Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  Stan agreed that feeding the troops was important. He didn’t add that Ronnie wasn’t that bright, most definitely all brawn and little brain. It made sense for him to stay on the land where all he had to do was what his parents told him to do. Mrs Martin had other sons with a bit more brain and almost as much brawn. Two of them had been called up.

  So it was at the time when they’d just fired up the ovens, Mrs Martin was telling them the saga of Old Spot interspersed with other details about her neighbours, the war and anything else that sprang to mind.

  ‘The rest of him’s been smoked and salted so it should last us a while. The smoke ’ouse is full enough, so I thought this leg is our feast for the week, what with roasting it, ’aving it cold on Monday, in a pie on Tuesday, stew on Wednesday, minced with onions on Thursday, and faggots on Friday. I kept a bit of liver and lights for doing that fer myself and you got some too. Makes sense to me to fatten ourselves up ’fore rationing comes in and old Masters calls the shots in the butchers. D’you know we’re goin’ to ’ave to register all our stock and tell ’em when we fattens and kills a pig? And how many suckers the old sow gives birth to? Everything’s gotta be accounted for so they says. Now there’s a thing!’

  Stan agreed that indeed it was something to be reckoned with, but then things always got difficult in war and there were always people running around with pens and notebooks, taking stock of everything. He’d be doing the same himself with the pigs he kept with Joe Long.

  Charlie kept his back turned, chortling to himself out of sight of the big woman and her prattling.

  Later that morning once the pork had been cooked and collected, Mrs Martin came back in for a loaf of bread. She also came in with a sack which she passed over to Mary, winking and nodding in a secretive manner as she did so.

  ‘A bit of something fer your dad’s dinner,’ she said, sliding the sack across the counter. ‘Fer being so kind as to roast the meat.’

  Mary encountered the dusty smell of potatoes from the sack. Hopefully Mrs Martin had wrapped whatever meat it was – she presumed it was meat – in newspaper before putting it in there.

  ‘Make the most of it, me girl,’ she said. ‘And don’t let on to that Rob Masters that I gave you it. He won’t approve. Running round like a headless chicken he is, jumping the gun about people registering for rationing with ’im – as if he’s likely to ’ave any more meat than any other butcher or farmer hereabouts. Tch!’

  She spit into her handkerchief.

  Mary tried not to wince, but determined to wash the contents of the sack before daring to cook it. Mrs Martin, who was also wearing another sack as an apron, didn’t seem to care much about hygiene.

  ‘I’ll take some of them currant buns while I’m at it. Six, I think. Nice with a cup of tea. Did you make them?’

  Mary nodded that she had. ‘And Ruby made the pasties.’

  ‘I makes me own pasties,’ Mrs Martin sniffed while throwing a contemptuous look at Ruby’s efforts. Ruby’s pastry was golden and melt-in-the-mouth delicious. She paused before saying, ‘I ’ear she don’t work at the pub no longer. ’Ad a fall out ’ave they?’

  ‘There’s a war on, Mrs Martin, and more important jobs than working in pubs! Don’t you think?’

  ‘Reputations can be ruined working in pubs.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. In the meantime let me give you one of our pasties to try – seeing as you’re likely to get busier in this war, what with two of your boys off to fight. You might not have so much time in future.’

  Mrs Martin recognised that the pasty was a kind of bribe in the hope that she’d stick up for Ruby when her name came up in gossip.

  ‘I’ll bring you in one of mine sometime,’ Mrs Martin went on. ‘Lovely they are.’

  She wiped her nose with the corner of her sack apron. Mary hoped against hope that she would not fulfil her offer of a homemade pasty!

  The bell above the shop door jangled when she left, the roasted pork wrapped in newspaper inside a flour sack tucked beneath her arm.

  Mary sighed. Mrs Martin had left her drained with her unsolicited advice and unending gossip about what was going on in the village.

  Ruby came out from the back room where the bread ovens were still emitting their comforting heat, the smell of yeast and a blanket of heat coming with her.

  Their grandfather had built the baking room with a very high ceiling, logically concluding that the heat of the ovens would rise and stay up there. To a great extent he’d been right.

