by Lizzie Lane
It wasn’t lost on Mary and Ruby that he’d not acknowledged Paddy’s request.
A few days later news spread around the village that Gareth Stead had left very quickly and nobody knew where he’d gone. Nobody threw aspersions in Stan Sweet’s direction, though everyone knew about the stolen pig. Also the rumours of Gareth dealing on the black market were rife. That was also the day when Mary discovered the sack of sugar.
‘Will you say anything?’ Ruby asked her.
Mary shook her head. ‘It’s not worth worrying about, though you could have told me.’
‘Will you tell Dad?’
Again Mary told her she would not. ‘I’ve got other things on my mind. More important things.’
Ruby knew she was referring to Michael Dangerfield.
‘He’ll be fine,’ she said, giving her sister a reassuring hug. ‘No news is good news.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ruby was pleased with herself. This afternoon’s demonstration to factory workers in Bedminster, South Bristol, had gone well. The women were making pins of some description. The pins that came to Ruby’s mind were hat pins, safety pins and sewing pins. It turned out that the pins these women were making were for munitions.
Corporal Johnnie Smith commented that she was looking pleased with herself.
‘They were the hardest audience I’ve had, but they understood what I was talking about. I bet most of them have made a meal from a penny all their lives.’
She fancied she saw him smile, but couldn’t be sure. He was a hard nut to crack and never failed to take her down if he could. It occurred to her that he considered her too young and too classy to know what she was talking about. From what he’d said so far, she guessed he came from a pretty tough background, London, if his accent was anything to go by.
‘Just don’t do that again,’ he growled, his mood already back to normal.
She looked down at her hands so he couldn’t see her amusement. She’d actually got him to come up on stage and assist her with the cooking demonstration. He’d been reluctant but both herself and the women in the audience had cheered him on.
‘After all, an army marches on its stomach and you should ensure that yours is always well filled. I’ll make a cook of you yet,’ she’d added in a low whisper.
‘I don’t need to do cooking. I get it done for me.’ He paused. ‘The army supplies everything I need.’
‘I will ask you to do the same again. It’s your duty and if you don’t, I shall have you replaced.’
‘Oh yes!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘That is so bloody typical of your sort. Miss Bloody High and Mighty. Looking down your nose at the rest of us!’
Ruby lost patience. ‘How dare you! I do not look down my nose! It’s you with the problem, you with the chip on both shoulders!’
Silence reigned all the way home.
On arrival Corporal Smith helped her around the back with the picnic hamper and the suitcase. The back door was unlocked, the kitchen empty. There was no sign of Mary or her father; Frances had returned to Ada’s place in the forest and Gilda, who usually lingered to sip tea and sample Mary’s latest recipes, wasn’t around either.
‘Thank you,’ Ruby said to Johnnie Smith as he set her baggage on the table. ‘See you tomorrow.’
He grunted his usual agreement before sidling off; that in itself was different. Usually he strode off as though marching across a parade ground. Today he was slower.
After taking off her hat and gloves, Ruby considered putting on the kettle, but instead decided to walk along to Stratham House. Perhaps everyone was there taking tea and biscuits with Mrs Hicks. It occurred to her that Michael might have returned, or perhaps there was news of his whereabouts.
It now being June, the air was pleasant and warm, the smell of summer in the air. Nobody would think there was a war on, she thought to herself, yet terrible things were happening in France.
The old gate grated on its hinges when she pushed it open. Because of the weather she’d expected everyone to be sitting outside in Mrs Hicks’s secluded garden listening to the buzzing of bees, the air heavy with the scent of lavender and lilac.
A wrought-iron table and four chairs sat unoccupied in the middle of the lawn.
Ruby felt the first pang of unease. Her father wouldn’t go far with the back door left open.
The sound of the creaking gate had been heard. The front door opened and Mrs Hicks appeared.
