Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘But …’

  Ruby eyed the puzzled expression. The child’s black eyebrows were arched, her rosebud lips slightly parted. The brown eyes that looked up at her were as glossy as melted chocolate.

  ‘No buts. I don’t want to hear you speak of this.’

  ‘Did Mr Stead do something bad?’

  Ruby frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did he put his hand up your skirt?’

  Ruby felt a huge rush of embarrassment. ‘Frances, you really have to stop going around with that gang of yours. They’re filling your head with naughty things.’

  Frances frowned. ‘They didn’t fill my head.’

  Ruby totally disregarded the child’s accusation – certainly with relation to Gareth Stead. ‘Did one of those Cooper boys try to put his hand up your dress?’

  ‘No,’ said Frances, shaking her head and turning away, something she did when she was deciding whether to tell the truth or not. ‘Not them. He did. Mr Stead. He climbed over the wall into the orchard with a big sack. He dug a hole and buried it. Then he tried to put his hand up my skirt, but I kicked him and ran away. He told me not to tell.’

  ‘Liar!’

  The sound of the slap she gave Frances brought her to her senses. The child was talking about the man she loved – or had thought she loved. She held out her hand, the one that had left a vivid red mark on her cousin’s face.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frances. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to …’

  Frances backed away, her eyes filling with tears, one hand rubbing at the red mark on her cheek. However, Frances was very capable of standing up for herself. Her little jaw firmed up as the hurt expression was replaced by one of anger.

  ‘I am not a liar,’ she shouted. ‘Gareth Stead stinks of beer and he buried something in the orchard. I’m not a liar!’

  Ruby felt mortified. She had never ever slapped her cousin before. Inwardly she groaned. This is all your doing, Gareth Stead, and somehow I have to mend what I’ve broken.

  She began to run after Frances, but her court shoes had quite high heels and were not made for running. She called out instead. ‘Frances! Come back. I’m sorry.’

  Her voice was taken by a sudden breeze which sent leaves flying and the sound of windblown apples landing on the ground on the other side of the orchard wall.

  Frances kept going, the sack of apples bouncing against her back, her long legs kicking out behind her.

  Ruby clenched the hand that had slapped her cousin’s face. She deeply regretted it, though still could not bring herself to believe that Gareth, the man she’d thought to marry, had done such a thing. Frances was just a child, she thought as she headed for home. Children fantasise and liked to shock their elders. That was it. That had to be it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sweet’s Bakery occupied a large corner site at the top of Cowhorn Hill on the opposite corner to the Three Horseshoes public house, which was run by a widow who was in the envious position of owning both the freehold and brewing her own beer in a shed to the rear of the property. Even so, the Three Horseshoes was in competition with the Apple Tree and a number of other hostelries in the village.

  There was only one bakery and Stan Sweet often commented that he preferred to own a bakery rather than a pub.

  ‘At least I’ve got no competition,’ he declared while slamming down a pile of dough and kneading it this way and that with big meaty hands.

  Good wholesome loaves were displayed on glass shelves in the shop window at the front of the property. Above the door, the sun glinted on a sign saying S. Sweet & Sons, picked out in gold lettering on a green background. The S in the name referred to Sefton, Stan Sweet’s grandfather. There had indeed been two sons, but Stan’s brother Sefton, named after his grandfather and father, had died some time back as a result of bad health caused by injuries sustained during the Great War.

  Behind the shop was the bakery itself which was dominated by a big black oven with two arched doors, the higher one, used to bake every loaf of bread they made, closer to the main furnace than the lower one which was mostly used to make pies, pasties and cakes.

  Built in Victorian times from locally quarried stones Sweet’s Bakery had been established by Stan Sweet’s grandfather back in 1877. The bread had originally been baked in wood-fired ovens, but Stan’s father had had the foresight to install a gas-fired oven just after the war.

