Home Sweet Home

by Lizzie Lane

  Writing letter after letter, she’d kept him informed of what was happening in the village. She’d also sent him simple tips for eating in a country where rice was a staple.

  The natives add spices to meat and fish for a very good reason: it hides the taste of bad food and also preserves it. Be careful what you eat! I hear people in the Far East are very partial to roast dog! Or even cat! Still, never mind their eating habits. How about I tell you of some of the recipes I’ve been given – well-meaning souls, but …

  Listing some of the terrible recipes people had given her she hoped would raise his spirits, make him laugh despite whatever privations he was suffering. Some of the recipes were laugh-out-loud disgusting. She’d smiled the night before as she finished writing the latest letter on the flimsiest of paper. Terrible recipes to make him laugh out loud as well as heartfelt words about the ordinary things of home she thought he would be missing.

  My dear John,

  How do you fancy sheep’s stomach stuffed with onions and squashed seagull? It was hard not to laugh out loud when the old man gave it to me. I had travelled all the way down to a village on the north Somerset coast – I can’t say where – to give a cooking demonstration. The old man kept sheep and gathered berries from the hedgerows. He said the bird had been run over by a military vehicle, but it was a big fat one with plenty of meat on its bones and that he never had been one to waste anything. I tried to appear interested but had already decided that seagull meat must taste a bit fishy, and that even in these times of scarce supply, mixing it with a sheep’s stomach does not constitute a feast for the faint-hearted.

  Charlie is growing and getting into mischief. I am so glad he came to us, especially for Dad’s sake. It was hard to lose his only son.

  Mary is in Lincolnshire with Michael. They have now had their first child, Beatrice. I’m desperate to see my new little niece, so is Dad for that matter. Two grandchildren. He talks about it as though nobody has ever had grandchildren before.

  Frances is growing into a pretty girl and thinks herself grown up now that she’s left school and helps in the shop. She has an American boyfriend whose name is Ed. I’m not sure where their relationship will go, perhaps nowhere. I know what I was like at that age. Love was wonderful – though on reflection it wasn’t really love at all!

  Just in case you’re wondering, I do go out dancing and generally out and about, but there’s nobody serious on the horizon. I’m too busy being the efficient employee of the Ministry of Food, besides taking care of Dad and the family.

  I hope the recipe makes you laugh. I also hope you are faring well. I take the fact that I have received no replies to my letters means that no news really is good news.

  Just to reassure you, I still think of that day when we picnicked at the railway station, the colour of the autumn leaves and the things we said. I shall always remember them. I hope you will too.

  Love, Ruby.

  She would post the letter on her way to the factory where today’s demonstration would take place. Perhaps this time she might receive a reply. So far she’d had no news from him since the fall of Singapore. Was the Red Cross really doing its best? If they were, it didn’t seem their efforts were hard enough.

  Stan Sweet had counselled her not to give up hope but to take a pragmatic view.

  ‘He may be in a place where there is no pillar-box on the street corner.’ He said it good humouredly, but Ruby wasn’t fooled. Rumours were circulating about the harsh treatment handed out to captives by the Japanese army. Nothing had been officially confirmed so she had to believe that was all they were – rumours. In the meantime, she had to get on with her life.

  Declan O’Malley hovered in the background. She’d first met him one day when she’d been delivering bread to the home of Mrs Darwin-Kemp.

  He’d struck her as officious, standing there like a solid wall between her and the larder. Despite or probably because he was a military policeman, he had the capacity to source food and luxury items that even Ed Bergman wasn’t privy to. Nylon stockings were number one on his enticement list. So was tobacco, for which Stan Sweet was very grateful.

  Ruby put on her smart three-quarter-length coat she had made from a creamy coloured blanket, teaming it with a cream skirt cut down from an old pair of cricket trousers. It was just a question of opening the stitching on the inner legs and sewing them together, trimming the lower part of the legs with a pair of sharp crimping sheers. The result was an ideal outfit for spring.

