by Lizzie Lane
She could barely remember the life she’d had before coming to Oldland Common except that her mother used to ignore her, preferring to daydream or sit for hours reading Woman’s Illustrated magazine. Frances could remember her staring out of the window, not responding when her little girl spoke to her.
In the evenings while her father was in hospital as a result of his war wounds, her mother used to plaster on make-up and put on her best dress to go out. Frances had eyed her with dismay, knowing that she’d be locked in for the night and that her mother might not come back until the morning.
She’d been devastated when her father had finally died, but she hadn’t really missed her mother. Because her uncle and cousins were so good to her, she’d swiftly settled into her new family, loving the wide fields, the brook at the bottom of Court Road where she fished for tadpoles in summer, the hedgerows where she picked blackberries in autumn. Most of all she loved the orchard, her place of refuge where she could be alone to dream her own dreams.
Making her way carefully through the long grass, she picked up every apple she could, placing it in the empty flour sack she’d remembered to bring with her.
She frowned because her sack was only half full despite scrupulously searching for every windfall that hadn’t been nibbled by maggots or wasps. It occurred to her that word about the shortages owing to war would have got round and that every kid in the village would have been sent out to gather up whatever they could.
The apples would be like a treasure store from now on. Everyone would be picking them and pickling them or drying them on sticks with the help of a glass jar and a sulphur candle.
She looked up into the branches of her favourite apple tree, the one whose branches fell like swooping arms over the dry stone wall. Her luck was in: bunches of ripe cooking apples hung from the branch just waiting to be picked. And she was the one going to pick them.
Agile as a monkey, she climbed the tree, the rough bark scraping the toes of her sandals. Once up high among the foliage, she reached out along her favourite branch of her favourite tree.
I’m going to pick them all, she decided, and reached out and picked the first four before realising that she’d left the flour sack on the ground.
Muttering under her breath, she looked down at it disdainfully, wishing she could will it to fly up and join her, like the magic carpet in her storybook story of Aladdin. Unfortunately nothing happened when she mouthed the magic word, abracadabra. The sack stayed where it was.
In the absence of anything else, she began sliding the apples into her knickers. The elastic around her waist and her knicker legs was strong and tight. She couldn’t gather too many, before she had to climb down to put her harvest into the sack.
It was on her second sortie into the tree – this time with the sack in hand – that she heard voices coming from the other side of the wall.
Carefully she divided the leaves clustered thickly in front of her face.
Gareth Stead was standing in the space provided by his half-opened door. The man with him was dressed in work-worn clothes, a muffler around his neck, a cap pulled low over his eyes. She discerned a sack pass between them with large lettering on the side. It looked to be full up and stitched across the top. The lettering looked familiar.
As the sack passed to Gareth something passed from his fist into that of the man wearing the cap.
‘Ten bob. As agreed.’ He spoke quite clearly.
Ten bob was ten shillings. Money had changed hands, quite a lot of money as far as Frances was concerned. Ten shillings! Now what could be in that sack and worth ten shillings?
Frances leaned forward, careful to hold on tightly and not to lose hold of the apple sack. A sudden breeze caused leaves and apples to fall from the tree, the apples bouncing over the orchard wall towards the open back door.
Startled by the sound, both men looked in her direction.
Frances sank back among the foliage, her heart racing. In normal circumstances she would have shouted ‘boo!’ at the pair of them, pulled faces, then scurried off laughing and shouting along with the other scallywags in the village.
Today she was alone and didn’t dare do that. Since the day Gareth Stead had tried to put his hand up her skirt, she’d kept out of his way. She’d told Ruby he’d done it, but her cousin had refused to listen. She hadn’t liked that. It was as though she didn’t really count as a member of the family and it had cut her deeply. She’d sworn never to tell her anything again.
On this occasion, she sensed that the meeting with the man in the muffler was also a bad thing. Gareth Stead was a bad man.