  ‘No more wood piled roof-high out in the yard,’ he’d announced to Stan and his brother. Stan had given thanks to God that he no longer had to feed the old oven. Turning the tap that let in the gas and putting a match to it was far easier. He didn’t even mind the harrumph the gas made when he lit it. Anything was better than going outside on a cold dark wintry morning, hours before the rest of the village was awake, trundling in and out with fuel and trying to diligently set light to a pile of kindling. Even though the embers from the day before were kept in overnight, if the kindling and the wood was damp, it could take an age to get the oven up and running.

  Mary glanced up at her sister when she came in. ‘You look very nice in that dress. You’ve had it on all day. Special occasion was it?’

  ‘I went for a walk.’

  Mary shook her head and eyed her knowingly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  For a moment Ruby wished they were not twins. It was sometimes quite frustrating to have somebody knowing what was in your head or shrewdly guessing what you’d been up to.

  Ruby bit her lip, folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen sink, looking through the kitchen window though seeing nothing.

  Behind her Mary continued to sort out the apples Frances had brought home.

  The two girls said nothing, each waiting for the other to break the silence. There was an air of anticipation, as though they were playing tennis and Mary had batted the ball in her sister’s direction. Now it was Ruby’s turn to bat it back. She had to say something.

  ‘I won’t be working behind the bar in future,’ she finally said.

  Mary nodded and continued sorting the apples before commenting. ‘So he finally showed his true colours.’

  Ruby adopted an air of denial. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I just said, I won’t be working behind the bar in future.’

  Mary was not fooled, but hearing pain in Ruby’s voice, put the apples and her paring knife down on the scrubbed pine table, stood behind her sister and rested her chin on her shoulder.

  She looked sideways up into her face, their cheeks touching. ‘I’m sorry but I’m glad it’s over. You’re too good for him.’

  ‘That’s nice to know.’

  Mary’s chin dug into Ruby’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter with Frances?’ Mary asked.

  Ruby moved away from the window. ‘Is something the matter?’ Ruby replied trying not to sound defensive. Despite the fact that she was still wearing her best dress, she began setting up the electric mixer that helped to turn flour, water and yeast into bread dough.

  Ruby made a big show of shovelling flour into the aluminium bowl of the huge mixer. She had no wish to look at the face that was identical to her own; china blue eyes, dark lashes, finely arched eyebrows. She had no wish to be reminded that her sister’s face was blemish-free. ‘I think you know there is.’

  Ruby was aware that Mary was eyeing her intently, but would not meet her gaze. She had already decided on the walk back that she would not repeat what Frances had said. It couldn’t be true. She refused to believe it.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed there was anything wrong. Where is she?’ She hoped she only sounded mildly concerned.

  ‘Upstairs. In her bedroom. I heard her door slam. Do you want to help me with these apples? There’s half a sack. I thought I would make apple rings. They should keep well in the outhouse. I’ve got a sulphur candle and plenty of twigs and string.’

  ‘And apple chutney?’

  Mary nodded. ‘I think so. I’m also considering making apple bread for the baking competition, a nice country l
oaf – almost a cake. Do you think the judges will like it?’

  ‘Not pies?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Every woman in this village can bake an apple pie. But apple bread, nice moist dough flavoured with a little cinnamon – well, that’s something else. Lucky for us we’ve got the bread ovens. What are you going to make?’

  Ruby shrugged. It had occurred to her to bake an apple pie, but wasn’t sure now following Mary’s comment. ‘I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it.’

  The fact was that she wasn’t thinking about it at all. Still smarting from her treatment at the hands of the man she thought had loved her, it would do no good to say she couldn’t possibly concentrate on baking, all because of Gareth Stead. If she said that her sister would want to know exactly what had gone on. She had already commented about Gareth showing his true colours. There were rarely secrets between them. Mary had guessed or somebody – Frances, perhaps – had told her.

  Ruby’s father spoke to her quietly when she was washing up after a slap-up tea of Victoria sponge, a cream-topped trifle and apple tart generously sprinkled with sugar. He’d come in to help himself to another cuppa, certain his daughter would be alone. It was the first chance he’d had to speak to her about her losing her job at the Apple Tree, which evidently he’d heard about from her sister.