  ‘I’d look like a tramp if I wasn’t good with a needle and thread,’ she muttered.

  She stopped to admire her hat in the hallstand mirror. What wonders one could do with old bits and pieces! Feathers and stuffed birds had once decorated the broad-brimmed hat she wore – another item from Bettina Hicks’s amazing collection of fabrics and old clothes.

  Ruby sighed as she pulled on her gloves. It was difficult leaving her father to cope, and Frances didn’t seem to have her wits about her at present.

  Frances came through from the back, looking better than the night before, though Ruby sensed she was still harbouring questions about her mother.

  ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Thank you. Look at these,’ said Ruby, raising her skirts so Frances could admire her stockings.

  ‘From darling Declan, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ruby paused, not quite understanding the condemnation in her cousin’s voice. ‘Don’t you like Declan?’ She hoped Frances still thought he was too old for her, though she had to admit that both young girls and women old enough to know better rarely failed to fall for him.

  Frances shrugged as though she couldn’t decide either way. ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘Okay? Don’t let Dad hear you say that. He doesn’t like us talking American slang.’

  ‘I might marry one, then I’ll talk slang all the time.’

  Ruby sighed. There was no point in arguing with Frances when she was in one of these moods.

  ‘I’m off. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Frances …’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Forget what Mrs Powell said. She’s a wicked woman.’

  Frances’s lowered eyes hid her thoughts.

  The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the morning air both inside and outside the grey stone building that was Sweets’ Bakery. The bakery with its front shop, its gas-fired bread oven, and the family’s living accommodation, was situated at the top of Cowhorn Hill in the village of Oldland Common just a few miles to the east of Bristol.

  In times past, the village had been famous for producing shoes and boots for the Great War. There had once also been a thriving coal industry, but that was back in the nineteenth century. The coal seams were thought to have been the outcrop of the South Wales coal fields and as such were narrow and the access to the coal face no more than three feet high. Men had hacked at those faces with small pick axes and died young.

  The village had fallen back to the way it used to be, farming being predominant, though of late some of the village had found jobs in munitions and further away at Fry’s Chocolate Factory at Somerdale in Keynsham, thanks to a direct railway connection. Chocolate production had been reduced at the factory, Rolls Royce using the generous facilities to build Merlin engines for Spitfires and Hurricanes.

  Today Ruby was giving a talk and demonstration at that very factory. Women who used to check chocolate for flaws in the finish now checked the small pieces that made up an aero engine. They were valued for their small fingers and sharp eyes.

  Ruby admired them, swapping something so sweet for something so sinister. She could imagine what the place smelled of in peacetime – the sticky sugary smell of chocolate thick on the air. Now the air smelled of heavy oil.

  The upturned faces in front of her looked tired. Some of them had red-rimmed eyes, either caused from working long hours or because they’d been crying. Each one of these women was likely to have family serving in one of the armed forces, either that or their loved one
s, even themselves, spent time fire-watching or doing something else after working long hours in engineering factories, all turned over to produce armaments for the war effort.

  ‘Right,’ she said, pleased she’d been blessed with a resonant voice. ‘Let’s see what we can do about baking a cake without eggs. It’s either that or think about the amazing tricks you can do with dried egg!’

  There followed a ripple of laughter. Everyone, including herself, had suffered both failures and successes with the vagaries of powdered egg. Ruby always began the session in a fun way before going on to stress the importance of supporting the merchant navy in their efforts to feed the nation.

  ‘But first, let’s go through the basics. I have a list here kindly provided by Brown and Poulson – and it’s not just about custard powder.’

  Another titter of laughter. Everyone knew that Brown and Poulson made custard powder.

  She held up the booklet in which was listed general advice and tips to help the housewife make do with the little she had available. She began reeling them off, though not without advising the women that there was a whole pile of leaflets waiting for them on the table on the way out.

