War Baby

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was heavy with emotion.

  Mary closed her eyes. ‘It’s me that should be sorry. I just can’t seem to …’

  Her eyes felt sore and heavy behind her lids. She loved him, but she couldn’t make love to him. Generations of women had been virgins on their wedding night. She was hardly the first and knew she had to get over it. The right thing to do would be to face him, kiss him, caress him and give in to the inevitable. On his part perhaps he should be more forceful, but Mike wasn’t like that. He was kind and gentle.

  ‘Mary. I didn’t mean to upset you, but we have to do something. We can’t go on like this.’

  She grimaced at the touch of his fingers kneading her shoulders, a comforting gesture, but one that now made her tense. How far would his hand go? Down over her body following her spine then to the deep indent of her waistline, the upward flare of her hip, or down over her shoulder to cup one of her breasts?

  ‘It might not be straight away, but it won’t be too long. Frances will be fourteen soon.’ In her mind she had a plan, enough of one to fend off moving to Lincolnshire, at least for a little while. ‘She’ll be starting work in the bakery and I know she loves looking after Charlie.’

  The front of him was slap bang against her back, his lap cupping the curve of her backside. In deference to her he was wearing pyjama trousers but she could still feel his desire like a hard bone pressed against her buttocks. She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip hard. She had to get over this, but how?

  ‘I can sleep in the spare room if you like.’

  She didn’t answer him at first, not until he made a move to get out of bed.

  She reached behind her and caught his arm. ‘No. Just give me time, Mike. Just a little more time.’

  He rolled back into bed, facing away from her, his eyes blinking into the darkness. He couldn’t bring himself to say that there might not be enough time, but he couldn’t. She had to come to it in her own time, even though his time, as a bomber pilot, might be running out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ANDREW SINCLAIR ARRIVED to take Mary to do a Kitchen Front broadcast for the BBC in Bristol. She’d tried to get out of it, citing the fact that her husband was home, but Andrew had been adamant.

  ‘You’re scheduled to go on air and the BBC is not in the habit of distributing broadcasting slots only to be let down. We all have to make sacrifices, my dear.’

  Because it was Mary’s turn to do her bit, Ruby was stuck in the shop, though hardly upset by having to stay behind. Her face was flushed and she was doing a kind of foxtrot while humming dance tunes, mostly those by Glenn Miller, the American bandleader.

  Ivan had invited her to the dance on Saturday and she was looking forward to it. She wanted something different to wear and Mary had just the right dress, something really special.

  She’d meant to ask her the night before, but she’d got in late, tiptoeing up the stairs, taking two stairs at a time in places just to avoid the ones that creaked. It had been a wonderful night and Ivan was wonderful, so wonderful she couldn’t stop thinking about him all night. And dreaming about him.

  There was just enough time to ask Mary before she left for the broadcast.

  A sharp knocking on the door heralded the arrival of Andrew Sinclair who had made it his job to take Mary into Bristol even though she’d told him that she could drive herself.

  She was wearing a blue flowered dress and a navy blue jacket trimmed with white piping.

  Ruby caught her arm just as she came into the shop from the family kitchen. ‘Mary, I’ve got a hot date on Saturday.’

  ‘I take it you’re going with the man on the motorbike.’

  ‘Yes. He’s invited me to the dance at his base in Whitchurch.’

  Mary pulled a rueful expression. There was a sad look in her eyes. ‘Pilots of aeroplanes are becoming quite a habit in this family.’

  ‘Yes, well. I don’t want to wear the same dress I wore last night, so I wondered … do you think I could borrow your green dress?’

  ‘My. You sound as though you’re smitten.’

  Ruby pulled a face. ‘He’s nice, plus he’s far from home. I mean, such dreadful things happened over there in Poland …’

  ‘And you’re going out with him because you feel sorry for him?’

  Mary smiled. It was obvious from the sparkle in Ruby’s eyes that this wasn’t about feeling sorry for him.

  ‘I like him,’ Ruby admitted. ‘I want to look gorgeous. Do you mind?’

