Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘Sometimes I hate that child,’ Ruby murmured.

  Mary rolled over on to her back and stared thoughtfully up at the ceiling. All this talk of war and friction between members of the family tried even her patience.

  She looked over at Ruby who was already brushing her hair so that a silky tress fell over the mole on her cheek. Her routine never varied. The first thing she always did when she got out of bed was to arrange her hair to hide the mole.

  ‘You used to love her.’

  ‘Well, today I hate her. Really,’ said Ruby, shaking her head. ‘I just cannot cope with her taking against Gareth like she does.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s jealous that you’re fond of somebody else besides her.’

  Ruby reached for her stockings, rolled up together on the bedroom chair. ‘It’s all over between me and him! Bright lights here I come!’

  Having fastened her girdle and pulled up one stocking, Ruby sprang to her feet hoisting up her skirt so she could fasten her suspender, snapping it into place with an air of finality.

  Mary was glad to hear it but refrained from saying so. Ruby was rarely receptive to criticism – one of the reasons why her baking wasn’t as good as it should be.

  ‘I will miss you,’ Mary said softly.

  Ruby finished brushing down her skirt and looked at her sister. ‘I’m very grateful, you know. Really I am.’

  Mary, hands folded behind her head, sighed. ‘It was just a loaf of bread. Pies, bread, and such like, it’s only food.’

  Ruby disliked the pensive expression on Mary’s face. She badly wanted to express exactly how she felt about Mary’s generosity. She could have said that Mary had always been the better baker, but she held back.

  ‘Shame about it getting stepped on,’ Mary added. ‘Clumsy oaf. I presume it was a man.’

  Ruby was angry too and not just for his clumsiness. The way he’d declared his entry an Italian classic annoyed her, what with that and having to share a prize with him.

  ‘That man who put tomatoes into his entry. He said he should have won outright. He said the British people had no taste and no imagination when it came to food and that the apple loaf was mundane and didn’t deserve to be placed.’

  Mary sat bolt upright. ‘He said that to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘Didn’t you notice he was a bit full of himself?’

  Mary was hesitant. ‘Not really. I was concentrating on the competition.’

  The truth was she could still hear his voice in her head and could still see those expressive eyes. But what he said about British food was inexcusable.

  ‘Well, he was downright rude when he was stood next to me up on the rostrum. Right arrogant sod he was. American, I think.’

  ‘I don’t care what he was. He’s got a cheek. What does he know about British food?’

  Ruby shrugged. ‘If he’s not British, it can’t be a lot. But he definitely had a very sarcastic attitude. Mind you, he didn’t say it too loud. He said it quietly so no one else could hear.’

  Mary immediately raised herself on to her elbows. ‘He said that and then stepped on my bread?’

  ‘Like I said, he had a foreign accent. I hear he’s staying with Mrs Hicks at Stratham House. I think they’re related.’ Ruby frowned as a suspicious thought came to her. ‘Do you think he might be one of them fifth columnists they were on about at the pub? Sent here by that bloke Hitler to find out our secrets and make us feel bad about ourselves?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought a spy would head for Oldland Common and enter a baking competition,’ Mary replied while trying not to laugh.

  ‘Well he did. He also said that women didn’t make good bakers and that apple bread was a peasant bread. It was his fault I dropped it. And then he stepped on it.’

  Mary sat up.

  ‘He did it on purpose?’

  ‘More or less,’ Ruby grumbled.

  She eyed her sister sidelong, waiting for Mary to get on her high horse about all things British.

  ‘The cheeky sod! He stepped on my bread!’

  The moment she was out of bed, Mary began grabbing clothes. Ruby instantly regretted expanding on the truth. The judge had said his entry was an Italian classic and Michael Dangerfield had merely confirmed it. He certainly hadn’t meant to step on the loaf she’d dropped. But once a lie was out it was hard to take it back.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked not daring to admit she’d lied.

