by Lizzie Lane
The crowd queuing to view the competition, the ‘free entertainment’, Stan Sweet had suggested, turned out to be larger than those queuing for the latest gas masks made for infants. People jostled on all sides, but gradually the queue evened out and they were directed to where they had to go.
‘Excuse me.’ A well-dressed woman with an imperious manner brushed past them, the square shoulders of her impeccably designed suit hunched as though disinclined for her shoulders to brush against theirs.
The woman’s eyes were fixed on the podium set at the far end of the room and she was flanked on either side by two officious-looking men wearing bowler hats and carrying rolled-up umbrellas and brief cases.
Ruby frowned. ‘They’re not the same judges as before.’
Stan Sweet felt uneasy. ‘Don’t look like bakers to me. Looks more like men from the ministry.’
Mary’s feelings echoed theirs. She’d been feeling uneasy all morning and now even more so.
Ruby had confided she was feeling the same but had added, ‘Today should be exciting, but somehow … Oh well,’ she’d said, shrugging off her nervousness as normal. ‘I’ll keep my mind on what comes after.’
Mary suspected she was referring to leaving home.
The entries for the competition were laid out on a table to await judgement. Mary and Ruby were told where to place theirs.
For a moment they both stared at the entries, the gleaming steak and kidney pies, gorgeous-looking cakes decorated with chocolate, buns coated with icing and glacé cherries. Surely such ingredients would be in short supply before long?
Both harbouring feelings of misgiving, the twins exchanged worried looks. Their entries looked so mundane compared to the others.
Mary squeezed her sister’s arm reassuringly. ‘We’ve followed the instructions to the letter. Our recipes make sense. The judges have to see that.’
The envelopes containing suggested recipes for a wartime housewife were handed to the snooty-looking woman with the shoulder pads. Without even looking at them, she pushed them across to the gentlemen their father had said looked like government officials. They were still wearing their bowler hats, umbrellas hung on the backs of their chairs, briefcases clenched between their ankles.
Without referral to the haughty-looking woman, the men began opening the envelopes, their heads coming closely together as they conferred with each other, the brims of their hats almost colliding in the process.
Suddenly the woman in the sharp suit with the sharp features sprang to her feet as though somebody had pricked her with a hat pin.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted in a shrill voice. ‘May I have your attention. Please welcome Alderman Bentley, Lord Mayor of Bristol.’
Chin held high, she began clapping, nodding at the crowd as though urging them to follow her lead.
Those come to see what was happening turned respectful gazes on the august personage coming through the door. As though he were Moses parting the Red Sea, a path opened to enable him to gain the podium.
Mary and Ruby craned their necks. ‘Can you see anything?’ they each asked their father, the tallest of the three of them.
‘Only his hat,’ Stan Sweet replied.
The two girls stood on tiptoe and managed a glimpse of a silky black topper bobbing past between the heads in front of them.
The clapping got louder the closer he got to the podium, becoming more enthusiastic once he was up there, his golden chain shining, his black moustache as thick as a sweeping brush. He wasn’t that tall, the top of his head barely reaching the square shoulders of the woman in the blue suit. Stretching himself to his full height, he began an opening address.
‘Firstly my thanks to Lady Dorothy Huntspill, home economics and dietary advisor to His Majesty’s government, who today has agreed to judge the delicious items entered for this culinary event. Secondly, I thank you all for coming here in these difficult times, though ultimately I am sure you agree, the British people will overcome their present difficulties. Hip hip hooray for the British Empire. Hip, hip hooray for our brave soldiers, sailors and airmen.’
A great cheer went up, the mayor waving his hat as though attempting to fan the flames of patriotism.
As the cheering died, the mayor turned to the woman in blue. ‘Lady Huntspill? Can I ask you to commence judging?’
The woman who he’d confirmed as the one and only judge, came down from the podium like a queen about to mingle with the peasants. She made her way to the table of delights where she moved slowly along, scrutinising some entries but hardly looking at others.