  ‘So no more bar work. Can’t say I’m sorry. You’re worth better things than that.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m glad you think so, Dad.’

  She felt his eyes on her and knew it wasn’t really the job he was referring to. What he was really saying was that she was worthy of a better man than Gareth Stead.

  ‘I know so,’ he said, patting her shoulder, his voice kind and gentle. ‘You’re a diamond, Ruby Sweet. Better than that, you’re a ruby,’ he added with a chuckle.

  Ruby stopped scrubbing at a sponge tin but didn’t meet her father’s gaze. Much as she loved him, she didn’t want his opinion just now. She didn’t want anyone’s opinion.

  ‘Dad. I know what you’re saying. I know you don’t like Gareth.’

  She glanced at him. He wasn’t quick enough to hide an expression of outright distaste.

  In Stan’s opinion, there was no point in beating about the bush, so he didn’t. ‘He’s second hand, Ruby. He’s too old for you and he’s been married before.’

  ‘He’s a widower. Not all widowers are unworthy.’

  She fancied her father winced. He himself was a widower.

  ‘That may be,’ he said slowly. ‘All the same, I think you can do better.’

  Monday morning, and the smell of freshly made bread was warm and inviting.

  Each time the door opened, the smell seeped out into the street. It rose with the steam from the chimney serving the bread oven. Anyone passing had no real need to read the sign above the door of the shop. All they had to do was follow the delicious aroma that enveloped the bakery like a scented veil.

  Seeing as Ruby no longer had her few hours’ work at the pub, there was nothing for it but to do some housework, get the laundry on the go and help Mary in the shop, though only if needed. For the moment she wanted to be alone, to lick her wounds and not have anybody feel sorry for her.

  Frances had gone to school and their father was putting in bread and setting timers for each batch of loaves.

  Ruby took Mary a cup of tea and brought one for herself, placing everything on a tray, including some coconut biscuits she’d made the day before.

  Mary thanked her. Ruby pretended she didn’t hear, but Mary called to her before she could retreat into the family’s living accommodation at the rear of the shop and to the side of the baking room.

  ‘Ruby, I’ve something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘I expect you do,’ snapped Ruby assuming that Mary would challenge her about Gareth.

  Mary had no intention of doing so. There wasn’t really enough work in the bakery for the two of them, and Mary had intended voicing the subject when the door leading to the shop suddenly burst open.

  Their brother Charlie bolted in, looking as though the hounds of hell were after him. ‘Hide me!’

  The twins exchanged wry glances. Despite herself Ruby had to smile.

  Mary barred his way to the back of the shop. ‘Miriam?’

  Their agitated brother nodded. He looked pink-cheeked and it wasn’t from tending the ovens. Miriam was after him.

  ‘Can one of you go serve her and tell her that I’ve been requisitioned by the army or navy, or even kidnapped by Hitler?’ he pleaded.

  ‘I’ve got apples to peel.’ Ruby looked tellingly at her sister and giggled. ‘Your turn.’

  Mary pulled a face and sighed. ‘I’ll deal with her,’ she said grimly.

  Miriam Powell had a freckled face and reddish hair. Twenty-eight years old, she was a spinster who, up until fairly recently, had spent her time caring for her elderly parents. While her father had been alive, she was not allowed to even be alone with a man. ‘For fear the closeness of a masculine thigh heats her blood to the point of no return,’ her father had sermonised.

  Her father, Godfrey Powell, had been a lay preacher who used to run the grocery shop, a place of piled-up tins, a bacon slicer, and a truckle of Cheddar cheese, ripe, pungent and bright yellow.

