Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Also by Lizzie Lane

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Historical Note

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The Sweet family have run the local bakery for as long as anyone can remember.

  Twins Ruby and Mary Sweet help their widowed father out when they can. While Ruby dreams of life in London, Mary has no intention of leaving their small Somerset village.

  But as war threatens there will be changes for all of the Sweet family, with brother Charlie off to serve and young cousin Frances facing evacuation. But there will be opportunities too, as the twins’ baking talent catches the attention of the Ministry of Food...

  The first in the Sweets trilogy, a nostalgic blend of Call the Midwife and The Great British Bake Off

  About the Author

  Lizzie Lane was born and brought up in one of the toughest areas of Bristol, the eldest of three siblings who were all born before her parents got round to marrying. Her mother, who had endured both the Depression and war years, was a natural-born story teller, and it’s from her telling of actual experiences of the tumultuous first half of the twentieth century that Lizzie gets her inspiration.

  Lizzie put both city and rat race behind her in 2012 and moved on to a boat, preferring to lead the simple life where she can write and watch the sun go down without interruption.

  Also by Lizzie Lane:

  Wartime Brides

  Coronation Wives

  A Christmas Wish

  The Soldier’s Valentine (digital short)

  A Wartime Wife

  A Wartime Family

  Home for Christmas

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was warm those last few days of August 1939 before the world went to war. The sun shone and Ruby Sweet was certain she would remember this time for the rest of her life. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of what was about to happen, which had nothing to do with the worsening situation in Europe.

  People in the village of Oldland Common, just a few miles from the City of Bristol, had been talking for weeks about the possibility of another war with Germany. The wireless broadcasts were going on and on too and Ruby had got to the stage where she could almost repeat what they were saying word for word.

  … it must be remembered that we are an island nation and unlike the landmass that is Germany, are unable to feed ourselves. Therefore, should war occur, the enemy will do its utmost to sink our merchant ships. Rationing will come in earlier than in the last war. Every crust of bread, every potato grown …

  Ruby grimaced. How to make a meal from crusts of bread! Potatoes cooked in their skins! For goodness’ sake!

  Advice given in a plummy accent about making do with less expensive joints of meat had preceded the broadcast.

  Consider using braising or even stewing steak instead of a more expensive cut.

  ‘As if anybody round here can afford anything better than braising or stewing,’ Ruby muttered. Judging by her twin sister Mary’s expression, she was thinking the same thing.

  The wireless broadcast droned on and on. Ruby was tired of hearing advice about food that didn’t form a regular part of most people’s diet.

  Hopefully the war would never happen and then all this talk would be only so much hot air.

  The Prime Minister, Mr Neville Chamberlain …

  Even now her brother Charlie and her father, and even her sister, continued to give the radio broadcast their full attention, more specifically to what was happening in Europe, especially Poland.

  Ruby wasn’t interested in Poland. It was too far away and anyway, she had something else on her mind, something more important to her than a war that might never happen. Still, at least it kept them from noticing that she had dressed up prior to slipping out.

  While they were engaged, she skipped up the stairs for one last look in her dressing table mirror. She applied a little more lipstick before patting her glossy brown hair, swinging it this way and that, loving the way it fell forward on to her left cheek. Strangers assumed her hairstyle merely aped some of the Hollywood vamps they’d seen at the movies, their silky hair half hiding their sexy smiles. Ruby let them think that. The truth was it hid a small mole on her left cheek. She hated that mole; she wanted it hidden.

  ‘Ruby, you look a picture,’ she murmured to her reflection, admiring the blue and rose-red dress she was wearing. This was her favourite dress and although it made sense to keep it for special occasions, she’d decided today was special, though only for her, not for anybody else – except for Gareth Stead.

  Last night she had helped out behind the bar of the Apple Tree pub as she always did when it was busy. They’d exchanged lots of smiles and adoring looks, Gareth sometimes winking at her when he thought nobody else was looking, his hands brushing her hips when he passed behind her, supposedly to change a barrel or fetch a crate of brown ale.

  She hadn’t minded him touching her so intimately because he was always whispering how lovely she was, how he couldn’t do without her, how he hoped she would be here forever. His kisses between the time when he shut the pub and she was expected home had been frantic and stolen. So had the touch of his hands upon her breasts and her bottom, furtive at first but becoming bolder when she’d raised no objection.

  Nobody else had seen. Nobody else knew. Or so she thought, but the night before last, Mary had popped in just before closing time. Charlie had been with her, not that he’d noticed much, straightaway taking his pint and joining his friends in a game of darts. Although Ruby helped out in her father’s bakery, there weren’t enough hours to give her a living wage. Serving behind the bar helped bridge the gap, though her father had insisted that her brother and sister accompany her home. That way there were no wagging tongues and no chance of Gareth Stead getting his wicked way – or so her father thought.