Mary and Ruby perceived a slight wrinkling of her nose and immediately surmised she was scrutinising their entries. Although her expression was unreadable, their hopes began to die.
Every so often she pointed at one of the entries, an indication she wished to taste a little. Only the smallest morsel passed her lips, each time using a fresh spoon or fork.
Ruby leaned towards her sister. ‘Hardly a healthy appetite. No wonder she’s thin.’
Mary agreed with her. ‘I doubt she’s ever going to work in a factory making bombs or drive a tractor. But then, looks can be deceptive …’
Ruby grumbled about upper-class women who only played at baking.
Mary grunted an agreement, her attention continually returning to the two men left on the stage. The judge had not had anything to do with the envelopes that she’d passed to these two officious types who were presently sifting through the contents of each one. Who were they? Why weren’t they taking part in the judging? And what was their interest in the recipes?
‘I can’t stand this much longer,’ moaned Ruby.
Stan Sweet reminded her that it was only a competition. It would be all over by the end of the afternoon and tomorrow would be normal. ‘And stop biting your lip.’
‘I’m nervous,’ Ruby said to her father. ‘She wrinkled her nose at my bread. I’m sure she did. I don’t think I can stand to watch much longer.’
She began playing with the strand of hair that covered her left cheek.
Her father put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Tell you what. I saw a WVS van outside handing out tea and buns. How about we hang around there for a bit until we’re called for?’
‘If we’re called for,’ Ruby said glumly.
Mary refused the offer of tea and buns. No matter the result, she had to see this through to the bitter end. ‘I’ll stay and see what happens. I’ll come out and fetch you if you’re needed.’
Lady Huntspill moved around the exhibits like a feral cat about to leap on its prey. She did another pass of the table, revisiting the items she’d favoured on the first pass, pointing at certain items and totally ignoring others. To Mary’s dismay she totally ignored her own and Ruby’s entries, concentrating instead on some very florid items that would use up the envisaged rations and not be in the price bracket or experience of the everyday housewife.
Mary was vexed. She shook her head in dismay. What was going on here? Had she totally misread what was called for?
‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Mary turned her head swiftly. She recognised that voice. At first the brim of her hat hid the speaker’s face, but having tilted her head back, she saw him. Michael Dangerfield was here.
‘You!’
‘You,’ Michael Dangerfield repeated.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here,’ she said, trying hard not to stammer or sound breathless at the sight of him. She wanted to ask him whether he’d received her letter, but felt nervous asking him. The tall young man who had stalked her dreams was really here, smiling down at her in such a way that she went weak at the knees.
‘I knew you’d be here,’ he said in that warm drawl of his. ‘That’s why I came. That and aiming to pick up the prize. Ten pounds. A useful sum. I can pay my bar bill back at Scampton with that and have plenty left over. Are you alone?’
‘No. My father and sister couldn’t stand the suspense. They went outside for a cup of tea.
There’s a WVS van outside.’
‘Good for them. At least they know what’s wanted at a time like this. Plenty of tea offered with a willing smile and a warm heart.’
So far he had not mentioned her letter, and she was loath to mention it first. She fancied he looked a little thinner, his face a little more careworn.
‘So! How’s the war?’
He shook his head. His look was grim and there was a strange haunted look in his eyes.
‘Things are hotting up.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Some of our guys are getting killed.’
Anything she could say would be a platitude, yet she wanted to keep him here, talking about anything and everything; just to hear the sound of his voice and see that boyish look on such a strong, masculine face.
‘How about your friend, Guy? He hasn’t been … I mean …’
Michael grinned. ‘He’s been decorated. A flyer’s flyer.’
Mary heard herself laughing, a light, happy laugh of relief. ‘And Felix?’
‘Felix is still Felix. The guys spoil him rotten. He’s cool with guys. I think skirts set him off – beg your pardon – until he gets to know them. And I don’t mean that you’re just a skirt … you’re a bit more than that. And thanks for the letter. I would have written, but things are getting a little hectic. Anyway,’ he added with a beaming smile, ‘I was hoping I could thank you for writing face to face. Beats letter writing any day of the week.’
