Home Sweet Home

by Lizzie Lane

  Taking a deep breath, Frances lifted the knocker and rapped sharply.

  A sound of movement came from within before the door opened and an older woman with a round face and a ready smile stood there. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

  The woman’s voice was high and squeaky and she had the comfortable look of a Beatrix Potter mouse.

  ‘My name’s Frances Sweet. I wrote to you asking for news of my mother, Mildred Sweet. She stayed with you for a while. You said you might be able to point me in the right direction.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Do you wish to stay?’

  Frances was immediately panic-stricken because she’d stupidly forgotten to ask in her letter whether she had a vacancy. ‘Do you have a room?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, you’re in luck. Miss Scott moved out two days ago and I haven’t got round to turning the sign over.’

  With a nod of her dimpled chin, she indicated the No Vacancies sign in the ground-floor bay.

  ‘Come in,’ she added chirpily, opened the door wide then shut it firmly once Frances was inside. ‘I presume you haven’t eaten. You’ll be wanting supper, won’t you? Yes. Of course you will.’

  She went on chattering, asking questions that she answered before Frances did.

  Frances had arrived just as the night was drawing in and Mrs Kepple, the landlady, had already lit a fire in the front parlour. The smell of something hearty and warming came from the kitchen at the back of the house.

  ‘Beef stew,’ she said on hearing Frances’s stomach rumbling.

  ‘It smells wonderful.’

  ‘And so it should,’ said Mrs Kepple. She seemed a good-natured sort and jolly too, despite the man-sized fists that rested on her ample hips and the wrap-around apron straining at the seams over her belly. ‘I put in plenty of dripping, enough meat to give it flavour, vegetables of every kind – including carrots – old Mr Dent, my greengrocer, was generous with the carrots this morning. And I added doughboys. I s’pose you’d call them dumplings, but my grandmother always called them doughboys so it’s in me, so to speak … Doughboys was what they called the American soldiers back in the Great War.’

  After Mrs Kepple finished describing tonight’s stew in detail, she went on to the pudding she’d baked for afters. ‘Suet pudding with treacle. I did put a few sultanas in it as well and I’ve got custard too for them that wants it …’

  Frances refrained from interrupting. It seemed that when Mrs Kepple talked about food, there was no stopping her. She went over the ingredients and preparation of meals in great detail. Presumably the privations of the war had a lot to do with it. People did seem to think about food a lot more, not just longing for food no longer available, but also pondering how to make bland ingredients into filling and nourishing meals. Suet pudding and a stew with dumplings – or doughboys as Mrs Kepple put it – were a case in point. The landlady’s eyes sparkled as she went over the details. Once that was out of the way she told her the price of the room. ‘Just let me know how long you want it.’

  The room she showed her into was at the back of the house. There was a bed, a chest of drawers and a washstand complete with jug and bowl. A clean towel was folded up beside it.

  Mrs Kepple announced that the window overlooked the back garden. ‘Not that you can see much at this time of night.’

  Once her landlady had left the room, Frances sat down on the bed. There was no fire in the grate. Frances shivered, not just because the room was chillier than she was used to, but also her bedroom back home was warm thanks to the rising heat of the bread oven. Apprehension sat like a ball of knotted wire in her stomach. Sometime soon she would meet up with her mother, and the prospect was daunting.

  That night at dinner, in the comparative warmth of the dining room, she only picked at the stew and hardly touched the dessert. The other guests, a gentleman named Mr Ford, a woman who looked to be in her fifties named Miss Standish, and a young woman named Emily Parkin who worked at Woolworths, were all nice enough.

  The conversation was courteous but friendly and, thankfully, nobody asked her awkward questions.

  She couldn’t help thinking of her mother, more so when Mrs Kepple handed her a scrap of paper. ‘That’s where she’s living. I’m sure she’s still there.’

  Having made enquiries of its location, she had decided to catch the early bus the following morning. She couldn’t bear to wait longer than she needed.

