by Lizzie Lane
‘A leg of pork,’ she confided swiftly without even saying hello. ‘Too big for my oven, so if you could oblige, Stan, I’d much appreciate it. Our Joey’s coming home on leave. He’s bringing his girlfriend with him. Hope she ain’t too stuck up. She’ll have to take us as she finds us!’
Stan grabbed the sack from Mrs Martin before it dripped blood on his nice clean counter.
‘Stuck up? Good grief, Lilly, has your boy found himself a duchess?’
‘Not so far as I know. She’s from up north. Liverpool, I think.’
‘Then take it from me she’s not likely to be stuck up. A lot of the girls up there are mill hands, hard-working girls without a stuck-up bone in their body.’
‘Can you roast it in your bread oven overnight?’ she whispered. At the same time she leaned forward while glancing nervously over her shoulder, despite there being no other customers at present in the bakery. ‘And there’s a bit of shoulder in there for you.’
Stan didn’t need to be told that the pig had been born, reared, fattened and slaughtered without the knowledge of the Ministry of Agriculture. He used to keep a few pigs of his own, but the demands of the bakery, and the fact that his partner in pigs had been apprehended for trading on the black market, had recently put paid to his operation. The pigs had been disposed of. A shoulder of pork was worth the risk.
‘Joey’s been in Italy. He got wounded,’ Mrs Martin continued.
‘Nothing serious, I hope.’
‘Nothing that won’t mend. Got shot in the ankle.’
It crossed Stan’s mind fleetingly that Joey might have caused the injury himself. He’d seen plenty of incidents on the Western Front, tired, homesick young men shooting themselves in the foot.
‘Oh well,’ said Stan, wisely preferring not to give voice to what he suspected. ‘It’ll do the lad good to be home.’
He might have learned more about what Joey had been up to, as well as further details of the girl he was bringing home with him, but the shop door swung open.
In a knee-jerk reaction, Stan let the sack fall to the floor behind the counter. Anticipating an official from the Ministry of Agriculture, Mrs Martin’s ruddy face paled.
‘My goodness, Lilly. You look as though you were expecting to see Jack the Ripper coming through this door.’
There was a distinct twinkle in the pale blue eyes of Bettina Hicks.
Relieved at the sight of her, Stan slapped his big palms on the counter. ‘Bettina! Mrs Martin was just telling me that her Joey’s been injured and is on his way home for some well-earned leave.’
No mention of the pig, but Stan went out of his way to exude a lot of enthusiasm for Mrs Martin’s news. Actually, he wasn’t sure whether he would recognise Joey by sight: Mrs Martin had a whole battalion of sons and almost as many daughters.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Bettina, her eyes sparkling and her pale pink lips curving into a smile. Anyone else might have asked for details, but there existed a distinct rapport between her and Stan Sweet: she could read his expressions just as easily as he could read hers. The finer points would be discussed in private.
Mrs Martin slapped a meaty hand against her thigh before adjusting her battered straw hat. ‘Can’t stand ’ere gossiping. I’ve a lot to do before our Joey gets back.’
‘I’ll have your special order ready for you first thing in the morning,’ Stan called after her.
After she’d gone, Bettina looked at him and chuckled. ‘I take it her special order is more than extra bread for Joey’s return.’
‘That’s about right. How do you fancy coming round for a bit of roast pork on Sunday?’
‘Enough for all of us?’
‘I should think so!’
Stan’s joviality was short-lived.
A small frown creased Bettina’s smooth forehead.
‘Something’s wrong. What is it, Stan?’
He shook his head, looked beyond her to the shop door and suggested she come out back. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on.’
Leaning on the stick that helped support her right hip, though did little to alleviate the pain, Bettina followed him through.
On seeing she was having a bad day with her hip, he suggested she sit down while he made the tea. With a sigh of relief, his dear friend and confidante sank into one of the two armchairs placed on either side of the kitchen range.
After handing her a cup and saucer, he sat in the chair opposite her.
