Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  Mary eyed her sister over her shoulder and frowned. One moment Ruby was more or less warning her off and the next she was hinting she should consider his proposal. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what with the war and everything, who knows what tomorrow may bring? Strikes me that we have to grab the moment while we can. I mean, he could get killed …’

  Mary froze, saucepan lid in one hand, wooden spoon in the other.

  On seeing her sister’s shoulders stiffening, Ruby regretted what she’d said. She bit her bottom lip quite hard before saying, ‘Sod it! I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘No,’ said Mary coldly. ‘You should not.’

  Keeping busy helped the time pass, but even so Mary couldn’t concentrate on anything serious. Reading a book resulted in the words bouncing up and down before her eyes, the thread of the story lost, the favourite book abandoned.

  A little mending helped for a time until she realised that she’d sewn the sock she was darning to her skirt.

  It was hard not to look at the clock ticking away on the wall, its long pendulum swinging underneath measuring the hours, its chime measuring each quarter of an hour.

  By four o’clock the whole family were dressed in their Sunday best, Mary paying particular attention to her hair, retouching it as though afraid the smallest tress had escaped from her shoulder-length style. She’d decided on the blue dress and found a pair of stockings without snags or ladders. She folded a blue scarf around her hair, tying the ends at the nape of her neck. The colour complimented her eyes.

  Ruby wore a green dress sprigged with black leaves, the sweetheart neckline skimming the beginning of her cleavage without giving anything away.

  Frances had to be forced to wash behind her ears and was dragged away from her Christmas presents.

  Once a truculent Frances had stomped out of the bedroom and down the stairs, Ruby turned to her sister. ‘You really like him.’

  Mary smiled sweetly, refusing to be drawn. ‘Has Gareth offered you your old job back?’

  The question resulted in a look of shock on Ruby’s face. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘I hope not. If Dad should ever find out …’

  ‘He won’t!’

  ‘Thank goodness for that.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I saw you talking to him.’

  Ruby stared. ‘You couldn’t have.’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  Mary was speaking the truth. She’d been taking the loaves they hadn’t sold that day over to Mrs Nixon, a widow with four children. She’d seen her sister and Gareth on the other side of the stile at the end of Paradise Lane where Mrs Nixon lived. They’d appeared to be talking avidly, heads forward, necks stiff. Ruby was the one who seemed to have the final say, stalking off with her head in the air leaving Gareth looking beaten.

  ‘Believe me,’ said Ruby. ‘There’s nothing in it.’

  Although the exterior of Stratham House was imposing, the interior was quite small, the rooms cosy rather than grand.

  Mrs Bettina Hicks was a tall woman with kind eyes, a crinkly mouth and hair a pale shade of grey that might once have been blond. It was teased into a cottage loaf style and in a certain light almost matched the pale violet-coloured clothes she was fond of wearing.

  ‘I’m so glad you could all come,’ she said on opening the sturdy oak door of her stone-built house.

  Mary noticed she was leaning on a walking stick with her left hand, opening the door with her right.

  ‘Mr Sweet. Pleased to meet you.’

  They shook hands politely.

  Stan Sweet eyed her quizzically. ‘Didn’t you used to be Betty Allen?’

  Her smile widened. ‘And you are Stan Sweet. We were at school together. Strange that we haven’t kept in touch, but I spent so much time away from here when my husband was alive and of course, you live at one end of the village and me at the other. Now please don’t tell me that I haven’t changed a bit,’ she said, her smile as coquettish as a woman half her age.

  ‘It’s true!’ Stan Sweet took off his hat.

  ‘How very chivalrous. I do like a man who is chivalrous.’

  Like most people in the village, Mrs Hicks kept chickens, but the hen coop was silent now, the cockerels gone for slaughter and the hens newly acquired to replace those that had stopped laying eggs.

  Her voice was refined; her warm smile echoed in her eyes. ‘I’ve got quite a houseful at the moment. Everyone is here except for my dear nephew who Felix nagged into taking him for a walk. He’ll be back soon. Come in, come in why don’t you. This is Gilda, the daughter of a friend of mine. She’ll take your coats.’

