Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  Cecelia’s Brunswick Stew

  You need:

  •4 oz butter

  •3 cloves garlic (minced)

  •1 large onion (finely chopped)

  •1 (15 oz) can tomatoes

  •8 oz chicken stock

  •12 oz barbecue sauce

  •2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

  •1 tablespoon brown sugar

  •¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

  •1½ pounds smoked pulled pork (or chicken)

  •8 oz sweetcorn

  •8 oz butter beans

  •Salt and pepper, to taste

  Method

  1.Melt butter in a large Dutch oven (or cast iron cooking pot) over medium-high heat. Once melted, add the garlic and onions and sauté until soft for about 5 minutes.

  2.Stir in the tomatoes, chicken stock, barbecue sauce, Worcestershire sauce, brown sugar, cayenne, smoked pork, butter beans, sweetcorn and salt and pepper.

  3.Bring the mixture to the boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook over medium-low heat for 1½ hours, stirring occasionally.

  Cecelia’s Lowcountry Tomato pie

  You need:

  •2 oz butter

  •5 oz chopped celery

  •1 onion (chopped)

  •1 green pepper

  •Dumpling mix

  •2 tomatoes (thinly sliced)

  •8 oz Cheddar cheese

  •8 oz low-fat mayonnaise

  •8 oz sour cream

  •1 teaspoon garlic & herb seasoning

  Method

  1.Preheat oven to 350°F (175°C). Lightly grease a medium baking dish.

  2.Melt butter in a frying pan over medium heat. Put in celery, onion, and green pepper and sauté until tender.

  3.Prepare dumpling mix and press into the prepared baking dish to form a crust. Layer with the tomatoes. Top with the sautéed vegetables.

  4.In a medium bowl, mix Cheddar cheese, mayonnaise, sour cream, and seasoning blend. Spread evenly over the vegetables.

  5.Bake 45 minutes in the preheated oven, until bubbly and lightly browned.

  Aunt Bet’s Sussex Plum Heavies

  Sussex Plum Heavies were a home-made scone which was eaten by farmers, shepherds and woodsmen. They were made with plain flour which was why they were called ‘heavies’.

  You need:

  •8 oz plain flour

  •2 oz lard

  •1 teacup of milk and water

  •1 oz sugar

  •A few currants

  Method

  Rub lard into the flour until it resembles breadcrumbs. Add dried fruit then the liquid. Knead into a dough and roll or press into rounds. Bake in a hot oven for about 12 minutes.

  An original recipe from the Western Times – Friday 17 December 1943

  The Silver Jubilee Quilt

  ‘What did they say?’

  Susan’s husband, Jack, pulled a bottle of wine out of the kitchen cupboard. She watched as he poured himself a glass and downed it in one go, ignoring her. He poured another glass.

  ‘This is 1977, not the Dark Ages,’ she cried. ‘They shouldn’t be treating you like this.’ Susan could feel the tension building inside her. Hurt and almost in tears, she said, ‘I’m in this too, you know.’ She really wanted to shout: For heaven’s sake Jack, pull yourself together and tell me what they said, but she didn’t. With his back still towards her, he braced himself against the worktop and stared down at his feet.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, coming towards him and laying her hand on his back, ‘Darling …’

  He jerked himself away from her. ‘I have just endured nearly two bloody hours of police questioning,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘and I don’t want to come home to another grilling.’

  Trying to help, she touched his arm but he snatched it away and his sudden move knocked the glass over. Wine spilled across the work surface and trickled down the drawers.

  ‘That’s all I need!’ he spat.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It was an accident.’

  Susan picked up a dish cloth and threw it over the spreading liquid.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said in a more measured tone. ‘I may be late. Don’t wait up.’ And with that, he strode out of the room.

