Home Sweet Home

by Lizzie Lane

  Frances voiced her appreciation. ‘Not that I care what the small-minded of this village think of me, but I do care about Uncle Stan.’

  Living in a village meant everyone knew everything about everyone else, and judged their neighbours by their behaviour, in effect what they saw on the surface.

  ‘Then please don’t hurt him,’ Ruby pleaded, strain showing on her tired face. The sound of the telephone ringing came from the hallway. Feeling she could have run away there and then, Frances went to answer it. It was Mary.

  ‘Frances! I wanted to know how Charlie is getting on.’

  ‘Yes, he’s doing well. Oh, Mary, I’m so glad we’ve got him back. I wish you were here so I could give you a big hug.’

  ‘You sweet girl. I wish I was too. But there. I’m happy. Everything here is happy.’

  ‘Shall I hand you over to Ruby?’

  ‘Not yet. First tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  Frances felt her reluctance to talk about her predicament and her life in general fall away. Mary had always been so understanding, replacing the mother she’d hardly known.

  Frances’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Mary. I’ve got something to tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else. It’s a secret.’

  Relieved that Michael was home, Mary was feeling much brighter than she had felt earlier that morning and cheerfully assured her cousin that, yes, she could keep a secret and that she wouldn’t tell a living soul.

  She waited while Frances took a deep breath. ‘I’m in love with an American soldier called Declan and he’s asked me to marry him.’

  ‘So what did you say?’ Mary asked.

  ‘I told him he would have to wait until our Charlie was better. I couldn’t possibly give him an answer until then.’

  ‘So what did he say to that?’

  ‘He was okay.’

  ‘Okay?’

  Mary was getting used to people saying okay, though she’d balked at it at first. People were readily accepting the Americans and their sayings and ways. They also had access to things that had been in short supply or virtually non-existent since the beginning of the war, nylon stockings and chocolate being top of the list.

  ‘He says I’ll have to make my mind up before the big invasion happens – you know – the invasion of Europe. He doesn’t know when that’s likely to be, but he thinks it will be pretty soon.’

  Mary smiled into the telephone. ‘Your sweetheart seems a knowledgeable young man. Is he an officer?’

  ‘A captain.’

  ‘My, my. At this rate you’ll be getting married before Ruby!’

  ‘It’s possible. Though she has received a postcard from John Smith. It’s got his thumbprint on it – in blood,’ she added, and felt a little queasy

  ‘I know. She told me. It’s wonderful news, even though his captors didn’t allow him to say much.’

  ‘I know. All it said was that he’s being treated well and is in good health. I think Johnnie is really clever. Fancy dipping his thumb into his blood and pressing it on the card! The moment she saw that, Ruby knew he was not being well cared for. All the same, we all hope he survives.’

  Ruby came on the telephone and told Mary all that was happening as regards Charlie before going on to talk about the village in general.

  ‘I think Bettina and Mrs Powell have had a bit of a row. Bettina used to be more or less in charge of flower-arranging at St Anne’s. Mrs Powell has joined the group. Bettina isn’t very happy at all. I don’t know what it is with those two, but I think it’s from years ago when they were young.’

  Mary laughed. Bettina Hicks was Michael’s aunt and it was in her garden that she and Michael had first met.

  ‘I’m glad Michael’s safe too,’ Ruby said suddenly. ‘You must have been worried.’

  Mary’s laughter died. ‘I’m so relieved.’ She went on to tell Ruby about his hands. ‘He thinks he’ll be posted somewhere else, though we don’t know where.’ She didn’t mention the raid just in case somebody was listening. They were close to the airbase, after all, and there might very well be enemy collaborators. Anyway, Ruby had got all the details for public consumption from the BBC broadcast. Instead, she asked about Johnnie.

  ‘At least he’s alive.’ Ruby’s voice was sombre. ‘I just hope he gets through it.’

  ‘You really think the fingerprint was in blood?’