  ‘I don’t mind. It’s hanging in the wardrobe over at Stratham House. I wore it out with Mike the other night. I hope it fits you. You did take it in for me, remember?’

  Ruby grimaced. ‘Well, you have lost a few pounds since getting married. I’ll try it on. I’m not that much bigger than you.’ Ruby paused and considered Mary’s weight loss. It wasn’t the only thing she’d noticed about her sister. There were dark lines under her eyes as though she wasn’t getting enough sleep – and not just when Mike was home. Something was worrying her and she was acting in a more introverted manner, which for Mary was very out of character. Yes, she’d always been the responsible one, not as outward-going as Ruby, but very much in charge when things needed sorting out. Whatever was troubling her she was keeping close-mouthed about it.

  Sooner or later she’ll tell you, Ruby told herself. In time all will be revealed and it might be … She smiled at the thought that her sister might be expecting. Two babies in the family! Now wouldn’t that be something?

  She ventured to ask. ‘Are you sure you’re not pregnant?’

  ‘No!’ Mary’s sharp response was accompanied with a deep blush that gathered in her cheeks before fanning out all over her face. ‘I have to go.’

  It wasn’t the first time she’d asked, but Ruby couldn’t help wondering.

  Mary made a sharp exit. Deep down she wanted to tell her sister what was wrong and ask what she could do about it. As regards the dress, she didn’t give it a second thought.

  The BBC had moved the light entertainment division to Bristol at the beginning of the war, plus some news and public information bulletins. The majority of programmes on food and general home-front economy were still broadcast from London to Bristol, with popular programmes such as ITMA – It’s That Man Again. With regard to Kitchen Front, Mary’s contribution as a local girl was very much appreciated.

  Andrew Sinclair was the kind of man who tended to concentrate on whatever he was doing so spoke very little as they drove into the city. Once they got there he smiled at her and asked how her family was doing. In return she asked him about his mother who he lived with despite him being in his mid-thirties.

  ‘The sound of exploding bombs wearies her, but I find it impossible to get her into a shelter. She stubbornly refuses, is sure that the moment she does either a bomb will come down through the roof or we will be burgled. So she stays sitting in her favourite armchair knitting socks for our boys overseas. That way she insists the bombs will always fall on somebody else and nobody would dare break into a house that is occupied.’

  ‘So she just sits there in the dark and silence?’

  ‘Oh no. She keeps the radio on especially if it’s Ambrose and his orchestra playing. She loves Ambrose.’

  If Mary remembered rightly, Ambrose played at the Savoy. Or was it the Ritz?

  It turned out that they were a whole hour early. The producer maintained that Andrew had known that; Andrew insisted he had not.

  ‘Never mind. We can have a cup of tea in the canteen while we’re waiting. Would that be all right?’ Andrew sounded very happy about the situation, beaming so broadly that Mary was convinced he had got the time wrong on purpose. He wanted time alone with her over a cup of tea. The prospect unnerved her, but this was work; this was for her country, or was it? She didn’t want to be alone with him.

  To her great relief, the canteen was full of chatter and the clink of teacups in saucers. One of the waitresses, a cigarette dangling from the
corner of her mouth, was rubbing something off a blackboard advertising what food they had available. The list was getting shorter. They passed somebody grumbling that there were no custard creams left, only rich tea. The ashtrays on the tables were overflowing; it looked as though they’d had a busy morning.

  Andrew found an empty table, recently wiped down, cleared of dirty crockery and still damp from the waitress’s cloth. The ashtray had been emptied too, but that didn’t stop Andrew from placing it on another table. He’d only recently given up smoking, so he’d told her. His mother had thought it was a good idea and he always did his best to comply with her wishes.

  He left her there while he went off to get them a cup of tea. Mary declined a biscuit. When he got back, he made a big fuss of placing the cup and saucer in front of her, as though it had to be set just right in case she couldn’t see it. To her surprise he’d managed to get two rich tea biscuits. Again she declined.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Never mind. I can manage two quite easily. Only a slice of toast at the boarding house I’ve been staying at. Not enough to set a grown man up for his job! Are you nervous?’ he asked suddenly.

