Home Sweet Home

by Lizzie Lane

  Obediently, hat retrieved from the counter, the brim rumpled beneath his firm grasp, he followed her into the kitchen.

  He noticed the stiffness in her shoulders as she marched into the kitchen, the swift movements as she reached for the kettle, the teapot, the cups and the saucers.

  ‘I see all the bread’s in the oven.’

  ‘It was my first priority.’

  She did not report that she’d not slept all night. It was enough that she was here for him – that they were here for each other.

  ‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I had to walk.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come home with Dr Foster?’

  ‘He left before I wanted to. Said he had other patients to see.’

  ‘I see you didn’t walk all the way.’

  ‘No. I did not.’

  He slumped heavily down on to a kitchen chair and jerked his head in the direction of the front of the bakery and the road that passed its door.

  ‘I was picked up by three young American soldiers. They were on their way back to Siston but took it into their heads to make a detour. I think they thought I was too old to be out by myself.’

  Ruby stood with her back to the kitchen window, an aluminium teapot – one she hadn’t given for scrap to make aeroplanes – clutched in her hands. ‘It’s a long way to walk. It was kind of them.’

  Her father looked done in. His voice was low but steady. ‘Yes. It was kind of them.’

  His head drooped over his hands and his smile was sad and thoughtful. ‘Young men full of bravado and out to have fun. I hope they survive the day when the allies retake Europe.’ He shook his head. ‘It won’t be easy.’

  ‘Drink your tea. I’ve put two sugars in it.’

  ‘I’ll drink this then help you finish the baking.’

  ‘You’re too late. I’ve already done it.’

  Surprise shone through his tiredness.

  Ruby took advantage of the situation. ‘And here’s some toast. Eat it up and drink your tea, then get up to bed. It’s enough having Charlie being ill without having you poorly as well. I’ve got enough on my plate, thank you very much!’

  Although taken aback by Ruby’s manner, just for once Stan did as he was told. Once he’d obeyed orders, he took himself upstairs, his limbs tired, his brain full of plans that included his grandson, once the boy was out of danger.

  Despite his concern, despite his plans for the time when Charlie was home again, he fell asleep. In his dreams he was watching Charlie running through the long grass flying a kite. And then he was gone and the kite had turned into a Lancaster bomber and the sky was full of fire.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  News of Charlie being whisked to hospital raced through the village like wildfire. No newspaper could spread the word as swiftly as the village gossips, and no matter what was going on in the world, local news took precedence over everything else. The shop had filled up quickly.

  ‘It was just after midnight. The little’un, is it?’

  Ruby ducked away from one customer, took the money, placed it in the cash register, her finger trembling as she stabbed a key. ‘Here’s your change.’

  She took hold of the woman’s hand and with the other one, poured the pennies into it.

  The woman’s face soured. ‘Well, I never! In a bit of a rush this morning, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Ruby, while moving swiftly on to the next customer.

  ‘Are they here to buy bread or what?’ muttered Frances, her face as creased as a crab apple through lack of sleep and bad temper.

  Ruby sighed. She had to agree with her cousin. Their concern was appreciated, but attacking everything she did at speed helped her cope. Another customer. Another loaf of bread sold. They were knee-deep in customers.

  Metal curlers rattled over foreheads. A few smoked, totally ignoring Stan’s edict that the puffing of fags should be done outside the shop door. Shabby coats straining around broad bosoms, lips devoid of any artificial colouring pursed and puckered with hushed words, the women queuing exchanged information.

  ‘It’s Stan. Doing too much, that’s what it is. What with running a business and taking care of a family, first his own babes and now his grandson.’

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff going round at the minute. Always is this time of year. My Betty had scarlet fever this time last year.’

  ‘Mine had chicken pox.’

  Feeling a bit left out, those at the back of the shop went on exchanging what information they had. A baby nestling in the crook of her arm, Mrs Gates proclaimed that she’d seen it with her own eyes. ‘I saw Mr Sweet get in behind the little’un. I’m sure I did.’

