by Lizzie Lane
‘Shhh!’ he hissed, putting a fat finger to his mouth. ‘Shhh! Quiet please.’
The crowd’s grumbles quietened but didn’t go away. Their craned necks were leading to dry throats and the beer tent was selling out.
‘Get on with it,’ somebody shouted. Ruby recognised the voice. Gareth Stead was here, likely taking a break from running the beer tent. Her heartbeat increased, the blood flowing faster to her face.
‘How he’s got the nerve to show his face,’ Mary growled.
She might have said more, but the proceedings were now moving swiftly along.
‘Here it is! We have the results for plaited breads.’
Bullhorn held up another piece of paper on which each judge had declared their findings.
Mary sucked in her breath. Her heart refused to stop hammering against her ribs.
Ruby let out a deep breath like a balloon slowly deflating. ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t you dare,’ Mary whispered back. ‘If we win, it wouldn’t look good if you can’t even go up to collect your prize.’
Yet again she had referred to the apple loaf as though they’d both had a hand in baking it. She felt only a slight twinge of regret. Does it matter, she asked herself? The Sweets baked it. That’s all that really counts.
Ruby smiled haltingly. Her sister was being outstandingly generous, but there was no guarantee that the apple loaf would win. The suspense was incredible. It was time for the judging of their class.
Unlike the other categories, small cards were propped up against each of the loaves in this section detailing the ingredients added. Just as Mary had guessed, sultanas, fruit, nuts and alcohol topped the list. As for the bread infused with sun-dried tomatoes and garlic – it might be interesting, but as her father had intimated, it might not appeal to the British palate.
The chef’s face had brightened on smelling then tasting the savoury offering. The two bakers had been less impressed. Their expressions were almost as impassive when sampling the breads mixed with fruits.
‘Get on with it,’ somebody shouted.
Ruby was in no doubt as to who that was. Gareth – again, and he sounded drunk.
His outburst was followed by impatient whispers. Obviously the crowd also wanted the judges to get a move on.
The judges huddled together, the two bakers nodding in agreement, the black-haired chef looking red faced and unhappy.
Bullhorn joined the huddle, the whispering somewhat intense, the odd word tumbling out like a tin can thrown over their shoulders.
‘Superior …’
‘Classical …’
‘Traditional …’
‘British taste …’
Then there was quiet. The judges came out of their huddle, the bakers looking pleased with themselves, the chef looking resigned, the corners of his mouth drooping beneath his moustache.
Bullhorn looked self-satisfied as though, just like a circus ringmaster, he’d tamed professional egos. Before announcing the results, he had a quick word with a representative of the company sponsoring the competition.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ He began shuffling his papers, back to the first category, the split tin loaf. ‘And the winner is …’ A roll of drums was intimated, though none was heard. Bullhorn was standing with his arms above his head, like an auctioneer about to bring down his hammer on the last bid.
‘Mrs D Leyton!’
A loud cheer went up in response to Bullhorn’s resonant pronouncement as Diane Leyton, an active member of the local WI, went up to receive her prize and the chance of going forward to the next round.
As they beamed round at everyone, she waved the five pounds she’d won. Her supporters, all of whom were in the WI too, cheered loudly.
The next winner of the plaited bread section was a baker from Quedgeley near Gloucester and turned out to be only sixteen years old. Her mother had come with her.
‘Miss Joan Forester!’
The cheers weren’t quite as enthusiastic, but young Joan didn’t seem the sort to enjoy being the centre of attention as, after accepting her prize, she marched swiftly away, head down, as though winning was something to be ashamed of.
Now it was the turn of their category to be judged. Mary patted Ruby’s shoulder. Smelling of best bitter and red in the face, their father and Charlie joined them.
‘Lost Miriam?’ Mary whispered.
Charlie grinned. ‘Her mother sent a message she wanted her at home.’
Mary grinned. ‘Lucky for you.’
He didn’t answer, his gaze attracted to a dark-haired beauty who seemed to be standing slightly apart from anyone else.