  As she mopped up the wine and wiped the drawers clean, she heard the front door slam. Susan slumped onto a kitchen chair and stared somewhere in front of her, her eyes unfocussed. Her chest felt as if it had a lead weight inside. She wanted to cry but she couldn’t. Right now she was all out of tears. She knew where her husband was going – to the pub, and he’d be there until chucking out time. Why couldn’t he see that drinking himself into oblivion wasn’t going to solve anything? What made intelligent, articulated men so bloody stupid? She’d tried everything to help: being reasonable, indignation at the unfairness of it all, sympathy, understanding, encouraging him to talk, but it was no use. Jack was stuck and because he was stuck, so was she.

  She wished her parents were here. She could have talked to her mum, but she and her dad were abroad. If all this hadn’t have happened, Susan and Jack might have been on holiday with them.

  ‘Oh Mum, what am I going to do?’ she said aloud as the realisation of the situation she and Jack were in flooded over her again.

  She didn’t want to write and tell them what was going on. It would take far too long and a long distance transatlantic trunk call would be prohibitively expensive, especially when money was so tight. Besides, what could her parents do from such a distance except worry about her? It might spoil their holiday. No, she couldn’t tell them until they came back at the end of May.

  Jack wanted them to keep their heads down so as not to draw attention to themselves but she couldn’t stay indoors all the time, could she? Why should she anyway? She had nothing to hide. Come to that, neither did he. A wave of nausea swept over her. Now she understood what it meant when people said they were sick with worry.

  She heard the sound of something being pushed through the letter box. She didn’t rush to the hall to see what it was. It was probably the Tupperware brochure. She’d have to stop buying that stuff anyway. Jack was suspended on half pay and there was no telling how long that would last. If he lost his job altogether they would have to move as well. Her wage from the nursery would hardly cover the bills, let alone an eight thousand pound mortgage.

  She took a deep breath. Stop this, she told herself. You’ll only make yourself even more depressed. She glanced up at the clock and rose to her feet. Today was her quilting day and she wasn’t going to miss that. Wiping her cheeks with the flat of her hand, Susan fished under the pile of papers and other junk on the kitchen table. She was looking for the tin box of old newspaper cuttings.

  It was underneath the Worthing Herald which was folded open to reveal the advertisement she’d spotted about two months ago. Distracted from her search for the cutting, she re-read the piece in the Herald. In just a few weeks, it said, it will be the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. Twenty-five years ago, when Susan was just two years old, Queen Elizabeth II had come to the throne. A jubilee felt like a milestone and something worth celebrating, which was why the article had resonated with her so strongly. She read it again.

  Be a part of creating a quilt to depict village life. If you know the old village of Goring well, the Hon. Mrs Valerie Melcham is looking for women to take part in creating a quilt in honour of the occasion. Work will take place in the Old Manor House on Thursday evening with the aim of hanging the finished quilt in St Mary’s church, Goring.

  Of course, Goring was now part of the urban sprawl that was Worthing but she’d been born and brought up in the village when it was still a village. By the time Susan had reached her teens, thanks to her mother, she’d been a reasonable seamstress. She still enjoyed making her own clothes so when she saw the article about the quilt, she was keen to join in. Right now she could do with a bit of a distraction and some female company. The girls at work were nice enough b
ut being part of a team looking after sixty under-fives at the nursery left little time for conversation. Besides, because of what had happened to Jack it felt like she was treading on egg shells. She and Jack hadn’t been married that long, and it was embarrassing to admit everything was going so wrong so soon. At the quilting club, she could be sparing with her confidences while she did something relaxing and yet challenging and fun.

  Susan pushed the jubilee quilt article aside. That wasn’t what she was looking for. Delving deeper, she tugged at a flimsy cutting she’d left in the box a while ago and smoothed it out. Yes, this should do it. This should expose a fraud.

  On her way out, Susan picked up the Avon catalogue from the front door mat and tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

  *

  Valerie Melcham stared across the dining room table and sighed. How many times had she sat here eating her evening meal all alone? Nigel had telephoned about twenty minutes ago. ‘Shan’t be in for dinner tonight. Something has come up.’