  ‘I’m off to have a word with our foreign friend. You said he was staying at Stratham House?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  Ruby chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether she should admit the truth. Mary was normally a very calm person, but unstoppable when she was roused.

  ‘Then that’s where I’m going.’

  ‘Breakfast! What about breakfast?’ Ruby shouted after her, regretting that she’d embroidered the truth a little.

  Mary waved over her shoulder. ‘I’m having him for breakfast,’ she shouted.

  ‘Wait.’

  Mary didn’t wait and Ruby couldn’t find her shoes.

  True to her word, Mary marched off down along the High Street to Court Road and up the side road to Stratham House.

  The house was stone built and although quite grand-looking, wasn’t much larger than most of the cottages in the area. The main house looked imposingly detached but was in fact still linked to the shop at the front and the row of cottages running along one side and on a high terrace and approached up a flight of worn stone steps.

  The grocery shop at the front was run by Miriam Powell and her mother. It sold everything from bacon to buckets and bulls-eyes. The blinds were down today and the door looked dusty. On weekdays Miriam would be out there cleaning everything, but today was Sunday and Gertrude, Miriam’s mother, forbade any form of work on the Lord’s Day. Every Sunday without fail they attended the morning service at the Methodist church, the Sunday School at the Baptist mission where they read from the Bible, and in the evening they attended the service at St Anne’s, the parish church.

  Mrs Powell, a rat-faced woman with jet black eyes and matching hair, favoured all denominations with her presence. Mary presumed it was some kind of insurance policy just in case when she got to heaven she found one church was more favoured than another.

  A pair of high wrought-iron double gates protected the entrance to Stratham House itself. The garden was surrounded by an equally high wall.

  The iron catch rattled and the rusty hinges squeaked as she pushed the gate open.

  Beyond the wall and mass of trees and bushes, the garden was a haven, an apron of green fronting the house and edged by flower beds.

  She paused for a moment while she considered whether it was worth proceeding. Perhaps she’d been too hasty. But, after a moment’s reflection, she decided that she might have forgiven his comments about her peasant bread. However, to purposely knock her loaf to the ground and then step on it …

  Stratham House hadn’t changed much since the day it was built. This included the garden path, wide enough for two people, small flagstones laid on rough earth, though now tufts of grass and small wildflowers were growing in the cracks.

  Mary was wearing court shoes, the heel just over two inches high, and she was looking straight ahead at the front door. Court shoes and a flagstone path did not mix. She tipped forward on to one foot, the other falling out of her trapped shoe, the heel stuck in a crack.

  It was easy enough to pull the heel out, but just as she was about to slip her foot back into the shoe, she heard barking.

  Suddenly, there he was: the biggest, blackest dog she had ever seen, bounding towards her, ears flying and barking for all it was worth.

  Although the dog was wagging its tail, that didn’t mean it was friendly. Both shoes now back on her feet, she ran for the gate, yanked it open and closed it swiftly behind her.

  Craning her neck, she looked beyond the high hedges of lilac, birch, climbing roses and honeysuckle, all of which smoth
ered the air in scent.

  Although the dog continued to bark, nobody came out of the house to investigate, the door was firmly shut, the windows reflecting the sky and garden.

  ‘Hello, doggy,’ she said softly.

  The dog continued to bark and wag his tail.

  A well-mannered dog, Mary decided, not at all the sort to bite should I be brave enough to push this gate open and enter his territory.

  Nobody came out in response to the monotonous barking so she presumed they were either deaf or the dog was a compulsive animal that barked for no reason and thus was ignored.

  She applied pressure to the latch. ‘Here goes,’ she murmured before pushing it the rest of the way. The gate creaked open again, she took a deep breath and slid through.

  The dog went crazy, the tail wagging stopped, the bark turned into a far from engaging snarl. It took a lunge forward, its jaws clamping on the hem of her dress.

  Mary screamed as the dress ripped.

  ‘Felix!’

  She heard his voice and immediately felt a mix of anger and something else that made her stomach churn. It was him, Michael Dangerfield, the man she’d met at the baking competition.