  Poor Miriam. During her father’s lifetime he had resolutely kept his daughter indoors, never allowing her out unaccompanied. Following his death, she now had more freedom than she used to have. Her mother was not nearly so demanding, mainly because it was not in her nature to order anyone around; all her life she’d been ordered around by others, including her husband. Her one sticking point was insisting that Miriam accompany her to church three times during the week and twice on Sundays. They made a meagre living in their shop, Miriam’s father having died owing money that they were still trying to repay. There wasn’t any extra money for clothes and they were known to live mostly on the vegetables left on the dusty shelves at the end of the week.

  Despite the church-going Miriam was beginning to enjoy herself. She’d also discovered she very much liked the opposite sex, especially Charlie Sweet.

  Judging by the way she looked into Charlie’s eyes while buying a split tin and a cottage loaf, she was his for the taking – except that Charlie did not reciprocate her affection. He had tried telling her this, pushing her away when she came at him with her lips pursed and her big coat undone. Even at the village dance, where she was only allowed to stay until eight o’clock, she still wore her big coat.

  Undaunted, or perhaps unaware of Charlie’s rejection, she came in three days a week, her order always the same: one large split tin loaf and a cottage loaf.

  ‘I think she must be feeding every sparrow in Oldland Common,’ Mary had commented.

  Ruby grinned. Her sister could be funny as well as deadly serious. She also knew how to dress, the shades she chose always suiting her colouring. Today she was wearing a bright blue dress under her apron, the colours accentuating her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps it’s all her and her mother live on.’

  Mary made a disbelieving sound. ‘Sandwiches every day? I don’t believe it. You can’t tell me that just her and her mother are eating all that bread. I don’t believe it.’

  Miriam came dashing in just moments after their brother, bringing a breeze and the first of the autumn leaves with her. She was wearing her usual checked coat that despite the breeze looked far too warm for the weather they were currently having. It was the one she always wore, winter, summer, spring or autumn.

  Her face was pink, not because she was hot, but because it was the normal colour of her complexion. The sprinkling of freckles helped tone down the colour, but all in all it could be said that Miriam had a ‘busy’ face.

  ‘Is Charlie not working in the shop today?’ Her expression was one of enduring hopefulness, her voice lilting up and down in a sing-song way. Not surprisingly, she was a member of several church choirs and was known to sing a very good solo rendering of ‘Abide with Me’.


  Mary took on an apologetic look and primed her voice to match. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss Powell. Our father had to visit the yeast merchant which means that Charlie has to tend the oven. Then get the dough ready for the morning.’

  Miriam’s face sagged. ‘My word, but it’s hard work running a bakery. You and your family are on the go all the time. I don’t think I could do it. I never was very good at getting up in the morning. You should be up with the lark, my father used to tell me. I was always up by seven, but never with the lark.’

  Mary smiled sweetly. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to marry a baker then, would it, Miss Powell.’

  Miriam’s face fell even further. ‘Oh. I’ve never thought of that.’ Her look of dejection was short-lived. ‘I suppose marrying a baker would be the opportunity I need to change my ways,’ she said, her face alight with hope. ‘And of course if one has a family. Families all help each other, don’t they.’

  Mary agreed with her and although she smiled, she stopped it from spreading too wide or she might burst out laughing. She had no wish to hurt Miriam, but she just couldn’t see her brother Charlie and Miriam together, not to mention the redheaded children the two of them might produce.

  Mary wrapped up Miriam’s order in brown paper and took the money. Once she’d gone, she locked the door, turned over the sign saying open to closed, and pulled down the biscuit-coloured blinds.

  Charlie came through the door between the shop and the place where the bread oven hummed with heat. He was swigging back a cup of tea. ‘That woman gives me the willies. I wish she’d stop pestering me.’

  ‘That woman is in love with you,’ said Ruby, flipping at her brother’s head with the corner of a tea towel.

  ‘Not my type. I don’t go for redheads. Never have.’

  Ruby sliced the last apple into the saucepan and added the sugar. ‘So what is your sort?’ she asked, an amused smile flickering around her lips.

  Charlie threw back his dark head and closed eyes that were identical to those of his sisters.