Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  This spring the blossom hadn’t been blown from the apple, plum and pear trees. Spring had been followed by a warm summer so by September the gnarled branches were heavy with fruit.

  ‘Are all those shelters for Oldland Common?’ Ruby asked them once she’d told them not to be so saucy and not to shout.

  The man who appeared to be their leader replied that they were not. He had a merry face and a pale blond beard verging on white. ‘This is just our mustering area. The lists are being brought out by some chinless wonder from the county council. Once we ’ave them, we deliver to other places, like Warmley, Willsbridge and Frampton Cotterell.’

  A ginger-haired man sighed with pleasure into the contents of his brown paper bag. ‘Beats the cheese sandwiches my old woman gave me.’

  ‘Tell the truth, Bert,’ said one of his colleagues already biting into the golden crust of a Cornish pasty. ‘We all ate our lunch by ten o’clock. Starving we was.’

  By the time they had all been served and marched off, some already devouring their purchases at breakneck speed, it was midday and time to close. Not that there was much time to rest, the day being taken up with other things both in the bakery and in the general run of things.

  Bread was baked every day except Sunday, but the shop only stayed open until midday. The afternoon was the time to clean up, cool the ovens to proving heat and make a fresh batch of dough. The dough would be left to prove until early evening when they would all give a hand in kneading it again, the dough becoming warm and spongy the more air was forced in.

  There was a knack to dividing it up into even sections, a skilled baker portioning by hand without the aid of a scale. Cottage loaf, split tin, and crusty cobs, they were all measured out by hand, everyone kneading the dough until the very feel of it was like something living, something about to be born. Then it had to be laid by for a second overnight proving.

  Once the dough was made, the afternoon was given over to housework, reading, sewing while listening to the wireless or whatever else anyone wanted to do.

  Stan Sweet was spending more time planting, sowing and figuring out ways to get more from his garden.

  ‘Being able to feed ourselves from what we grow is going to be more important than ever from now on,’ he’d proclaimed.

  He’d brought in some of the fruits of his labours, bunches of carrots swilled off under the tap, green beans and leeks.

  Ruby was entrusted with the job of sterilising the jars and preparing the vegetables for bottling. Most of it would be boiled for three minutes before being blanched in cold water and then boiled for an hour. The runner beans he’d brought in would be stored in layers between salt.

  ‘Once the shop’s closed,’ he added.

  Hands on hips, Ruby sighed as she surveyed her father’s harvest. ‘That’s a lot of vegetables,’ she said to him. ‘It’ll take me all afternoon.’

  He was in the act of taking his pipe out into the garden, liking a smoke after a good bit of gardening, but turned and frowned at her comment. ‘Are you complaining?’

  ‘No, Dad. I was just thinking how lucky it was that we had a decent summer.’ Ruby winked at her sister.

  ‘Do you need a hand?’ asked Mary.

  ‘No. I can manage. The afternoon will fly by.’

  Mary noted the hint of sarcasm in her voice before the old bell on the shop door clanged loudly to tell them that a customer had entered.

  It occurred to Mary that since the village fete, her sister was more willing to do jobs alone. It was as though she were trying to prove that she was quite capable without her sister being around.

  At one time Mary would have insisted on helping in the bottling process, but she was burning with the need to run upstairs, retrieve Michael Dangerfield’s address from her jewellery box and write to him. She had a writing pad and envelopes. She also had a stamp.

  She was determined to write, not as a sweetheart because she was not. Just to be friendly. That was what she told herself.

  However, she didn’t want anyone else to know. All she needed to keep her secret safe was for everybody else to be otherwise engaged.

  Her chance came around mid-afternoon. Dough making finished, Charlie their brother was off that afternoon up to Perrotts’ Farm with the Perrott boys, Martin and John, pressing this year’s apple crop to produce cider while sampling last year’s brew. ‘Just in case it’s gone off,’ he’d said laughingly. He said the same every year.