  ‘Dad took it along to Dr Foster for a second opinion. He said it was. You know Johnnie; it was his little way of letting me know what’s really going on. I don’t think he did it to worry me …’ She paused. ‘He just wants me to know the truth of what’s going on. I’m scared for him. Still, at least I’ve heard from him. Do you know, I used to hover near the letterbox for months in the hope that he’d write. I was becoming obsessive. Now I’m not so bad. It’s Frances I’m worried about.’

  ‘Is this all to do with her American soldier?’ Mary asked. ‘She is a bit young to be thinking of getting married, but she sounds like she’s in love.’

  Ruby sighed. ‘I’m more worried about her wanting to find her mother.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Each morning, following being sick in the lavatory bowl, Frances hovered around the house, flitting from making tea, breakfast and taking the bread through to the shop, listening for the sound of a letter dropping on to the coconut mat in the hallway.

  ‘No breakfast again,’ Ruby said to her.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Seeing as she looked a picture of health, Ruby didn’t press her.

  Frances’s ears had become fine-tuned to the sound of the letterbox. Sometimes when she was in the shop placing loaves on the shelves behind the counter, or displaying something to tempt a wartime palate, she would open the shop door having heard the postman’s footsteps.

  There were some days when she had failed to hear anything falling on to the front door mat. On those days, she would look up and down the street to see if the postman really had walked on by or was turning back ready to apologise that he’d made a mistake and there was something for her after all. He’d never done that yet.

  Would her mother respond? There was no way of knowing.

  She quite often felt Ruby’s studied gaze. ‘Nothing in the post?’

  Frances sighed heavily as she did every day. ‘No, Ruby. There’s not.’

  Every morning was a disappointment. Either there was no post at all, or nothing addressed to her.

  Disregarding the pity in Ruby’s pained expression, she clamped her mouth tightly shut. She had no wish to have trivial conversations about bread or the village or anything that didn’t have a direct bearing on the letter to her mother.

  She’d worded the letter carefully, not wanting to surprise her mother or blatantly accuse her of leaving her high and dry, a child alone in a big bad world. Would it have been so hard for her mother to have sent her a few words now and again?

  Ruby was attempting to extricate a dollop of treacle from a spoon and on to the top of her porridge. ‘What will you do if she does write?’

  Frances didn’t meet the enquiry in Ruby’s eyes. ‘Who’s to say that she will? She never wrote to me in the past, not even to send me a birthday or Christmas card.’ She frowned. Of late, the bitterness she felt at being abandoned as a child had ballooned into seething resentment and the frantic desire to have questions answered. ‘I wonder why she ran off and why she didn’t want me?’ She’d only voiced those questions of late. Being a child had been comfortable; becoming an adult made the past more questionable.

  ‘We wanted you,’ Ruby exclaimed. Her expression was one of alarm.

  Frances heaved another sigh.

  Ruby raised her eyebrows and glanced sidelong at her suffering cousin. Yet another sigh? Goodness, sighing was actually becoming quite an art form on her cousin’s part. Still, she thought, how would I feel if I were in her shoes?

  ‘If your mother was alive and you had some idea where she was, what would you do?’

 
The question hit Ruby off balance. The answer was a foregone conclusion, though bearing in mind who she was speaking to and the circumstances thereof, she worded her response carefully. ‘My mother’s dead. So that’s that.’ She paused, imagining how things might have been if she’d lived.

  ‘So how would you feel if my mother was your mother and had abandoned you? What would you do?’

  Ruby had to concede that she would have endeavoured to find her, to face her and have her explain her actions.

  ‘Exactly!’ Frances exclaimed, satisfied that a fundamental point had been made. ‘She could at least have said goodbye.’

  It not being her nature to rub salt into an open wound, Ruby said no more. Although she maintained an aura of indifference, she understood the misgivings and obsessions of a young girl. That was me, she said to herself, not so long ago.

