Home Sweet Home

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Actually, you’re equidistant,’ Frances said loftily. ‘London is about halfway between the two of you.’

  Ruby sighed, her flour-covered hands immobile as the facts outlined by her cousin sunk in. ‘Ah! I forgot. You always were good at geography.’ She stopped crumbling the mixture, an affectionate look in her eyes. ‘I must admit I would love to see baby Beatrice.’

  ‘If Mary came down to London, she could bring Beatrice that far, couldn’t she?’

  Ruby looked at her. ‘Are you a mind reader?’

  Frances looked nonchalant, that ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ look. ‘It would be nice, though, wouldn’t it?’

  Ruby agreed that it would. She resumed rubbing the flour and fat between her fingers. ‘I suppose you’d like to see the baby too.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t. I’d have to stay here while you were away, to look after Charlie and Uncle Stan and the bakery. You’d have to have a holiday from your cooking demonstrations – unless you did some in London.’

  Ruby stopped rubbing the flour again and fixed her cousin with an enquiring frown. ‘Have you been eavesdropping on my telephone conversations, young lady?’

  ‘Andrew Sinclair said that he knew I was a good cook too and if I’d been old enough he’d invite me to London to give cooking demonstrations to very notable people – though I wouldn’t mind if they weren’t notable.’

  Ruby eyed her in amazement. ‘Andrew Sinclair asked that?’

  Frances nodded. ‘But I’m not old enough, am I, so I can’t go. And you would come back just in time for the Fly the Flag Baking Competition. The money raised will go to the widows and orphans’ fund. Did you know that?’

  ‘I can’t enter,’ Ruby said. She would have loved to participate in the competition, but as a professional she was no longer eligible. She eyed Frances warily. Something was going on here. Not that Frances was likely to let on.

  For the rest of the day, she thought about what her cousin had said. Frances was young and sometimes manipulative, but on this occasion what she’d suggested was highly attractive. Ruby missed her twin sister and desperately wanted to see the baby. Travelling in wartime from one side of the country to the other was difficult, to say the least. Trains were slow and loaded with essential traffic, mainly service personnel. Then there was the bakery and, as Frances had so rightly pointed out, her cookery demonstrations. Important war work. It was difficult enough to get a day off, let alone travel. On top of that, Mary was up there by herself and lived in constant fear that something bad would happen if her husband flew again. There was so much they needed to talk about, lots of reassurance to be given and confidences exchanged. Meeting up seemed a very good idea and if Andrew Sinclair could be persuaded, it was easily achievable. He had access to rail permits. He could also pass some of her baking demonstrations to other people.

  It brought her great joy to imagine a reunion with her sister. She might have gone on day-dreaming if Frances hadn’t suddenly dropped a bombshell.

  Frances could no longer keep her secret to herself. She had to tell somebody and although she would have liked it to have been her mother, what if she never found her? What with Declan being away, Ruby was next in line.

  ‘Ruby, I’m having a baby. I’m going to marry Declan, like I told you. I have to! I need your help to talk to Uncle Stan! I need his permission.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘No! And that’s final!’

  Her uncle’s refusal to give her permission to marry was not a surprise, though it was a disappointment, one that simmered inside.

  Stan Sweet had displayed a terrible show of temper, called her a slut and threatened to beat the man senseless when Frances had disclosed that she was pregnant.

  ‘Taking advantage of a young girl! At his age! Just wait till I get my hands on him!’

  She’d never seen him so angry, but Frances had never felt so brave, so sure of herself and what she wanted in life. ‘You’re too old to beat him, Uncle Stan. He’s much fitter and stronger than you are.’

  Her tone of voice was so calm, so matter of fact. Stan Sweet’s jaw dropped as he stared at her in disbelief. The fact was he knew that for all his shouting, all his threats, she was quite right. He was an old man and the realisation shocked him.