  Mary watched from the kitchen window as he strode off up the garden path, whistling something saucy. She didn’t know all the words, but knew they were more than a little risqué. Her brother wouldn’t be back until teatime.

  Leaving her sister to the bottling, Mary crept upstairs, saying she had a bit of a headache and wanted a lie down. After glancing at the alarm clock at the side of the bed, she decided she had about an hour before Frances came home from school, flouncing into the bedroom, flinging her satchel on to the bed, then flouncing out again once she’d asked what was for tea.

  Softly, so no sound would travel downstairs, Mary got out her writing pad, her envelopes, her pen and her ink. Heart racing, she then opened her jewellery box and retrieved Michael Dangerfield’s address at Scampton.

  The next thing she did was to write the address on the envelope. Her thinking was that the address, at present written only on a scrap of paper, might get lost. This way at least one letter would get through, but if she got no reply she would know he wasn’t interested.

  Writing the actual letter took some thinking about. She sat there at her bureau, pen poised in hand. Her gaze strayed through the bedroom window to the garden and the red, gold, though subdued sunshine of September. The colours reminded her of the dress she’d bought with the money Michael had given to her. She’d told nobody she’d bought it, although she would have to tell Ruby seeing as they shared a bedroom. But first she wanted to tell Michael and to do that she would have to write to him.

  Dear Michael,

  The view from my bedroom window is all golden and red and the sun is only just beginning to sink behind the wall at the end of the garden. The new dress I bought with the money you gave me has the same colours. I hope my description means you can visualise it better than me merely saying that I’d bought a red and gold dress and that it has a sweetheart neckline.

  Your aunt is well and sends her regards. She is looking forward to your next visit. In the meantime she hopes you are safe and well. She also says that it might be best if we write to each other as her eyesight isn’t as good as it once was and therefore writing is such a strain. She has asked me to pass on whatever is relevant in my letters with regard to your wellbeing.

  We’re having a rabbit stew tonight cooked with garden vegetables. Ruby has made a plum Charlotte for dessert. I hope this time she doesn’t burn the custard. She did burn it on the last occasion, but her mind was elsewhere.

  I do hope you are well and that Felix the dog is not causing you too much trouble, though I suppose his owner is back from his honeymoon by now.

  Wherever you are, take care. I look forward to hearing from you. Kind regards.

  Mary

  Kind regards? She pulled a face. It did sound a little formal. On second thoughts Love, Mary, might have sounded too informal, after all they hardly knew each other, and yet …

  She looked out of the bedroom window to where her father bent over his spade, turning over the rich dark earth, his unlit pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth.

  The golden light of late afternoon was fading. The sound of the bell at the village school signalled that Frances would soon be home.

  After folding the letter, she placed it inside the stamped and addressed envelope. She just had enough time to post it before Frances was home from school.

  On her return, Frances headed for a freshly baked plate of jam tarts in the kitchen. Mary went upstairs where she found Ruby admiring her new dress.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you’d bought this. It’s lovely.’ Ruby eyed
her enquiringly. ‘You must have been saving hard.’

  ‘Yes. I have been,’ said Mary, and left it at that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was a loud crash. Ruby jerked her head up from preserving fresh eggs in silicate of soda, a method everyone thereabouts used when eggs were plentiful. As winter approached they would become scarcer, and who knew what the situation would be next year. Frances, who was scraping and eating the remains of cake mixture from a big china bowl, looked up and grinned.

  ‘Charlie’s home.’

  Frances was right. The loud crash was down to Charlie falling through the back door. In the process the door slammed against the wall. Charlie fell forward, crashed into a chair, missed grabbing the edge of the table and slumped to the floor.

  Ruby stood over him, hands on hips, eyebrows raised in disapproval. He stank of cider.

  ‘Don’t tell me. The boys decided to give you an early send off and there’s still a gallon or two of last year’s cider hanging around.’

  Cap fallen off his head, legs splayed and eyes blurred, her brother looked up at her.

  ‘I’m home.’ He almost sounded surprised and definitely grateful.