  Frances stared out of the kitchen window as if the view contained a pretty garden rather than the vegetable field it had become. Before the war, there had been a vegetable patch at the end of the garden, but vegetables now filled the whole garden with the exception of the rose bush, Charles Stuart, bought for her cousin Charlie the Christmas before he was killed.

  ‘You don’t think I’ll get a reply, do you?’ Frances said suddenly. ‘You think I’m just a silly child.’

  Ruby felt a pang of remorse that she had used such words. Her cousin was at a sensitive age. ‘No. I can imagine how you feel and I truly hope your letter touches a chord with your mother’s landlady and that she replies soon.’

  What she wanted to say was perhaps it might have been a good idea if she’d passed it to her to read first, just to make sure it sounded right.

  ‘It was a good letter,’ Frances stated, as though she’d read Ruby’s mind. Yes, she could have had her check it, but it was her letter to her mother. Not only had she wished to keep it private, she’d wanted it personal, no other hand having touched it or eyes reading it.

  The letter she’d sent had been carefully considered, though to the point. With meticulous precision, Frances had listed what her uncle had told her. Name, previous address, appearance, marital status, even to details of a coral necklace Mildred always wore. Stan Sweet thought the necklace had been bought overseas during the Great War, though he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘You’ll know her by that alone,’ he’d said to Frances.

  She’d relayed that particular piece of information to the landlady at her mother’s last known address. The letter had to come soon, but still she waited, heart racing like a greyhound at the prospect of seeing her mother again.

  Two weeks of waiting finally paid off. On a cold summer morning, the postman paused at the front door so he could remove one knitted glove before rummaging around in his bag. Frances dashed out to the shop door and jerked it open.

  ‘Well, that’s jolly nice of you,’ said the postman. ‘Saves me bending down and shoving it through down there. Ever thought of getting it repositioned?’

  Frances had no more liking for the postman than anyone else.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of you bending down. I just want our post,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m waiting for a very important letter.’

  Melvyn Chance smirked. She knew he was surmising she was awaiting a letter from a sweetheart but had no intention of confirming either way.

  Two long weeks of waiting had passed since she’d written her letter; two weeks dwelling on whether she would receive a letter at all. It had also been two weeks of sensing that her waistline was expanding, if the waistbands of her skirts and dresses were anything to go by. She didn’t want her cousin Ruby to notice what was up before she had a chance to put her plan into action.

  However, it appeared she was in luck, and besides, she felt well and confident that everything would work out for the best. There was nothing to worry about. Only in the dead of night did fear clench at her stomach and the details of a frantically confusing dream drift back into her mind.

  In the meantime, all that mattered was finding her mother, and at last she had a response.

  Once she’d scanned the Bristol postmark, her heart quickened. If she was lucky, her mother might still be there at the address she’d given Uncle Stan some time ago.

  Heart continuing to race like a steam train, Frances held the plain brown envelope in both hands. Eager to open it, though scared at what it might say, she willed her heart to cease its frantic rush. She must be calm – or as calm as she could be. She also wanted to read it by herself.

  ‘I’m going into the kitchen. Will you be all right here in the shop?’

  ‘I’m coming through too. My cup of tea is still sitting on the kitchen table and must be getting cold by now. We’ll hear the bell if somebody comes into the shop.’

  Frances knew better than to argue with her cousin. She could see by the look on Ruby’s face that she was almost as curious as she was to know what was in the letter.

  ‘She’s had a reply,’ Ruby said to her father, who only grunted and did his best to look uninterested. Inside he was seething. No matter Frances’s feelings, he would never feel anything but condemnation for the likes of his sister-in-law. Not that Frances would listen. Not at present. But he would give it one more try. He had to get the message through to her.

  Ruby pulled up a chair to the table. She gestured that Frances should do the same, but her cousin ignored her.

  ‘Well, go on, you silly goose,’ said Ruby, sipping her tea, eyes fixed on the letter.

  Stan stayed silent, sitting in his favourite armchair, toasting his feet in front of the fire and pretending to read the paper. He flicked the page he was reading so it made a cracking sound, but he did not look up.