  A figure hovering in the background came forward. Gilda greeted them warmly as she took their coats, her pink lips widening in a bright smile, her dark eyes smoky with welcome.

  Mary recognised her as the one who had rushed into the shop and rushed out again, the one her brother had taken an interest in at the village fete. She was certainly striking with her velvet-brown eyes and chocolate-brown hair. Her skin was heavily powdered, her face oval-shaped, her eyes widely spaced either side of an aquiline nose.

  Mrs Hicks explained that Gilda was the daughter of an old friend and that she and her children had been living in London up until now.

  With a beatific smile that seemed to brighten the room, she explained the situation.

  ‘I insisted that she and the children would be safer here. If anywhere is going to be bombed it’s most certainly going to be London. It’s a bit of a squeeze there being only two bedrooms, but Michael volunteered to go up in the attic. There’s an old camp bed up there and he’s managed to make himself comfortable.’

  Two children, their eyes and hair as dark as their mother’s, gazed shyly at the new arrivals; finally at their mother’s urging, they shook hands politely, the boy bowing, the girl nodding her head respectfully.

  Frances stood mutely, her eyes locked with the boy Isaac and his sister Marianne until nudged into reciprocating.

  Stan Sweet presented Mrs Hicks with two loaves of bread. ‘Looks as though you could use them,’ he said, nodding at her guests.

  Mrs Hicks thanked him and Gilda took the loaves.

  Mrs Hicks sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m rather glad Gilda is here. I don’t know how I managed without her.’ She smiled. ‘I have a little trouble with my hip, you see. Old age. That’s all. Now let me see, this twin is Mary,’ she said pointing correctly to Mary. ‘And this twin with the beauty spot is Ruby. Michael described you both perfectly.’

  Ruby’s jaw dropped. The cold air had whipped her hair back from her face exposing the hated mole and now here was Mrs Hicks referring to it as a beauty spot. Nobody had ever called it that before.

  ‘Well,’ said Mary. ‘He certainly doesn’t miss much.’

  ‘You’re quite right,’ said Mrs Hicks, the sparkle in her eyes undiminished. ‘And he’s kind. Hence looking after the dog for his friend. A pity the wretched creature damaged your dress, my dear.’

  ‘I managed to buy something, though it isn’t easy now. There’s not much left in the shops,’ exclaimed Mary.

  ‘What a shame! I really feel that a young girl should have nice dresses. In fact, I insist on giving you some dress fabric I bought some time ago. I never got round to doing anything with it and I’m not likely to now. You girls can have it if it’s of any use to you – that’s if the moths haven’t got at it! Now! I’m sure Michael won’t mind if we begin our tea. He’ll soon catch up once he gets back.’

  The table was already laid with sandwiches, a fruit cake and mince pies all laid out on pink and white crockery on a pretty lace tablecloth.

  Mrs Hicks waved her hand at the cakes and pies. ‘Michael brought them down for me from Fortnum and Masons. They look very good, though of course you don’t get many for the price,’ she added with a smile.

  Ruby surveyed the expensive mince pies with dismay. For a moment she was loath to add her own donation until it came to h
er that her pastry had a far superior look to the bought versions.

  Plucking up courage, she brought the pies out of her basket. They were on a plate and covered with a clean tea towel.

  ‘I made mince pies too. The mince is to my own recipe and quite sweet – seasoned fruit mixed with suet.’

  She didn’t mention that she’d added a tablespoon of sugar from her secret supply hidden in the cellar. It was a secret she was keeping to herself, the magic ingredient that she would still have when everyone else was running low.

  Mrs Hicks beamed at Ruby’s offering. ‘Oh, my dear, they look quite delicious! In fact I would say they look better than those my nephew brought with him. Now there’s a thing, and just as well. There were only six mince pies and now there are twenty-four. I bought some cream from Mrs Martin. She delivered it specially.’ A mischievous grin lit up her face. ‘She brought her daughter Lily with her. I think she was hoping my nephew might be interested. He wasn’t, of course.’