  He made another attempt to grab the corner of the table.

  ‘Don’t!’ She grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Your life won’t be worth living if you crash into those jars.’

  Vegetable bottling was over, but there were still peas and herbs to be dried and stored. Next was preserves.

  The table top was almost obliterated by sterilised preserve jars waiting to be filled.

  Ruby had gone out with Frances at the weekend picking the last of the blackberries from the hedgerows. The bushes had been heavy with fruit. Blackberries were her cousin’s favourite and if Frances stopped eating them, there would be plenty to preserve with apples and ultimately to use in pies. Jars of gooseberries, rhubarb, raspberries and blackberries were already preserved in the same jars they always used. The cold shelf in the larder, a slab of marble that stayed cold all year, was almost full. Ruby was pleased with herself and determined her drunken brother wouldn’t mess anything up.

  His eyes were bleary when he looked up at her. ‘Don’t go on at me, sis. After all I’ll be going soon. You wouldn’t want us to part as bad friends would you?’

  Ruby was in the mood to give him a piece of her tongue. ‘Charlie Sweet, you’ve been having farewell parties with your mates two weekends on the trot.’

  ‘Any chance of a cup of char?’ he asked, clambering on to a chair.

  Ruby tutted, picked up his cap and hung it on the hook behind the door.

  Frances grinned at her cousin and offered him a blackberry. ‘They’re really sweet,’ she said to him.

  Charlie grinned. ‘I can see that,’ he slurred. ‘You’ve got a purple tongue. And nose,’ he added.

  She giggled when he tapped the tip of her nose.

  ‘Want one?’ she asked, holding a plump berry between a purple finger and thumb.

  Seeing as it was Frances, Charlie managed to smile and utter his thanks. He’d always felt sorry for the little girl who’d lost her doting father and whose mother hadn’t wanted her. The kid hadn’t had a good start in life, that’s for sure.

  Ruby made tea in one of the smaller of their teapots, presented to her parents as a wedding gift and used when only a few cups were required. The big brown pot was big enough for six cups or more. The less water was boiled the better.

  Setting a cup down in front of him, she wondered at his expression, which had suddenly clouded over. He didn’t usually come back from a session with the Perrott brothers looking so glum, not after pressing apples and drinking cider.

  ‘What is it, Charlie? Last year’s cider a bit sour?’

  Charlie took a sip of tea, then another and another, not just because his throat was dry, but that it might help sober him up. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Perhaps he’d been too drunk to understand or Martin and John Perrott might have been joking. He still couldn’t believe what they’d told him.

  Suddenly he became aware of his sister’s face and her saying something to him.

  What was that she was asking him?

  ‘Charlie!’

  Her voice was louder now, but he still looked at her with glazed eyes.

  She repeated what she’d already said. ‘Charlie, I asked if last year’s cider had gone sour.’

  His head was reeling, and when he shook it he almost fell off the chair.

  ‘Worse than that. This year’s cider will be the last up at Perrotts’ place. Old Fred Perrott been told to dig up the apple trees, clear the ground and put the orchard to the plough. The Ministry of Agriculture have told him to plant an arable crop. Says we’ll be needing wheat and oats if we’re to survive a siege, not apples. Still, the old orchard next door to the pub will still be there; bet our Frances will be glad of that. So will we. Make cider from them we still got.’

  After pouring herself a cup of tea, Ruby sank back on to her chair, staring over the top of it at her brother. There were so many things happening that were likely to change the countryside forever.

  ‘There’s never been much arable farming around here, has there?’ she said to him.

  ‘No, but there will be now. Most of our grain for making bread and such like comes from overseas; the wheat fields of Canada and America.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t take a genius to know that ships carrying supplies will be targeted by the enemy, and that’s a fact.’

  Ruby digested all that he’d said, then, noticing he’d drained his cup, poured him another.

  ‘I won’t let them tear up my orchard,’ declared Frances who had listened avidly, her eyes growing round with alarm at the prospect of her orchard, the one all the kids played in, being ripped out and made into a smooth, flat field.

