by Lizzie Lane
Her guess turned out to be right. There he was, standing beside one of the trucks that had brought the GIs to the dance, counting them as they alighted and got into line. It was raining so there was no hanging about.
He counted his charges again before dismissing them. Once that happened, the young men who had come to fight a war took the steps up to the village hall two at a time, their voices full of bravado and laughter.
Ruby stayed at the bottom of the steps, smiling in the sure knowledge that Lieutenant O’Malley was about to look her way.
‘Ma’am,’ he said, touching the peak of his cap.
‘Ruby,’ she said. ‘I’m the girl you’re going to have the first dance with.’
His face was deadpan. ‘Who said I was?’
‘I did.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Are you refusing me? Come along, Lieutenant. You’re here on a goodwill mission. Your job is to further friendly relations across the Atlantic. We’re allies, remember?’
Was this man made of stone? He gave no sign that he was attracted to her.
‘You’re not doing a very good job of it,’ she finally said to him. ‘Now come along.’ She caught hold of his hand. ‘Follow me. I promise I won’t eat you.’
She sensed him holding back; saw the look on his face. Something stabbed at her heart. That look reminded her of John Smith.
‘I didn’t know I had to dance.’
He couldn’t dance! That was all it was. He couldn’t dance!
She shook her head. ‘So you’ve come here to fight, and you can’t dance. We’ll have to do something about that.’
‘Fighting isn’t dancing.’ He sounded defensive.
Ruby was adamant. ‘You soldiers know nothing. A quick step can get you out of heaps of trouble – fast!’
With that she grabbed hold of him and dragged him out on to the dance floor. She placed his arms around her waist. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, his eyes unblinking, staring into hers. Then she trod on his toes.
‘Hey!’
‘Imagine the enemy is shooting at your feet. Now lift them. One at a time, right? One, two, three …’
‘That’s great,’ he said, looking down at his feet as though unsure they didn’t belong to him. ‘I might be needing some quick-stepping when I come face to face with the Japs.’
The Japs. The music seemed to become muted at mention of the Far Eastern enemy. John Smith was a prisoner of the Japs. Suddenly she felt guilty dancing with this handsome man while John was far away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said when he asked her for another dance. ‘I promised I would be home early tonight.’
She didn’t admit that the promise had been given to herself. She had a letter to write and even though it might not get through to John, at least she would know she had made the effort. John deserved that.
CHAPTER THIRTY
THE PIECE OF paper on which was printed the recipe for the National Loaf fluttered to the floor and Stan Sweet made no attempt to pick it up. The recipe was to be strictly adhered to and made from a lesser refined flour than a white loaf with potato flour added. He’d already spouted the details to his daughters and niece. He continued repeating the rest of what he’d read. ‘And the weight’s to be reduced from sixteen to fourteen ounces. Fourteen bloody ounces! And we’re not allowed to sell it wrapped and neither can we slice it for customers like that Darwin-Kemp woman.’
‘Then she’ll have to learn how to use a breadknife, won’t she,’ declared Ruby who was already mixing the first batch of ingredients for twenty of these new national loaves. ‘And we’ll all have to do without white bread.’
If anyone had told her at the beginning of the war that she’d get used to deprivation and carry out government directives without too much protest, she would never have believed them. They’d fared better than most simply because they’d planned things very carefully, plus gaining extra rations so they could carry out their job.
‘Three to five minutes should do it,’ she murmured, keeping her head down and concentrating on what she was doing.
From the start of the war her father had carried on running the bakery, putting up with whatever directives he was given, but being told he had to adhere to prescribed ingredients and weight for his own bread had tipped him over the edge. It was his bakery, handed down from grandfather to his father and now to him. He wasn’t best pleased.
Once she was sure the dough was ready, she placed it in a lightly oiled container where it would rest for fifteen minutes. After that her father would knock it back, that is, knead it this way and that over the table with his strong hands. Then it would rest for another forty-five minutes. She breathed in its aroma, noting it didn’t smell any different from an ordinary loaf.
Ruby reminded him that the less grain came in from across the Atlantic the more room there was for weapons – a tacit reminder that her brother, his son, had been killed while serving on a merchant ship bringing much-needed supplies to these shores. He seemed to calm down at that, though couldn’t stop himself from one last grumble. ‘They’re not going to like the colour,’ he grumbled. ‘Or the texture. It’s going to be dry. I guarantee it is.’
It was six o’clock in the morning and after eating breakfast consisting of toast – courtesy of stale slices from yesterday and a scraping of margarine, they went back into the kitchen, divided up the dough into round shapes weighing fourteen ounces, not sixteen as they had been.
The dough was rested during which time they tidied up and got the next batch ready for baking. The first batch was now ready for the second shaping before being placed in oiled baking tins where they would prove again for forty-five to sixty minutes in a warm oven, before baking. They’d be done, cooling on the side by the time the shop was ready to open at nine.
Loaves for the oven were piling up all over the place, but joy of joys, the first batch was shoved into the oven. Not long now and they would be pulled out and left to cool on a wire rack before being transferred to the shelves in the shop.