Ruby was about to make a remark about everyone hiding from her but stopped herself. The corners of Mrs Hicks’s mouth were downturned and so, it seemed, were the corners of her eyes. Her whole demeanour was one of extreme sadness.
Ruby was overcome with a sudden feeling of weakness, as though her legs refused to walk, her heart refused to pump blood around her body. Something terrible had happened.
Michael! It had to be Michael!
‘Is it Michael?’ she whispered.
Mrs Hicks shook her head. ‘It’s Charlie. Your father came straight over to tell me and Gilda. Mary is here with him. You’d better come in.’
The news was hard to believe. Charlie had survived one sinking but not a second one. This time his ship had been torpedoed by a submarine. Some members of the crew had survived; Charlie had not.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Charlie had drowned. There would be no body to inter, no walnut coffin or bright array of summer flowers.
It took days for it to sink in. The fine summer weather did nothing to lift anyone’s spirits. People came in to pay their respects. Miriam Powell kept shaking her head and muttering that she’d done everything possible to help him survive. Mary thought about the note – a prayer to the Virgin Mary. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone and wouldn’t mention it now. There was no point. However, she didn’t want her father to find it.
He visited the churchyard more frequently now, a lonely figure walking across the dewy grass in the early morning, bare-headed, his trilby clenched in both hands.
He looked down at Sarah’s grave and began to tell her what had happened. His words stuck in his throat. He fell down on his knees, bent his head and sobbed until he could sob no more.
I know. Remember you’ve still got two children to care about …
It wasn’t until he had dragged himself to the lych gate that he understood more clearly those words that had entered his mind. Whether they had come from her for sure, or from his own wish that it was her speaking to him, he’d never been clear. What did strike him was that of course she would know. Charlie was with her and in a strange way it gave him great comfort to know that.
The church was filled with old school friends, the family and those in the village to whom Charlie used to deliver bread on his bicycle.
The vicar opened the memorial service by thanking God for heroes like Charlie, whose final resting place was known only to God.
‘He lives on with God and also in our hearts. May I repeat those famous words, at the going down of the sun and in the morning, we shall remember them. We shall remember all those who paid the final price. We pray that Charles Henry Sweet will rest in peace.’
The vicar’s moving words were followed by muffled sobs until drowned out by the sound of a packed church rising to its feet.
The words of the seamen’s hymn soared to the rafters.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,
Who bidst the mighty ocean deep,
Its own appointed limits keep.
Oh hear us when we cry to thee,
For those in peril on the sea.
The words of the hymn were blurred by the tears in Ruby’s eyes. She held the hymn book with one hand, her other arm hugging the sobbing Frances who didn’t even bother to try and sing, her shoulders were shaking that badly.
Frances had loved Charlie dearly and he in turn had been like an older brother to her. Ruby was convinced that when Frances was a woman, every man she met would have to measure up to her cous
in Charlie.
At the end of the pew, on the other side of their father, Mary was sitting straight-backed and staring straight ahead singing the words from memory and thinking of Charlie as a child, clinging to a homemade raft he’d proudly launched on to the Avon, only to have it sink beneath him. Cussing and swearing and spitting out water, he’d clambered to the bank. He’d always been one for seeking adventure and had always loved the water. Even back then he’d wanted to float away and had done once, his home-made craft getting as far as Hanham Abbots.
She lifted her head and smiled at the thought of him and chanced to glimpse Gilda Jacobson, her glossy black hair tucked into a black snood, the brim of her hat tilted so that it hid her eyes but not her tear-stained cheekbones. Every so often she bowed her head, wiping her face with a lace-edged handkerchief.
Lace-edged! How luxurious. A lot of people were down to tearing up old pillowcases and sheets to make handkerchiefs. Or even underwear. So how come …?
Mary stopped singing and almost stopped breathing. She had to admit to herself that she was becoming too serious, too engrossed in war work. Almost as though the war will be lost if I don’t goad women into being frugal, she thought to herself.
