War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  Andrew confirmed that she would be comfortably accommodated in a seafront chalet.

  ‘What’s it like? Room for two, is there?’ She winked at her sister.

  Andrew cleared his throat. ‘I understand it has two bedrooms and is extremely comfortable. It is also heated. I believe it belongs to a professor boffin who used it for holidays before the war. He’s too busy to use it now so lets it out to Government departments.’

  All this was delivered in a dour, straightened tone. Ruby guessed he’d wanted Mary to himself even though she had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him – even as a friend.

  ‘Oh, and I won’t need a chaperone. Just give me the date.’

  Once he was gone, she blew a raspberry into the mouthpiece of the telephone and laughed. ‘Well, that’s his little plan well and truly scuppered.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘He just won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Never mind. I’m game to do it. All those lovely RAF types. Catering corps, but lovely all the same.’

  In her mind it wasn’t the catering corps she was looking forward to. Johnnie was far away and she had to face the fact that he was not terribly romantic. There was that moment in the field of course, but he’d not referred to it in his letters. Neither had he asked her to wait for him, suggested an engagement or anything else. In all probability she would never see him again. The thought saddened her, but war changed people. It also parted a great many. She had to hold on to what she had and at present her beau was Ivan. Up until now she’d held him off, but now she told herself that she might as well give in. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? They could all be dead. It was a grim thought but one that stayed with her. Yes, she would sleep with Ivan and maybe they might get married and have a baby like Charlie. Now wouldn’t that be something!

  She had to let Ivan know about this tremendous stroke of luck. A whole night away in a chalet fit for two.

  Feeling Mary’s eyes on her she looked up, just about managing to wipe a triumphant smile from her face. Nevertheless, it still shone in her eyes and Mary saw it.

  ‘You’re up to something.’

  Smiling enigmatically, Ruby sprang to her feet. ‘Of course I am. Just for a change I’ll be talking to an audience comprising mostly of men. What could be better?’

  She hung on to the kitchen door as she went out, kicking one leg behind her Betty Grable style.

  Mary couldn’t help smiling. Her sister was incorrigible, but who could blame her? Yes, she would have a great time with all those men and all eyes would be fixed on her. But a seaside chalet to herself? Despite the time of year it could prove quite cosy – for two.

  Still, that was Ruby’s business. She was old enough to know her own mind.

  Her own thoughts turned to Mike. He was still pressing her about joining him in Lincolnshire, but added that he understood she had war work what with her broadcasts and baking demonstrations. He also told her about the midnight meals he cooked up for his colleagues when they came back from a bombing raid. ‘Only after we’re rested up of course. Then we eat and drink and generally let our hair down …’

  He didn’t elaborate on what letting their hair down meant. It could mean other women, but somehow she wasn’t taking that thought too seriously. It had to be his way of exerting extra pressure on her to join him. But as he’d said, it wasn’t easy to get away, to drop everything while so much was going on.

  ‘Wait and see,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘Wait and see.’

  On Thursday of that week Ruby found herself giving a baking demonstration at a factory near the aerodrome where Ivan was stationed. It had been easy to persuade her sister to swap, to take advantage of some decent weather to take Charlie for a walk. From here she could get to where Ivan was stationed and tell him about the event Andrew had scheduled, an overnight stay and accommodation included.

  ‘And you’re looking a bit peaky,’ Ruby had added.

  Strangely enough Mary had agreed and willingly swapped.

  Ruby was in her element.

  ‘In peacetime we could use whatever fat we wanted to rub in with our flour or bake our cakes. That luxury is not available to us at this moment in time. It is therefore imperative that every bit of fat that sizzles off a roast joint, off fried bacon or skimmed from the top of a saucepan of boiled mutton or soup, is allowed to cool and used for baking …’

  She’d grown used to churning out the same advice over and over again. It was hoped that repetition would take root in people’s minds so that following advice designed to make food go further would become second nature.