  Ruby sighed and pointed out that the orchard did not belong to her and that just because Charlie said it would be safe didn’t mean that it would. Charlie didn’t know everything. ‘It’s up to the owners and the people from the ministry. And that’s enough blackberries, my girl,’ she said, snatching a bowl of them away from her cousin. ‘They’ve got to last us a long time if what our Charlie is saying is true.’

  ‘Ahh,’ said Charlie, his arms crossed and his eyes closing as he began slowly to slide from his chair and under the table.

  Just after tea but before bedtime, Frances made her way to the orchard, her very favourite place. The trees were twisted and gnarled with age, the grass long and the air held the heady aroma of rotting apples. When the wind blew, their rugged branches scraped against the side wall of the Apple Tree, the pub run by Gareth Stead. It sounded like razor-sharp fingernails scratching against glass.

  Tonight they had had cottage pie for tea. On her return from school, Frances had turned the handle of the mincer which was clamped on the edge of the table while Mary fed the machine with minced meat and onions.

  As far as Frances was concerned, it was the best part about minced beef, the way it went into the top of the mincer in chunks and came out like worms. But that was off-putting too: the taste was fine but it was hard to forget that it all came out of the mincer looking like worms before falling into the bowl and disintegrating.

  The fact that she had not been allowed to leave the table before she’d eaten every scrap had caused her to sigh indignantly.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ her uncle Stan had said to her, a saying she’d heard a hundred times. Only when he’d warned her that she’d get no pudding until she’d cleared her plate did she make the effort to down every morsel.

  Ruby had made blackberry and apple pie that she’d sliced and covered with a thick yellow custard. Frances loved pies and custard, but feeling the weight of it in her belly as she ran, she wished she hadn’t eaten so much.

  She ran quickly because the sun was hiding behind a cloud and the air smelled of rain. Without faltering to judge its height, she bounded over the stile that separated the orchard from the narrow road. The road wound all the
way from the side of the pub back to the toll house at the top of the hill.

  The old orchard had been neglected for years and nobody was exactly sure who owned it. The grass was long, its feathery tips tickling her knees. There were barely distinguishable paths made through the undergrowth by generations of village kids who came here to pick up the windfalls or climb the trees, make dens or play hide and seek in the long grass.

  To Frances it was a magic kingdom where she made up stories about how one day her father (who had somehow been resurrected) would reclaim her. This was after he’d rescued his wife, her mother, from a wicked goblin who was holding her prisoner until she gave him the secret of how to weave straw into gold. His name was, of course, Rumpelstiltskin.

  Golden rod, its yellow flowers beginning to turn to rust, nodded against the perimeter walls, hiding the ivy that wound in and out of the loose stones. Birds twittered in the trees and other living things scurried through the grass.

  Breathless from her running, Frances came to a halt at the bottom of her favourite tree. While catching her breath she listened to the wind, the rustling leaves and grass and the frequent thudding of an apple as it dropped to the ground.

  It was thanks to her that the family enjoyed so many apple pies, baked apples and jars of preserved apple rings to see them through the winter. She always collected the windfalls as well as climbing to pick fruit direct from the tree.

  Uncle Stan had stated at teatime that from now on they would need every piece of food they could produce. Nothing must be wasted. Sometimes he said some really odd things such as the day would come when everyone would have refrigeration like the one in the Co-op store in Kingswood.

  Frances had laughed and pointed out that if the cold room at the Co-op was anything to go by, they would never be able to get it in their kitchen, and besides, they had a larder with a cold slab of marble that kept things cool.

  Charlie had joined the conversation, laughing as he told her that big ships had refrigeration so cold they could bring meat all the way from South America.

  Charlie knew everything. Charlie was her Prince Charming, even though he was really her cousin. She’d fallen in love with him when she was only four years old and newly arrived to live with her uncle and cousins. Charlie had been kind to her, his smile an antidote to the forlorn sadness of a little girl with a dead father and abandoned by her mother.