  Following the statement of somebody who appeared to have witnessed the arrival of the doctor, concern rumbled from one woman to another.

  Ruby eyed them sardonically, her mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘My youngest had mumps,’ exclaimed one of the other women. ‘Have your kids had mumps?’

  ‘My kids are over in Wales,’ said Mrs Gates. Mrs Gates had opted to leave them there for now.

  ‘No, they’re not,’ declared Frances. ‘They’re in the Forest of Dean with Ada Perkins.’

  Mrs Gates’s face dropped.

  ‘The Forest of Dean is in Gloucestershire, which is in England, not Wales,’ stressed Frances, in no mood to be civil.

  The woman was peeved. ‘Sorry, I’m sure!’

  Ruby was getting equally fed up, a factor partially fuelled by her anger.

  ‘If you all must know,’ she said, her tone as sharp as her actions, ‘Charlie has been taken to hospital with suspected diphtheria.’

  Once she’d properly confirmed the problem, sympathy was duly expressed, murmuring from one woman to another.

  ‘I expect he’ll be all right. All kids get something,’ said Mrs Gates, who had six kids the last time they’d been together to be counted.

  ‘They don’t need to get diphtheria,’ Ruby snapped as she took her place behind the counter, her eyes shining with missionary zeal. ‘There’s a vaccination available which means they don’t get it. I would suggest all of you with children should look into it.’

  A stony silence followed before the older women expressed their views; some were sensible views while others bordered on ignorance.

  ‘I don’t hold with it myself,’ said Mrs Martin. ‘I never lost any of my kids, and they caught just about everything.’

  ‘Not all of us can be that lucky,’ Ruby remarked.

  Mrs Martin attempted a lofty expression that only served to make her look like one of the cows that deigns to go to the shed at milking time. ‘Well, I don’t hold with it.’

  ‘It’s not one of your kids in hospital!’ Ruby shouted.

  The women fell to silence at Ruby’s raised voice. Even Frances looked surprised.

  ‘Right,’ stated Ruby, at last making the effort to calm down. ‘Who’s next?’

  Bettina Hicks looked out of her door just after breakfast. The sight of a clear sky and the prospect of a warm day brought a smile to her face. Her joints weren’t so stiff when the weather was dry. On a very good day she was even able to walk the length of the village without her stick.

  Today, however, would not be one of those days. All she needed was a loaf of bread. She also needed to get out from within the four walls of Stratham House and find somebody to talk to.

  Stan had come in the day before to turn the earth around the early runner beans, and she’d invited him around for tea this afternoon. A secretive smile danced lightly on to her lips. Not that they drank that much tea, much preferring a slice of cake with a glass of sherry. Her husband had laid down a considerable amount of wine and spirits before he’d died. Bettina had rarely indulged until Stan had come on the scene. Their conversations were always accompanied by a little tipple to ‘warm the cockles of their hearts’, as Stan was so fond of saying.

  The sound of the birds in the trees gladdened her heart. Despite everything, they were nest building. Life went on, t
hank goodness. Birds of a feather flock together, like all those young men from all over the world flying together in the Royal Air Force.

  The ringing of the telephone was as bad as seeing a magpie diving on a nesting sparrow. Bettina’s lovely thoughts on the day were instantly blackened, almost as though a cloud had passed over the sun.

  There were few telephones in the village, most people writing letters if they kept in contact with anyone at all. The doctor had one and so did the baker, the latter installed by the Ministry of Food.

  Michael, Bettina’s nephew, had persuaded her to have one so he could keep a better check on her now he was in England.

  Back inside the house, her hand shook as she reached for the telephone. Was it Michael? She had considered urging him to get a desk job after his escapade with a burning Lancaster bomber but had held her tongue. Michael had warrior written all over him. He wouldn’t thank her for her caution and would always do what he wanted.

  Steeling herself to hear the worst, she brought the telephone slowly to her ear.

  ‘Bettina? It’s me. Ruby. Have you heard the news?’

