by Lizzie Lane
The old men, friends for all their lives, turned to see who had entered, recognised her and nodded acknowledgement. The salesman, who she knew in passing from when she’d served behind the bar, asked how she was and added: ‘Miss your cheery face, me dear. Old Gar here is nowhere near as pretty!’
He always referred to Gareth as Gar and always chortled at his own jokes.
Rather than snapping a hasty ‘never’ she smiled and said that the war had intervened. It seemed to her mind that the war was a useful excuse for everything.
The knife grinder wished her good day. She’d heard his toothless smile had been acquired in his youth when he’d boxed in bare-knuckle bouts at fairgrounds.
Gareth was behind the bar pulling a pint of cider for the knife grinder. He looked up, his expression firstly one of surprise that was swiftly replaced by casual nonchalance.
She could tell by his already rosy cheeks that he’d started drinking early this morning and most likely cider, a pleasant enough drink in moderation, but ruinous over a long period. Most hardened cider drinkers downed at least eight pints a night. She wouldn’t put it past Gareth that he was drinking more than that.
‘Well!’ he said, as cocky as you like. ‘Welcome back. Took your time, didn’t you? I suppose you want your old job back. You can have it, but I can’t pay you what I did before. You’re not that special.’
Ruby smouldered with anger, wanting to tell him exactly how disgusting he was, but restrained herself. She had to stay focused. She was here for a specific reason and that reason was her main priority.
She held herself stiffly. ‘I need to talk to you. In private.’
Her tone was sharp as a knife – not that he seemed to notice.
A smug expression came to his face. He raised his eyebrows and beamed as though he knew very well what she wanted to see him about.
He winked. ‘Thought you’d come round,’ he said, once he’d served the knife grinder his drink and pocketed the money.
Her eyes followed the money to his pocket. If he went on drinking the profits and pocketing the rest he wouldn’t be in business much longer. But then, there was business and there was business. If her instinct was correct and young Frances was telling the truth – a fact she didn’t doubt – then it seemed Gareth was branching out.
Still wearing an insolent grin, he opened up a section of counter. ‘Come on through.’
The heat of his body was close, too close, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. She closed her eyes to the sprinkling of golden hair on his bare arms.
The heat and the stink of him repelled her. Why hadn’t she noticed it before, or was it just that he was letting himself go, drinking himself into a stupor he might never come out of?
‘I’ll see to you in the back room,’ he said, patting her bottom as she passed.
Ruby whirled round. ‘Don’t do that,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’
In the past he’d told her it was just fun and she’d been gullible enough to accept it. Now she knew it for what it was: a sly excuse to fondle a female body. Any female body. She’d seen him do it to other women. Some of them had laughed and called him cheeky. Some of them had been furious. One had slapped his face. ‘Just a bit of fun,’ he’d said to Ruby, and she’d believed that was all it was, his true affection for her and her alone. But now she knew otherwise. It wasn’t funny at all.
The living room behind the bar was unaltered and relatively clean and tidy thanks to Mrs Pugh, the cleaning lady. The only addition since she’d last seen this room was the brand-new radio, a smart affair in a walnut cabinet with Bakelite knobs.
‘I’m doing well for myself,’ he said on seeing she’d noticed it. ‘Buying a motorbike soon too. Got a contact in the trade. Can get me a good deal. Take you for a ride if you like, you can sit pillion on the back.’
He was crowing. Well, she’d soon stop that.
She spun round to face him. ‘Stolen goods usually are a good deal,’ she said tartly. Inside she quaked. Outside she hoped she gave an impression of a confident woman no longer infatuated by an older and manipulative man.
The self-satisfied smile died on his lips. A wary look came to his eyes. ‘Ruby! Daft girl! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He reached out to touch her. Ruby hit his hand away.
‘I’m not daft and I do know what I’m talking about! You’re involved in the black market. You’ve been seen.’
