by Lizzie Lane
Now in the cemetery, Stan was perplexed, not sure quite what to do. ‘I’m going back home, but if you want me to see you back to the shop—’ he called.
‘No!’
Suddenly she was running out of the long grass, weaving between the gravestones and heading for the far gate that led over a stile and in entirely the wrong direction for her mother’s shop.
Stan stared at the space she’d occupied, amazed at how quickly she’d disappeared.
‘Well, I’ll be blowed!’ He turned to look at his grandson’s chubby face. The little lad was engrossed in crushing the head of a Michaelmas daisy between finger and thumb. ‘One thing you’ll learn as you get older, little man, is that women can be funny beasts. But I expect you already know that, don’t you.’
It was two weeks before Christmas when Stan Sweet picked up the post from off the doormat and took it through into the kitchen where the family was having breakfast.
‘Well, look at you,’ Ruby declared to her nephew. Charlie’s face was smeared with porridge. Most of it Ruby had fed him but, being a determined child, Charlie had folded his chubby fingers around the spoon and attempted to feed himself. Unfortunately his sense of coordination was such that he was having trouble getting the spoon into his mouth.
Mary laughed. ‘He’s growing up so quickly, though I think we still have a year or so to wait before his table manners improve.’
Believing his grandson to be the most advanced baby ever born, Stan Sweet leapt to his defence. ‘Not that long. He’s a very forward baby is our Charlie. Not many babies started walking when they were only ten months old. Our Charlie did.’
Ruby and Mary exchanged smiles. They were used to their father’s pride in his grandson grabbing every opportunity to praise the little boy. They never contradicted him. Charlie had been the miracle that had changed their father’s life, theirs too.
‘Besides which he’s a toddler, not a baby. He can toddle. Walk. He’s a growing boy,’ Stan added, his face glowing with pride.
The twins hid their smiles. They knew very well that their father was totally besotted with his grandson.
After wiping Charlie’s hands and face, Frances unstrapped the little boy from his high chair. She also offered to change him before taking him for a walk in his pushchair.
Mary and Ruby, grateful to their cousin, turned to the letters addressed to them. Mary recognised Mike’s handwriting and the official paper. The letter Ruby had been sent was on similar paper; it had to be from John Smith.
Mary took a deep breath before reading her letter. She was missing Mike dreadfully, especially having him in bed beside her. They’d made a new start and things could only get better. Things had most definitely changed in that department. The thin paper crackled which in turn seemed to set her fingers tingling.
Darling Mary, Mary, my darling …
She smiled at the repetition, which proved he was missing her as much as she was missing him.
He went on to describe how the sunlight lit up the rooms of Woodbridge Cottage, of flying over its thatched roof, imagining them living there, eating breakfast together, sharing a bed more often than they did at present.
Mary broke into a smile. Since his last leave she too had often thought the same. She’d gone from lying beside him stiff as a wooden plank to a creature of longing, her body responding to his. However, there was still this fixation of his about the cottage. Much as she wanted to, how could she leave her father and family at a time like this? There was the bakery, the baking demonstrations, not to mention her father was getting older and now there was Charlie. She reminded herself that Mike had suggested the baby live with them. They could adopt him. But she knew her father would be heartbroken if Charlie was taken away from him. She couldn’t do it. She had to think. She had to sort something out.
Her expression stiffened as she reread the paragraph relating to the cottage offered to them by Mike’s friend. She didn’t know what to do.
Stan Sweet noticed the consternation on his daughter’s face while pretending to peruse yet more directives from the Ministry of Food. She didn’t see his smile of satisfaction, his gratefulness that his daughters were at home, though still doing their bit for the war effort.
She caught his smile when she looked up. ‘Everything all right with our Mike?’
‘He’s fine,’ Mary said quickly.
Stan Sweet wasn’t fooled. His daughter’s response was a little too curt for his liking. Something was wrong. Not that she’d tell him unless he asked and he wasn’t going to do that. His daughter was a grown woman and a married one at that.