  Fear clutched at Bettina’s heart. Ruby sounded anxious and very afraid.

  ‘No. What is it? It’s not Michael, is it? You haven’t heard from Mary?’

  ‘No. I haven’t. It’s Charlie. He was rushed to hospital last night with suspected diphtheria. Dad went with him and was dropped off at four this morning by some American GIs. After that he went up to bed, but he’s not there now. I went up with a cuppa. You haven’t seen him, have you?’

  Bettina could hardly speak. Her mouth had turned quite dry, her tongue suddenly seeming to have swollen to twice its normal size.

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him,’ she said at last. ‘What did the hospital say?’

  ‘Only that it would be some time before they could say for sure and that Dad should go home. He walked part of the way but was lucky some American soldiers were passing by in a Jeep and brought him home.’

  Bettina felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Charlie was such a darling little boy and the apple of his grandfather’s eye. She forced herself to stop her voice from trembling. ‘I haven’t seen your father since yesterday.’

  Ruby thanked her. Bettina put the telephone down. The ache in her joints seemed suddenly to come back with a vengeance. As pain gripped her knees and hips, she sank into a chair.

  Diphtheria! She’d seen what it could do, the back of a child’s throat thickening over, blocking the windpipe. The neck swelling until the outline of the jaw was barely discernible. And the deaths. Thinking back to times long gone, she most of all remembered the deaths. The majority had been children.

  Stan must be very worried. A while back, he’d told her that the clinic in Warmley had sent him a letter inviting him to have Charlie vaccinated. There had been a fee, of course, not that Stan had objected to the cost. At least he could afford it. It was the thought of stabbing young Charlie with a needle that he’d baulked at.

  This is no time to be tearful, thought Bettina, though her eyes moistened anyway. Her thoughts were many, but first and foremost she was feeling for Stan. Somehow she had to be strong for him, to reassure him that everything would be fine and that Charlie would pull through.

  ‘Well. There’s nothing to be done by sitting here,’ she exclaimed.

  Placing both hands on to the arms of the chair, she pushed herself up and headed for the hallstand. Her favourite coat, a pale grey-and-blue checked affair, was a little warm for the day, but there was no time to be lost searching for what might be more suitable. She had to find Stan. She had to help him through this, and she thought she knew where she would find him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was early for anyone to be in St Anne’s churchyard, though the vicar, the Reverend James Johnson, had to admit that the colour of the sky, the smell of things growing and the chattering of the birds made the place more appealing than usual. It couldn’t help but make everyone experiencing its delights feel glad to be alive. So far the only other person he could see was hunched over beside a headstone. He recognised the baker Stan Sweet.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sweet. Lovely day.’

  The man kneeling on one leg beside the headstone failed to acknowledge him. Stan wasn’t one to be rude. The vicar frowned, thought about greeting him again, but stopped himself. Sometimes people needed to be alone with their prayers, loved ones or thoughts without interference from anybody, even a vicar.

  Reverend Johnson didn’t mind being ignored. A priest should be sensitive to when people wanted the solace of a man of the cloth and when they wished to be solitary.

  The reverend turned away, heading for the church door, where he was waylaid by another member of his congregation. His attention drawn to the village baker, he hadn’t seen the other figure sitting in the church porch on a stone ledge. As he got closer, she stood up and nipped sharply in front of him.

  ‘It’s about the flower-arranging committee, Vicar. I’d like to apply to join it.’

  The Reverend Johnson was lost for words. It wasn’t that people volunteering to provide and arrange flowers weren’t appreciated, it was just that he knew the other people on the committee wouldn’t want Gertrude Powell among their number.

  ‘Mrs Hellfire and Brimstone,’ one of his parishioners had called her. He couldn’t be drawn to comment one way or another, but judging by popular gossip, Mrs Powell spent more time inside church – and not just St Anne’s – than he did.