Gareth Stead, the man she had wanted to marry, blinked like a frightened rabbit, but such was the effect of the cider and his overblown confidence he still attempted to brush her accusation aside. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I said! I dare say your contact will get you the petrol for your bike too.’
‘Could do!’ His tone had hardened noticeably, most likely because he now accepted by her manner that she wasn’t here to make up with him.
‘Is it the same one who sold you the sack of sugar?’
Something flickered in his eyes. She’d startled him. Very shortly she hoped to frighten him, but first he had something she wanted.
‘I want that sugar.’
He laughed. ‘What?’
‘Sugar. You were seen receiving a sack of sugar from a man who works at Avonmouth Docks.’
She didn’t know for sure whether the man worked in the Bristol Docks or Avonmouth Docks; she’d merely hazarded a guess.
‘I see,’ he said, nodding and sucking in his bottom lip. ‘I see. You want a piece of the action, as old James Cagney would say. Well. Can’t say I blame you. Tell you what, I’ll do a special rate for you, for old times’ sake.’
He grinned. God, but she wanted to wipe that grin off his face – and she would!
She shook her head, her smile tight and expression intent with purpose. ‘I want it for free. You owe me wages anyway. I’m taking the sugar.’
‘Huh!’ he exclaimed, regarding her with disbelief. ‘Are you bloody kidding?’
‘No. I am not bloody kidding!’
She felt like adding that she’d grown up. She also felt like adding how angry he made her feel. Dirty scum like Gareth Stead were taking full advantage of the dire situation the country found itself in.
She levelled her most menacing look at him. ‘If you don’t give me that sugar, it’ll be the worse for you. I’ll tell the police all about you, Gareth Stead, which means that you’ll lose your licence. I mean it.’
His smirk wavered at first then widened once he’d had chance to consider it. At the same time he caressed the top of his new wireless, looking eminently pleased with himself.
‘Look, if it weren’t me, it would be somebody else. People are going to want a few luxuries during this war. Everyone wants to indulge themselves in the things they like. Even you.’
His sneer was derisive, but she still had the ace card to play.
‘May I remind you that sugar is a basic food stuff. As for indulging oneself, well, you should know a bit about that, shouldn’t you. You’re quite a one for indulging your secret passions.’
The sneer froze on his face. ‘What you on about?’
‘I’m talking about you being attracted to young girls, and I don’t mean me. My father would kill you if Frances should ever tell him what you tried to do. Or if I told him. I wouldn’t want to be the doctor who tried to patch you up. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Even the red face of a hardened drinker can turn pale when faced with something truly frightening. Gareth’s did just that.
Ruby plunged in. ‘Now. About that sugar.’
It gave her great satisfaction to see a trickle of drool run from one corner of his downturned lips. It was even better when he mutely agreed to deliver the sack of sugar when the rest of the family were out.
On the walk here she’d planned everything out. Tomorrow her father, Mary and Frances were going into Kingswood to visit Aunt Betty, her mother’s sister. Someone had to stay to man the shop; Ruby had volunteered. She ordered h
im to bring it over the stile and along the back lane, leaving it by the back door. From there she would manhandle it down into the cellar, though not until the shop was empty of customers.
‘Eleven o’clock sharp. And don’t be late.’
His jaw moved in time with the grinding of his teeth. ‘Don’t look as though I’ve got much choice.’
‘No. It doesn’t.’
‘We could go halves—’
‘No. We cannot. Eleven o’clock. Sharp.’
If he keeps grinding his teeth, he’ll lock his jaw she thought to herself and felt triumphant. She’d done it. She was taking her revenge.
‘You’re a blackmailer,’ he growled.
Ruby smiled and felt quite proud. If a man deserved to be blackmailed it was this one. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am!’
News came through that Charlie was being brought home on a merchant ship carrying beef up from South America to Southampton and wasn’t likely to be home until after Christmas.
Stan Sweet considered postponing their celebrations until he arrived. Frances burst into tears at the prospect. ‘I came home for Christmas! I’d sooner have stayed with Ada if there isn’t a Christmas!’