‘What is it?’ she heard the stranger say, his face turned towards her and the groaning tree branch.
Gareth Stead shook his head and passed his hand over his unshaven face. ‘Nothing. Just the wind.’
Frances couldn’t imagine why Ruby used to blush when he was around. He certainly wasn’t Frances’s idea of Prince Charming and certainly not like the one she’d read about in her story book. The fairy-tale Prince Charming had shoulder-length fair hair, wore a blue doublet and matching tights. The very thought of Gareth in tights made her giggle.
‘Right,’ said the man in the muffler, his shoulders braced as he faced the pub landlord. ‘Then I’ll be off. I’ll be in touch if I gets me ’ands on anything else I think might be of interest to you.’
‘You do that. Handy you working at the docks.’
‘You’re right there,’ said the stranger and laughed. ‘You’ll make a good profit on that little lot. Everyone says it’s gonna be in short supply. Food’s gonna be like gold dust, mark my words. Sugar most of all!’
‘Well, you just keep your eyes open, and let me know whatever it is you get hold of, Mr Green.’
The man in the muffler touched his cap. ‘I will that. And call me Ernie. The name’s Ernie.’
Ernie Green. Frances stored the name to memory.
Gareth Stead stood with half his body hidden behind the open back door until the man had gone, the sack now out of sight. He stayed there a moment, looking directly at her hiding place, though gave no sign that he’d seen her.
Frances froze herself into the branches, closed her eyes and told herself she was a tree. Her logic was that if she thought she was a tree, he might think she was too and not see her.
When she opened them again, he was gone, the pub door was closed and the yard empty.
CHAPTER TEN
Two pieces of news came the next day. One was Charlie’s call-up papers requesting him to attend the recruiting office in Kingswood two days hence where he would be assessed and his preferences considered.
Charlie was still sitting at the table having polished off a second breakfast of two rashers and two eggs after only having had toast earlier that morning. Getting the bread in the oven always came first.
‘I’ll get the bike out. Won’t take me long to get there.’ He sounded very casual when he said it, as though he were only going for a leisurely ride, not taking the first steps into danger, into war.
The old Douglas motorcycle was his pride and joy, locally built so strangely apt to be heading towards the factory up in Kingswood where it was made.
The legs of Stan Sweet’s chair squeaked as he pushed it back and got to his feet. The news they’d all been expecting had arrived and he was having trouble coping with it. Head bowed, he squeezed his son’s shoulder on his way through to take the bread from the ovens.
‘Dad?’ Sensing her father’s concern, Ruby rose from her chair and made to follow him. Mary touched her shoulder, pulling her back. She shook her head. Ruby instantly understood that their father wanted to be alone.
Charlie was frowning at the second envelope they’d received that morning.
‘This one’s not for me.’ His frown changed to a smile as he held it out to Ruby. ‘It’s for you. Got a sweetheart you ain’t told us about?’
Ruby looked at the addressee and gasped.
Mary bubbled with laughter at the sight
of Ruby’s awestruck look.
‘Well? Where was it posted?’
Ruby’s hands were shaking as she screwed up her eyes and scrutinised the postmark.
‘I can’t tell … Yes, I can,’ she cried on taking another look. ‘London? It’s London!’
The twins exchanged looks. Charlie rested his arms on the table, leaning forward as he urged his sister to get on and open it.
Frances just watched, munching sullenly until Charlie reached across and tousled her hair. ‘Cheer up, mutt.’
She grinned. He always called her mutt on account of the way she’d always followed him around when she was small, like a puppy, he’d said. She didn’t mind a bit.
Ruby’s eyes were shining and so were Mary’s, Ruby’s because she had read the letter and Mary’s because she guessed what it said.
Charlie was getting impatient. ‘Come on. I’ve shared my news, now let’s hear yours.’
Frances thickly plastered her toast with plum jam while she had the chance.
Charlie saw her and gave her a tickle in the ribs. ‘Piggy!’