  However, he could hardly refuse her. All kinds of saints and sinners had to be tolerated. Not that he had ever analysed which category Mrs Powell fitted into. It was just that she was a little peculiar, though he saw her as a creature to be pitied rather than avoided.

  He made a mental note to explain to the rest of the flower-arranging volunteers that they should open their hearts to Mrs Powell’s odd ways.

  ‘I dare say the other ladies will be pleased to have you join them,’ he said, though he knew it was a white lie. The fact was he so hated for people to be disappointed or to feel themselves unwelcome.

  ‘Right. I’ll be along for the Tuesday meeting, then. I’ll bring some flowers. Looks as though you could do with some fresh ones.’

  It was cowardly not to stick up for the women who had gone out of their way to pick wild flowers for the church displays. Wild flowers were now the norm since most gardens had been turned over to growing vegetables.

  Mrs Powell, her attire as black as the crows that preyed on the churchyard songbirds, stalked off, an unbending figure who had cast a shadow over the reverend’s day.

  He didn’t feel happy until he was inside his church. After soundlessly saying a swift prayer, he made a mental note to be absent from the Tuesday meeting, citing a sick parishioner or the Sunday sermon as being in need of his urgent attention.

  Gertrude Powell was feeling pleased with herself, smiling stiffly as she headed for home.

  What did it matter that she lived alone? What did it matter that she had no close family to be responsible for now, and nobody she regarded as a friend? Spiritual satisfaction! That was the thing, though a few worldly things also satisfied her. She had her shop and soon she would have a valued position in the church. No more wild flowers and a few marguerites and marigolds brightening the darker corners of the church. Lilies were the thing, arum lilies especially that gave off funereal scents and reminded the sinners of this village that judgement day was at hand and they’d better not forget it.

  It did not occur to her that since the outbreak of war few people grew flowers. As far as she was concerned, they were feeding their bodies and neglecting their souls. She, on the other hand, would not fall into Satan’s trap. Food for the soul was far more important than food for the body.

  Her triumphant mood might have continued if she hadn’t seen a figure on the other side of the church gate, walking towards her. The woman was instantly recognisable from her pale blue coat and the fact that she walked with the aid of
a stick.

  Gertrude gritted her jaw. Today had been quite wonderful up until this moment. Since the time her daughter Miriam had left to live in the Forest of Dean with her grandmother, Gertrude had made efforts to avoid Bettina every time their paths had crossed. However, on this occasion there was no escape: the two of them must pass through the same gate.

  On spying Gertrude, Bettina stopped and leaned on her stick on the other side of the gate. Her jaw tightened and her eyes, sparkling behind her spectacles, narrowed.

  Gertrude Powell was far from being her favourite person. There never had been anything very amenable about her, and time had only made her more bitter, more eccentric in her beliefs.

  Bettina braced herself for what might be coming. Gertrude couldn’t help making snide comments. She tended to target some people in the village more than others. Bettina was one of them. She could make a comment first, of course, but she would not. Today was such a beautiful day – or had been until news of Charlie had ruined it. And now here was Gertrude to blacken the day further.

  Let her cast the first stone …

  Not today, Bettina decided. I will not be distracted or enraged by this stupid woman.

  With her free hand, she pushed at the gate, resigned to her mission. It was Stan she was seeking, not an argument with this dreadful woman.

  Gertrude’s face visibly soured on sight of a woman she’d known since they were girls. Determined to get through this as quickly as possible, Bettina spoke first and even managed a weak smile. ‘Good morning, Gertrude. Out enjoying the morning air, are you?’

  Gertrude’s thin lips tightened so much they almost disappeared. Her black eyes seemed to sink further into their deep hollows. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen you near a church, let alone inside one,’ she said, her voice full of malice.

  Bettina threw back her head and laughed. ‘At least the Good Lord isn’t likely to grow tired of my company – unlike yours.’

  Gertrude bristled with pent-up indignation, her inhaled breath hissing between her teeth. ‘He wouldn’t recognise you if you did visit! The Devil knows his own, Bettina Hicks! The Devil knows his own!’