Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  Uncle Stan spotted her heading for the door. ‘You too, young lady.’

  Frances pouted, but on seeing the stern look her uncle gave her, sat down without another peep of protest.

  Once everyone was settled, he eyed each of them one by one.

  ‘As I sees it, we have to plan things properly,’ said Stan Sweet. ‘Nothing can be done to dissuade either the government or our Charlie that his place is home here. That being the case, I wants him to have a bakery to come back to. This means we have to keep things going as best we can. People will still look to us for their daily bread and we mustn’t fail them. You girls will take Charlie’s place helping me run things. What with the house as well, that should give you both more than enough to do. I should think your work will be regarded as essential services and therefore you won’t be called away to do anything else. Just as well you gave up that job at the pub, Ruby.’

  ‘I’m glad too,’ she declared defiantly. ‘No future in working behind a bar anyway.’

  She caught Mary looking at her. Like her she knew that if she did go back, Gareth would try it on again just as he had before.

  He had sent a message asking her to return via Vera Crane, a flighty widow who frequented the pub far more than a decent woman should. Ruby had told her in no uncertain terms that she would never work for Gareth Stead again.

  ‘Anyway, who needs a job as a barmaid when this war is likely to lead to lots of jobs for single women? I might join the Wrens or something.’

  Vera had looked at her as though she was mad.

  ‘That all right with you, Ruby?’

  Her father’s question jerked her back from her musings and into an instant response though she wasn’t sure what he’d asked.

  ‘Yes. Of course it is. Sorry, I was just thinking about the baking competition. One minute it was cancelled because of the war, and now it’s on again and they’re calling for recipes.’

  ‘Simple recipes,’ Mary added. She turned to her father. ‘Ruby and I have been discussing what exactly it is they want. Judging by the letter, it seems they’re not talking about careful measuring or buying in expensive ingredients. I think we’re talking about making a leg of mutton last a week and stretch to feed a whole family.’

  ‘That’s one option,’ said Ruby, her eyes darting between her sister and the rest of the family and glad to be on another subject rather than Gareth Stead and her job at the Apple Tree. ‘We were also thinking about little luxuries to brighten people’s lives at such a dire time. Like cakes and puddings, sweet things to eat after the main meal, something to cheer them up.’

  The twins exchanged the kind of looks their father had seen many times before, the one that said they were in total agreement in thought and deed.

  Mary took over. ‘So we’re each going to submit three recipes. One set of three will be for the main course and based on the Sunday joint. The other three will be puddings; delicious desserts that can be prepared and baked in a minute, and even eaten cold if need be in case they have to be taken out into the shelter.’

  Their father looked impressed, puffing on his pipe, eyes half closed as he scrutinised them through a spiral of sweet-scented smoke.

  If they’d been able to read his thoughts, they would have known just how relieved he was that his girls weren’t joining up. They hadn’t even expressed a desire to work in a factory or drive a tractor, though he supposed there would be plenty who would end up doing that. If anyone was going to, it would be Ruby who fancied herself wearing a uniform.

  Ruby was the flighty one, the one who’d got involved with an older man. Mary was the home bird, the one never likely to leave the village. He only hoped that after this war there would be a local man worthy of having her as his wife. Unless she didn’t marry, of course, but look after him in his dotage. He hoped not. It would be such a waste, though it would be nice to have her close at hand. In the meantime he had every intention of encouraging them to the limit with this baking nonsense – not that he would use the word nonsense in front of them. To him baking was a job but to the girls it was everything. They were enthusiastic and if it meant they’d be staying close to home, he’d encourage them.

  ‘It sounds like a fine plan,’ he said, his face beaming. ‘I’ll take you there in the van. There’ll be room for all three of us on the front seat.’

  ‘Seems I’ll have to forgo that pleasure,’ said Charlie, his wide grin almost splitting his face in half. ‘Hope you win. You deserve to win.’