‘Who is that?’ he asked his sister in an oddly awestruck voice.
The young woman was wearing a dark blue hat, a crisp veil skimming the bridge of her nose.
Mary shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. She might be the woman staying with Mrs Hicks at Stratham House.’ Eyeing her brother sidelong, she gave him a warning nudge in the ribs. ‘And before you get entangled, I hear she has two children with her.’
Mary turned back to the main event. There was no sound from Gareth Stead. He wouldn’t dare make a move now her brother and her father were with them. She smiled reassuringly at her sister. Ruby smiled nervously back.
Bullhorn cleared his throat. ‘And now we come to the loaf that, in the judges’ opinion, is an imaginative use of ingredients. This is the category for something creative as well as tasty.’ He paused, cleared his throat again and nodded at the sponsor before proceeding.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. The judges could not agree on an outright winner in this category …’
The crowd gasped. Mary and Ruby looked at each other in dismay. This couldn’t be happening.
‘Therefore, our honourable sponsor, Mr Leonard Neate of Spillers Flour Limited, has decided to award two prizes. The first to …’ The crowd held its breath. ‘Miss Ruby Sweet for her apple loaf.’
A vast cheer went up from the gathered locals. For a moment Ruby stood with her mouth open until her sister pushed her forward.
‘Go on. Go on!’
Mary covered her mouth with her hands. Ruby looked like a little girl collecting her prize, half excited, half scared to death. It should have been me up there, she thought to herself and felt a pang of regret. Even if Ruby did leave home, it wasn’t likely she would stay away forever.
A pink flush of pleasure was spreading over her sister’s face. Even from this distance, Mary could see that her eyes were shining.
I can’t bear for her to leave home, she thought to herself. Another thought occurred to her: she was the scared one, not her sister up there accepting the prize.
Bullhorn raised his meaty arms and spread his hands, fingers splayed as he ordered the crowd to be quiet.
‘The joint prize winner is the loaf containing garlic and sun-dried tomatoes which our chef from London declared an Italian classic. The joint prize winner is Mr Michael Dangerfield.’
Heads turned this way and that, murmurs running through the crowd. There were plenty of master bakers there, but nobody seemed to know who this man was. Nobody seemed too keen on the ingredients either.
‘Garlic! It’s too foreign,’ somebody said.
‘The Johnnie Onions sell it,’ a female voice added. ‘I saw one of them at the market. I thought it was small onions and would ’ave bought some, but the Johnnie Onion said it were garlic. I had a smell of it. Didn’t like it much though.’
The French onion sellers the woman was referring to came over from France on their bicycles selling onions to shopkeepers and door to door and at weekly markets. They were a familiar sight with their tanned faces and dark berets, and their heavily accented English.
‘He’s not local. I for one don’t recognise the name,’ declared Stan Sweet, his pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. ‘I know all the bakers around here, but definitely not this one. Not even from Warmley, is he, Charlie?’
Charlie wasn’t p
aying attention. The dark-haired beauty standing at the back of the marquee was far more interesting, even if she did have a couple of kids. He’d never seen such an exotic woman before and he couldn’t stop looking at her.
His father repeated what he’d said along with an elbow in his ribs. ‘I said he’s not from Warmley, is he?’
A bone in Charlie’s neck made a cracking sound as he jerked his head round. ‘No. I don’t know the name.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am. I need to get past.’
Such was the timbre of his voice and the unusual accent Mary felt an overwhelming compulsion to see from whom it came.
On turning her head she found herself looking up into a bronzed face. White streaks radiated from the corners of his eyes as though he had spent a lot of time squinting into strong sunlight.
For a moment it seemed as though the world stood still until he spoke again and broke the spell.
‘You’re twins, right? You worked this between you?’
She heard his voice but didn’t like what he was saying. ‘What do you mean?’
He glanced at Ruby up on the stage then back to her. ‘Just that I thought I was seeing double. Her up there, you down here.’