  She shook her head. ‘I was when I did the first broadcast, but not now.’

  He grunted amiably before dunking a biscuit into his tea, nibbling the soft bit away before dunking it again and popping the lot into his mouth. ‘You’re married now.’

  ‘Yes. You know I am.’ She frowned. He’d declined her wedding invitation, so knew she was married.

  ‘But you still live locally, not with your husband?’

  ‘He’s in the air force. In Lincolnshire.’

  He concentrated on dunking and eating the second biscuit before speaking again. ‘You could do better, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  She presumed he meant Mike and was about to admonish him for his rudeness.

  ‘You’ve done very well down here with your broadcasts and demonstrations and suchlike, but I think you could do better. To that end I was wondering if you fancied giving a talk, perhaps more than one, to selected guests at the Savoy Hotel. All expenses paid, of course.’

  ‘Well …’ Mary held her hand against her forehead. Mike had asked her to move to Lincolnshire and now Andrew was asking her to give at least one talk in London.

  ‘There’s a fair chance of it being broadcast,’ he went on while dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Just imagine. Mary Sweet at the Savoy!’

  She’d noticed his handkerchief before, neatly pressed into a perfect triangle, part of which protruded from his breast pocket.

  ‘I’m not Mary Sweet any longer. I’m Mary Dangerfield.’

  ‘Mary Dangerfield doesn’t have the right ring to it,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘Mary Sweet sounds so much better.’

  Mary’s finger tightened into the handle of her teacup. ‘I’m not sure I can do it. You see, I may be moving to Lincolnshire. My husband—’

  ‘Ah yes. Of course. Your husband.’

  Andrew had the ability to undermine her confidence. She didn’t quite know how he did it, just that he did.

  ‘I won’t be going for quite a while. Not until my cousin Frances begins work. We have a baby, you see …’

  His pale eyes, made larger thanks to the thickness of his spectacle lenses, flickered with surprise. ‘You have a baby?’

  ‘Not mine. It’s my brother’s baby. My nephew. Our Charlie died at sea. Torpedoed.’

  ‘Ah! Of course.’ He hit his brow with the palm of his hand, relieved it seemed that she didn’t have a child. ‘How silly of me. I forgot. I didn’t know that he was married.’

  ‘She died too. In London. A bomb dropped on the house she lived in. The baby survived. We took him in, baby Charlie. He had nowhere else to go.’

  She purposely skirted his statement about the marital status of her brother. Andrew was not a friend as such, though from their very first meeting, she sensed he would like to be more than that, despite her being off limits.

  Brow furrowed with sympathy, he nodded over interlocked fingers, his elbows resting on the table. ‘The baby is very lucky to have a family willing to take care of him.’

  Concerned he might press her for more information, she changed the subject. ‘Will they be long now do you think?’

  With a flourish of his fine, long hands, he brought out a watch from his waistcoat pocket. He often wore waistcoats. And bow ties. A dickie bow as her father called it.

  ‘Never trust a man who wears a dickie bow during daylight hours. They’re for wearing after sunset – or not at all.’

  He frowned at his watch. ‘You stay here. I’ll go and check.’

  His manner was oddly protective. Stay here. This is where you’ll be safe.

  Andrew was the first man she’d ever come across who wore a dickie bow during daylight hours. Today it was mustard-coloured. His waistcoat matched his suit – pinstriped, just like the doctor wore, though the doctor’s was shinier than Andrews. Andrew, she’d realised from the start, was not short of money.

  He came stalking back through the canteen, skirting the tables and chairs and brushing aside the smoke of cigarettes with a flutter of one hand, an admonishing look thrown at those who could eat while surrounded by a thick blue haze.

  A few who met his gaze mouthed silent admonishments of their own. Mary hid her smile behind her teacup. Andrew had seemed a likeable enough man at first, but he had a high-handed way about him at times. At present he was focused on getting her on air, but there was an odd motherliness in his attitude, perhaps his mother’s influence?