  Up until now, Frances had been sitting on her hands, her bottom lip pouting. She didn’t like sitting still for too long, didn’t like being indoors, and didn’t like being told what to do. She also didn’t like being left out of things. ‘What about me? I want to go to Bristol too.’

  ‘You? As if anyone can leave you behind,’ said Charlie. He ruffled her hair vigorously so shorter strands stood upright on her head.

  ‘You won’t be here.’

  Stan Sweet’s comment took everyone by surprise, their attention on their father, waiting for him to explain.

  ‘Frances, I’ve decided you should be evacuated, though not on the government scheme. There’s an option to make private arrangements, and that’s what I’ve done.’ He looked at her fondly. ‘I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I’d never forgive myself if it did.’

  ‘No!’ She almost screeched the word, her face creased with dismay. ‘No! I don’t want to be evacuated. Only soft kids are sent away.’

  Ruby declared what she’d said a silly statement. Mary wrapped one arm along her cousin’s shoulders. ‘You’ll make new friends, Frances, wherever you are.’

  The family looked to Stan for clarification. This was the first time any of them had known he was considering sending Frances away. But that was the way he was. He tended to plan what he thought was best and stick to it.

  Stan Sweet frowned as he doused the flame in his pipe before tapping the contents of the bowl into the ash tray. Taking his time before speaking was a trait he was good at; the suspense kept everyone on the edge of their seats, ensuring they were fully attentive before he spoke. Finally, when he was satisfied the bowl was empty he reached for a pipe cleaner and began the process of cleaning his pipe.

  ‘There may be fields all around one side of us out here, but the aircraft factories at Filton are a prime target and too close to us for comfort. I don’t say we’re sure to get bombed, but we can’t rule it out. You girls have to stay and help me get the bread baked so the country won’t starve and our Charlie will be out of it. I have to accept that.’ He paused, his eyes downcast. ‘The way I see it, there’s no need to put Frances in danger too. As I’ve already mentioned she can be evacuated under the government scheme, or we can make our own arrangements. Voluntary arrangements they calls it. That’s what I’ve done. Miriam Powell’s grandmother has offered to give you a room,’ he said, speaking directly to Frances. ‘You’ll only be the other side of the River Severn in the Forest of Dean, but it’s away from built-up areas where the bombs are likely to fall. We can get the ferry from Aust to Bulwark; another grand trip for your uncle’s old bread van, and there’s the train once my petrol ration gets reduced some more. You’ll be able to visit or we can visit you when we can. So what do you say, Frances?’

  Frances scowled. ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Ada Perkins lives on the edge of the forest,’ Stan went on as though she hadn’t uttered a word. ‘You’ll see no bombs drop there, not unless that bloke Hitler has it in for flocks of Jacob sheep or wild deer. There’s a lot of stories told about the forest, Frances, stories that might interest you. Knights and fair ladies, fairies and castles …’

  As he went on outlining forest legends, Frances became less tense, her scowl replaced by a look of curiosity. Frances loved the outdoors but she also loved the Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Her uncle also pointed out that there were lots of trees, far more than in that old orchard she played in.

  Her po
ut returned when she thought about school dinners and how much she was enjoying them. ‘What about school dinners? We get custard for afters.’

  ‘Every school has to provide school dinners,’ Ruby told her, though she wasn’t quite sure it was true. Frances had expressed her pleasure with what she’d received so far even though the biggest portion of the main meal had been cabbage. Frances did not like cabbage!

  Mary was making brawn, a lovely meaty jelly that would be served with pickles and tomato chutney made from the last of the tomatoes from Uncle Stan’s greenhouse. Frances watched silently, hands clasped in front of her mouth. She hadn’t said anything more about being evacuated, but Mary knew her well. Just because she wasn’t protesting about the matter didn’t mean she had resigned herself to leaving.

  Once an upturned plate had been placed on the brawn and weighted down with a flat iron, Mary turned to her cousin.

  ‘Are you looking forward now to going to live in the forest?’

  Frances shook her head. ‘I might not have to go.’