As she took a sip, Bettina scrutinised his face over the rim of her teacup. Sensing he had something serious to say, she kept silent while giving him time to gather his thoughts.
‘It’s our Frances. She’s been asking questions about her mother. She wants to know where she is.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Bettina, gently placing her cup back into its saucer. ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later.’
Stan sighed. He’d heard this all before and said it himself a few times. ‘I was hoping it wouldn’t.’
‘I don’t think that was very realistic.’
Stan shook his head. ‘I suppose not.’
‘She’s at the right age to become curious.’
‘She might not have done if Mrs Powell hadn’t thrown a few nasty comments at her.’
‘Ah!’ said Bettina with a deep nod of her head. ‘Gertrude Powell. I might have guessed. If ever a woman was going to cast aspersions, it’s her! What did she say exactly?’
As she awaited the details, she took another sip of her tea. Her eyes flickered with surprise as she studied Stan’s face. His skin was a little greyer than usual and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.
‘I’ve only got it second-hand from our Ruby but she said something to Frances along the lines of “your mother was a slut”.’
‘Not entirely untrue, but cruel to say such a thing to Frances.’
Stan looked a little taken aback at Bettina’s honesty.
‘You know it yourself, Stan,’ she said quite abruptly in a bid to pre-empt any condemnation. ‘Still, that’s as may be. The poor girl must be terribly upset.’
‘She is, and you know how it is at that age. One minute she’s a child, and the next minute … Suddenly it seems the world and especially grown-ups are against you. I’m having trouble knowing what to do.’
Bettina looked down into her teacup, turning it slightly in the saucer so it made a tinkling sound. She had an inkling Stan was hiding something. ‘Do you know where her mother is?’ she asked pensively.
When Stan hung his head, Bettina immediately knew she’d guessed right.
‘You do know.’ She fixed him with a slightly accusing look.
He nodded. ‘Yes. I do.’
‘I won’t ask you where she is,’ Bettina said resolutely. ‘All I will say is that you have no choice. Frances is at an age when she’s searching for who she is. She wants to fit into the adult world, and in order to do that, she has to know where she comes from and why she’s where she is.’
Just like Bettina to cut straight to the chase.
Stan eyed the handsome face of his dearest female friend and the serene expression in Bettina’s powder-blue eyes. Like her eyes, she was soft, slightly fluffy but steadfast. He couldn’t quite recall the exact colour of her hair when she was a girl, perhaps because he quite liked the colour it was now, gloriously pale grey and still swept up into the cottage loaf style of her youth.
Stan sighed. ‘I don’t relish talking to our Frances.’
‘You don’t have to relish it. It’s your responsibility to do it.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, nodding his head in agreement, though he still couldn’t help feeling reluctant. ‘I have to do it.’
‘I saw Frances pushing Charlie up the High Street,’ Bettina commented, changing the subject tactfully. ‘I thought he didn’t like being put in his pushchair any longer.’
‘That’s another worry. He’s a bit out of sorts at present. We think he’s teething, but we’re not sure. I’ll see how he is tonight and if th
ere’s no improvement, I’ll take him to the morning surgery.’
‘Poor little mite. Still, better to be safe than sorry.’
Her knees made a clicking sound as she got to her feet. Stan’s knees made a similar sound when he got to his. They looked at each other and shook their heads.
‘Sounds like we’re two of a kind,’ he said, with something close to a smile.
‘Or at least our knees are,’ exclaimed Bettina.
As he escorted her to the door she thought about their friendship and their past. They had known each other most of their lives, though she had only returned to the village a few years ago. In Stan’s case, there was much pain in his past, what with the Great War, losing his wife Sarah, his brother and his son Charlie.
In Bettina’s case, there was a secret she would take to her grave, involving an action she’d taken that she thought few people would understand. Now that her friendship with Stan had deepened, she sometimes considered unburdening herself to him, but so far had drawn back. Today she had come as close as she ever had to doing so, especially seeing as Gertrude Powell had been mentioned.
