by Lizzie Lane
She’d miss him, not just the surly countenance that hid the gentle man beneath, but his sarcastic wit, his protests when she dragged him up to assist in her baking demonstrations. On the whole he was the most honest man she’d ever met – a bit like her father, in fact.
Sighing she turned away from the mirror and reached for her coat. She took a deep breath. The smell of face powder and the rose water she’d made herself from Charlie’s rose bush was strong.
Downstairs the kitchen was warm and cosy. Her father was sitting in his favourite chair at the side of the fireplace. ‘Looks like we’re going to have the first frost of the year tonight,’ said her father without looking up from his newspaper.
‘Never mind. I’ve got my coat.’
Stan Sweet looked up at his daughter. ‘You look very nice, love. I take it your Polish flier is going to pick you up on his motorbike.’
‘He is.’ She waved a headscarf at him. ‘Hopefully I won’t look as though I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards when we get there.’
‘Good for you, girl. Give the young man my regards.’
Her father went back to reading his paper.
‘I will,’ Ruby said softly, so softly it didn’t appear her father had heard her.
The sound of a motorcycle heralded Ivan’s arrival and Ruby’s heart leapt with joy. Forget about John, she told herself. It was Ivan she was going to the dance with tonight. It was Ivan she was in love with. Wasn’t it?
‘By the way. Corporal Smith left that here.’ Her father nodded to a brown paper bag on the mantelpiece. ‘He said it’s a going-away present. I understand he’s been posted.’
‘Yes. He has.’
Ruby frowned as she reached for the paper bag. It came as a complete surprise. John hadn’t mentioned leaving her a present.
On opening it she found a notepad and envelopes. She smiled. John was holding her to her word. Not that she minded. She’d meant what she’d said. She would write to him.
The night air stung her face with its crispness. Ivan and his motorcycle were only barely discernible in the darkness. Without giving her time to swing her leg over the seat, he hugged and kissed her.
‘My goodness,’ she said once she’d managed to grab a breath. ‘Being hugged by you is like being hugged by a bear!’
‘We have bears in my country,’ he laughed.
‘Not all of them are still in Poland,’ she responded, giving him a playful push on his shoulders. ‘Now. Are you taking me to that dance or what?’
‘Of course I am. You look wonderful,’ he said to her. That was before she put on her headscarf.
‘I won’t do without this,’ she said laughingly. ‘Come on then, Prince Charming. Take Cinderella to the ball and don’t spare the horses.’
The ride to the dance at the base was a whirlwind of frosty air that reddened her cheeks and stung her eyes. By the time they got there she was holding on to Ivan with one hand and her headscarf with the other.
‘Your hair looks wild,’ he said to her once she had both feet back on the ground.
‘Like a witch?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Or perhaps, yes. An enchantress. Is that what you call them?’
Ruby said that she wasn’t sure and anyway, once she’d visited the ladies’ powder room, a comb and a lick of lipstick would make her presentable again.
She wasn’t exactly unaware or immune to the admiring glances she received as she joined him. Attracting men had never been very difficult; it was sorting out the good guys from the bad eggs that she’d found more difficult; the horrendous Gareth Stead was the worst of them, but then, that was at the beginning of the war. A lot of water had flowed beneath the bridge since then.
‘You look wonderful,’ Ivan said to her again, his lips brushing against her ear. ‘See? All my friends adore you too.’
She laughed but made no comment. She was the belle of the ball in a dress that wasn’t home-made, her hair glossy, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She felt as though she were floating on air. That was before one of Ivan’s friends, a bull-necked man with a pockmarked face, made a comment that, although it was in Polish, Ruby instinctively felt was derogatory.
Ivan caught hold of her arm and guided her swiftly away. Catching the hint of a scowl on his face, she asked him what had been said. Just a beat of a pause, but enough to set alarm bells ringing before he told her the man had commented how beautiful she was. He said it laughingly, but with an edge that Ruby didn’t like. Whatever it was the man had said, Ivan hadn’t liked either. It couldn’t have been that she was beautiful. She suspected Ivan was lying to shield her feelings.
She watched Ivan closely that night. Purely judging him on first impression, John Smith had said he was a charmer. Perhaps he was. Tonight he absolutely doted on her, fetching her something to drink, something to eat and absolutely refusing to allow any of his colleagues to dance with her.
‘You are mine and mine alone.’
His words were soft in her ear, his arm firmly holding her to his side. Every dance she danced with him. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
Telling herself that John must be mistaken, she pushed aside her unease and told herself she was mistaken about the Polish airman’s tone of voice. Ivan was the sort of man who could make her forget anything. He treated her like a princess; as though there was no other woman in the room, in the world, who was as beguiling as she was.
They danced all night, their bodies tight against each other as they glided through the waltz, laughing and giggling when they attempted the latest American craze, the jitterbug.
It was halfway through a waltz that he whispered in her ear about going outside. Ruby felt herself tingling all over. They’d already had some pretty hot moments on previous dates. His loins pressing against her, she’d felt his hardness. She counted it lucky that the waltz called for some pretty close contact.