  Ruby gave extra attention to scraping excess margarine from her toast. Not that it needed scraping off. It was just something to do while she waited to find out what the infamous Mildred had to say – if she was still at that address, of course.

  Frances took a deep breath before taking a butter knife and running it along the seam of the envelope. With a steady hand, she brought out and unfolded the single sheet of paper within and began to read.

  Her eyes skidded over the words. The strongest willpower in the world could not prevent her heart hammering.

  Stan only glanced at her face. Ruby stayed fixed on it. Both could see that the letter was disappointing. Mildred Sweet was no longer at that address.

  ‘She’s not there.’ Disappointed, Frances’s face fell and her hands dropped into her lap.

  ‘I did tell you it was years old,’ said Stan from behind his newspaper. ‘She’s gone on to pastures new. Some other bloke that she’s latched on to. Mildred always did like a bit of variety in her life. And I don’t mean just with regard to location!’

  Frances smarted at the harsh words. Her mother might be a tart, but she was still her mother.

  Stan Sweet looked down to the empty breakfast plate sitting on his lap, as though, like Oliver Twist, he wanted more. But he didn’t want more. It was on the tip of his tongue to say a lot more about his dead brother’s wife but he made a big effort to control his expression. It wouldn’t be fair to let Frances see how relieved he was feeling. He’d long entertained the opinion that his sister-in-law wasn’t worth finding, and his opinion had not changed. He’d never forgiven her for the way she’d treated his brother, dallying with other men when Sefton was at death’s door.

  Guessing what he was thinking, Ruby frowned at him in reproach. Her father squirmed under the intensity of her warning look before retreating behind his newspaper. His plan to put his opinion of her mother to Frances broadly and simply was still on the cards. It had to be done, no matter how it might upset the girl.

  Ruby squeezed her cousin’s shoulder. Her voice was gentle. ‘Didn’t she leave any forwarding address?’

  Frances shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the contents of the letter.

  ‘Can I read it?’ asked Ruby.

  Frances shook her head. ‘There’s no point.’

  Ruby pl
aced an arm around her cousin’s shoulder and gave her a hug. ‘I’m so sorry, Frances. But still, perhaps it’s all for the best.’ She looked at her father, took in the headlines about rockets landing on London and suddenly saw red. This was not the time to hide behind a newspaper! ‘Dad! Is there nothing you can say about it?’

  With an air of reluctance, he came out from behind the glaring headlines, took off his spectacles and folded the newspaper into one hand. He sighed before saying, ‘Frances, your mother’s not the sort to stay in one place for long. She’s like a butterfly, fluttering from place to place. That’s the way she was and probably still is.’ His face was like thunder. ‘I’m telling you now, Frances. If you want to leave this house and go looking for that woman, then you’re on your own! I’ll wash my hands of you and you will not be welcome back!’

  Frances winced.

  Ruby could not believe her ears. ‘Dad! You can’t mean that!’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m putting my foot down on this matter.’ His stance was rigid, his voice unkind.

  Ruby stared at him, unable to recognise him as the man who had brought them up without a harsh word. And now this.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ her voice was placating despite the anguished surprise seething within. ‘My mother’s dead and gone, but if she were still alive, I would be doing exactly the same as Frances. I would want to know where she was and if she was well. After all, it’s only natural.’

  ‘I call it ungrateful. I brought you up, Frances, not your mother. If you persist in going to find her, then I’m finished with you. I’ve made my mind up and that’s an end to it.’

  Although hurt by his words, Frances was adamant. ‘I don’t care what you think. I only know what I feel. I want to find her and that’s it.’

  Stan stood up and put his back to the fire, legs parted, fingers knotted behind him. All the hurt he’d felt at the time of his brother’s death came flooding back. If there’d been no Great War, his brother would likely be here now. He might never have married Mildred and might never have been hurt by her. The wounds ran deep and Stan could not ignore them.