  She could just imagine what that meant. Probably some long-legged dizzy young girl in the office had caught his eye. Miserably, Valerie looked down at her wedding ring. Her nails might be beautifully and expensively manicured but the skin on her hands was beginning to show signs of her age. Not that she was that old. What was it she’d recently read in her copy of Tatler? ‘The forties are the new twenties.’ How different it all seemed thirty years ago when she’d met Nigel. Back then she’d been the pretty young thing and he’d been attentive and loving. She snorted. Oh, the irony of it all. He’d even been considered a ‘good catch’.

  She didn’t know why it had all gone pear-shaped, but once the boys had come along, the distance between them had grown. She had tried, oh God she’d tried, but after only four more years she knew their marriage was a farce. He made no secret of the fact that he preferred younger women. They’d rowed and Nigel had said some terrible things. Eventually he’d confessed that all he’d wanted was sons to carry on the family name. He didn’t want her, he said. He didn’t love her. Never had. His torrent of words had hurt, but as resilient as she was, Valerie devoted her life to bringing up the boys and the renovation of the Old Manor House; not an easy task with a husband who squandered their money on fripperies. How many affairs he’d had, she couldn’t recall, but now that she was older she was simply grateful that he no longer wanted to share her bed. She sighed. If only Ashley was here …

  Valerie glanced at her watch. The ladies would be arriving within the hour to begin the quilt once more. She hoped there would be a good response from the advertisement in the Worthing Herald. The girl who turned up a couple of weeks ago was an absolute godsend but time was of the essence. They needed to get the quilt finished and there was only five weeks to go. Putting her napkin down beside her empty plate, she rose to her feet. When she’d started the project, Valerie had no idea how enormously satisfying it would be. Never one to do things by halves, she had consulted the experts at The Victoria and Albert Museum and the Royal School of Needlework for advice. The needlewomen working on the quilt may only be amateurs but she wanted them to create something which would last, something they could be proud of, something they could show their children and grandchildren. ‘It doesn’t need to be complicated,’ she’d told the experts with a wry smile, ‘just fabulous.’

  *

  As Susan stepped over the red rope and onto the faded Georgian carpet, the last of the Saturday visitors to the Old Manor House gasped in shocked surprise. The security guard spun around.

  ‘Not on the carpet, Miss,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘Whoops, sorry Stan,’ she apologised teasingly. ‘I forgot.’

  He was a nice man, mid-fifties, a bit portly but she knew from the banter they often shared together that he enjoyed a bit of fun. He was a widower and she guessed that since his wife died he’d been a bit lonely. Conscious that by this time every eye in the room was upon her, Susan obediently followed him onto the wooden surround. He opened the big double door marked ‘Private’.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone I trod on the carpet,’ Susan cried in a plaintive voice. ‘I promise I won’t do it again.’

  As the door closed on the gaping visitors, Stan whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘One of these days you’ll get me shot, young lady.’

  She grinned mischievously. ‘How’s the garden?’

  ‘My Molly was the gardener,’ he said sadly as they walked through the maze of corridors. ‘I gets confused. I don’t know me antirrhinums from me chrysanthemums.’

  ‘Why not have a chat with Hazel?’ Susan suggested. ‘She’s a keen gardener.’

  Stan chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully so she knew he was tempted. There was a slight pause before he said, ‘Na, you’re alright.’

  *

  Susan gave Iris Wilson a sceptical look as soon as she came into the sewing room. Should she come right out with it now?

  ‘Ah, Susan, here at last,’ Iris warbled. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it this week.’

  Iris looked her up and down, but if she was surprised by the way Susan was dressed, she was much too polite to show it. They couldn’t have been more different but they got on fairly well considering that they were poles apart. Iris, a lively sixty-year-old with tight white curls in her grey pleated skirt, powder blue blouse, hand-knitted cardigan and sensible shoes, while Susan, twenty-six, with shoulder length blonde hair cut in a Farrah Fawcett style, was more at home with her pale orange lipstick and blue eye shadow. Today she was dressed in an ankle-length purple print peasant dress under her long, flowing, multi-coloured coat. Susan was young enough to be Iris’s daughter, she thought to herself as she studied the older woman’s face … or was she?