Stan Sweet wasn’t a man given to changing his mind unless there was good reason. His niece’s outburst was reason enough.
‘Hmm,’ he said, pipe in hand and clearing his throat. ‘On the other hand it’s the right time for a celebration. My boy is on his way home. There’s no law says we can’t celebrate Christmas twice. Now I’d better see to making some dough for proving.’
Mary and Ruby planned a trip into Bristol. ‘At least we can look in the shop windows if nothing else,’ said Mary. Their spirits had risen enormously since receiving the good news about Charlie.
Ruby was impatient. ‘I don’t want to just look. I want to buy something.’
‘Let’s hope there’s something left,’ returned Mary. ‘You heard what it said on the wireless. People are determined to enjoy this Christmas, which means …’
‘Nothing left for us.’
The news that people were panic-buying turned out to be more or less correct. What goods were available in the shops were swiftly snapped up. They did what they could, buying presents for each other. In their case they also had Charlie to think about so perhaps they bought a little more than they should have. The good news had cheered them up no end and energised their buying, that and the prospect of this being the last decent Christmas they’d have for a long time.
Mary bought her father a pipe rack shaped like a five-bar gate. Ruby bought him a book about making the most of an allotment; not that they had an allotment, but like most folk in the village, they did have a pretty big garden. Part of that garden was taken up with flowers, a riot of colour from spring all the way through until the first frosts. Stan Sweet had already stated his intention to turn the whole garden over to vegetables.
‘Can’t eat flowers,’ he said to them. ‘I’ll bring one of the pigs over to snuffle up the roots. That should save me having to do too much digging. Might be as well to keep a few pigs close by. They’ll be safe here. It doesn’t do to keep them out of sight at present.’
Mary patted her father’s shoulder. ‘That’s fine with us. It won’t be so far to go with the pig bin.’
The pig bin received all the leftovers suitable for making pigswill. Stan Sweet took it over to his pigs on a regular basis. The fact that one had gone missing recently grieved him.
‘Just wait till I gets me hands on him,’ he growled. ‘I’ll give them pigs if I bloody well gets hold of them! Old Sam Fowler had one pinched a while back, and now the same’s happened to me.’
The prospect of keeping a few pigs in the back garden wasn’t to either Mary or Ruby’s taste, but Frances was quite taken with the idea.
‘I can give them names.’
Buying something for Charlie was more difficult.
‘Nothing knitted,’ Ruby warned. ‘Everyone is knitting. Everyone is giving servicemen socks and gloves for Christmas. Charlie deserves something better than that.’
Mary had been thinking this through. They all wanted to get him something special, something that Charlie would appreciate.
‘He loves our garden. Perhaps we should buy him something for that,’ she suggested.
Ruby was scathing. ‘Oh no. Not a spade or a shovel, surely!’
Mary bristled at her sister’s habit of jumping to conclusions.
‘Of course not! I was thinking of a plant for the garden. Something flowering among all those vegetables. I shall miss our summer flowers once Dad’s dug them all up.’
Just for once, Ruby agreed. ‘That would be nice. But what?’
As usual, Mary had thought about this in great depth.
‘Mr Forbes at the nursery is keeping a rose bed among the tomatoes and cucumbers in his greenhouse. Young rose bushes mostly. He has one called Charles Stuart. What if we all clubbed together and bought one?’
Ruby’s face considered it only briefly before nodding in agreement ‘Charles Stuart. Charlie! He’d love it.’
So did Stan Sweet. ‘A single rose bush among the cabbages is hardly wasting good growing space,’ he said contemplating just how Charlie might plant it in to best advantage. ‘And the fact that it’s named after our Charlie …’
Mary exchanged a grin with her twin. ‘I think Charlie Stuart was a king of England. I think the rose was named after him, Dad.’
Frances bought her uncle some cotton handkerchiefs with the money she’d had for helping out at the big house. Living in the forest had not given her much opportunity to spend her earnings from that day so she was happy to spend it on her family.