  Ruby slammed her hands palms down on the counter. ‘Last night Dad suggested I marry Gareth Stead. He’s repeated it again this morning. Not only that, but he’s offered to speak to the man and ask him to reconsider his intentions. Can you believe that?’

  ‘He said that?’ Mary was astounded.

  Ruby was almost throwing the bread on to the shelves, her features stiff with indignation. ‘I didn’t know what to say. I thought I made it clear last night when he mentioned it.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t blame him. He’s about to lose Charlie to the war and is afraid of losing you. I take it he thinks that if you were married, it wouldn’t be so likely.’

  ‘I know.’ She turned to face her sister. ‘Mary, I know war is bad, but this could be such an opportunity for me to see a bit more of the world. I don’t want to live and die here in this village. I don’t want to marry Gareth Stead or a ruddy-faced, rough-handed farmer whose conversation centres on cows, chickens or the price of a pint of milk. I want more than that! And besides …’ She slammed the last of the warm loaves from the wicker basket to the sloping shelves behind the counter. ‘Gareth made it quite clear what he wanted and it wasn’t bloody marriage. And don’t tell me off for swearing,’ she said before her sister could reprimand her. ‘I felt humiliated, Mary. Downright humiliated!’

  Mary patted her on the shoulder. ‘He just wants to keep you safe. It’s just his way.’

  Ruby’s expression was unchanged. ‘Maybe I don’t want to be safe. Maybe I want some adventure before I die!’

  Mary tightened her lips. She was used to her sister’s headstrong ways and wanting what she couldn’t have. She also understood her father going overboard to keep them safe. It was hard to imagine what he was going through at present, wondering what the future held for his children.

  ‘You must please yourself and then you’ve only got yourself to blame if things go wrong.’

  ‘I can live with that!’

  ‘Mrs Martin’s been in.’

  The sack was still on the counter. Ruby wrinkled her nose. ‘That sack looks filthy.’

  ‘I think it’s meat. It usually is when she wants a joint cooked. It’s probably offal, kidneys, liver and lights I bet.’

  Ruby’s nose stayed wrinkled. ‘I hope it’s wrapped up in newspaper.’

  ‘Thankfully.’

  ‘Liver and onions tonight, faggots tomorrow night,’ Ruby said curtly.

  She’s right of course, thought Mary. It’s always faggots or fried liver and onions when Mrs Martin pays for the privilege of getting a piece of meat cooked in the superior heat of a bread oven. The favour was usually asked around Christmas or for some other family celebration, also for the harvest festival, which was always combined with the village fete. The Martins always provided the meat for that, to be enjoyed by everybody, plus roasting for family occasions such as the recent wedding of their eldest daughter Bertha. Bertha had had a white wedding with all the trimmings. Mary reflected that her wedding dress had been too tight-fitting to cover the baby bump. The baby had been born three months later.

  It had not escaped Mary’s notice that village weddings regularly preceded the birth of offspring by no more than five months. She further concluded it had a lot to do with being born closer to nature than folks in the city; young people round here just did what came naturally.

  A cloud of potato dust fell to the floor when she opened Mrs Martin’s sack.

  ‘There’s two parcels in here,’ she said, del
ving in with both hands. Both, she noticed, were wrapped in newspaper. Just as she’d surmised, the first package contained the necessary ingredients for making faggots, traditional West Country meatballs and loved by all the family. All she had to find were onions, stale bread and a few leaves of dried sage. Or she could discard the lights and caul and fry the liver with some onions.

  ‘It’ll definitely be faggots. They use fewer onions.’

  Ruby made no comment and besides Mary was interested to see what the other parcel contained. Like the offal it was wrapped up in newspaper. She hoped it wasn’t more of the same.

  Her face lit up. ‘Belly of pork! I’ll roast it with apple sauce and a splash of cider for tomorrow night’s dinner. What do you think?’

  ‘Unless you want to save it for the weekend,’ Ruby responded without any great enthusiasm.