Ruby laughed at something in her letter. ‘John’s waiting for the troop ship to leave. He’s not saying in so many words where he’s going, only that he hopes to drink a gin sling at the end of it. He’ll be halfway there by now. This was posted just before his ship sailed.’
Mary took advantage of Ruby’s interruption. ‘Isn’t a gin sling something to do with Singapore?’
Ruby grinned. ‘I think so. I heard it mentioned in that film with Sydney Greenstreet. That’s our Corporal Smith for you! A man who knows how to flout orders without appearing to. Anyway, he said that’s where he thought he was going. How stupid. First he was free to tell me where he was going, and now he’s not allowed to put it in writing. Ludicrous!’
‘What on earth’s the difference between telling us and putting it in writing,’ asked Mary.
‘In case it gets intercepted,’ said Stan. That to him seemed the most logical answer.
Ruby laughed again. ‘Listen to this. “Can you send me a thousand and one ways to make a meal with bully beef? Rice might be one ingredient you’d care to consider.”’
Just like her sister, she omitted to read out the last paragraph of her letter. It was all about getting together after the war was over.
‘I’m missing you.’
Ruby read the last words again and again.
Funnily enough, I’m missing you too, you awkward, cantankerous … She smiled. John Smith always managed to stir up her feelings and being far away from each other didn’t seem to have made much difference. Every time she thought of his caustic remarks, his reluctance when she’d first dragged him into assisting her with her demonstrations, a smile crept on to her lips.
He knew about Ivan, had warned her against him, but she was having fun. John was far away, and she could see herself falling for Ivan. The fact was she was torn between the two of them. Only time would tell which one of them would win through. John was on the other side of the world; Ivan was on the doorstep. Besides, she was missing the passion they’d shared and Ivan was putting on the pressure for her to give in. Was the fact that she was deliberating proof that she had stronger feelings for John than her Polish pilot, despite the fact he was so far away?
‘Is John well?’
Ruby looked up from the letter, her eyes meeting those of her father. ‘He seems to be. At least he’s a long way from Germany.’
Stan Sweet turned his attention to Frances who was guiding Charlie’s arms into his jacket. ‘I’m off to Powells’,’ she said brightly as she tied the strings of his knitted cap beneath his chin. ‘We’re nearly out of cod liver oil.’
Charlie’s happy little face creased and he began to cry.
‘He knows the words,’ Frances said. ‘He’s beginning to know a lot of words. He doesn’t like cod liver oil.’
‘Never you mind, my boy,’ he said, cupping Charlie’s chin in his hand. ‘He doesn’t have to have it, does he?’
‘Yes. It’s good for him,’ said Mary. ‘We can mix it with jam.’
Ruby tickled the little boy’s chin. ‘Never mind, Charlie. Your auntie Mary will give you a spoonful of jam afterwards.
Charlie retrieved his curled bottom lip and flashed his two front teeth in a gummy smile. It was followed by a happy chuckle.
‘That child understands too much, Dad,’ said Ruby. ‘What do you say to him when you take him to see Mum?’
‘Ju
st a few pearls of wisdom,’ Stan replied. ‘Like how to cope in a world increasingly ruled by women!’
He shoved the pile of official pamphlets to one side. His thoughts went back to the day he’d seen Miriam – and heard Miriam – crying in St Anne’s graveyard. What was that all about? He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. There was enough gossip going around the village as it was. Miriam deserved some time to herself and if it happened to be in St Anne’s graveyard, then so be it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘HEY! SWEETIE!’
Frances knew very well that Paul Martin had seen her turn down into Court Road on her way to Powells’ shop but had pretended she hadn’t. Paul brought a flush to her face, though not such an intense flush as Deacon, the boy she had met when living with Ada Perkins in the Forest of Dean. She had turned fourteen, and having left school she was now too old to be evacuated under the children’s scheme, but she had promised herself to go back there for a visit and Uncle Stan said she could once he had enough petrol coupons.
Frances slowed so Paul could catch up with her.
‘You coming to the Sunday School ramble? We’re walking to Lansdown.’ He sounded desperate for her to say yes.