She’d also not come back from the Forest of Dean empty-handed: when Mary had fetched her home from Ada’s place, she also found herself having to struggle back with a large sack containing a smoked salmon big enough to last them for three meals, including soup. There were also herbs and bags of nuts plus a much appreciated flagon of sloe gin. The eyes of Stan Sweet lit up at the sight of the latter.
‘Lovely on a cold winter evening.’
‘It’s for Christmas and special occasions,’ said Mary who attempted to snatch it back from him.
‘It is a special occasion,’ he said, hugging the flagon close to his chest. ‘Our Charlie is safe and on his way home. Let’s drink a small one to his health. No doubt we’ll drink the rest in the New Year when he gets back.’
Ruby fetched four small tot glasses.
‘I think our Frances is too young for sloe gin,’ remarked Mary.
‘No I’m not,’ protested Frances. ‘Please …!’ she whined when it seemed she might not get any.
Her uncle regarded her with amusement. ‘Can you give me one good reason why you should have a tot – a very tiny tot mark you,’ he added.
‘Because I helped Ada make it,’ Frances declared with a thrusting out of her chin and a haughty toss of her head.
Stan relented, though he wasn’t sure he agreed with Ada Perkins having a child help her brew alcohol. However, he knew Frances cared deeply for her cousin and was thankful the news he was safe had coincided with her coming home for Christmas.
Stan raised his glass and proposed the toast. ‘Here’s to our Charlie. Thank God he’s on his way home. No matter if he don’t get home for Christmas. It’s enough to my mind that he’s on his way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Christmas Day lunch consisted of a cockerel Stan Sweet had raised from a chick and kept in a shed alongside the pigs in the paddock bordering Hollybush Lane. The fluffy yellow chick had been pretty and cuddly; the cockerel it had grown into had been huge and aggressive. And as a family of bakers, no one needed a cockerel to wake them in the morning.
A large bunch of sage had been brought in from the garden and hung to dry over the gas rings on top of the stove weeks before. The onions used to make the sage and onion stuffing was all that were left of the last lot they’d bought from one of the French onion sellers
. The next lot would be home grown.
Everyone enjoyed opening their presents; only Charlie’s present remained partially covered, the root of the rose bush sitting in a bucket of water.
Frances had made paper party hats from newspaper. The old rooster smelled wonderful, its skin crisp and brown, the stuffing oozing on to a willow-patterned meat platter. Roast potatoes, carrots, sprouts and cabbage provided a plentiful garnish.
Everyone sang ‘God Save the King’, following which there was a rush for knives and forks and arguments over who was having the legs.
‘Whoever breeds a chicken with four or more legs is going to make a fortune,’ remarked Stan Sweet.
Mary had made a Christmas pudding from a mixture of breadcrumbs and flour, added suet, as much dried fruit as she could spare, plus a dash of apple brandy. Charlie and his cronies had made the latter before dashing off to war. They were all thankful so many apples grew in these parts, thanks to generations of cider makers who had planted vast apple orchards from Hereford all the way down to Taunton and beyond. They were also glad that a few had been left untouched hereabouts, including the one Frances and most of the village kids had played in all their lives. The big orchard up at Perrotts’ Farm had been the first one to go. There could be more, but for now the one next to the Apple Tree pub had been left alone.
Ruby rounded off the day with the Christmas cake she had managed to make from what she had, with a little divergence from the traditional recipe.
As it turned out everyone stated that they approved of the cake being more like a sponge than a heavy fruit cake. She’d also used jam because marzipan was in short supply, though she had managed to ice the top with the very last icing sugar from a shelf in the village store.
‘Thought I’d save it for you,’ Miriam Powell had confided. ‘I suppose you’ll save a piece for Charlie?’
Ruby had noted the adoration in Miriam’s eyes and assured her that she would indeed keep a piece for Charlie’s return. She wondered how things were going for Miriam with the new Methodist minister; perhaps not so well seeing as her affection seemed to have reverted back to Charlie.