  Mary expressed her surprise with a raising of freshly plucked eyebrows. ‘Now why would that be?’

  ‘Well, Charlie said that everything in the world has changed now and people had changed. Perhaps my mother’s changed too and might come along and take me with her. Then I wouldn’t have to leave home. She might, mightn’t she?’

  The expression on her cousin’s face clutched at Mary’s heart. Mildred, her mother, was rarely mentioned, as though her name had been erased from family memory. Obviously Frances did think about her. Mary hadn’t the heart to deny that her cousin’s wish might come true.

  She smiled. ‘Who knows? Charlie might be right.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Charlie was the first to leave, off to begin his training in Winchester.

  Mary was left to run the shop, her father and Ruby going with him in the van to see him off at Temple Meads Station in the heart of Bristol. Frances wanted to go, but had to go to school. She was willing to forgo school for the day, but her uncle refused to countenance it.

  ‘Never mind, mutt,’ said Charlie giving her hair one last ruffle. He promised her he would write and, anyway, today was her last day at her old school. The day after tomorrow it would be her turn to leave. She was off to the Forest of Dean.

  An air of apprehension travelled with Stan Sweet, Charlie and Ruby all the way through Kingswood and into the centre of Bristol. Their conversation was bright enough though brittle, a crisp aurora of light-hearted banter barely covering the fear beneath the surface.

  The station was crowded with men in uniform, tearful women and children, each carrying a cardboard box containing their gas mask, a label giving their name tied to their coat lapels. It seemed to Ruby as though the whole world was off to war.

  ‘There’s a lot of people here, seeing as it’s supposed to be a phoney war,’ Ruby was moved to exclaim. ‘It has to be real for all these people to be here.’

  She looked around her to see if there was anyone she knew, but there wasn’t. There were just a lot of people saying tearful goodbyes, women with their arms thrown around husbands, lovers, sons and brothers, and the crocodile line of children to be evacuated and their bossy supervisors. And yet there was also cheerfulness, hope that it would be no time at all until the troops did their job thrashing Hitler’s armies and came marching home.

  Everyone was doing their best to look on the bright side, yet a ribbon of fear ran just beneath the surface, a tangible thing that affected Ruby just as much as everyone else.

  ‘Charlie!’ She flung her arms around her brother’s neck, hugging him to her as though she might never see him again.

  Charlie laughed. ‘Come on, sis. I’m coming back. I promise.’

  Slowly her arms left him and her father stepped forward.

  ‘Son …’

  Never one to be demonstrative with his children, Stan Sweet shook his son’s hand. But suddenly, overcome by emotion, he threw his arms around his son’s broad shoulders just as Ruby had done.

  It was a sight Ruby would never forget, yet it was so right for the moment, a moment gone forever.

  Back at the bakery, Mary took a lingering look at the cheese straws she’d made that morning from some leftover dough and a piece of cheese rind she’d been loath to throw away.

  She’d grated what remained of the cheese until she was in danger of slicing her knuckles, determined to use every last morsel until she was left with nothing more than the linen gauze that had held the cheese together. To augment the taste, she’d sprinkled in a little more salt than she would normally have done; basic ingredients indeed! Leftover dough and leftover cheese placed in the leftover heat from this morning’s bread bake.

  The smell alone was heavenly and they’d browned well in the lingering warmth of the bread oven.

  The idea had been to serve them at teatime on her father and sister’s return from seeing Charlie off, and Frances’s return from school. Teatime this evening would also be special because Frances was being evacuated the day after tomorrow, her father having saved enough petrol coupons to take his niece across the Severn on the ferry that ran from Aust to Bulwark.

  There were twenty-four cheese straws, lovely and crisp and big enough to hold in a masculine fist without getting lost. The men who delivered the Anderson shelters came to mind.