  Frances swallowed the suspicion that Ed Bergman could as likely be the father as Declan, though her uncle would probably have preferred it to be him, a man close to her own age.

  She’d managed to get hold of Declan’s whereabouts and sent him a note that the adjutant assured her would be passed on.

  A brief note had come back that had made her heart sing. ‘Marriage?’ It was all it said but was enough to fill her with confidence and make her heart leap with joy.

  Although the pair of them had set no definite date, she had determined to broach the subject. The air needed clearing. Her mind was set. If her uncle wouldn’t give permission, then she had to find her mother, the only other person who could.

  Perhaps she might have confided in Ruby about the child’s paternity and asked her advice if her uncle hadn’t angered her. What right did he have to shout at her like that, insisting that Declan was much too old for her? Worse still was his insinuation that she was no better than her mother, and she knew only too well what he thought of Mildred Sweet. Instead, she left the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Her only regret was that the door slamming had awoken Charlie.

  Ruby sighed. ‘Dad. Will you reconsider? Think of Frances’s reputation. Think of the child.’

  Stan Sweet looked away, his hands clasped before him in front of the fire. His favourite chair suddenly seemed uncomfortable and he found it difficult to raise his head and look into his daughter’s eyes. When had she become so confident, so much more a mature woman than the girl she used to be?

  ‘I suppose I should,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Of course you should. Didn’t women get pregnant before getting married in your day? Were things that much different last time we were at war?’

  She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed a faint blush came to her father’s face. ‘It’s human nature. Anyway, I thought this Declan bloke was your man.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘As I keep telling everybody, we’re friends. Just friends.’

  She didn’t go into greater detail, how one night she’d sobbed on Declan’s shoulders and told him about Johnnie Smith and what she thought he might be going through.

  Johnnie might not be in her every thought, but he was still there, lingering in her heart.

  ‘If you don’t give her permission, she’ll definitely go looking for someone who can.’

  Her father looked sullen. He knew who she was referring to. If he didn’t give permission, then Frances would most definitely go looking for her mother as she’d threatened.

  Escaping her uncle’s hostile response, Frances omitted to mention that Declan had been called away and that she suspected the invasion of Europe was imminent. Neither had she told him that she intended marrying Declan the moment he returned from his secret duty, regardless of whether he gave her permission to wed or not. It was more important than ever that she found her mother. Once she had that permission, then she was free to marry as long as Declan came home, and she hoped and prayed that he would, preferably before ‘the big show’, as the Americans called the offensive against the Third Reich.

  Outside the warmth of the bakery, the village was dark, the night air chill and still. She had no particular destination in mind. All she wanted was time to think.

  She shivered. If only she’d thought to grab a coat. It couldn’t be helped. She had envisaged a scene and the consequences had set her mind on what she had to do next.

  It was the height of summer and although the farmers would have preferred a series of sunny days, sunshine was still intermingled with bouts of heavy rain.

  Having walked out her anger and sorted out her thoughts, she finally came to a halt outside the Dolphin pub. The big building rose
stately and tall, visible even in the blank darkness of the blackout. There was no sound from within and no light showing. The pub had shut early.

  The sound of a steam train blowing its whistle came from the direction of the railway station. Frances stood silently, imaging the clouds of smoke, the dusty smell of burning coal.

  The railway stations were very busy nowadays, taking armaments from the industrial Midlands to the docks at Bristol. Rumour had it there were many ships waiting there to be loaded. Nobody knew for sure where they were headed, though it was whispered it had to be the south coast of England, anywhere from Dover down to Portsmouth.

  The train would take her out of here, not to the south coast but as far as Bristol. That was where she wanted to be.

  She thought of Declan’s face when they met again, when she waved that important piece of paper in his face.

  Her excitement bubbled over to such an extent that she almost ran back to the bakery with a mind to bursting in and telling her uncle that his permission wasn’t needed. She was not so foolish as to do that. He might stop her from going to Bristol. She was underage. He could still stop her, make her a ward of court or something.