Something in her responded even though she knew what the consequences might be, besides which John was still there in her mind, that magic afternoon among the cow parsley.
‘You’ve danced me off my feet,’ she said to him as he guided her towards the set of double doors that led on to a concreted area at the rear of the hanger where the dance was being held. ‘I need to cool down.’
Thanks to the blackout the outside area was in total darkness. Shrouded in camouflage at the edge of the runway, fighter aircraft vaguely resembled hump-backed monsters, even their propellers hidden.
Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. She was aware of whispers and muted gasps close by, couples in clinches hidden by darkness. To her right she saw the red gleam of a lit cigarette, the smell of tobacco on the night air.
She also smelled Ivan, felt his closeness, his hand firmly cupping her elbow as he guided her to a private place where they would be hidden by darkness.
‘Step carefully,’ he whispered. ‘I won’t let you fall.’
She didn’t know where they were going, but was aware they weren’t too far from the doors they’d come out of. She knew what he had in mind. At the beginning of this week she might have considered giving in, but not now. She had to get her feelings in some sort of order. She’d thought she loved Ivan, but following John’s visit, she wasn’t quite so sure.
They kissed passionately, his hands roaming down her back until they were cupping her buttocks as firmly as he’d previously cupped her elbow. He was nothing if not persistent.
‘I want you.’
Shielded by darkness, his hands travelled over her, firstly covering a breast, then sliding above her stocking tops. Perhaps she might have gone further if she hadn’t already lost her virginity to Johnnie Smith so recently, persuaded perhaps by him leaving and the smell of damp grass.
She pushed him away. ‘I don’t want to get pregnant.’
‘Ruby. Sweet Ruby.’
‘Ruby Sweet actually,’ she snarled, pushing him away for a second time.
‘My precious Ruby …’
His lips clampe
d to hers. His hands began to ramble over her body.
‘No.’ Her voice was hushed and although she said no, her body was screaming otherwise. She wanted him, but wasn’t sure it was he whom she really wanted. John was still in her mind. If she’d been drinking she might have weakened, but she hadn’t been drinking. She’d kept her wits about her and was glad.
‘Ruby! Please … you have to understand—’
She put her hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Don’t say what?’
‘You know what,’ she whispered back, desperately trying to be firm with him while keeping her voice down.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘No, no, no. I do not know.’
Each word was delivered on his breath directly into her ear or against her cheek while his fingers trailed through her hair, smoothing it back from her face.
Ruby kept her hands pressed against his chest and the soft wool of his RAF tunic.
‘You were going to say that you might be dead tomorrow, almost as though it’s my duty to give into you. But I’m sorry, Ivan, I can’t. I won’t.’
‘Then you cannot love me.’
He sounded both dejected and angry. It did make her feel guilty and perhaps she might have gone ahead, but he’d chosen his time badly.
‘It’s the time of the month,’ she murmured as an excuse he might accept
She felt him tense. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
Resting his chin on her shoulder he made a sound that was vaguely like crying.
‘Oh my darling Ruby. I need you so much. Soon. We must make love soon, my darling Ruby. Soon before time marches on and we are far away from each other. I need to know you will be waiting for me. Whatever happens I need to know that.’
The words seemed to fall on to her shoulder and from there find the pathway to her heart. He loved her! Ivan Bronowski loved her. He really meant what he said. She couldn’t get John Smith out of her mind, but he was gone. He might never come back. Ivan was here.
If she let down her guard or if she truly wanted to, she would give in to Ivan Bronowski. It was just a question of when.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
December 1941
BY MONDAY MORNING there were only two topics of conversation among the women coming in to buy bread.
The first was that the Japanese had bombed an American Naval Base at a place called Pearl Harbor. Not everyone was quite sure where it was until Frances, always top of the class in geography, informed them it was in Hawaii which in turn was in the Pacific. The Americans had entered the war.
The other topic of interest was that Miriam Powell, who had been putting on weight consistently enough to convince gossips she was in the family way, now didn’t look that way at all. In fact somebody commented that she looked like a scarecrow.
‘And a bit mad,’ that same person added.
Frances helped Mary to serve the customers, who were taking longer than usual to complete their purchases.
‘I reckon she’s miscarried,’ one of their regular customers exclaimed to another.
‘Do we know who the father is?’
‘The vicar – sorry – the Methodist vicar. That young man with the round face and the cheeky laugh. The one who looked like Mickey Rooney with acne.’
‘So where is he?’
‘Gone. I heard from a cousin of mine who attends the mission in Hanham that he’s enrolled as an army padre.’
‘She might not have been in the family way. Perhaps it was just fat.’
There were loud chuckles at this remark.
‘Yeah, perhaps it was too much bread,’ Mrs Telford, the village gossip remarked with a knowing nod of her head. ‘Mark my words, that girl had a bun in the oven.’
More chuckles.
‘Then where’s the proof of the pudding?’
‘You mean where’s the bun that was in the oven,’ said somebody else.
Yet more laughter before everyone agreed that if Miriam Powell had been pregnant, there would have been a baby by now.