‘I think I’d better serve in the shop today,’ said Ruby as she and her father made their way into the kitchen. ‘There are bound to be grumbles. And I have a thicker skin than our Frances.’
Ruby made tea. Stan Sweet reached for his pipe. His face was pink – as was hers – and he was sweating profusely.
‘Do you think you can bake pies and make cakes with that flour?’
‘Mary and I are going to try. There’s not going to be much else available, although …’
She pretended to concentrate on making sure that the tea going into the pot was a level teaspoonful. One per person as prescribed. No more one for the pot said the powers that be!
Stan Sweet was not fooled. ‘That American Frances met. She said he’s with the catering corps. I’ve got quite used to seeing him pop into the shop with a few errant supplies, the little rascal.’
‘I don’t think he is a rascal.’ Sighing, Ruby put down the pot. ‘Is it really so wrong if he gives us a bag of white flour? A very small bag?’ she added.
‘Does Declan know?’
‘Of course not and I won’t tell him.’
‘Are things serious between you and Declan?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He’s good-looking and nice, but that hardly makes things serious between us.’
Stan sifted through his thoughts and opinions while considering whether he should indulge in another cup of tea. He was frowning at the latest directive, muttering under his breath that the men from the ministry didn’t have to deal with his customers. It was all very well for them to make rules, but he was the one at the sharp end having to carry them out.
His gut instinct was that the British housewife wasn’t going to like the national loaf despite the claims about it having added calcium and goodness knows what else. He’d even heard somebody on the wireless hinting that it had aphrodisiac affects! And as for the leaflets they were being sent! First Doctor Carrot, the grinning carrot-shaped ch
aracter dreamed up by the Ministry of Food, saying that eating more carrots was an aid to better eyesight, and now this person on the wireless claiming it helped a person’s love life. Where would it all end?
‘Apparently we can have some white flour for making cakes, pies and biscuits. Nobody stated where that flour had to come from, and at least it’s not black market – well – not really, but if that young man …’
Ruby bent over, kissed her dad’s head and pressed his cup and saucer on him. ‘You’re a doll, Dad.’
‘Doll? I suppose you got that word from the Yanks too. That Declan fella.’ He took a sip of tea then reached for his paper. ‘Hmm!’ He gave it a good shake before continuing. ‘Someone says here that the Americans are overpaid, oversexed and over here!’
Ruby laughed. ‘Never mind, Dad. As long as they help win the war. Then when it’s all ended, we can go back to baking white bread.’
So far Declan had been far from oversexed, at least with her. She liked him and although he avoided taking her to dances, he did take her out for a drink or to the cinema – especially if there was a cowboy film showing.
‘That’s what I want to be when this is all over,’ he said to her. ‘I want to live somewhere like Texas, not New York. It’s too crowded. I want the wide open spaces and learn to ride a horse.’
‘You could learn to ride a horse here. I could teach you. Gertie Fowler’s dad has got a few horses he keeps at the back of the farm in Court Road.’
They’d made a date and Ruby confirmed it would be all right with George Fowler. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she was about twelve years old, but hey, it was just like riding a bicycle; once you’d done it you never forgot how to do it.
At that moment, Frances came in with Charlie trailing on behind her. He was still wearing his pyjamas, the top of which he’d pulled up to his chest in order to better investigate his belly button. He went straight to his grandfather, standing in front of him jabbing his finger into his plump little belly.
‘Belly button,’ he said proudly as though he were the only one in the world to possess such a thing.
Stan Sweet tried to remember the time before the little boy had come into their lives, a grey time when the world seemed to have lost its colour because the war had taken his son. Little had he known that his son had left a piece of him behind and perhaps he’d never known of his existence if London hadn’t been bombed. Now there was something to thank the enemy for. It was a terrible thought, one he swiftly despatched.
Inevitably, it was just him and the baby left to their own devices. Ruby went out to serve in the shop as planned. It was rumoured that Mrs Powell had taken a consignment of tinned peaches, pudding rice and Colman’s mustard, so Mary had gone to join the queue that formed for such luxuries. In the city people queued for meat, butter and cream. In the country it was tinned goods.
Frances had gone to meet young Ed Bergman, a likeable enough lad but still a bit too old for a girl who had only just left school.
‘He’s eighteen, Uncle Stan,’ Frances had proclaimed. ‘Only four years older than me.’
‘Eighteen.’ Stan Sweet shook his head dolefully. The lad was broad-shouldered and ready to take on the world, yet only eighteen. It didn’t seem right. But never mind. There was no question of her getting serious with the young man. Twenty-one years of age was a long way off. Until then she would need a parent or guardian’s permission to marry.
Stan might have dozed off if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s continuous chattering. He was playing on the rug with Bunz, building him an armchair with some wooden bricks Stan had brought down from the attic. Being a baker was tiring work. He’d been up since before dawn and his eyes felt itchy and sore. His eyelids began to feel heavy.
His cat nap was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone.
He called for Mary before remembering that she had gone out. He thought about calling for Ruby to answer the phone, but it sounded as though it was busy in the shop.
‘Bloody telephone,’ he grunted, struggling up from his chair.
‘Phone!’ chirped Charlie.
Blast, thought Stan. I must remember not to swear in front of that boy. He learned too fast.