Frances kept her chin up and her eyes straight ahead. She considered herself too old to go on rambles with the Sunday School. ‘No. I don’t think so. It’s just for kids, isn’t it?’
Paul latched on to her mood and matched his own to suit. ‘Yeah. Just for kids. That’s why I’m not going either.’
Frances knew he was lying. He didn’t want to be thought of as a kid.
‘How about the Christmas party? We’ll have jelly and blancmange and Mum’s saving some cream from Fat Polly. Fat Polly always gives creamier milk than any of our other cows so the milk people won’t notice there’s a pint or two short here and there. And my brother’s got a gramophone. We can dance.’
Frances sighed. ‘Of course I’m coming to the Christmas party. Ruby’s made a cake. A sponge. She used dried egg to make it. Mary’s made a Christmas crumb cake. It’s got nuts and fruit in it.’
‘Yummy. Bags me a piece.’
Frances was under no illusion that Paul didn’t have a clue what a Christmas crumb cake was. Basically the Sweets had enough fruitcake ingredients to make one cake and that was for the family to consume at Christmas. All baking ingredients were in short supply but Mary had enlisted the help of a few other women whose children were looking forward to the Sunday School Christmas party. Without much persuasion they’d all scrimped and saved enough ingredients from their rations to make a Victoria sponge, but that wasn’t going to provide enough cake for all the kids in the village.
The idea for the Christmas crumb cake had been Ruby’s. The main ingredient, rather than flour, was stale cake and breadcrumbs. Frances had watched as Ruby had wetted the crumbs, most of which had been gathered from the bread baskets that lined the shelves, some from the counter, some from the stale end of a loaf or any stale cakes they had left over. The rest of the crumbs came from stale crusts. Nobody dared waste crusts nowadays. It was rumoured that inspectors from the Ministry of Food came round in the middle of the night to inspect the bins. There had been reports in the newspapers that those who wasted food were fined.
The Sweets were not ones for wasting food and were creative in their use of leftovers. After all, the Sweet sisters gave lectures on how to make the best use of food.
‘This is a bit experimental, but I’m sure it will work. What I need you to do is to write the ingredients down,’ Ruby had said to her.
Frances had studiously found a pencil and paper.
‘Right,’ said Ruby. ‘A pound of breadcrumbs – more if possible. A pound and a half might be better. No. Wait. Seeing as we’re making this for the Sunday School kids, let’s say two pounds of crumbs.’
‘That’s a lot of crumbs,’ Frances had remarked.
Ruby had agreed with her and decided to settle on getting as many crumbs as possible.
‘Mix with three tablespoonfuls of sugar. Two ounces – no – four ounces of fat. Any fat.’
Frances had duly written the instructions down while wishing they could find enough butter to make the cake – not likely, of course. Butter was rationed and when a joint was roasted or meat fried – even bacon and sausages at breakfast time – the fat, once cooled, was collected and used in baking. It didn’t matter whether the baked dish was sweet or savoury, fat was fat and always made full use of.
‘Nuts. I think we have enough hazelnuts left over from the ones we gathered in the autumn to crush and mix with the mixture. I’ve also got some dried blackberries. Luckily for us they were quite sweet this year.’
‘And treacle,’ Frances had suggested.
Ruby had stopped stirring the mixture while she considered the rightness of her cousin’s suggestion.
‘I was thinking honey, but perhaps you’re right. A good dollop of treacle. That should make it sweet enough.’
And so Ruby’s Christmas crumb cake was created.
‘You’ll love it,’ Frances stated in a superior voice. Of course she wouldn’t be divulging the ingredients. They were a secret between her and her cousin Ruby, a person she considered to be the greatest cake and pastry maker in the world. Along with Mary, of course. Mary was a super baker too and her cakes were mouth-wateringly good.
Paul gave Charlie a little wave. ‘Hello, Charlie.’
Charlie looked at him with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘He’s not all that friendly.’
‘Of course he’s not. He doesn’t know you,’ remarked Frances with an air of self-assured tolerance.