  No. Her plan was her own and she would carry it through.

  Mrs Kepple, the Bristol landlady, had told her in her letter that she knew her mother’s whereabouts. She had just needed a bit of time to find the address.

  She smiled at mental visions of how her mother would look, the smile on her face, the love in her eyes. Once the tears and regrets were over, her mother would confide in her as to the true reason she’d left, though Frances couldn’t for the life of her imagine what that reason might be.

  The sound of the train faded. The sound of her heartbeat seemed suddenly to fill her head. Tomorrow, having accepted Andrew Sinclair’s invitation to give a demonstration in the west end of London, Ruby was catching the train to London and would be gone for one week. Shortly after that, if Declan had not returned, Frances too would be on a train, though hers would go to Bristol.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Women with aloof expressions glided into the room at the Dorchester Hotel as though they owned it. The air smelled of flowers, though there were no displays in the room. Ruby concluded the strong perfume was emanating from the women themselves.

  ‘Is everything to hand?’

  Andrew Sinclair had stayed close by from the moment she’d arrived, hovering like a moth around a flame.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied brusquely. Full of his own self-importance, he appeared not to notice her attitude.

  ‘My mother knows some very grand people,’ he exclaimed, his face a bland repose of self-satisfaction.

  Ruby had to admit that the ladies did indeed look rather grand with their fox furs, their fashionable hats and the way their nylons rustled when they crossed one leg over the other.

  ‘Well, you seem to have taken my advice,’ he murmured while casting his eyes over her notes and the ingredients she was using.

  ‘I have.’

  Andrew had suggested she give a talk and demonstrate suitable dishes for ladies who entertained.

  ‘You can do that, can you not?’

  She’d wanted to stamp on his foot and remind him that her remit was to help women feed families, not their guests. Before she’d actually gone ahead and done that, she reminded herself of the other reason for falling in with Andrew’s plans; it was halfway to Lincolnshire and her sister Mary.

  ‘I’m so glad you agreed to do this,’ whispered Andrew, his breath smelling of mint sauce.

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  She didn’t add that her agreement was to her own advantage.

  After waving to an elderly lady in the front row, presumably his mother, Andrew stepped forward, clapping his hands. ‘Ladies! Can I have your full attention, please?’

  His chin was held high, enabling him to look through his spectacles, which hovered on the bridge of his nose.

  Following the introduction, which was followed by polite clapping, it was Ruby’s turn to step forward.

  ‘Ladies. Thank you for coming. My name is Ruby Sweet and I am here to talk about recipes for entertaining. I’m sure you will agree with me that catering for special occasions is not easy during war. However, may I remind you of the real reason I am here; entertaining friends, relatives and even VIPs is not really what this is all about. At the heart of it is winning this war. Brave men in ships have been burdened with the dangerous task of bringing food from across the sea. A lot of those men have lost their lives. My brother was one of them. It’s down to you to set your selfish interests aside and think of the greater sacrifice that men in ships are making. Cast aside luxury ingredients. Make do with cheaper cuts of British reared meat. Bake simply, but bake well.’

  Some of those attending the talk fidgeted uncomfortably; some murmured indignantly, some with surprise.

  Andrew’s jaw dropped. ‘I say!’

  For a moment, she thought she was about to get a warning about knowing her place and being courteous to her betters. He’d even given her a brief résumé of what to say, as if this was some kind of play and his was the script.

  ‘For that reason, ladies, people from all walks of life, a large number with a weekly income of less than you spend on food in a day, have pared down their intake of food, making something from nothing, preserving, pickling and experimenting in order to conserve our food supplies. If the very poor can do without some very basic foods, then I’m sure you too can cut back.’

  By the time she’d finished her opening gambit, the majority of superior expressions had been replaced by fervent attention, surprise, and guilt.

  Remarks were hissed from pursed lips. Ruby carried on regardless.