  Throwing her coat over the back of the chair, Susan was just about to sit down when Iris said, ‘We’ve got to work on the quilt a bit further along the line.’

  ‘But I haven’t quite finished my square yet,’ Susan protested mildly.

  ‘I know,’ said Iris, ‘but Mrs Melcham thinks we should tidy up the bit June Carter was doing.’ She came closer to speak more confidentially. ‘Her stitching wasn’t very good and now that she’s left the group, we can make an improvement on it.’

  When Susan had first arrived, the others had explained what they were doing and why. ‘Every part of the patchwork needs to be part of the same story,’ said Valerie. ‘You have to ask yourself, what is my square telling people about my life in the village?’

  ‘Well, I grew up in the village,’ Susan had told them. ‘I spent a lot of time playing by myself down by the sea. How about I do the old pond that used to be on the green?’

  ‘What do you think, Hazel?’ Valerie asked.

  ‘Sounds perfect to me.’ Hazel had said. ‘I remember that old pond. It looks a lot tidier since the council grassed it over but it did have its own charm.’

  ‘It would certainly be a talking point,’ Iris agreed.

  ‘Then that’s what you can do!’ Valerie had cried enthusiastically. ‘The rag bag is over there.’ She bustled away as someone required her in another part of the room. ‘Remember, Susan,’ she had called over her shoulder, ‘it’s important that you keep your own style and interpretation in the quilt, but at the same time, you must maintain the overall balance of the piece.’

  Susan had worked quickly and her interpretation of the sea shore and the pond at Goring was now virtually finished. She’d put a child beside it (herself), a frog sitting on a stone and a newt in a jam jar. All she had to do to complete the square was to put a little piece of gauze on the end of the rod to represent a fishing net, but that would have to wait.

  Taking her coat off the back of the chair, Susan moved further up the line.

  ‘Hazel has gone over to Mrs Melcham’s kitchen to get some milk for the tea,’ said Iris, turning around to check that Susan was following her. She gave Susan a concerned look. ‘Are you all right dear? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Susan said d
ismissively. She was reluctant to admit it but she still felt a little queasy. I only feel like this because I rushed up the hill, she told herself.

  Down the centre of the enormously long table, the material which was to become the Goring jubilee quilt lay in pieces along its entire length. Several women, all with long-term connections to the village, sat opposite each other working as though they were on a factory production line. As each person sewed her uniquely individual appliqué and embroidery square, the room was a hive of activity. As she followed Iris right down the line, Susan gasped. This was the first time she’d seen the whole thing laid out. They still had a long way to go, but already it held the promise of being truly magnificent.

  Although Susan had only recently joined the group, the others had been gathering here for the past four months and already time was ticking by. The Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II was only weeks away and there was still an awful lot to do. Even though Mrs Melcham had changed the original weekly attendance to twice a week, everybody was working flat out. Each square represented some aspect of village life – past and present – and the people who lived there, while the middle section would be a beautifully embroidered map of the surrounding area, depicting the history of Goring. Once finished, the Silver Jubilee quilt was to have pride of place in St Mary’s church, hanging from ceiling to floor in time for the special jubilee service on June 7th.

  Susan’s gaze fell onto Iris’s back. What was it about this woman that made her feel uneasy? She looked the part but something wasn’t quite right. Iris pulled a chair from under the end of the table and motioned to Susan to sit down. For the first time, Susan noticed her hands and a single breath escaped from her lips. That was it! Now that she’d seen them close up, Iris’s hands were a dead giveaway.

  ‘Oh hello Susan.’

  Hazel Radcliffe, late forties and the local librarian, appeared with a bottle of milk and put it onto the draining board. She picked up the kettle, shook it, filled it from the tap over the sink and switched it on.

  Susan smiled. ‘Looks like I’m working down your end tonight,’ she said.