‘If you didn’t have him with you, I could show you the piece of bomb shrapnel my cousin Eddie gave me. He got it in Bristol. That’s where he lives. A bomb fell on a house in his street. Everyone plays on the bombsite – not me, of course. It’s just for kids. Still, it’s a great place for making dens like when I was a kid. Do you want to see my shrapnel?’
Frances endured a sudden conflict between the child she had once been and the adolescent in waiting. A piece of real shrapnel harvested from a genuine bombsite had an almost magical connotation about it. Paul was quite tempting too; in fact, boys were becoming more interesting all the time.
‘Is it at your house?’
‘The den. The one we call the Dingle. Down in the Pit. I know I’m not a kid, but it’s a good place to hide if the Jerries ever invade.’
It amused Frances to hear Paul trying to be a man one minute and sliding back into being a boy the next. It didn’t occur to her that she was doing the same thing.
The Pit was a copse of young willows and birch down the bottom of the hill next to the brook. It was where the boys made dens in the summer, some of them in the centre of thick bramble bushes well hidden from view.
Frances was sorely tempted. The fact was that if she collected the cod liver oil and then took Charlie back home, the twins or her uncle Stan would find her something to do. What was to stop her taking Charlie with her? He’d love it!
‘I’d like to see it, but I’ve got to get Charlie’s cod liver oil first. Can you wait out here and look after him while I do that?’
Paul screwed up his face and looked as though he were considering the matter, which wasn’t really the case at all. He liked Frances and wanted to show her his most treasured possessions. And the den was the ideal place to take a girl when you wanted to be alone with her. Nobody could call him sissy and anyway, most of the other boys who used the Dingle were at school. Nobody would know. Nobody would see him kiss her and that is what he very much wanted to do. He reckoned he was ready and it excited him. It also scared him. In the meantime he was out to impress her.
‘I’ll wait.’
Paul beamed with satisfaction as the shop door clanged shut behind her. His stomach felt as though it were tied into knots. He’d never kissed a girl before – not in the way he wanted to kiss Frances, the way he’d seen his sister kissing her soldier boyfriends. Still, he�
��d started work and was a man now. Kissing a girl – Frances in particular – would make him more of a man.
He looked down at his long trousers and wondered if she’d noticed them. No more short trousers and long grey socks for him! No more grubby knees either.
Absorbed in thoughts of Frances, he didn’t at first notice Charlie helping himself to a carrot, the brightest of vegetables on the display to the side of the shop door.
‘Charlie. That’s stealing,’ he hissed once he had noticed.
When he tried to take it from the baby’s tightly clenched fist, Charlie began to cry.
‘No. Don’t cry,’ Paul whispered, glancing towards the door in case Frances had heard; if she had, it would ruin everything.
Preferring to placate Charlie rather than have Frances angry with him, Paul let go the carrot and Charlie stopped his yelling. If Charlie wanted to steal a carrot, that was fine by him. The last thing he wanted was for Frances to think he’d hurt the child in some way. He certainly wouldn’t get a kiss if that happened.
‘All right, little ’un. All right. It won’t be missed.’
Charlie chuckled before shoving the carrot into his mouth, his sparkling white incisors biting cheerfully into the bright orange vegetable even though it still had a crusting of dirt.
Paul went back to his plans for getting Frances alone and kissing her. He reckoned mentioning the shrapnel was a great idea. Everyone was interested in seeing bits of metal that had exploded from bomb casings and Frances was no exception. She’d be impressed; at least he hoped she would. But what if she wasn’t?
The knot in his stomach tightened. What would he do if she laughed in his face and told him only little boys thought shrapnel was interesting?
Focusing on the prospect of Frances ridiculing him before he had chance to kiss her, brought on a severe case of cold feet. Never mind the shrapnel; kissing suddenly became as frightening as facing a whole battalion of enemy troops. Worse still, it also brought back memories of Sunday teatimes with his father’s sisters, spinsters one and all. His aunts used to coo over him, kissing him and ruffling his hair. He could still feel their papery lips on his cheek, their spidery fingers in his hair.