‘No, I’m not!’
Ruby passed the letter to Mary who gasped on reading it. ‘It’s the baking competition. The next round is back on. In Bristol at the Victoria Rooms.’
By the time she’d finished reading it, Ruby could barely breathe and her cheeks were flushed. She began fanning her face with the letter.
‘Let me read it again.’ Mary snatched it off her.
Charlie demanded she read it out loud.
Mary took a deep breath.
‘We are delighted to inform you that the regional final of the Best of British Baking competition, which was to be held at the Victoria Rooms on the 27th of September at 2.30 in the afternoon will now take place on the 30th of November at 2.30 in the afternoon.
‘However, in view of the present state of emergency and the likely effect of an enemy blockade on our food supplies, we have altered the criteria for baking to include pies and pastries plus a special section on recipes, the entries to be in the form of three recipes in writing that any housewife can create economically from the most basic ingredients, the emphasis being on the saying, Waste Not, Want Not.
‘Entries are open to anyone and everyone, and not just to those who won the earlier round in the competition …’
Mary looked up, aware that her own eyes were now bright with excitement. ‘I can enter some recipes in my own name.’
Ruby agreed. ‘We both could do that stood on our heads,’ she said to her sister. She frowned as something else came to her. ‘Since when did they rename it the “Best of British Baking”?’
‘Since we declared war on Germany,’ said Charlie. ‘Waving the flag and all that.’
Ruby took the letter back from her sister and sank back on to a kitchen chair. She sucked in her lips as she read it again devouring the words as quickly as she could.
‘Recipes! It seems a funny thing to ask for in a baking competition. I mean, how do they know that a particular recipe works? How would they know you’ve tried it?’
Mary frowned and thought about it. Ruby had a point, but it was a wonderful challenge, something they could do together.
‘There’s a war on. It’s an interesting concept and one we could do …’
‘Together! We could do it together,’ Ruby said, her comment echoing her sister’s thoughts.
‘I could help,’ Frances piped up. ‘Plum pudding! There’s loads of plums on that tree in Mrs Tiley’s garden. And the trees aren’t very big. I could shin up them no trouble.’
‘Plum pudding! I think we can do better than that,’ Ruby stated ruefully. ‘Something a bit more upmarket; recipes to impress.’
‘They want recipes made from ordinary ingredients that are both nutritious and economical,’ Mary reminded her.
Ruby was adamant. ‘A little luxury wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Economical luxury – if there is such a thing,’ said Mary.
Ruby sighed. ‘I have a feeling that even if this war doesn’t last that long, it’s going to seem that way. Economy is all very well, but it’s going to get a bit boring, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
Nobody noticed that Mary was disappointed, not because it was Ruby who was going forward to the next round of the competition, but because she’d been hoping that the second letter had come from Michael. Her hopes were dashed the moment Ruby said it was postmarked London. She’d so wanted her to say Scampton – and that it was for her, not Ruby.
It was hard, but she pushed the disappointment to the back of her mind. Mail was taking a long time to get through. The postman had told her so. All she hoped was that Michael was still safe and sound.
She stole a glance at her brother thinking how he was no longer a boy but a man and a young man who turned heads. Soon he’d be gone and here they were talking about baking competitions and plum pudding. She couldn’t help voicing her thoughts.
‘Never mind about plum puddings and competitions; our Charlie’s going to have more than a competition to contend with.’
Charlie smiled. ‘Don’t worry, sis. I’ll be fine and anyway, somebody’s got to do it.’
It was the answer she’d expected.
‘But why does it have to be you? You’re going to be missed here.’
‘Nonsense! You can bake bread just as well as I can, perhaps better.’
‘I’m not talking about the bakery. I’ll worry about you. We all will.’
His eyes shone with kindness. She was glad they were all close, glad of the way they all cared for each other.