I’m a coward, she thought. Yet again I drew back, but I won’t always. The day will come when I will whisper that secret into somebody’s ear. But not now, not until the time is right.
Stan watched as Bettina made her way across the road. The day was fresh and the air smelled as though rain was imminent. Just right for the garden, Stan thought.
Bettina was almost lost to his sight, by which time he’d planned his jobs for the rest of the day. Stack earth around the spuds, fork the earth around the carrots and take a peek in the ramshackle greenhouse he’d built to see how the tomato plants were doing.
Just as he turned to go back into the shop, the sound of whistling made him pause. Melvyn Chance, the village postman, was striding along towards him, his face cheery and his baggy trousers flapping around his skinny legs.
Not only was Melvyn Chance the village postman, he was also their air-raid warden. The former occupation gave him some respectability and went a little way to blotting out his infamous past when he’d been a member of the National Socialist Party, its leader, Oswald Mosley, a great admirer of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi regime. Melvyn had resigned from the party just after war broke out, but no one had forgotten or forgiven his involvement with people who were now their enemies.
Melvyn smiled, though a wary look flickered in his eyes. ‘Good morning, Mr Sweet.’
Stan grunted a response. As far as he was concerned, Melvyn Chance didn’t deserve to be acknowledged. He for one had never forgiven him his nefarious allegiance.
Stan would never warm to Melvyn and never forget what he had once been. Melvyn was alive and kicking, but it was thanks to Hitler and the Nazis that his son, Charlie, was dead.
Stan snatched the post from Melvyn without a word of thanks. Melvyn, who knew better than to linger, dashed off. He didn’t resume his whistling until he was posting letters through letterboxes a few houses along and beyond Stan’s reach.
Stan scowled at Melvyn’s retreating figure, the hunched shoulders, rounded body and stiffly striding legs. If it were down to him, the man would be locked up. Even if he hadn’t been a member of Oswald Mosley’s outfit, he would still have disliked him. A weasel born a weasel remained a weasel. That was his opinion.
Once back inside the shop, he glanced briefly at what he’d been given. There were the usual manila envelopes bulging with advice from the Ministry of Food and other official bodies.
It wasn’t until he was back behind the counter and, there again, not until he had served a few customers, that he noticed the postcard that had slipped between the bulky envelopes. He frowned at it, noticing it was addressed to his daughter, Ruby. It was plain, grubby and stamped with the insignia of the Red Cross. A sudden roll of apprehension rumbled in his stomach. Official. Swiss postmark.
Switzerland! Never in his life had he received any item of mail from a foreign country. The feeling of apprehension rolled in his stomach even more determinedly than when he’d spotted the insignia of the Red Cross. Wasn’t it based in that country?
His hand shook as he turned it over, saw the scribbled writing – in pencil by the look of it. In the lower right-hand corner he saw what looked like a reddish muddy-looking smudge. On closer examination, he deduced the convoluted lines of a thumbprint. The postcard was addressed to Ruby, though he couldn’t help but read it. She wouldn’t mind.
As he read the words, his eyes filled with moisture and it felt as though something sharp was stuck in his throat.
Dear Ruby. I am a prisoner of the Japanese but am being treated well. Love, Johnnie Smith.
CHAPTER NINE
That evening, the smell of cottage pie filled the kitchen. Frances had been careful to put it into the oven early enough so it would be ready to dish up by the time Ruby got in. The smell alone was enough to tell her it was ready, and anyway Ruby’s instructions had been quite specific.
A blanket of heat reddened her face as she reached in with both hands. ‘Stand back. It’s piping hot.’
‘I am stood back,’ Stan grumbled, wondering when it was that he’d started taking orders from the younger members of his family. He purposely kept his attention fixed on what was happening around him, anything rather than let his gaze stray to the postcard from Switzerland, currently sitting behind the clock on the mantelpiece with the rest of the post. Get supper over first or nobody would eat a morsel.
Thrusting out her bottom lip, Frances blew upwards at the tress of dark hair falling over her forehead as she manoeuvred the pie dish on to the cast-iron trivet standing in the middle of the scrubbed pine kitchen table.