  Even though Miss Parkin ate up the food she’d left, Mrs Kepple looked quite hurt. ‘Didn’t you like my stew, Miss Sweet? Or my pudding?’

  Frances apologised. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not feeling very hungry after all, and anyway, Emily didn’t let it go to waste.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Emily as she spooned the last spoonful of suet pudding into her mouth. ‘I’m on my feet all day. I need plenty of nourishment.’

  ‘Of course you do, dearie,’ said Mrs Kepple, patting the plump young woman on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t it nice to see Woolworths and all the other shops getting back to normal? All we need now is for Germany and Japan to surrender and everyone will be back where they belong!’

  Frances made her excuses and went up to bed. Before undressing, she cracked open the blackout curtain and looked out of the window. The moon was bright and the rooftops glistened with rain.

  Everyone was saying that there would be a new beginning after the war, and this time the government would be held to it, not like in the last one when promises had been made and swiftly broken. This time the peace would be built to last and everyone would be happy.

  It wasn’t like Frances to be selfish, but in this instance, wanting to be permanently reunited with her mother was top of her list. She couldn’t wait for it to happen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The following morning, Frances found herself treading a narrow street lined on each side by shabby houses of ill-matched design, each one leaning against the other in mutual support. It occurred to Frances that even if the buildings survived the war, they might not survive much longer.

  Strips of dry paint curled from a battered front door at the address she’d been given. Frances knocked tremulously, her heart in her throat. The sound of footsteps came from inside before the door squealed on stiff hinges as it was wrenched open.

  Frances stared at the woman, not wanting to believe that she really was Mildred Sweet. She’d set her mother on a pedestal for so long. But on the opening of the door, the mother she’d always imagined had fallen from a great height.

  How could this woman possibly be her mother? She was nothing like she remembered from her childhood. Her hair was dyed a peroxide blonde, her make-up far from subtle. She thought she recognised the full pouting lips as her own, though her mother’s were plastered with bright red lipstick. The smell of face powder and cheap perfume was overpowering. She looked for the coral necklace but didn’t see it.

  Frances swallowed her disappointment and continued. ‘I’m Frances. Frances Sweet. I-I’m your daughter.’

  The woman stared at her with eyes as hard as dried peas.

  ‘Frances.’ She said it dully, without emotion or sign of recognition.

  Frances nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice sounding small and anxious. ‘I’ve brought you some things I thought you might like. There’s tinned peaches, Spam, condensed milk, and fruit from the garden.’ She’d used her own ration book for the tinned goods. ‘Apples mostly. Oh, and some sugar and a jar of honey and also a jar of mixed fruit jam. I made it myself.’

  The woman took the string bag from her, eyeing it in surprise and also eyeing the person that had brought it as if undecided as to whether she wished to admit her identity.

  Could Frances be mistaken? Was this even her mother?

  Frances tried again. ‘You are Mildred Sweet, are you not?’

  Swayed by the weight of the string bag into which she cast a covetous gaze, a loose-lipped smile exposed yellow teeth. She looked Frances up and down.

  ‘It’s Mildred Baxter now but
… my, my! So this is my little girl! Why, Franny, haven’t you grown!’ She didn’t sound terribly happy about it, just a little surprised and even a little anxious.

  ‘My name is Frances.’ Frances clenched her fists. This was not at all the welcome she’d expected.

  Her mother’s eyebrows, plucked to the skin and reinstituted with eyebrow pencil, arched and her mouth tightened as though tasting something bitter.

  ‘It’s just I don’t like being called Franny. I prefer being called Frances.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Her mother eyed her disdainfully, obviously not happy with her daughter’s response.

  Despite her disappointment that her mother was hardly the icon she’d thought she was, Frances was feeling tired. Yesterday’s flight from home and the fact she’d hardly slept a wink the night before was beginning to have an effect.

  ‘Do you think I could come in?’ she began hesitantly. ‘I have come a long way.’