‘We’re sisters,’ Mary blurted. ‘Twins.’ There was no way she was going to admit to collusion. She only hoped her guilt didn’t show on her face.
Bullhorn’s voice bludgeoned its way between them. ‘Mr Dangerfield. If you are here, will you please come up to the rostrum!’
His smile was memorable. ‘Excuse me.’
Her gaze followed the back of his head as he made his way to the front of the crowd.
‘So that’s Michael Dangerfield,’ she heard her father say. ‘He’s definitely not from around here.’
‘No,’ she said, unable to take her eyes off the man standing up front with her sister. ‘No. He’s not.’
Ruby smiled with her lips and glared with her eyes at the man joining her on the rostrum. He nodded and smiled back.
‘Ma’am.’
Ruby nodded back.
‘A pound each,’ said the bald-headed Mr Neate, his smile exposing large yellow teeth. His hands shook as though he suffered from some nervous disorder when he handed them their prize money.
‘Congratulations,’ he said to both of them. ‘And may the best man – or woman – win when you attend the next heat in Bristol.’
‘It’s an Italian classic,’ stated Michael Dangerfield.
Ruby gritted her teeth. Surely this competition should be about British baking not foreign stuff.
A photographer from the Evening World asked if he could take a shot of them holding their respective entries outside the tent on a nice patch of green grass away from everyone else. He insisted they stood close together.
‘Like a bride and groom,’ he trilled in a sing-song Welsh accent.
‘Hardly,’ said Ruby, her teeth fixed in an insincere smile.
Once the photograph and names were taken, Ruby’s co-winner turned and said, ‘Something about you reminds me of a Hollywood film star. Jean Harlow perhaps?’
‘She’s blond. I’m not.’
‘Must be that peek-a-boo style. That’s what they call it, don’t they?’
‘Do they?’ Ruby was purposely offhand.
He nodded. ‘Yeah. As though she’s trying to hide one half of her face.’
This was too much. Ruby spun away. As she did so she dropped the loaf. At the same time a runaway pig shot past behind them pursued by a gang of giggling, drunken men.
Michael Dangerfield stepped back as he turned to see what was going on. His foot landed on the apple loaf.
‘I’m sorry,’ he shouted once Ruby had picked it up and was stalking off back to the tent.
‘Sorry? You just might be,’ she muttered.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stan Sweet frowned and growled noises that sounded like ‘gerrumph’ and ‘errrrmmm’ when Ruby went up to collect the prize rather than her sister Mary.
‘That was your bread,’ he said a trifle testily. ‘What the bloody ’ell’s goin’ on ’ere? Our Ruby’s already won the apple pie bake off. What’s she doing goin’ up collecting your prize?’
Even if she hadn’t been listening Mary could have told by his beetled brow that her father was not amused.
‘Well?’
Mary beamed at him. ‘Whoever wins this goes through to the next round in Bristol, and whoever wins that gets to stay in London for a while.’
‘So?’
‘You said it yourself, Dad. I’m the baker. I’m needed here. It’s Ruby that wants to leave for pastures new. She needed my help to make it happen. You need me here, and anyway, I don’t want to go.’
‘It got stepped on,’ said Ruby when she finally caught up with them in the beer tent.
Her sister sighed. ‘What happened?’
‘I just told you. Someone stepped on it,’ said Ruby in an irritated tone.
Her father shook his head. ‘Now that’s typical of you. Ruby, you should learn to be more careful.’
Ruby could have told him that it wasn’t her that stepped on it, but his chastising comment riled her, made her feel as though she wasn’t quite perfect – like the mole she had on her face. Mary was never accused of being careless. Mary didn’t have a mole.
Even after a supper of thickly sliced home-cooked ham, farm fresh butter and bread still warm from the oven, Stan Sweet was still a bit miffed, though mellowed after a few beers over the road in the Three Horseshoes.
He stated his last words on the matter after eating another slice of ham, pickles and bread, one foot on the bottom stair. His bed was calling him.