Charlie masked any worries he had with a boyish grin. ‘I’ll worry about you too. You know it’s going to be just as important stretching the rations as it is bringing the food across the ocean. I shall worry about you starving. That’ll make me even more determined to get the cargo back home.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary softly, thinking how brave he was, and perhaps just a little naive. He showed no fear, but that didn’t mean to say he wasn’t frightened. Charlie was good at hiding his true feelings. ‘Yes. You’re right.’
Charlie got up, the legs of his chair making a screeching noise as he pulled it back from the table. He whistled on his way back to work, the smell of baking bread flooding into the kitchen before the door swung shut behind him.
Ruby was still studying the letter. Mary poured herself a cup of tea.
Frances picked up her satchel. ‘I hope it will be the best in the world. Really scrumptious.’
Disturbed from their own personal revelries, the twins looked up at her.
‘Of course it will be, and if it’s the best in the world I can’t help but win it.’ Ruby sounded quite adamant.
‘Not that silly old competition,’ said Frances scornfully. ‘I mean my school dinner. I hope it’s nice, otherwise I won’t stay in at all.’
Mary laughed. ‘Frances, you’ll eat the lot and ask for seconds, knowing you!’
Ruby shook her head. Young Frances was only concerned with the school dinners introduced by the government to ensure that children got at least one decent meal a day. Married and single women alike were being encouraged to take over men’s jobs, working in factories and, in the case of those close to countryside, replacing farm labourers on the land, some of them in the Women’s Land Army.
‘I’m sure it will be,’ said Mary. She attempted to give Frances a little peck on the cheek by way of goodbye.
‘Don’t kiss me. It’s sissy,’ said Frances swiping at her cheek.
Ruby grinned. ‘At eleven and three quarters it might be, but just wait another five years. Let’s see what you’ve got to say then.’
Frances didn’t hear her, dashing out of the door just in case Ruby should kiss her too.
Two days later Charlie came home from the recruiting office with a spring in his step and the light of excitement in his eyes.
Strange, thought Mary, that young men got excited at the prospect of adventure without consid
ering the danger they were likely to encounter.
She smiled at him and asked how he’d got on though she could already guess the answer. Enthusiasm was shining from his face. Presumably he’d be serving where he wanted to serve, in the merchant navy. He confirmed that this was so.
‘That’s why I’ve been so long,’ he said. ‘First I went to the recruiting office for the three services – army, navy and air force. Then I got directed along to another bloke for “other services”, whatever they might be. I told him I wanted to join the merchant fleet and he had me enrolled on a ship in no time. Meet Able Seaman Sweet. I’m to fill the gaps left by the Royal Navy pinching experienced blokes from the merchant fleet. I report for training in five days at King Alfred’s, Winchester. There’s quite a bit of training to be done first, but he said that basically I’d be joining a ship by the end of the month. Not much time,’ he said, his expression saddening a little before brightening again. ‘Still, never mind. Dad?’
Stan Sweet had remained silent while Charlie outlined what had gone on and how well he’d fared and was going exactly where he wanted to go.
His father was sitting in his favourite armchair beside the fireplace smoking his pipe and eyeing his son with a mixture of pride and fear.
‘At least you won’t be getting shot at,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope you’ll be safe out there miles from where the battles will be raging. Trenches are a terrible thing on land and battleships at sea. You’re as safe as you’re likely to be on a merchant ship.’
He got to his feet and shook his son’s hand. In his heart of hearts he was mortally afraid: merchant ships were a prime target, but he couldn’t bring himself to voice his fears. He forced himself to sound positive.
‘I am proud of you, my boy, and your mother would have been proud of you too.’
During the five days before Charlie left home, a family conference was held. Mary had made tea, Ruby had made scones and Stan Sweet sat at the head of the table. Frances distributed the tea plates and butter knives and once that was done presumed she was free to leave. She’d spotted some rhubarb sprouting down by the railway track and also a big expanse of fallen hazelnuts and was going on about it. Her news was received enthusiastically by Mary and Ruby.