  ‘However, things have changed drastically since December the seventh. We are no longer alone in this war against Nazi oppression; our American cousins have joined us. We have a war in common, but also we share similar food tastes. Today, my friends, we turn our attention to the humble apple pie …’

  She went on to advise on the most economical way of baking a pie, using an upper crust to cover the fruit and not bothering with a base. ‘Rather than sweetening with a tablespoonful of your precious sugar ration, add honey or a saccharin tablet, crushing it and dissolving it in a little of the juice. Add a handful of sultanas or currants, or any other fruit you have available just to make it a little more interesting. For that special occasion, an added flavour to stir your man’s appetite, soak the apples in beer or cider. Take the apples out of the liquid …’ She demonstrated this with the aid of a colander. ‘Place the apple slices into the pie dish adding a sweetener of your choice, or perhaps no sweetener at all, then …’

  There was a murmur of approval as she poured the liquid used to soak the apples into a beer glass.

  ‘There you are! What could be better than a slice of apple pie and a beer?’

  The apple pie was placed into the hot oven behind her while she got on with the regular advice covering all kinds of cooking. Although both her and Mary’s speciality was baking, the Ministry of Food required her to cover just about everything to do with cooking and that included how best to save the precious fuel they cooked with.

  At the end of the day, she headed swiftly for the dark green van supplied by the government. Since Johnnie’s departure, fed up with being supplied with one driver after another, she’d grabbed the bull by the horns and drove herself around, though at first Mary had driven around with her just until she’d gained confidence. The only drawback was having the car exchanged for a van.

  The van rattled as she drove. Putting the red brick factory behind her, she headed for the aerodrome.

  The rounded roofs of the aircraft hangars were outlined against a grey sky. It looked like rain. She didn’t mind if it rained today as long as it didn’t rain when she gave the demonstration at RAF Locking. A day at the seaside should be full of sunshine, not rain. Not that the day concerned her that much. It was the night she would look forward to.

  At night the bombers were likely to come, though there hadn’t been any raids for quite a while. The battle termed by Churchill as the Battle of Britain, when so much had been owed by so many to so few, had been won. The worst, they hoped, was over, though there were still skirmishes now and again. Though not tonight, she hoped. Tonight she wanted to tell Ivan the good news, that she would shortly have the opportunity to stay at a seafront chalet in Weston-super-Mare. And he was welcome to share it with her.

  Her heart raced at the thought of her decision. If she was going to do it with him, it had to be in the right place at the right time and the promise of a seafront chalet was too good to miss. Johnnie Smith crept into her thoughts; but he’s not here, she reminded herself. You might never see him again. In the meantime you have to live.

  The guard at the barrier stepped out smartly, asked for her papers and who she wanted to see.

  ‘Pilot Officer Bronowski,’ she said briskly, her heart dancing against her ribs. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. If his knowing smile was anything to go by, the guard had noticed the excitement in her face. She
only hoped he wasn’t able to read her mind. If he did she was likely to blush even more.

  ‘I’ll ring the mess and let him know you’re here.’

  Her fingers drummed the van’s steering wheel as she waited, peering into the basic brick structure to see what the sentry was doing. She could just about see him inside the brick built guard post, the telephone clenched against one side of his face. His back was to her. She perceived a sudden rigidity in his shoulders and heard him say, ‘I see. I see. Right. I’ll tell her, sir. If you say so, sir.’

  He was wearing a stern expression when he came back out. She was instantly reminded of the vicar when he was about to deliver a sermon he knew nobody would like.