  Mary heard the off-handedness in her sister’s voice and turned to look at her.

  Ruby was stacking the wicker bread trays to one end of the shelves. There were about a dozen loaves left and being someone who abhorred waste, she thought about telling her father that he’d baked too much. On reflection she remembered that the boy, who worked in the kitchen of the big house in Willsbridge, hadn’t arrived yet. He usually cycled over on his bicycle every morning to collect fresh bread for the family and servants who lived at Willsbridge House.

  Reassured that every loaf would be sold, she returned her thoughts to when and how to cook the belly of pork. ‘We could stuff it with apples and sultanas.’

  ‘For the weekend?’

  Recalling what Frances had said about the importance of belonging to a family, Mary thought about it only briefly. ‘No,’ she replied, her tone sombre. ‘I think the sooner we have a family dinner together the better.’

  On hearing the tone of her sister’s voice, Ruby stopped what she was doing. Up until now she had been only half listening, immersed in the conversation she had just had with her father once Charlie had headed for the WC. Mention of having a family dinner together pulled her up short.

  ‘Charlie says he won’t go until he’s got to.’

  Mary grabbed the mix of offal, wrapping it in the newspaper before it slithered away. ‘It won’t be up to him. I wonder how long he’s got before he’s called up.’

  The two girls fell silent, each with their own thoughts. Ruby was wondering how long it would be before she could join up. A quick glance at Mary and she decided her sister was worrying about Charlie. It certainly wasn’t about a sweetheart. Mary had never had a sweetheart, nobody who had lasted more than one night.

  In her mind Mary was seeing a rugged figure wearing the blue uniform of RAF Bomber Command, striding across to a waiting aircraft. His address was hidden inside her jewellery box along with some pearls that had once belonged to her mother and other trinkets.

  Just after he’d left, she’d knocked on the door of Stratham House and explained her intentions. Mrs Hicks hadn’t been surprised; in fact, she’d looked very pleased that Mary wanted to write to her nephew.

  ‘He’s got friends over here, but no sweethearts,’ Mrs Hicks had confided.

  Mary had been tempted to ask whether he had any sweethearts in Canada, but hadn’t had the nerve. And was that what she wanted to be, a potential sweetheart? It seemed Mrs Hicks thought so.

  Ruby ran her hands over the tissue paper they used to wrap the bread, fiddling with those corners that refused to lie flat. She was thoughtful and regretful that her brother had to go away. Her father would be upset.

  ‘Mrs Martin says that Ronnie is excused active service on account of the farm. She said that it’s a reserved occupation,’ said Mary.

  ‘So’s making bread,’ Ruby replied tartly.

  ‘Lucky that Dad’s got us. We can both bake. He’ll be depending on us, though I wish …’ Mary’s voice faded away.

  ‘What?’

  She met Ruby’s look then quickly turned away. She hadn’t told her about her decision to write to Michael Dangerfield.

  Finally, she said, ‘I just wish things were different. That’s all.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Wisps of hair clung to the sweat glistening on Ruby’s face. She looked tired and Mary knew she hadn’t slept well; she’d heard her tossing and turning during the night, sighing as if the cares of the world rested on her shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Rube?’

  Ruby’s eyelids flickered as though she’d been wakened from a deep sleep. Her wide pink lips, so like Mary’s own, puckered in and out. Mary found her own lips mimicking the movements of her sister’s lips. When her sister worried, she worried too.

  Ruby came to stand next to her sister, folding her arms and resting her backside against the counter.

  ‘I’m still surprised at what Dad said. He hates Gareth Stead.’

  Mary grunted in agreement. Their father hated Gareth Stead almost as much as he did Melvyn Chance, the village postmaster, who used to be a member of Sir Oswald Mosley’s black shirts. Rumour had it that he’d resigned only last week.

  ‘Then it’s just as well you won’t be marrying him. Just imagine, father and husband at each other’s throats all the time; a miniature war in your own home!’

  Ruby grinned but it didn’t last. ‘The trouble was, Mary, that for a split second I really considered letting him go marching down to the Apple Tree, grab Gareth by the throat and drag him into the church where me and the vicar would be waiting, though I don’t know how you get a man to say yes to getting married when he doesn’t want to.’