  ‘Felix. Less of that, boy.’

  Strong fingers hooked into the dog’s collar, yanking him back so the animal was almost standing on its back legs.

  ‘Hi there! You! From yesterday. Are you all right?’

  Mary was instantly disarmed. If he had made the comments Ruby had repeated or stepped on her bread there was no sign of guilt in his expression.

  The dog had finally shut up and was only wagging its tail.

  Flustered but more determined to speak her mind, Mary eyed her torn hem with dismay and there and then decided somebody had to pay.

  ‘Just look at my dress!’

  The man chewed his lips as he eyed the torn hem. She blushed on realising that one of her stocking suspenders was showing. It seemed that her new friend had noticed it too, his gaze lingering just that bit too long.

  ‘Hey. I’m sorry. He’s never done this before. I suppose it’s because he’s not really used to women.’

  Mary bristled with indignation. ‘I don’t care what he’s used to and it doesn’t mean he has to try and eat one on sight.’

  Michael Dangerfield grinned. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’

  Mary’s blush deepened. ‘It’s not funny.’

  She gathered up the torn material so her stocking top was hidden from view.

  ‘Sorry. ’Course it’s not. Never mind. I’ll buy you a new one.’

  ‘I don’t want a new one,’ she snapped, annoyed with how that look in his eyes made her feel. ‘I want this one. It’s my favourite dress.’

  It wasn’t quite true, but she wasn’t going to let this man off the hook that easily.

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, eyeing the dress with more than a passing interest on what lay beneath it.

  Mary felt hot all over. ‘That dog is dangerous!’

  Michael Dangerfield made a so-so kind of action with his hands. ‘Let’s just say he’s just a bit overprotective.’

  ‘Then you should train it better.’

  ‘He’s not mine. I’m looking after it for a friend. He’s gone to Saundersfoot – that’s in Wales – while he still can. He loves the thing. Found him when he was a puppy and he was at a loss. I think a girlfriend had given him the farewell and don’t bother to collect the thing. The puppy was at a loss too, though I don’t think it had anything to do with girlfriends. I think he just got abandoned. All the guys at Scampton are fond of it.’

  She detected an accent. Ruby had been right. He sounded American. And he was good-looking. The eyes that had reflected his smile yesterday still smiled at her today and only his bold looks and the torn dress stopped her from smiling back.

  He’s arrogant, she told herself. He’s not just smiling at me, he’s laughing at me, and that blasted dog …

  ‘Then he should be home looking after it not gallivanting off to that place in Wales you just mentioned.’

  ‘Saundersfoot,’ he said, his smile undiminished. ‘He’s gone on honeymoon. Not that he’ll be that long coming back. Not now, the way things are going. He’ll be back in Scampton before very long.’

  ‘Where’s Scampton?’

  ‘It’s an air base in Lincolnshire. RAF.’

  ‘You’re a pilot?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure am.’ A more serious expression replaced the smile. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but seeing as things are hotting up I do have to hurry away. You’ll be glad to know I’ll be taking Felix with me …’ He began rummaging in his trouser pockets. ‘Let me settle this. Guy will reimburse me wherever we end up.’

  ‘Perhaps you might suggest keeping the dog chained up or—’

  His mouth set in a grim line. ‘I hardly think that’s necessary. It’s just a dress.’

  ‘It could just as easily have been my leg.’

  ‘I agree with you. That would have been awful. Here. Take this money. Will that be enough to buy you a new dress?’

  She was inclined to snap back that she couldn’t possibly let the matter rest there and perhaps it should be reported to the police, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do that.

  ‘Your name’s Mary Sweet. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your bread. If it hadn’t been for the pig …’

  ‘Pig?’ What was he talking about?

  ‘It was the pig’s fault. Didn’t your sister say? Funny how you and me get tied up with animals? Here we are with Felix and yesterday your sister’s loaf got trodden on thanks to a pig.’

