken at one time. It looked hooked when viewed in profile. One side of his mouth was tilted upwards, the other down, almost as though he hadn’t made up his mind whether to smile or scowl.
For the past few months since Brenda’s departure, there had been a number of other drivers, all of them men who had moved on to more active service. The exception was Doreen who had been hospitalised with suspected appendicitis, which actually turned out to be a baby girl. Nobody knew who the father was and that seemed to include Doreen. Two female drivers, both of whom had fallen pregnant. Who would credit it?
Ruby hadn’t seen John since her sister’s wedding, which was also the day she’d met Ivan Bronowski – her very own RAF pilot.
‘Well,’ she said smartly, handing him the familiar wicker basket that had seen better days. Still, they soldiered on. ‘We’d best make a start.’
It didn’t wind him when she slammed the hamper against his chest. He just smiled knowingly and she found herself smiling back.
On their way out, Bettina Hicks begged a lift into Kingswood. ‘I need to see my solicitor.’
She didn’t elaborate as to why she was going to see him and nobody asked. When the conversation turned to young Charlie, John fell unusually silent.
Today Ruby’s demonstration would be given from a dark green caravan provided by the Ministry of Food. It was a big square old thing located in Kingswood High Street, with a drop-down hatch held up by chains. It was lit by gas and boasted a decent-sized cooker, a sink and cupboard space. Originally she was supposed to have one for her sole use, but the Ministry had run out of funds.
‘You have to share,’ Andrew Sinclair had said to her. ‘I’m so sorry. They’re in short supply.’
‘Hardly news,’ grumbled Ruby. ‘Everything’s in short supply.’
It turned out she had to share it with eight other regions from Gloucester to Taunton. On the plus side the caravan was already in situ so they didn’t have to tow it.
At first nobody took much notice of it, that was until the flap was down and Ruby shouted for their attention. Curious, a host of women out shopping – which consisted of queuing for even the basic necessities – gathered round, all glad of a diversion from the daily grind.
As usual Ruby began her talk by saying how British merchant seamen were doing a dangerous job, how she herself had lost a brother to enemy action.
‘It’s up to us to help them in their work. We have to leave space free on our ships for weapons with which we can defeat the enemy.’
Once that was over, once the crowd was on her side, she began talking food starting off with the Sunday joint.
‘Depending on whether it’s a joint of brisket, a breast of lamb or offal, a little imagination and you can make it go a long way while still providing a tasty meal.
‘Beginning with brisket, which is a piece of beef within everyone’s price range – depending on availability of course – roast in the oven in water rather than lard or any other fat. It’s simply not needed. In order to save gas or whatever other cooking fuel you use, place your vegetables around the joint rather than cooking them in separate pans on the top of the stove. Every little bit of gas you save means less coal having to be burned.
‘Once your joint is done, remove it from the roasting tin and leave to rest on a suitable platter. Place your vegetables around the meat. Allow the juices left in the pan to cool, that’s after you’ve taken some out to be mixed with cornflour to make gravy. The rest can be used to make stock for soup, but only after you’ve scraped the fat from the top. You’ll find that fat forms a nice crust on water and is quite easy to scrape off. You can use the fat for making pastry.’
A buzz of approval went through the women gathered around the van.
‘For those of you who queued for hours only to end up with a bullock’s heart, my sincere commiseration: a heartless task indeed!’
Ruby paused to allow for the expected titter of laughter. She wasn’t disappointed. Those crowded around the van were a down-to-earth lot, the type of women capable of rustling up a meal from a few vegetables and a pound of pork bones. They’d managed all through the desolate thirties when the dole queues had been long and many had gone without food in order that their children didn’t starve.
‘I usually stuff mine,’ said one woman. Although she had few teeth and wore a hat with a wilted feather, she spoke proudly, her chin held high.
Ruby nodded and agreed with her that was the way most people roasted a bullock’s heart.
; ‘However, with an eye on gas consumption yet again, how about slicing it up and mixing it with sliced onions and any bits of fatty bacon you might have? Or even getting hold of a few bacon bones from the grocer? Even the fatty bits some members of the family leave on the side of their plates can be used. Bacon keeps the offal moist and adds extra flavour. Finish off with seasoning and pour over some stock. That should keep it juicy …’
Out of the corner of her eye she saw John looking at her. In the past he’d stood to one side shaking his head and eyeing her as though she didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. It wasn’t the best time to analyse what change had occurred to make him look at her that way, the way that made her blush. When had it happened? Asking that question brought on a second one: why had he chosen to return to his position as driver to a home economist?
After taking a sip of cold water, she cleared her throat and went back to her talk, hauling her gaze away from John Smith and refocusing on the job in hand.
‘And of course all offal can be minced and mixed with other more fatty meats. Offal is full of iron, so it’s very good for you.
‘Finally we come to my favourite bit. Cakes, pies and pastries. Everyone has a sweet tooth, and we all love a cream bun, a slice of fruit cake or a spicy pastry. My name is Ruby Sweet. I can’t help but like sweet things!’ The comment had the desired result: laughter followed by closer attention.
On the drive home John Smith purposely went to the front passenger door. She’d sat in the back in the early days of their acquaintance and had done the same when she’d had other drivers. John was different. Mrs Hicks wanting a lift into Kingswood had resulted in Bettina sliding gratefully into the back. Ruby had sat at the front. John had already placed the wicker basket on the back seat. She slid in next to him.
‘So. How have you been getting on?’
‘Fine.’