  Mary had to agree that the whole idea was quite preposterous. ‘Perhaps he’d take Joe Long with him. A man with a shotgun can be very persuasive!’

  Ruby’s laughter lit up her face and Mary joined her, her laughing face mirroring that of her sister.

  ‘I’ve been a fool, Mary, but there’s still a tiny part of me that can’t let go, but it is changing. I dreamed last night that I was behind the bar pulling a pint, but instead of serving it to the customer, I poured it over Gareth’s head.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. What happened next?’

  Ruby frowned. ‘I made a list of all the things I would like to do to him. None of them were very nice. I think rolling him in pig manure and attacking him with a pitchfork were on there.’

  ‘I think that means you’re well and truly over him.’ Though what would I know? Mary thought to herself. I’ve never been in love. Michael Dangerfield came instantly to mind, but she pushed those thoughts away.

  She opened the wooden drawer that served as a till and began counting the takings. Most of it was in coin: farthings, ha’pennies, threepenny bits, silver sixpences, shillings and pence. She piled the florins and half crowns in separate heaps. There was only one ten-shilling note.

  Ruby pouted her bright red lips and tossed her head. ‘I think I am over him. In fact I quite like the thought of doing all those things to him. Do you think that’s normal?’

  ‘Who’s to say what’s normal?’

  A saying suddenly sprang into Mary’s mind. Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. Another familiar one was about there being a thin line between love and hate. She knew how aggrieved her sister had been by Gareth’s behaviour. Now she wondered how far her sister’s hate might take her.

  A gang of men suddenly came barging into the shop setting the iron bell above the door jangling, their loud voices introducing themselves as the men responsible for the delivery of Anderson shelters.

  Their arrival necessitated Mary putting the money back in the till. There was no knowing whether they would have the correct change for whatever they might purchase.

  ‘Second phase,’ said one of them, as if that might mean something.

  The shelters were named after the government minister responsible for their distribution. They were little more than archways of galvanised steel, designed to sit in a pit in the ground and be covered by sandbags which in turn were covered in soil.

  One of the men leaned on the counter, looked at Ruby and winke
d. ‘I’m a man in need,’ he said to her.

  No stranger to dealing with cheeky men she tossed her head and asked him what he wanted.

  ‘Something nice. You’ll do for starters.’

  ‘Less of your sauce! And get your dirty elbow off my counter.’

  ‘You got one yet, love? An Anderson shelter. You got one ’ave ya?’ The man who asked her appeared to be their leader.

  Ruby said that she hadn’t. ‘Don’t know that we want one, all that grubbing about in the dirt.’

  ‘I expect you’ll get one,’ their leader said, his eyes twinkling, ‘they’re easy enough to put up, but if you ladies happen to be unattached and ’ave a bit of difficulty doing it, I’m sure one of us ’ere is willing to come along and show you ’ow it’s done! We can all get dirty together!’

  There was a lot of raucous laughter among the orders for Cornish pasties, bread pudding and apple pies, which were all swiftly disappearing, the shelves becoming bare.

  Mary recommended pies once there were no pasties left and currant buns once the bread pudding had all disappeared.

  It wasn’t the first time they’d made bread pudding, though it was the first time they’d had it on sale. Made from stale bread, currants, candied peel, sugar and lard with a dash of cinnamon, its aroma alone, even cold, was enough to get the taste buds going.

  Both girls watched the shelves empty with an air of satisfaction. Filled shelves looked good, but empty ones were a sign of success.

  ‘Thank goodness for Anderson shelters,’ Mary whispered to her sister.

  ‘I’ll have to make some more pastry,’ Ruby whispered back. She much preferred making pastry than bread, but seeing as most women in the village made their own anyway, she could only make pies and pasties in small batches, selling to those who couldn’t or wouldn’t bake, people passing by or men having to fend for themselves.

  ‘Lots more apple pies,’ Mary murmured back. ‘Thank goodness we had a mild spring.’