  Mary had stayed by the bar sipping at a port and lemon. She had often offered to help Ruby clear up, but her sister had always declined citing that it was her job and she would do it. The moment they left the pub she had commented pointedly that Gareth Stead should learn to keep his hands to himself.

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing,’ she said in that disapproving manner she sometimes had. ‘I know you’re sweet on him, but do you think you should be letting him take such liberties?’

  ‘We’re engaged,’ Ruby had replied hotly.

  ‘Says who? Him in there?’

  Ruby bridled at her sister’s tone. Mary had a cynical streak in her that was completely absent from Ruby’s nature. As twins, they were alike in looks and some character traits, both were strong-willed and stood
up for what they wanted, but in other ways they were as different as it was possible to be.

  Ruby was convinced that Gareth Stead was in love with her and that meant marriage. He’d told her he never wanted her to leave. She felt obliged to convince her sister of his interest.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that he’s in love with you?’ Mary had demanded.

  ‘I think so.’

  Mary had persisted. ‘You mean he’s told you so?’

  ‘Not in so many words, Mary—’

  ‘Not in any words!’ Mary snapped. ‘Ruby, stop being such a goose. You know what he wants and it isn’t marriage. Gareth Stead is the sort who wants his cream cake now and once eaten he’ll be fancying a slice of bread pudding. When he’s tired of you, he’ll move on to pastures new.’

  Ruby congratulated herself that she’d chosen to ignore her advice. She knew better. Gareth loved her, and last night before she’d left, he’d told her to come to the pub at eleven o’clock this morning. ‘Not before. There’s something boiling between us, Ruby my love. We can’t ignore it any longer.’

  Her blue eyes sparkled at the thought of this meeting. The ‘something boiling’ was their passion for each other. And he was right. They couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  All night she’d tossed and turned, pondering what he’d really meant by that, and then it came to her in a flash.

  ‘He’s going to ask me to marry him,’ she exclaimed. After that she turned over and fell asleep.

  This morning the thought had come to her anew.

  ‘He’s going to propose,’ she whispered breathlessly to herself, resting a white-gloved hand over her fluttering stomach. ‘That’s what he’s going to do.’ He’d hinted as much at the harvest dance last Saturday evening after he’d apologised for asking her twin sister Mary to dance in the belief that he was asking her, Ruby.

  ‘Once I was close up to her, I knew it wasn’t you. We’re made for each other, you and me.’

  Mary would have none of it. ‘He propositioned me, Ruby. He’s that sort.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  Mary had given her that piercing look she sometimes had, as though she was years older than her twin sister and not just a few minutes.

  ‘He’s not a one-woman man. He likes to think he can have any girl he wants and plenty of them.’

  ‘He wants me to stay with him forever! He told me he did.’

  ‘Did he? Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes. He did.’

  Mary had shaken her head dolefully. ‘Ruby, I just don’t see what you see in him. He’s been married once already …’

  ‘His wife died.’

  ‘That’s what he says. I’ve heard—’

  ‘She died!’ Ruby had repeated, barely resisting the urge to cover her ears with her hands. Gareth Stead was thirty-five years old, sixteen years older than she was and far more interesting than the young men closer to her own age in the village. Gareth was almost as old as her father, but her father still treated her as a child. Despite comments from her sister and friends that the landlord of the Apple Tree was too smooth and too confident for his own good, she ignored it all. Gareth made her feel special and she was convinced he felt the same way about her. He’d once said that if she truly loved him she wouldn’t protest when his fingers caressed the bare skin between the tops of her stockings and the legs of her knickers.

  She didn’t even protest when he made overtures to her sister or to other local women. They all said he was a saucy so and so, and he’d assured her there was nothing in any of the rumours she might have heard that he was a Jack the Lad, a man who’d had more women than hot dinners.

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s jealousy. That’s all it is. Just jealousy.’

  So she ignored the fact that some of those women blushed and lowered their eyes, as though afraid their sparkle might betray the absolute truth. She also ignored the warnings from her sister and her brother, Charlie.

  Charlie was three years older than the twins and worked alongside his father in the family bakery.

  ‘Be warned. He’s a man that won’t be tamed,’ Charlie had said to her.

  Ruby’s smile and the gleam in her eyes had lit up her face. ‘Nonsense, our Charlie. It’s just a case of him finding the right woman.’

  Like her twin, Charlie had shook his head and only smiled. He had a passionate nature just like his sisters, though he couldn’t get serious about village girls. He flirted and got to know one or two on an intimate level, but he wasn’t serious about anyone and certainly not Miriam Powell who ran the grocery shop with her mother and blushed profusely whenever Charlie was in range.