  ‘Let us begin with canapés. Pastry made from flour and rolled oats … fillings of sardine, puréed vegetables with added spice …’

  Ruby warmed to her task, finding it rather amusing that some of the elegant ladies had brought their cooks with them. Not all, it seemed, had jumped ship and found work in a munitions factory.

  Amazingly, a full-size gas stove had been manhandled into position behind her. Once her recipes were safely ensconced in baking tins, she placed them in the oven. Before very long the aroma of good things baking filled the air.

  ‘Canapés are a fitting alternative to a three-, four-or five-course dinner,’ she told them. ‘We all have to make sacrifices,’ she added after receiving one or two sour looks. They disappeared once she’d suggested soup or carrot and cucumber crudities with a spicy dip were a suitable starter for a proper dinner, while rabbit casserole with vegetables was ideal for a main course. ‘I’m sure some of you must know people with country estates. Rabbits may be vermin to a farmer or gamekeeper, but they’re as succulent as chicken and an economic alternative to more expensive game.’

  As she made suggestions for dessert, which included every possible dish using apples, she went on to praise the delicacy that was egg custard made from dried egg.

  At the end of it all, when Andrew asked the audience to put their hands together and applaud her presentation, she took the time to think of the contrast between these people, the lives they lived and those at the other end of the social scale.

  A hubbub of cut-glass voices erupted as those at the back of the room threaded their way through the swathes of chairs to the exit.

  A large number of them had tasted the canapés she’d passed round. Most had taken a copy of her recipe book, the latest thing she’d put together. Andrew had assisted.

  ‘It should be published,’ he’d told her.

  She’d shaken her head at the time. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  Much to her amazement, he had them printed courtesy of the Ministry of Food.

  ‘Your work is vital, Miss Sweet. Absolutely vital.’

  She thanked him, though a trifle tersely. Give Andrew an inch and there was no knowing what length he would stretch to.

  ‘Though I really do think you should have kept to the script�
�’

  ‘Andrew. Look at that table.’

  She pointed. Only a few of her baking booklets were left on the table, which made her smile. It had given her great pleasure to see one after another being picked up by a group of kid-gloved ladies.

  ‘Young lady!’

  The woman who addressed her was the one Andrew had been waving to.

  ‘My mother,’ he said. His manner was deferential but also apprehensive. It turned out he had rights to be.

  ‘Lillian Lavery-Sinclair. I’m Andrew’s mother. Lavery was my maiden name. My son prefers not to use it. He says it’s old-fashioned and too feminine, as though dropping it could make him more masculine than he actually is.’ The look she gave her son verged on contempt.

  Was it Ruby’s imagination that Andrew’s face flooded with colour?

  His mother wore a pale mauve dress. Her fur jacket was mink. Her wrinkled lips were red. Ruby guessed that the fingers clothed in white gloves were stained with nicotine, judging by the woman’s teeth.

  Lillian Lavery-Sinclair fixed Ruby with a cold blue stare. ‘I take it you’ve never been in service.’ Her voice was sharp, her words clipped.

  Ruby responded in the same clipped manner. ‘No. I have not!’

  ‘No. I thought not. Andrew has been very selective in what he tells me about you.’

  ‘I can’t understand why. I live in a small village and my father owns the local bakery, which was also where I was working prior to the war.’

  Looking slightly embarrassed, Andrew intervened. ‘Mother, this is hardly the time. Don’t you have to meet your friends for tea at the Ritz?’

  The hand he attempted to rest on her shoulder was brushed off. ‘There’s no point in going there. I can get tea here.’

  ‘But your friends …’

  Ruby sensed Andrew was doing his best to get rid of his mother. The old lady was having none of it.

  The piercing eyes landed on Ruby again. ‘I insist on you having tea with me, young lady.’

  Andrew interrupted. ‘Mother. Time is pressing. We really must be going …’