Poor Gilda. She really had loved Charlie and Mary was quite certain he had loved her back. What did it matter if Gilda had been married before and had two children? Each day was there to be lived. Clearly she was devastated and must be feeling terribly alone. She wasn’t family. Neither was she from the village. Mary made herself a promise to speak to her after this was over, a sisterly talk assuring her that she had a place in the family, just as Charlie had had a place in her heart.
Ruby was thinking of Johnnie Smith. He was miles away yet she could hear his voice ringing in her ears, telling her not to be so bloody uptight, so bloody superior! He had been luckier than Charlie. He had survived, though never spoke of his time in Norway or the colonel he used to drive for. It was as if the whole episode was a closely guarded secret, one he had no intention of ever betraying.
Mary slid her arm through that of her father. She felt him tremble. She pressed his arm with her free hand – a small gesture of reassurance, to tell him she would miss her brother as much as he would, though instinctively she knew it couldn’t possibly be the same. It was a terrible thing to lose a child.
She looked up into her father’s sad face, hugged his arm and tried to smile bravely. His look was unreadable and there was no smile. He turned back to face the front.
Her gaze returned to Gilda. It struck her then that these were the two people, her father and Gilda, who had loved Charlie the most. Her eyes met those of her sister who stood on the other side of her father. On the other side of Ruby, Frances sobbed and clung on to her arm.
In her heart, Mary added other words to the prayers for Charlie. ‘Please God, bring Michael home.’
The congregation rose for one more hymn: ‘I Vow to Three My Country’. The vicar gave the blessing and then it was over.
‘Come on, Dad,’ whispered Mary, clinging steadfastly to her father’s arm as she glided sideways out of the pew. ‘Let’s get home. Don’t want that food going to waste. Not after all the effort put in by our …’ She’d been about to say, our boys in the merchant navy.
Charlie had been one of those boys whom the merchant navy had so depended on.
At first she didn’t think her father had noticed. His head was bowed, his shoulders stooped. It was as though he’d aged ten years in a matter of days.
They emerged from the subdued light of the church into a sombre day. The sky was marbled with clouds and the smell of rain was in the air.
The vicar, a tall gaunt man with a bald head and wire-rimmed glasses, shook Stan’s hand. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Sweet. A great loss. A great loss indeed.’
He spoke softly and although the sentiments were no doubt sincere, they seemed rehearsed and probably were. The village had experienced many deaths over the years; even though Charlie had been young and a beloved son, what was one more?
‘No doubt there’ll be lots more before this war is over,’ her father murmured. ‘Just like the last. Just as bloody. Just as much a waste of bloody time!’
The vicar winced at his use of language. ‘I do hope not. I do hope there is a deeply moral purpose for all this carnage.’
‘Behopes,’ muttered her father, not sounding for a moment as though he believed it was so.
Mary eyed him warily, noting the rigid set of his jaw, the downturned corners of his mouth. On the outside his manner portrayed a reserved, polite individual brought up to accept his lot in life and put up with almost everything. Inside she knew his heart was breaking.
She slid her arm through his again. Ruby did the same on the other side. Frances clung to Ruby.
They walked back along the path. Stan shook his head. ‘You never expect to outlive your children,’ he said to her once they were out of earshot of the vicar. ‘Worse still is not having the remains to grieve over, just a line or two added to his mother’s headstone.’
‘Mr Sweet.’ Gilda Jacobson called from behind them, her heels clattering on the flagstone path.
Stan turned. The girls turned with him.
Gilda had a haughty tilt to her chin, which Mary interpreted as being an effort not to break down and howl at God for not looking after the man she’d loved, understandable seeing as he hadn’t looked after her first husband either.
‘I want to say something to you, Mr Sweet. I want to apologise, but also to make you understand …’
She sounded nervous and her tone was brittle. Ruby surmised it wouldn’t take much for her to break down and cry.
Stan Sweet frowned. ‘Apologise? What do you have to apologise about?’