  Mildred Baxter, as she was now, frowned. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, chewing her lips as though considering the request. ‘Well, I suppose it won’t hurt, and seeing as you’ve come all this way. But not for long, mind you …’ she added in a warning tone.

  As she entered the dark passageway, the smell of a dirty house, mould and fungus growing in dark corners assaulted Frances’s nose.

  Her mother opened the first door they came to. ‘We’d better go in here,’ she whispered. ‘Quickly,’ she added, pushing Frances in front of her. Again she glanced along the passageway to where the gloom intensified. There was the faint smell of stale cooking and beer.

  Once inside the room, Mildred took great care in closing the door quietly. Frances wondered if somebody else was in the house, somebody she didn’t want to disturb.

  ‘This is the parlour. Sorry it’s a bit cold, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t use it that often.’

  Frances took in the sagging chairs, the dust, the cold ashes left in the fireplace from a heap of coals that she guessed had burned out months ago.

  Suppressing a shiver – the room was so cold – she stood there in the middle of the room waiting for her mother to invite her to sit down.

  ‘I can’t ask you to stay. Not today,’ her mother said nervously, her red lips spreading in a hard smile that held no welcome, no warmth at all. ‘I’ve got company, you see, and Oswald, Oswald Baxter my, well, husband for want of a better word, he’s not one for company. Likes to have me to himself, you might say.’

  Frances felt almost sorry for her mother’s attempt to sound jolly, as though she really believed what she was saying. The mother she’d envisaged had gone off to make her fortune before one day returning to collect her. They were supposed to live happily ever after. This was not the mother she’d hoped for.

  There was nothing for it but to dive in at the deep end. ‘Why did you leave me?’

  The question resulted in a blank look as though it were totally beyond her mother’s comprehension to give any sensible answer.

  Frances tried again. ‘You left me when my father died. I wanted to know why.’

  Mildred blinked and pursed her lips. ‘I made sure you were well cared for, didn’t I? Stan Sweet’s an old stuffed shirt, but he’s got a good heart for all that. I knew he wouldn’t see you out on the streets …’

  Frances could hardly believe the blatant nonchalance of her mother’s attitude. It angered her. ‘That doesn’t answer my question. You abandoned me and you never got in touch. Not once, not even to send me a birthday or Christmas card …’

  ‘Now see here, young lady. Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!’

  In warning Frances to keep her voice down, Mildred had raised hers, the consequences of which seemed to unnerve her. There was fear in her eyes when she jerked her attention to the closed door, the tip of her tongue sliding over her moist lips.

  Frances heard the sound of big feet plodding along the passageway.

  ‘There,’ her mother hissed, her face contorted with fear as she turned round to face her. ‘Look what you’ve done now!’

  The door flew open.

  ‘You noisy cow! Can’t a bloke get some bloody sleep around ’ere without you …’ He stopped in mid-tirade, his eyes alighting on Frances. ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’

  The man’s profanity was bad enough, but his appearance was worse. So was the stale smell of body odour. Oswald Baxter was big and bloated, flabby flesh pressing against a stained vest. Thankfully, he was wearing trousers, the braces straining over his shoulders so they left deep indents.

  His face was red and his eyes were strange, one of them moving while the other stayed quite still. It occurred to her that it was made of glass. Hadn’t her uncle Stan mentioned that some men blinded in one eye during the Great War had been issued with glass eyes?

  Her mother stepped between Frances and the man she was currently living with. ‘She’s just going!’ Her voice was loud but brittle. Frances sensed her fear.

  The man pushed her out of the way, his face leering at Frances. ‘Got a tongue in your ’ead?’

  Frances was terrified, but she was good at hiding it. ‘My name’s Frances.’

  ‘I don’t care what your name is. Get out of my house. Now!’

  To Mildred he said, ‘I want my grub.’

  ‘It’s on the stove.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bloody change! You still ’ere,’ he said to Frances. ‘Out! Now!’