  He stood over her, looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’

  There was something oddly furtive about the way he glanced from side to side as though expecting more dangerous incursions to take advantage of his time dealing with her, plus his tone was brusque when before it had been friendly.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it in his tone, in his stance. She automatically thought the worst. An iron band seemed suddenly to constrict her breathing. ‘Oh no. Please don’t tell me he hasn’t come back. Or he’s injured. Please …’

  Her voice faded away. The odd look on the sentry’s face intensified, though was as unreadable as it had been before. ‘Nothing like that, miss.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘I hardly think it’s my duty to tell you …’

  ‘Please. I have to know. Please.’ Never had she poured so much pleading into her voice. She wasn’t the pleading sort. Not the type who begged for anything really. But this – she could tell something was wrong and she had to know – whatever it was.

  The guard cleared his throat and for the first time met her eyes. ‘I’m afraid he’s at the hospital.’

  A little gasp caught in Ruby’s throat. ‘Is he hurt badly?’ He had to be hurt. Why else would he be in hospital?

  The answer was like a hammer smashing through glass.

  ‘He’s at the maternity hospital with his wife. She’s just given birth to their first child. That’s where he is. Sorry, miss.’

  A feeling of despair travelled from her neck and over her shoulders. It was all over. The romance had never really been, and indeed Ivan was the charmer John Smith had said he was. She didn’t need him to tell her that Ivan, her handsome, exotic Ivan who kissed her hand and clicked his heels together when they met, had a reputation. He loved women. He also left broken hearts all over the place. Why hadn’t she seen it?

  But she had seen it. She’d just chosen to ignore it.

  Her hands shook as she heaved the steering wheel to the left, the back wheels squealing as she did a quick turn before heading for home.

  Home! How could she go home right now?

  Blinded by tears she headed for the outskirts of Whitchurch village. She pulled into a layby, no more than an indent in front of a farm gate. To one side of it the bare branches of an elm tree creaked in the wind. The field on the other side of the hedge was almost as dull as the sky, the earth ploughed up into evenly spaced rows.

  Still gripping the steering wheel, Ruby rested her head on her hands. She told herself not to cry and that there were plenty more fish in the sea. That it was more her pride that was hurt than her heart. It did nothing to ward off the tears. They came anyway.

  Mary was taking the Christmas cake out of the oven when Ruby got home.

  ‘I think it looks good. What do you think?’

  Absorbed in admiring her handiwork, Mary hadn’t noticed Ruby had not bounced into the kitchen as she normally did after a demonstration, demanding a cup of tea and taking out of the hamper whatever food hadn’t been devoured by her audience.

  Ruby didn’t want Mary to notice how upset she was. It suited her to admire the cake. She tapped it with one finger. ‘It sounds right. Looks good too.’

  ‘I used the eggless recipe. The honey should help it keep just like sugar does.’

  Ruby entertained a violent urge to pick up the cake and throw it out of the window – not because it wasn’t a fine cake, because it was. And Mary was a fine cook and would be heartbroken if she did that. So would everyone else. They’d been saving up coupons for weeks, setting aside what they could to celebrate Christmas. The cake, along with a cockerel Mrs Hicks had earmarked for slaughter, would form the centre of their Christmas celebrations.

  ‘I expect it’ll be fine,’ said Ruby, turning her back on her sister, the kitchen and her inexplicable urge to explode. All because of Ivan Bronowski. Why was it she always fell for the wrong man, the scoundrel, the man who had to have more than one woman in his life?

  ‘I’ve written the recipe down. I thought you might want to use it when you go down to RAF Locking. It was quite easy.’

  Ruby took the small notebook in which Mary noted down every recipe they could use when one of them gave a talk, or in Mary’s case broadcast on the wireless. The BBC in Bristol was very encouraging.

  Ruby stared at the recipe and the instructions accompanying it. ‘How ridiculous.’

  The comment came without warning.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Mary looked hurt.

  Ruby tried laughing it off, but her voice even to her own ears sounded brittle and insincere. ‘I meant about the carrot. Who would have believed back before the war that we’d be cooking a cake made from carrots? Carrot cake. Still, you never know. Plaster the top with icing and it might catch on.’