  Mary put her chunky white cup back into its equally chunky saucer, looked up at him and smiled. ‘Are they ready for me?’

  ‘They are now, once I told them it wasn’t fair to keep you waiting seeing as you had a baby at home.’

  Mary’s eyebrows arched skywards. ‘They don’t think it’s mine …’ She stopped herself from continuing. What was it about her wanting people to have a good opinion of her? Perhaps she should have been a nun!

  ‘Ten minutes.’ He sat back down, fetched out his pocket watch and laid it on the table. ‘And they’d better not be late. To the minute and not a second later.’

  Mary couldn’t help giggling. ‘What will we do if it does go over ten minutes?’

  ‘Leave,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘Employees of the Ministry have not got time to waste. Wasting time is like wasting food. It is not in the national interest.’

  For a moment Mary thought he was joking, but the expression on his face said otherwise. He meant it!

  ‘Let’s talk about you, the happily married woman. I take it you are happily married?’

  She felt her cheeks reddening. ‘I think that’s a little personal.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding not so much as though he’d been rude to ask, but more so that he’d put it rather clumsily. ‘What I mean is that I hope he’s treating you as well as I would have. You’re the only woman I’ve ever considered suitable wife material. You have that stiff-upper-lip quality that I like. You’re a good organiser and it also strikes me that you’re not given over to unnecessary hysteria or physical demands like some women I’ve met. And of course, so many women consider a marriage isn’t a marriage unless there are children – lots of children. I think a marriage of two people alone without children is eminently satisfying. A partnership. That’s what I regard as an ideal marriage.’

  Stiff-upper-lip quality!

  She hardly knew what to say, but felt if she did say anything her words would be angry. As it turned out, she was saved from having to answer when along came a little bespectacled man who asked her to follow him to the recording studio.

  It took a lot of effort to put Andrew’s words to the back of her mind and concentrate on how best to reconstitute dried egg, not to overcook it, how to sweeten it for puddings … it was harder to concentrate than usual.

  Once the broadcast was over Andrew�
��s comments sprang straight back to her mind. How dare he call her stiff-upper-lip material? As for his ideas about marriage, well, it sounded as though all he really wanted was a housekeeper! Someone to take over from his mother. Whereas Mike …

  She walked so briskly back to the car that even Andrew with his long, spidery legs, could barely keep up with her. Once there she stood waiting for him to open the door.

  Inside she bristled. Outside her face was still pink and she was clamping her jaw together so hard her teeth were hurting.

  She saw the studio buildings in Whiteladies Road reflected in his spectacles and had a great urge to pull them off and throw them away. His words had stung her as physically as though he’d slapped her face. Was she really the sort of woman who would suit him and not the Mike Dangerfields of this world, the sort of woman who kept a pristine house where nothing dirty or sinful ever got past the front door?

  ‘Are you all right?’ His tone and expression gave no sign of him regretting what he’d done.

  ‘Yes. Take me home, will you? To the bakery please.’

  Mike must be back at Stratham House by now, but she wanted to see her family first. She wanted to see Charlie and she badly wanted to speak to Ruby.

  Without knowing it, Andrew had opened her eyes to how she was seen by those around her. It made her even more amazed that Mike had seen beneath the surface to what she could be. He’d had to have done. Why else would he have been so determined to marry her?

  As usual Andrew drove silently, hands grasping the steering wheel, eyes narrowed as he traversed the darkening road ahead. He said not a word until they were outside the bakery.

  ‘I’ll let you know about the broadcast from the Savoy. Shouldn’t be more than a few days.’

  As if she would want to go to London with him! What did she care about giving a talk at the Savoy? Nothing. Well, almost nothing. The fact that Ruby and she had landed the job had pleased their father. He hadn’t wanted them to move away from home to work in the forces or in a factory. Ruby was better at it, loved meeting and talking to people, demonstrating their latest dishes, advising on how best to eke out the weekly ration in order to conserve enough ingredients to make a simple cake or pie. Perhaps Ruby was the one who should go to London, though she guessed Ruby wasn’t what Andrew wanted.