  Mary checked her smile. Sweet as Lily Martin was, she loved her food too much, a great shame seeing as she had a pretty face and would be even more attractive if she wasn’t so fat. With a sudden pang of jealousy, Mary realised she didn’t want Lily to lose weight, not if it meant her new slenderness attracting Michael Dangerfield.

  Everyone agreed that Ruby’s mince pies were better than the ones from London. ‘Don’t tell Michael,’ Mrs Hicks whispered.

  They were eating mince pies and sipping sweet sherry when Michael and the dog returned. The dog wagged its tail seemingly confident that these people – especially the children – were not intruders because they were already in the house on his return. Mary was put at ease.

  Michael’s eyes lit up on seeing her. ‘Well, isn’t this just fine and dandy! Merry Christmas one and all.’

  Having also greeted everybody, the dog chose his space in front of the fire, lying full stretch on what looked like a Persian rug, though worn with age. Steam rose from his damp coat.

  The rug was in keeping with the rest of the furniture and furnishings – very good quality and well looked after, but showing its age.

  Over tea and mince pies, the talk turned to the war and where they might be this time next year. Stan asked Michael about his career with the RAF and where he might be posted. ‘Unless it’s all hush-hush,’ he added.

  To Mary’s relief he didn’t mention anything about Michael’s marriage proposal. She’d asked him not to and he’d kept his word even though the idea appealed to him; a married daughter wouldn’t be one of the first to be called up – if at all.

  Michael shrugged in answer to Stan’s question. ‘Not at all. So far it’s been training and more training. The fighters have been out and about, but so far nothing much happening at Bomber Command. We’re not dropping anything yet, well, not high explosives anyway. Just leaflets. Can’t wait to get going on the real thing.’

  Mary couldn’t help noticing the gleam in his eyes. Her father noticed it too and was obliged to comment. ‘Young men have no patience, though I suppose that’s understandable. The old men in government seem to have given up talking and don’t seem to know quite what to do next. Ran out of words. Shame but true.’

  Michael stood in front of the dog and the fireplace, legs slightly parted like a knight of old about to mount up and head for war. ‘Now it’s the turn of the young men,’ he added tellingly, both his voice and his presence seeming to fill the room.

  Mary shivered.

  Stan Sweet smiled a sad, knowing smile. ‘All young men want to have their turn.’

  ‘Aren’t you frightened?’ Mary asked him and felt she melted when he looked at her, a hint of a smile on his lips, the light of excitement in his eyes.

  ‘In a way. That’s why I’m looking forward to doing something I’ve been trained for. I’ve got a good crew. We’ve been trained to fight for this country and freedom, and fight we will – eventually.’

  Stan Sweet looked thoughtfully down at the floor while unconsciously groping for his pipe. Suddenly he remembered he was in someone else’s house and slid it back into his pocket.

  Bettina Hicks saw the action. ‘It’s all right, Stan. You can smoke.’

  He looked up and saw the sudden brightness in her eyes. ‘My late husband Alf used to smoke a pipe. I quite miss having the smell of pipe smoke in the house.’ Her voice was tinged with a hint of sadness.

  Stan thanked her and lit up. ‘Smoking calms me down and helps me think,’ he said.

  ‘You served in the Great War if I remember rightly,’ said Bettina.

  He nodded. ‘I did, and listening to your nephew, I realised that nothing much has changed. Young men still want to be warriors, not that I disrespect them for that.’

  ‘A terrible blight has infected Europe,’ said Bettina Hicks, her eyes briefly landing on Gilda, who visibly paled despite the heavy make-up. Bettina had already told them she was a refugee from Austria.

  ‘I realise that,’ said Stan, ‘though that wasn’t really what I was thinking of. I was thinking back and realising there is nothing more exciting than at the moment you have to fight for your life. You do things you would never do in peacetime.’ His gaze dropped to his pipe.