The hallway where the telephone sat on a side table felt chilly after the living room. It was still ringing, its jangling bell resonating and making the place seem even colder.
Stan picked up the handset. It was either Mike or that Sinclair bloke who arranged the talks and demonstrations for the Ministry of Food. He chose to believe it was his son-in-law.
‘Mike,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’
‘To whom am I speaking?’
He didn’t recognise the voice on the other end of the phone, told the man who he was.
‘You’re Pilot Officer Dangerfield’s father-in-law?’
He nodded into the mouthpiece even though he knew whoever was on the other end couldn’t see him. ‘Yes,’ he finally said.
There was a pause. Stan felt his heart skip a beat. Something was seriously wrong.
‘Is his wife there?’
‘No. She’s gone out. Can I help you?’
That pause again – they called it a pregnant pause because something was about to be said that was quite momentous. It could be good or it could be bad. But he had a bad feeling about it. ‘My name is Carr. I’m the station commander at Scampton. It’s bad news I’m afraid.’
Stan felt a lump in his throat. He thought of his daughter expecting her first child. It was unthinkable that she could be a widow before she was a mother …
‘Is he dead?’
‘No. No. Not dead, but he is badly injured. There was a lot of flak en route to their target. They were hit but managed to limp home. Despite their best attempts, the plane caught fire on landing. Michael is in hospital in Lincoln. Please give your daughter my deepest sympathy. If she needs to contact me, please do. I’ll give you my number. I’m also sending a travel warrant by telegram. I’m sure she’ll want to be near him.’
Stan committed the telephone number to memory. He didn’t know how he did it. His memory wasn’t usually that good, but on this occasion the number stuck in his mind.
‘Again, my sincere sympathies, sir. It’s a great shame, but it’s not all gloom and doom. They can do wonders nowadays.’
After putting the handset back on the hook, Stan wandered back into the living room and slumped in his chair, his head in his hands. First his son dead, then John Smith being taken prisoner, and now this. When would it ever end?
Charlie peered up into his face from beneath his hands. On seeing the look on his grandfather’s face, his cheeky smile disappeared and for a moment he looked as if he were about to cry.
Stan forced himself to smile. ‘No crying, Charlie. You’re a big boy now. And so am I. Granddad’s a big boy too.’
Inside his heart was breaking, but he couldn’t bear for the boy to share his sadness. And anyway, what was it the station commander had said? That they could do wonders nowadays. He hoped it was true.
In the meantime he had to dig deep to find the courage to tell Mary what had happened. He wondered if anyone had rung Bettina or Mike’s parents. He presumed his parents in Canada would receive a telegram.
He picked up Charlie and walked out into the shop, intending to tell Ruby first before he went to find Mary. He was surprised to find Bettina in the shop, deep in conversation with his youngest daughter. Bettina was all smiles when she saw him with his grandson in his arms. Her smile lasted until Stan told her about the telephone call.
‘Does Mary know yet?’ Ruby asked. ‘What’s happened exactly?’ She looked from Bettina to her father, noting the worried looks on their faces.
Her father shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know the full details. Only that his plane was hit. They got back safe, but it caught fire on landing. He’s suffered burns.’ He looked away. ‘I don’t know how badly.’
Bettina nodded and for the first time, he noticed how pale she was, how much her hands
were shaking. He covered one of them with his own.
‘Let’s go have a sit down, Bettina. Ruby, can you make some tea and then if our Mary’s not back by then, we’ll go find her.’
Feeling as though she’d won a great battle rather than having spent two hours standing in a queue for tinned items, Mary swung her shopping basket and whistled something cheerful.
Just as she’d approached the top of Court Road, she noticed the steam from a locomotive coughing up over the road bridge. A train had arrived and was now pulling out of the station. Emerging from the mist, her figure solid against the spiralling steam, she saw Ada Perkins, Mrs Powell’s mother.
‘Hello!’ she said warmly. ‘It’s nice to see you again. Is it a special occasion?’
‘There was a need,’ said Ada. ‘I felt I was needed so I came.’
There was something intriguing about the way Ada said it. Nobody else could make it sound as mysterious as she did.
‘And I’m sure whatever it is, you’re the right person to deal with it,’ said Mary. She lifted her basket. ‘Tinned peaches. Luxuries we just can’t do without.’
‘You need them,’ said Ada. ‘Give your father my regards and tell him thank you for writing to me.’
So that was the reason she had arrived in the village! Her father had written to her.
‘Yes. I will.’
Ada stopped abruptly. Her hat tipped forward when she frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Of course I am,’ trilled Mary, not liking Ada’s expression, not wanting its air of dark foreboding to ruin her day. She was feeling on top of the world. She was married to a wonderful man and also expecting his baby. She couldn’t help being all right!
Ada’s dark frown was immediately forgotten and her mood persisted all the way home.
‘I’ve just seen Ada Perkins,’ she said as she breezed her way into the kitchen. ‘She sends you her regards, Dad, and says to tell you thank you for letting her know – whatever it was you let her know,’ she said with a laugh, not really taking in the atmosphere, not until her gaze alighted on Mike’s aunt.