Stan Sweet stood silently studying her, thinking to himself that she’d suddenly grown up without him really noticing it. Dark hair and soft brown eyes, a girlish though developing figure. His head throbbed from the array of thoughts crashing through it – like dodgem cars at the fairground, bumping and banging and not really going anywhere. He felt exasperated, worried. Most of all he tried to recall the last time in his life when he’d felt as helpless as he did now. Ruby would welcome the postcard, but it said nothing, and in doing so said a lot. Reading it might worry her even more. As for Frances and her present mood …
The arrival of the postcard this morning only added to his feeling of helplessness. Although Johnnie had written that he was a prisoner of the Japanese and was being well treated, he couldn’t shift the nagging doubt that things might not be that way at all. Johnnie would have said more. He was sure of it.
The sound of the small car chugging to a halt outside the shop door only served to make his thoughts rush around in his head at a greater speed than before. If anyone had said at the beginning of the war that his daughter Ruby would bear the burdens of this household with uncommon efficiency while holding down a very responsible war job, he would never have believed them.
Because it was too dark to go round the back of the bakery and into the kitchen, Ruby habitually came through the shop door, the old bell above it jangling as she opened it just enough to slip through before closing it behind her.
He made a mental note to silence that bell on a night so it wouldn’t wake anybody up. Then he wondered why he should suddenly think of doing that. The answer came swiftly: because its jangling gets on your nerves. Since when had it affected him so badly?
Ruby’s smiling face, flushed by the night air, appeared around the door. ‘Oh, but it’s good to be home.’ With a determined grip on the handle, she closed the door firmly behind her.
Stan felt a clutch of nerves knot in his stomach. The postcard. He would have to tell her about the postcard, but dare he also tell her his thoughts on the message?
The first thing Ruby noticed was the pie and the bowl of carrots and swedes Frances had added to the table.
‘That looks good.’
She did not notice the pensive look in her father’s eyes. She was tired, hungry and very glad to be home.
> Home wasn’t just about warmth, good food and loving faces. Familiar things counted too, all contributing to what made a house – or even a bakery – a home.
Coals glowed in the grate of the old range, tapestry-covered cushions were plumped up in the fireside chairs, plates and cutlery gleamed with welcome: she relished them all.
Her first task on taking off her hat was to make a big fuss of Charlie. Although today had been enjoyable and well received by the factory workers, Charlie had never been far from her mind.
The little boy’s bottom lip stayed petulantly thrust forward, his small knuckles rubbing at his eyes.
Face creased with concern, Ruby leaned over him. ‘Charlie. Are you still not feeling well?’
For a moment he stopped grizzling as she stroked his hair back from his face.
‘My beautiful boy. Your cheeks are very hot.’ She frowned, certain he had a temperature.
‘He won’t eat,’ said Frances. ‘He hasn’t had much to drink, either.’
With a pain in her heart, Ruby surveyed the dish of cottage pie, the ingredients well mashed up and set in front of him in his own little dish. She frowned as she ran the back of her fingers down his flushed cheeks. ‘I hope it is just his teeth, though there’s always something like measles and chickenpox going around.’
For a moment, the two cousins were silent with their own thoughts. Ruby was worried about Charlie more than she was about Frances. In fact, she felt resentment towards her cousin. Couldn’t she have remained her old sweet, though slightly rebellious self for another year at least? Best of all, stay a child until the war was over?
Her resentment continued to simmer and might have stayed that way except that Frances was suddenly her old self again, asking her how her day had been.
‘Fine,’ Ruby replied, all signs of resentment kept firmly subdued. ‘They were a nice crowd.’ Funny, she thought. I’m getting so het up over Charlie and Frances, I’m forgetting about Andrew’s offer and the possibility of seeing Mary sometime soon. On the drive home, Ruby had practised announcing that she was going to see Mary, thanks to an invitation from the Ministry of Food to go to London. Now didn’t seem the right time to mention it.