  The following day Mary received a telegram informing her that Mike would be spending Christmas with them. The back bedroom over at Stratham House was immediately earmarked for their use. On this occasion Bettina would be staying there too and everyone would be eating Christmas dinner together.

  Mary was overjoyed. Her heart raced every time she heard reports on the wireless of bombing raids over Germany. The announcer always sounded upbeat and very matter of fact when he reported of planes and lives lost. All the same it was worrying and Mary always felt that her heart was in her mouth until Mike phoned her to say that he was home safe and sound.

  On the same day Ruby received a letter from abroad. It wasn’t hard to guess that it was from John.

  Stan discreetly looked away from his daughter, concentrating his attention on his beloved Charlie.

  ‘Here. Have a bit of my breakfast. I know you think your granddad’s breakfast tastes better than yer own.’

  That said, he cut his breakfast sausage in half. It wasn’t often they had sausages for breakfast and he couldn’t help noticing the girls never ate them themselves but made sure he had one.

  Charlie wrapped his little fist around the cooled sausage, his eyes bright with joy. ‘Sozzy.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Stan, who glowed with pride every time a milestone was reached in the little lad’s life. ‘It’s a sausage. A bit of Granddad’s sausage, so I suppose “sozzy” is the right word for it. Only a bit of the word and a bit of the sausage.’

  Ruby sat staring at the letter. The paper was light and crisp, a bit like tissue or tracing paper. Judging by the fact that the envelope too was very light, the letter had come by air rather than the slower sea route.

  Stan Sweet noticed her face looked as though it were set in stone. Her eyes flickered over what she was reading. She read it more than once. He could see that by the way her eyes kept going back to the top of the page.

  He was about to ask how John was faring in the Far East when Ruby spoke.

  ‘Listen to this. Dear Ruby. Many thanks for the recipe for Victoria sponge. Hopefully I will get around to making it, though rock cakes seem to be the order of the day out here. They’re all over the place in the place where we’re stationed, falling from the sky in fact. All I have to watch is that one doesn’t land on my head. I’d never get over it.’

  Ruby looked up at her father. ‘It’s dated the eighth of December. The day after Pearl Harbor.’

  ‘No it isn’t,�
� piped up Frances. ‘It’s the same day.’

  ‘No, you little know it all. Pearl Harbor was bombed on the seventh of December.’

  Frances shook her head more vehemently. ‘No it wasn’t. It’s the same day. Hawaii is one side of the International Dateline, and Singapore is on the other. That’s where John is, isn’t he?’

  Her tension mounting, Ruby turned to her father. ‘Is that right?’

  Stan Sweet nodded.

  Mary poured her another cup of tea.

  There had been rumours that a Far Eastern garrison had been bombed but that everything was under control. The BBC had said so.

  Stan Sweet voiced what was on all their minds. ‘Is he saying that they’ve been bombed quite heavily?’

  Ruby nodded. ‘Rock cakes. That’s what he means about the possibility of being hit on the head by a rock cake. It’s his way of saying they’ve been bombed without the censor striking it out.’

  Mary slumped into a chair, eyes downcast, her lips clenched in a sullen line. They’d heard rumours about Malaya, the country of which Singapore was the capital, being bombed, though only lightly. For Johnnie to mention it suggested otherwise.

  For some reason all eyes turned to Charlie who was demanding more of his grandfather’s breakfast. Charlie was guaranteed to help them forget about the bad things going on. His antics and his cheery disposition never failed to make them smile.

  ‘I hear they’ve got big guns in Singapore,’ said Stan Sweet in an effort to reassure his daughter. ‘They call it the fortress of the Far East.’

  Ruby smiled weakly. ‘I hope it lives up to its name.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ declared her father. He wasn’t sure at all, but his daughter needed reassuring and whether she knew it or not, she cared about what happened to John Smith. Never mind her Polish pilot. Ivan Bronowski was just a flash in the pan as far as he was concerned. He only hoped the corporal would survive whatever happened and come home to where he belonged.