It was remarked that she hadn’t been away to have it as girls did if they were led astray. She had been seen around the village, serving in the shop and attending various religious services with her formidable mother, though there was a gap of a few days when the shop was closed, a note pinned on to the door that they’d gone to visit Miriam’s grandmother, Ada Perkins, in the Forest of Dean.
Mary smiled sadly to herself. The puzzle would remain a topic of conversation in the village for a long time. Poor Miriam. She’d had a thing about Mary’s brother, Charlie at one time, not that Charlie had been interested. She recalled finding slips of paper with prayers for Charlie’s safety written on them. She’d watched Miriam from her bedroom window, surprised to see her creeping into their backyard and stuffing the prayers into a gap in a crumbling brick wall.
At first she’d thought the prayers were to the Virgin Mary. It turned out that they were actually written to some pagan deity that nobody this side of the River Severn knew anything of. But Frances had known. Frances who had been evacuated to the Forest of Dean for a while with Miriam’s grandmother, Ada Perkins. It was there Frances had seen people posting notes into the hollows of old trees, prayers to a pagan goddess of the forest.
‘One step at a time.’
Parking the pushchair at the gate, Stan Sweet had taken his grandson into his arms and took him into the churchyard. On deciding the long grass looked a grand place to explore, young Charlie kicked his legs and made demanding noises.
‘All right, my boy,’ said Stan recognising what he wanted. ‘You want to walk.’
Charlie had taken his first steps and now was keen to try at every opportunity with varying degrees of success. Stan clutched the plump little hand in his as Charlie tottered forward into one step after another before landing on his bottom. Undeterred, up he got, clinging to his grandfather’s hand as he fought to regain his balance.
Bit by bit, the distance along the path covered partly by a tottering walk and partly being carried, they finally came to the grave of Sarah Sweet.
It wasn’t the first time Stan had brought Charlie’s boy to visit his grandmother’s grave though on previous occasions he had remained in his pram or pushchair, either asleep or eyeing his surroundings, especially the birds and the butterflies that frequented a nearby buddleia.
After tottering for a few steps, Charlie once again landed on his bottom. Entranced by Michaelmas daisies nodding at the side of the headstone, he sat there plucking at them, chuckling in triumph when he finally managed to pick one.
Content that his grandson was enjoying himself, Stan took off his hat and got down on one knee.
‘Here again, Sarah. As you can see our Charlie is growing fast. What’s more he’s starting to walk already. Isn’t that marvellous?’
Stan beamed. It was true. His female customers, and Bettina Hicks, had all confirmed that he was a very forward baby. He’d ignored the advice of one customer who insisted that if a baby walked too early it would end up bow legged. This was his grandson, Charlie, and he would grow up to be the handsomest man alive!
‘I have to tell you, Sarah, that the Yanks have entered the war. One of their bases was attacked by the Japanese. They weren’t best pleased, I can tell you! So they’re in the war now too. I only hope this means a quicker end to things. Nobody wants this war spreading and dragging on. What was it we were promised back in 1914 – it would be over by Christmas? Well, we were promised that this time too …’
Stan looked up as a sound came to him, carried on a breeze that was blowing his way. It was like crying – wailing, more like. The only sound he’d heard up until this moment had been the cawing of crows from the tall beech trees shielding the church from the slope and the lane.
After preventing his grandson from eating a particularly large dock leaf, he gathered him up into his arms and looked over to where withered grass rustled and rattled against the stone wall. All the rest of the gra
ss in the churchyard had been cut at the end of October. The long grass at the edge of the churchyard remained, a place where slow worms lurked and stoats burrowed beneath the wall.
Somebody was crouched over, only their head and shoulders visible, their attention absorbed in whatever lay in front of them. Whoever it was seemed suddenly to become aware of his presence, stiffening at first before popping up like a Jack in the Box. He almost laughed, until he saw it was Miriam Powell, back from the Forest of Dean.
He held up his hand in acknowledgement more so than a wave. ‘Miriam!’
Her face was pale as death in contrast to her black coat. Always black, he thought. A young girl like her. It just isn’t right.
He’d obviously taken her by surprise. She looked scared. ‘Miriam. Are you all right, love?’
She gave no sign that she’d heard him, though she’d definitely seen him. Her face was as pale and still as a plaster saint, her hooded eyes fixed on Charlie.
‘Poor girl,’ whispered Stan. He’d always felt sorry for the girl, having a mother like Gertrude Powell. Not that it was any of his business and Mrs Powell had always been friendly enough, or at least neighbourly.
As for Miriam, well, she had always been kind to Charlie when he was in the shop, kicking his legs in his pushchair, enjoying all the attention he received from the customers. Normally she merely smiled at him, tickling him under the chin, running her fingers over the backs of his hands. But she’d never spoken to him. Not a word. Not directly to the baby, just stared at him with round, adoring eyes.
‘She makes the same comment every time she leaves,’ Mary had told him. ‘He’s Charlie reborn. That’s what she always says. He’s Charlie reborn.’
‘Deacon told me that people can get reborn as rabbits or deer,’ Frances had added.
‘Better not eat them then.’ Ruby grinned as she said it.
Frances had tossed her head. ‘I don’t believe silly things like that. I’m not a child. I was just saying. That’s all.’