  Mary’s jaw dropped. ‘My apple bread … my sister’s apple bread got trodden on because of a pig?’

  ‘Yep,’ he said with a jerk of his chin. ‘An escaped pig ran by pursued by what looked like a lynch mob. I turned, bumped into your sister, she dropped the bread and my size ten right foot stepped on it.’ He paused. ‘Or did she tell you a different story?’

  A pig. Ruby hadn’t said a word about a pig.

  ‘I just happened to mention her hairstyle and she stalked off. Does she have a problem with compliments?’

  Mary shook her head and promised herself to have more than a few strong words with her sister.

  ‘She has a mole …’ she said hesitantly while touching her left cheek.

  She tried not to stare, but it was difficult. His looks appealed to her. Why is that, she asked herself? He’s no Errol Flynn or Clark Gable. He has wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his teeth are too perfect. And I don’t like men with fair hair. I like dark hair.

  ‘So how about I buy you a new dress?’

  ‘I’ll get it mended,’ she heard herself say, shaking her head at the crisp one-pound note he was offering. ‘I’ll call back once I know how much it’s likely to cost.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, refusing to take the money back and glancing at his watch. ‘But I can’t hang around. I’ve got a train to catch.’

  His response was irritating because he sounded as though the matter was settled and too trivial to consider further. That in itself angered her.

  ‘Oh, so you’re going to scurry off home are you, safe in the knowledge that money can buy or settle anything? I think that’s just a shade irresponsible.’

  He winced though his eyes stayed fixed on her, as though he was looking into everything she was and ever had been and wanted to know more.

  ‘I’ve already apologised. Keep the money. Buy a new dress, buy a bicycle or a tea cosy or anything else you might fancy, but the matter has to end here and now. I can’t hang around. I’ve got more important matters to attend to.’

  Mary bristled. So! Despite that winning smile, he really did consider the matter done and dusted.

  ‘Well!’ she said, her anger undiminished. ‘You may not be the fifth columnist my sister thought you were, but you’re certainly not a gentleman brushing off my problem like this.’

  ‘Fifth columnist!’ He laugh
ed at that, his laugh deep and throaty and in an odd kind of way, highly addictive in that she wanted to hear it again – and again.

  ‘She told me what you said about my … her apple bread.’

  He turned his head to one side so he was almost in profile, a half smile playing around his lips. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My sister told me that you said my … our … her … anyway, you said you should have won the competition outright and that British people had no taste, that apple bread was mundane.’

  His smile petered out as though she’d hit him rather than blasted him with accusation.

  He shook his head. ‘I didn’t say that, but I haven’t got the time to stand here and argue. I have to be going.’

  ‘Back to whatever country you’re from?’

  He looked amused. ‘I’m Canadian. My father was English, Aunt Bettina’s brother in fact. My mother was Italian. That’s where I got the recipe from. My family has a bakery in Winnipeg. Now look,’ he said taking another glance at his watch. ‘I do have to go to war. You do know that don’t you? Your prime minister, Mr Chamberlain, broadcast fifteen minutes ago. He gave the Nazis two hours to get out of Poland, but they’re not budging.’ He shrugged. ‘Looks like I might have a pretty serious job to do. A whole load of us have joined up. There were plenty of openings in the RAF for us colonials. And the pay’s not too bad.’

  Mary had intended saying that if she saw him at the bake off next week it would be too early for her, but that wasn’t what came out.

  ‘Where is it you have to be?’

  ‘Scampton. It’s a bomber base.’

  She jerked her chin in silent acknowledgement.

  ‘It’s unlikely I’ll be going forward to the next round, if that was what you came around to argue about. Might do if I thought I’d see you there, but hey, I’ve got a bomber to fly. Adolf Hitler’s expecting me to pay him a visit. Look. I am sorry about the dog. My friend Guy will be mortified when he hears about Felix’s bad behaviour. He’ll also be put out that his honeymoon is going to be cut short. Adolf Hitler has no consideration.’

  His smile was irresistible.