  ‘Number one, do not waste any scraps of raw or cooked fat. They can all be rendered down and the fat used for frying or baking. We all know how difficult it is to get hold of fat, sugar and eggs to bake a cake. Let’s start with a recipe that does not call for eggs. Ladies – and those few gentlemen who are present – let me introduce you to the eggless cake!’

  Murmurs of conversation trickled through the women assembled. Ruby read out the recipe before making it, though informed them that the recipe was contained in yet another leaflet they could take with them on their way out.

  ‘Right,’ she called out while enjoying the warmth of the oven behind her that some thoughtful soul had lit in anticipation of her using it. She announced each ingredient before adding it to the mixture. ‘This is the recipe for eggless cake. No need to write it down. All the details are in one of the leaflets over there by the door.’ Once the mixture was in the tin, she opened the oven door. ‘Now! That looks good. Let’s get it into the oven.’

  The stove worked a treat, the audience clapped and Ruby felt tired but well satisfied. For just one final moment, her eyes yet again surveyed the crowded canteen. Some friendly faces smiled back at her, but most were talking among themselves. All the same she felt sure the demonstration had been a success.

  The canteen manager wove his way through the crowd. Ruby stood there waiting for him to shake her hand. Instead, he ducked behind her and checked the gas taps.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he grumbled. It was obvious he thought these talks and demonstrations were a waste of time and considered the big gas stove his personal property.

  Ignoring the man’s rudeness, Ruby concentrated on packing up the items she’d used. She had suggested cutting the cakes up at the end of the demonstration to serve to the workers there and then, but Mr Gillespie, the canteen manager, intervened. ‘Just leave them there. We’ll cut them up and serve them for pudding tomorrow with custard – if we’ve got enough milk!’

  Ruby gritted her teeth. ‘This food belongs to the Ministry of Food. I can distribute it as I see fit.’

  His rudeness persisted. ‘Then they wouldn’t want it wasted, would they!’

  ‘Now look here!’ She was just about to put him in his place, when another man came up behind her and spoke.

  ‘Ruby?’

  It was Andrew Sinclair. Andrew worked for the Ministry of Food and organised cookery demonstrations and talks on the wireless.

  She wasn’t that pleased to see him.

  ‘Andrew. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Official business, is it?’ Why was it her teeth ached when she spoke to him? He’d been sweet on Mary before she’d married Michael. Lately, he seemed to have transferred his affections to Ruby. Not that either one of them had ever encouraged him.

  ‘Indeed it is, Miss Sweet, or may I call you Ruby, seeing as we have known each other for some time?’

  ‘You’ve called me by my Christian name before, Andrew. Nothing’s changed.’

  He ignored the put-down. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Of course we can.’

  He helped her pack everything up and for that she was grateful. He chatted as he packed, asking how the family was and outlining her timetable for the next fourteen days. However, he looked as though he had something else in mind. She waited for it to come.

  ‘Now there’s something very special I want to talk to you about. My mother has suggested you give a talk at the Dorchester to her ladies’ circle. Some of them are ladies both in nature and in title. Do you think you could do that?’

  ‘At the Dorchester?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. My mother is very well connected.’

  ‘I do hope you are not harbouring ulterior motives, Andrew.’

  He gave a nervous laugh followed by an equally nervous cough. ‘Of course not, dear lady. Of course not.’

  Ruby prided herself on being able to read Andrew quite well. Her mind was working overtime. London was roughly halfway between Bristol and Scampton, where her sister lived. This might be a good opportunity to visit her sister, and she intended taking full advantage.

  Pasting on her sweetest smile she said, ‘That sounds very interesting, Andrew. How very clever of your mother to suggest it. I think it would be a very good idea indeed. Can I leave it with you to arrange the details? Though not yet. I have to check my timetable.’

  Andrew beamed so broadly Ruby thought his face was going to burst like a balloon. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then that’s settled.’