  He pointed at the door. ‘As for you, where’s my breakfast? I won’t ask again …’

  Her mother cringed. ‘I’m just going. Got a nice bit of bacon for your breakfast. It won’t take long. I’ll just see Frances out of the door …’

  ‘I can see myself out,’ said Frances. This woman who was supposed to be her mother was far from the image she’d had in her mind, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, even protective.

  ‘Frances is a friend of a friend. She works in the NAAFI. See? Look what she’s brought us!’

  Mildred held up the string bag in which Frances had brought the precious gifts she’d so hoped would cement their reunion. She’d expected her mother to be pleased; she had not expected her to have to use the food to save her skin. Nor for her mother not to admit their relationship. Oswald looked a bully as well as a slob.

  ‘Give it ’ere!’

  He snatched the bag from her, opened it and peered in. Mildred took advantage of his inattention to move Frances towards the door.

  ‘Lovely of you to have dropped in,’ she said as they entered the passageway.

  Frances felt the trembling of her mother’s arm.

  ‘Who is that man?’ Frances whispered.

  ‘Oswald, well, he’s my husband,’ she insisted.

  Frances wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not. There was something furtive in Mildred’s eyes, like a cat that’s swallowed the canary but has no intention of admitting to it. However, it was Mildred who adopted a protective pose, arm around Frances’s shoulders as she guided her to the front door.

  ‘Your husband? Shouldn’t you get back in? He looks angry.’

  ‘No! No! Of course not. His bark is worse than his bite. He won’t mind waiting a minute extra for his breakfast,’ said Mildred, her voice quivering with nerves, her smile forced.

  Mildred leaned close, her voice lowered so Oswald wouldn’t hear. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at four o’clock in the Busy Bee Tearooms up in Old Market. It’s where all the buses stop, them that don’t go into the city centre, that is. I’ll be knocking off work by then. Perhaps we can have a cup of tea together?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frances, her heart full of longing. She so wanted to get to know her mother better, though not with the disgusting Oswald around.

  ‘Right. See you tomorrow, then.’

  The words were rushed before the door was slammed in her face. She loitered, hoping for another glimpse of that over-made-up face smiling at her from the window, perhaps waving affectionately. Her mother did not appear. Gone to dish up Os
wald’s grub, she thought.

  She walked away feeling a mix of emotions. Her meeting with her mother had been a big disappointment. The house had smelled bad; the man her mother said was her husband smelled even worse.

  Something inside her refused to believe that her mother’s circumstances were of her own making. Things had not gone the way she had hoped. Her father dying hadn’t helped, and all thanks to the Great War. If he hadn’t sustained injuries in that war, then perhaps he might have not fallen ill and would still be alive. And her mother might never have left her.

  She brightened up at the thought that the three of them might have stayed together as one happy family if it hadn’t been for that war. In fact, she might have ended up with brothers or sisters of her own, not just cousins, if the first war had never happened.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The next morning, once everyone had left for their respective jobs and Mrs Kepple had gone shopping, Frances had a bath and took her time getting ready. Today she was taking tea with her mother and she badly wanted to make an impression.

  It didn’t really occur to her that the food she’d given her mother might have made more of an impact than she had. When it did occur to her, she swiftly pushed its implications to the back of her mind. That her mother was as preoccupied with food as Mrs Kepple, or perhaps needed it in order to placate the ugly man she was married to.

  Mrs Kepple came back just before lunch, declaring that she had a nice cheese and onion pie in the oven for them.

  Feeling guilty about not eating last evening’s supper and having only eaten a bowl of porridge for breakfast, Frances said that she would like some. ‘Though only a small portion,’ she added. ‘I wouldn’t want to rob anyone else of your cooking.’

  Mrs Kepple beamed broadly at the flattery bestowed on her. ‘King Edward potatoes I used, got a few decent onions, chopped the lot up and cooked it all together. Salt, pepper and plenty of grated cheese. You’ll love it once it’s been under the grill, the top all crunchy and decorated with slices of tomatoes …’