Ruby eyed Gilda not without some hostility. Her brother had been a sucker for a pretty face. Regardless of her sad experiences, Ruby couldn’t get over the fact that Gilda was older than him and had children.
Gilda’s eyes fluttered, dark lashes brushing her pale cheeks. ‘You may not think so, but there has been gossip. Some people might think me flighty – I think that is what they say. Flighty, in that I chased Charlie, a man younger than myself. But it was not like that. My husband died because he printed pamphlets opposing a brutal regime. I fled with my children, coming a long way to escape prejudice. I never thought I would ever be happy again. I never thought I would love again.’ A pink haze appeared on Gilda’s high cheekbones. Stan stood silently between his daughters waiting for her to go on. ‘Charlie understood that,’ she said. ‘He made me laugh again. It had been a long time since I laughed.’
Stan Sweet stood like a rock in front of her. He cleared his throat, looked down at the ground then directly at her. ‘Young woman. Allow me. Before my son went away we had a little heart to heart about a lot of things … things fathers and sons don’t talk about too often. Loving somebody was one of them. I loved my wife Sarah. We were married for just a few years and then she was taken from me. I’ve missed her every day since. That’s what me and my boy were talking about. Love for a woman. As I said, men don’t often talk about that kind of stuff in case our mates thinks we’re all softies. I’m glad he was happy before … well … I’m glad he was looking forward to something and someone.’
To Mary’s surprise he placed an affectionate hand on Gilda’s shoulder. ‘I know what you went through, my girl. Charlie told me – about your husband being imprisoned and what you had to do in order to protect your children. I wish Charlie was still here to make you happy. I wish I could have seen him settled down and giving me grandchildren. But it didn’t happen and I’m sorry for that. In the meantime, all I can do is to share my grief with you. You’re welcome to call on me whenever you want to.’
Mrs Hicks had prepared the food at her house and had also attended the memorial service. The children had been left with Mrs Gates who had plenty of her own children for the two of them to play with.
Bettina was waiting there when they came back from the church. Mary so
ught her out.
As she took off her hat and coat, she asked if there had been any news from Michael, Bettina’s nephew.
‘Nothing, but the way telephones and telegrams are at the moment …’
She had been going to say that communications were overwhelmed what with the dire way the war was going – so many things going wrong, so many young men being killed, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want Mary fearing the worst.
‘Michael always was a good swimmer,’ she said cheerfully. ‘If he has gone down in the sea he’ll likely swim all the way home!’
‘I expect you’re right.’ Although Mary wasn’t fooled she pretended that she was. There was the distinct possibility that Michael’s plane had gone down on land, in which case it might have blown up on impact. If it had managed to land safely, he might very well have been captured and therefore likely to spend the rest of the war in a prisoner of war camp.
She picked up a plateful of sandwiches and one of her homemade Madeleines.
‘Shall I take these in?’
‘If you could please,’ Bettina replied. ‘Ooo! Madeleines! Michael’s favourite. He’ll be disappointed he’s missed these!’
Mary wasn’t sure that they were Michael’s favourite cakes, but she smiled anyway and said that he should have made sure he got here in time to eat them.
The sandwiches and cakes were well received. Mary’s jaw ached repeating the same responses to the oft-repeated condolences. Inside she wanted to scream that she’d prefer silence rather than platitudes, but it was unfair to call them that. People felt awkward. Not knowing what to say they stuck to the tried and tested.
‘Those look good.’
The speaker was Andrew Sinclair from the Ministry of Food. She’d had to stand him up on a BBC broadcast but on learning of the reason, he’d sworn then and there that he would be at the memorial service. She thought it sweet of him, though realised he wasn’t attending purely out of sympathy. He hadn’t known Charlie, but he did want to know her better. As she circulated around the room with more sandwiches and other cakes, she felt his eyes on her and couldn’t help blushing. Unlike Ruby she had never invited male attention, in fact, she’d always felt awkward when a man had shown interest in her, like a gauche adolescent rather than a grown woman.