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No. The Ministry have seen fit to provide me with an official car. Remember?’

  He looked disappointed. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot. My, my. Well aren’t you the lucky one. You never used to like driving.’

  ‘Needs must. Drivers are in short supply, nowadays. Most men are off fighting the enemy.’

  Andrew, who she knew was definitely in the right age group, fidgeted briefly with his spectacles. ‘Ah, yes. I wish I too could be there, but what with my sight and my flat feet. And Mother, of course. She would be terrified during a bombing raid without me around.’

  ‘I dare say she would,’ murmured Ruby.

  Back to being his bumptious self, Andrew’s dewy eyes peered at her through his glasses. ‘And I suppose your Corporal Smith has let you down.’

  Ruby gave him a fixed stare. ‘Yes, if you can call being imprisoned in a Japanese prisoner of war camp letting me down. He is slightly indisposed,’ she snapped.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Yes.’ He nodded three or four times but gave no sign of being at all put out by her attitude. ‘So I can count on you to fulfil this very invaluable role at the Society of Titled Ladies?’

  Was the man completely insensitive? Ruby sighed. She took it that the Titled Ladies he referred to would be very similar in status and attitude to Mrs Darwin-Kemp. Not her type of women at all. She much preferred the cheery women and girls working in the factories or doing their bit for the searchlight units. As for service women and nurses, well she had to take her hat off to them most of all. But this was England, and Andrew loomed over her like a small barrage balloon in a suit. Ruby sighed with resignation.

  ‘As I’ve already said to you, let me know the details when you have them. In the meantime, you must excuse me. I’ve had a long day and wish to go home.’

  He used one fingertip to push his spectacles more firmly on to the bridge of his nose. As he did so, she noticed he had beautifully polished nails, each one symmetrically cut.

  I expect his mother insists, she thought to herself. Not wishing him to see her knowing smile, she turned away. As she did so, she wondered if his mother also still checked behind his ears!

  That morning, after Ruby had left for that day’s assignment, Stan Sweet was holding the fort in the bakery while Frances took young Charlie out
in his pushchair. When the lad was on top form, he would walk anywhere, but as he was quite poorly at present, the old pushchair was heaved out.

  Stan watched Frances bundle young Charlie in warm clothes and place him in his pushchair.

  ‘He’ll enjoy a bit of fresh air,’ she said loftily.

  Her manner was a bit more abrupt than usual, but on this occasion he did not reprimand her. She had a lot on her mind.

  Whoever had coined the phrase about there being a spectre at the feast had surely been referring to his absent sister-in-law. He’d always thought good riddance to bad rubbish, but the ghost of Mildred Sweet was coming back to haunt him.

  Perhaps it was cowardice, or merely compliance, but he still didn’t consider it the right time to be tackling his niece with a few home truths about her mother. Neither was he ready to discuss Frances having a reunion with a woman who would only disappoint her. First thing first, he would have a chat with his dear friend Bettina.

  ‘I need to call in on Mrs Hicks when you get back,’ he said to Frances. ‘So, don’t be late.’

  Frances, her full lips clenched in a tight line, muttered something almost inaudible that sounded like ‘I won’t be’, though it could just as easily have been a tad cheekier. He couldn’t be sure.

  The shop door shut behind his niece and grandson, the sound reverberating slowly into silence, leaving only the resonant clunking of the oak wall clock’s swinging brass pendulum.

  Stan sighed, clenched his pipe firmly in his teeth but didn’t light it. Most of his customers didn’t mind the smell of his pipe, but in a bid to save tobacco, it had become a habit that he never smoked in the shop.

  He stood behind the counter, surveying the shelves of bread, and the odd baked goods that Ruby still managed to make from whatever spare ingredients were to hand.

  The brass bell above the shop door clanged as Mrs Martin came in carrying a sack. Her round face was red with exertion and she was puffing and panting as though she’d been running for a bus and had overtaken it in the effort.