  The pale eyes of Mrs Hicks flickered as they alighted on Gilda who suddenly looked very troubled. Mary too saw the disquiet on Gilda’s face before she disappeared into the kitchen. She got up to go after her, but Mrs Hicks signalled for her not to. ‘She’s had a terrible time,’ she said. ‘There are moments when she has to be alone.’

  Stan Sweet didn’t ask what the problem was with Gilda and neither did anyone else. Her husband wasn’t with her; that in itself was telling enough. This war was going to be worse than the last, he thought, and we’re going to have a fight on our hands.

  He got up, went over to where Michael was standing and shook his hand. ‘I wish you all the best, young man. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  Stan knew that winning was going to depend on the bravery of young men like Michael Dangerfield and Charlie, his only son. He’d almost lost his son in this war already, but Charlie would go back to sea. From the very first he’d wanted to go and do his bit. This young Italian-Canadian had the same attitude, one that could get him killed, though Stan fervently hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d already decided he liked young Dangerfield. He’d also noticed that Mary liked him too though she was doing her best not to show it.

  Gilda came back from the kitchen with red-rimmed eyes which they all pretended not to notice.

  Somehow the talk got round to gardening and how best to get as much fresh produce as possible from even the smallest patch of garden.

  Mrs Hicks was all ears as Stan outlined his plans to plant those things he thought would be in shortest supply. ‘I know it’s cold outside,’ she said suddenly, ‘but perhaps we could take a walk around my poor vegetable patch. It’s a little run down thanks to my hip, but I would appreciate your advice – if you would like to accompany me that is.’

  Stan said that he would. ‘Might even be able to give you a bit of a hand,’ he added, much to the twins’ surprise.

  ‘Good,’ said Bettina, leaning on the stick and rising unsteadily to her feet. ‘We can leave the younger generation to their own devices – and the dishes,’ she added with more than a glimmer of humour.

  Ruby washed and Mary wiped. Frances was absorbed in playing snakes and ladders with Isaac and Marianne, the game spread out on the floor, the three children lying on their stomachs around it.

  ‘Did you get it for Christmas?’ Frances was asking them.

  ‘Sort of. We don’t celebrate Christmas. Not really,’ said Marianne.

  Frances looked astounded. ‘How awful! Why is that?’

  Isaac brushed his dark curls behind his ears, his attention fixed on the game spread out in front of them. ‘Oh. It’s because we’re Jewish,’ he said, matter of factly.

  Gilda, who was putting away the pretty lace tablecloth and generally tidyin
g the room, winced at her son’s comment, as though she didn’t want it mentioned.

  ‘I need to make the beds,’ she said, excusing herself from the room.

  ‘I know where everything goes,’ said Michael while taking the dried dishes from Mary. ‘Or at least, I think I do.’

  His grin was infectious. It came to Mary that one day she would look back on this event, this passing of dishes from her hands to his, and know it was truly the moment when they’d fallen in love.

  She gave a little gasp, hardly able to believe the unbidden thought. Where had it come from?

  ‘Whoops!’

  Luckily Michael had a firm grip of the plate she’d been in the process of passing to him. She still had hold of it; that was when she noticed that their fingertips were touching.

  Ruby came wandering out from the living room just as they were putting the last of the dishes away.

  Mary went to use the bathroom, not really because she needed to, but just to give Michael the opportunity to be alone with her sister. She wanted them to be friends, but Ruby was still hostile, smarting because Michael’s baking had beaten hers.

  ‘Those mince pies were good,’ said Michael cheerfully as though he really hadn’t noticed Ruby’s sullen glare. ‘I was hoping there would be enough to take back to the boys, but nope! Seems we’ve ate the lot. Best I’ve ever tasted.’

  Ruby had been aching for a fight, but Michael’s flattery had totally disarmed her. ‘Really? So you can’t make them better than I can?’

  Michael continued as though he hadn’t noticed her tone. ‘Never said I could.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve already spent your prize money on drink and wild women,’ Ruby said accusingly.

  ‘No. I gave it to a deserving cause.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘I haven’t got a wife, but I think you already know that. I gave it to Gilda. She came here penniless. She needs it.’