  Ruby was adamant. The village lads were dull and stupid in comparison with Gareth. She much preferred his worldliness, the way he treated her as a woman, not a child. Ruby believed him utterly and totally; he had stolen her heart. And now her belief in him was about to be rewarded: he was going to ask her to marry him. That’s what this secret assignation was about; she was certain of it.

  When she got to the Apple Tree, the swing of her hips and her bouncing step was brought to a sudden halt. Someone had left a handcart close to the back door leaving only the smallest of gaps to squeeze through. Whether she was meeting him or reporting for work, it was always via the back door. Even the fact of having to enter through the front door rather than the back failed to dent her buoyant mood. What did it matter which door she entered by? The outcome would be the same. Gareth would drop to one knee like the brave hero on some old-fashioned painting. He would be her faithful knight forever and she would be his wife.

  Gareth came running in response to her gloved fist pounding on the front door.

  ‘Ruby,’ he said in that honey-brown voice of his, a sound that made her stomach flutter and her flesh tingle. No hello or how are you. There was no need; the way he said her name was more than welcoming, as if she were a chocolate pudding and he relished the thought of tasting her.

  He had the most remarkable green eyes flecked like the inside of a glass marble with splashes of amber. She dreamed of those eyes at night; that, and his corn-coloured hair. Mary had told her that she was colour-blind and that his hair was silver in places.

  ‘He’s an old ram that thinks he’s a spring lamb. Watch out for him,’ she’d warned, yet again, the previous evening.

  They’d had a row after that, Ruby accusing her sister of being jealous. Their young cousin Frances had been listening, twirling her braid around her fingers, her big blue eyes full of childish curiosity.

  ‘Do rams put their hands up girls’ skirts?’

  The sudden question had brought the arguing to an instant halt. They’d looked open-mouthed at eleven-year-old Frances then burst out laughing.

  Embarrassed by their laughter, Frances’s heart-shaped face had turned red before she turned and ran upstairs. They’d heard their bedroom door slam shut and the sound of springs as she threw herself on to her bed.

  Neither her sister’s serious warning nor her cousin’s funny comment could hope to deter her from meeting with Gareth. Just wait and see when she asked them to be bridesmaids. My, but were they going to be surprised!

  Gareth was dressed in tune with the warm day. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows revealing strong arms covered with a fine layer of golden hair. A few swirls of chest hair poked up over the open neck of his shirt.

  ‘Come along in, me love. Come along in.’

  He made a sweeping movement with his arm.

  Her heart raced when he stepped to one side, leaving only just enough room so her upper arm brushed against his chest. He smelled of sweat and shaving soap. His striped shirt was spotlessly clean but collarless. She wondered how a man alone could get his shirts so clean, so fresh-smelling. Mrs Burns, she thought. I expect Mrs Burns does his laundry. Mrs Burns, a woman in her forties with few teeth and a headscarf, cleaned the bar area and the draughty outside toilets. She arrived early and was always gone by ten in the morning, her metal curlers rattl
ing as she swept and polished, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. Ruby, who only helped out in the bar of an evening, rarely bumped into her unless Gareth had asked her to work extra hours and her father didn’t need her in the bakery. It was on such an occasion that Gareth had first kissed her – once Mrs Burns was out of the way, that is.

  Oblivious to the smell of cigarette ash and stale beer ingrained into the walls and ceiling, she felt herself blushing, stupidly wondering whether the old grey flagstone floor was clean enough for him to kneel on when he proposed to her; not that she minded if he didn’t kneel down. All that mattered was that he was about to ask her. Even though her father’s permission had to be sought, she would not refuse. After all, twenty-one wasn’t that far off, and then she could please herself.

  She looked over her shoulder at him, saw him leaning back against the door, his eyes travelling slowly over her as though savouring every inch.

  Ruby blinked in an effort to adjust her eyes to the inner gloom. The old pub had walls of burnt sepia, a bar of rough oak and an odd assortment of beer-stained tables and rickety chairs. Once, she’d laughingly asked Gareth if everyone in the village had donated an odd chair, the rest of the set burned years ago on a bonfire.

  He’d laughed at that and called her cheeky. That was when he’d first arrived in the village just seven years ago. Even back then when she’d seen him at church or around the village he’d never really treated her as a child, smiling as he told her what a beauty she was. And he’d never tickled her. Some of the village boys had tickled her wanting to make her laugh until she was in danger of wetting her knickers.

  But that was back then, when Gareth and his wife had only just moved to the village. His wife hadn’t lasted long. The story was she’d died of TB just after she was taken to a sanatorium. Ruby only vaguely remembered her. Even back then, Ruby had surmised that Gareth was very aware of her, paying her the same attention as he might an older woman. And that was when I was just a kid, she told herself. Fatherly affection. And now ….

  ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ he said, his voice low and hushed, his fingers tangling in her hair.