  Thinking of them she divided the cheese straws in half, reserving twelve for tea and twelve to sell in the shop. Most women in the village did their own baking, but there were a few widowers and even widows who didn’t bother to cook much for themselves and everyone liked a little treat now and again. There would only be enough to sell in their shop, and certainly not enough to supply the village stores and a few shops in Warmley, Hanham and Kingswood High Streets as they did with their bread deliveries. Charlie used to cycle to the closer ones and drive to those whose orders were enough to make it worthwhile to deliver by van.

  Mary eyed the cheese straws proudly already planning to include free samples with next week’s bread deliveries.

  ‘But let’s see how they go in the shop first,’ she said out loud.

  She was just setting them out on the counter when Mrs Darwin-Kemp came in, a woman who lived in a big house with her retired colonel husband and half a dozen servants.

  Mary was surprised. Mrs Darwin-Kemp rarely did her own shopping. She’d always had staff to do it for her.

  Even though the weather wasn’t even close to freezing, she was wearing a full-length fur coat and a black hat with a brim and stiff veil that covered the top half of her face. Her cheeks were rouged and her lips bright red. Her manner was furtive, glancing over her shoulder as though entering a shop was beneath her and best done in secret. She wasn’t that big a woman, but still her presence seemed to fill the shop to bursting point what with her coat, her hat and her attitude.

  ‘I’m having friends around for tea,’ she said imperiously without responding to Mary’s courteous welcome. ‘What have you got?’

  Her manner was rude. If Ruby had been serving she would have retaliated with some stinging remark.

  Mary smiled politely. ‘We have these. Fresh baked today.’

  She waved her hand over the display of currant buns, individual apple and blackberry tarts her sister had made, and the freshly baked cheese straws.

  ‘The cheese straws are still warm. I’ve only just got them out of the oven,’ she explained. ‘They’re a new line we’re trying out.’

  The woman’s nostrils flared and then contracted as her eyes scrutinised Mary’s suggestions. Mary guessed she’d smelled the savoury aroma and even fancied she’d heard Mrs Darwin-Kemp’s stomach rumbling.

  ‘How much are they?’

  She asked the question sharply. Mary had the distinct impression she wanted to be out of here as soon as possible, that shopping for food was, in fact, beneath her.

  Mary told her the price of the buns and tarts even though there was a price ticket standing rigid at the back of the disp
lay. With regard to the cheese straws she hadn’t had a chance to put a ticket on them but she instantly doubled the price she’d had in mind: payment for bad manners, she decided, was justified.

  ‘I’ll take all of the cheese straws and six of each of the others, plus two loaves of bread. Can you slice them?’

  It was unusual to be asked to slice people’s loaves for them; after all, everybody knew how to use a bread knife, didn’t they?

  ‘Don’t you have a bread knife?’ Mary couldn’t help but ask, puzzled.

  The woman’s thin face seemed to grow thinner, so much so that her curved nose seemed much larger. ‘Don’t be impertinent! It’s my cook’s day off.’

  Mary relented. ‘I suppose I could slice them for you, though not right away. You’ll have to come back for them.’

  ‘I cannot possibly do that,’ said Mrs Darwin-Kemp with a wave of one gloved hand and a shake of her head. ‘My husband has people coming for tea from London and this is all terribly inconvenient. As I have already told you, I have to get everything ready myself, which is quite a chore I can tell you. Perhaps you can send it round with your boy?’

  ‘We don’t have a boy, though I can get my cousin to deliver it. She’ll be home from school by four o’clock. Will that be all right?’

  A pair of hard eyes regarded her through the stiff black veil. The red lips were pursed so hard a sunburst of wrinkles radiated outwards. Mrs Darwin-Kemp heaved her shoulders inside the absurd fur coat. The imperious glare from behind the stiff veil remained. ‘Well, I suppose it will have to do. Our visitors are expected at five o’clock. Please make sure everything arrives on time. I’m having to set tea up with just my maid. My cook’s gone off and so has everyone else come to that; it is all very inconvenient. Now you won’t let me down, will you. This meeting is very important; in fact, it’s a matter of national importance. Oh,’ she said as an afterthought. ‘Don’t repeat that. It’s all very hush hush.’