‘We’ll speak tomorrow.’
He saw that Ruby was uncharacteristically quiet, but told himself she’d be fine in the morning.
The morning light of the first Sunday in September found its way through a gap in the curtains of the big front bedroom the twins shared with their cousin, Frances.
The bedroom had previously been occupied by their parents before their mother died a victim of the terrible influenza pandemic that had swept through Europe in 1919, as if the deaths in the Great War were not enough.
Their father slept in one of the small bedrooms at the back of the house, and their brother, Charlie, in the other.
The really good thing about the arrangement was that the resonant male snoring was kept at bay, thanks to the fact that there were two doors between them, their own and the ones to the rear bedrooms.
Sunday was the one day a week when no bread was baked and everyone could lie in, though the habit of getting up early was difficult to break.
Ruby was wide awake by about six-thirty. Even though she turned over, hugging the bedclothes around her head and willing herself to sleep, she was too excited. Her thoughts were occupied with the semi-finals and the prospect of going to Bristol and then possibly to London for the final. London was where she would seek new opportunities. Perhaps she might meet a handsome millionaire and be swept off her feet. Her plans, even though they might never reach fruition, came thick and fast.
Sleep wouldn’t come. The clock struck eight.
‘Are you awake, Mary?’
Mary sighed and rolled over on to her back. ‘Of course I am. I can hear you wriggling. The springs on that bed play a tune every time you move.’
Ruby was already lying on her back, eyes wide open, one arm behind her head. One of the bedsprings made a twanging sound as she shifted again. She had to share what she was feeling.
‘If I win, I won’t come back from London. I might not even come back from Bristol – depending on circumstances.’
Mary sucked in her lips so she wouldn’t voice what she really felt. Her sister could be both unrealistic and selfish in equal doses.
‘Mary? Did you hear what I just said?’
Mary closed her eyes and sighed. ‘I must have drifted off for a minute. But I did hear you.’
‘You do see why I want to leave, don’t you?’
For people who rose at four in the morning on every day but one, staying in bed on Sunday was almost compulsory. Even though Mary wasn’t feeling that tired, she was determined to stay where she was, delaying the moment when she had to swing her legs out of bed as she did on every other day of the week.
‘If that’s really what you want to do.’
‘It really is!’
‘Then do it. I’ll be here for Dad.’
Ruby rolled on to her side and raised herself on her elbow. Mary’s comment had made her feel uncomfortable. ‘You sound resentful.’
And you sound pretty displeased, thought Mary. ‘I’m just stating the facts.’
‘Well, so am I. I’ll be glad to go. Glad to leave the village. Sad to leave everyone behind … with a few notable exceptions …’
‘Especially old bastard Stead!’
Ruby gasped.
Mary’s eyes flicked open.
‘Frances Sweet! You are not to use that language in this house.’ She’d thought their cousin was still asleep. Obviously she was not.
‘It’s what the boys call him,’ Frances grumbled sulkily from beneath a mound of twisted bedding.
Frances was a restless sleeper, her bedding always bundled like a small mountain by morning.
‘I don’t care what the boys call him. You do not!’ Mary ordered. ‘Don’t let me ever hear you using such a word again. Is that clear?’
Frances fell silent, her scowl hidden by the bedclothes as she thought about it.
‘All right. I’ll call him Stinker Stead instead.’
Ruby preferred not to hear the name Stead mentioned at all. ‘For goodness’ sake! What is it with you and Gareth Stead?’
Frances dragged herself up into a sitting position, bending her legs so she could rest her chin on her knees. ‘I just don’t like him. Just because you do. Kissing him and all that … like this …’
Frances smacked her lips imitating the sound of the kisses Ruby had exchanged with Gareth Stead.
Ruby was furious. ‘Frances Sweet! Just you wait …’
Ruby threw back the bedding and rolled out of bed, but her cousin was too fast for her. In a trice she was out of bed and out of the door, her footsteps thudding down the stairs, her voice rippling with laughter.