Mary felt a warm glow cover her from head to foot. She even felt herself blushing, which was not something she was used to. The silence between them persisted as they both gathered their thoughts and weighed up their options.
Michael couldn’t stop looking at her, thinking how gorgeous she was and wishing he hadn’t used the words ‘skirts’. He’d dated plenty of ‘skirts’, fun relationships that hadn’t lasted a month. Even at this early stage, he knew his feelings for Mary were different than the others. They had cooking in common and that had to be a good thing, though of course there were other things to be considered. He wanted to kiss her, hug her and yes, he wanted to go to bed with her. But, more than that, something was tickling at his heart.
For her part, Mary was trying not to appear too forward even though she hadn’t stopped thinking about him.
‘So you bought a new dress?’
She said she had.
‘A big improvement on the last one, I bet. Oh. Sorry. That came out all wrong.’
Whoops! He’d done it again. What was wrong with him, Mr Smoothie himself, known to have a glib line for every occasion?
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ replied Mary tartly, smarting at the insinuation that her old dress wasn’t up to much. It was enough to convince her not to appear too keen.
‘I thought all girls liked new dresses.’
‘I’m not all girls.’
There was a firm set to her chin and a proud look in her eyes. He wanted to say that he agreed with her. She certainly wasn’t like all girls. She was special, but was now the right time to say that? He decided a rain check was in order.
‘Sure you’re not. All the girls I’ve ever met preferred powdering their noses with fancy stuff, not flour … what I mean to say is …’
It was too late. He could tell by the look on her face that he’d done it again, opened his mouth and shoved a foot in it. What was it about this girl? What was happening to him?
Mary tossed her head and looked away. ‘So. First my dress isn’t up to standard, and now I’ve got flour on my nose.’
‘I didn’t exactly mean you have, well not at this moment in time, but that morning …’
She rounded on him swiftly. ‘Stop making fun of me, Mr Dangerfield. I fully admit that I’m not one of the sophisticated girls that pilots of aeroplanes are used to. Now perhaps we can concentrate on the judging? I dare say that’s what you’re really here for?’
The result of the competition was important and she knew Ruby would be very disappointed if she didn’t win. So far the signs were not good. Lady Huntspill had looked totally disinterested in the more humble fare ordinary folk might make and consume. Mary was also possessed with an overwhelming desire to find a mirror and check whether she really did have flour on her nose. She settled for getting out her handkerchief and blowing into it, dabbing at the tip of her nose just in case.
‘I think I could win this,’ he murmured against her ear. ‘For the wrong reasons …’
She frowned, not understanding what he meant until she saw her ladyship smile in his direction and she knew, she just knew that he was right.
‘You know the judge?’
‘Ahuh!’
He looked straight ahead, thinking girls weren’t usually this difficult to get on with. Despite the lovely letter she’d sent him, he presumed it was out of pity – make the dude in the air feel good. He’d put his foot in it too many times already. She was bound to brush him off if he asked her out.
Mary too was having second thoughts. Men like him loved receiving letters from naive girls like her. They thrived on it, naive young girls being putty in their hands. Well, she wasn’t going to fall for him. That’s what she told herself.
There was a reason they were here and she determined to stick to it. And now he was telling her that he knew the judge. She couldn’t help but have a dig at him.
‘Don’t you think it was a good idea to challenge the competitors to create recipes to suit war rations? None of this foreign muck. Italian and suchlike. Just good British food.’
Michael Dangerfield eyed her sidelong. So that was the way it was going to be. He cleared his throat, shoved his hands in his pockets and put on the kind of voice a pal back in Canada used to use: Bragging Billy they called him.
‘Nothing to do with the competition. Not really. It’s all about the baking and her ladyship has very definite views on what makes a good meal. She has very cultured tastes. You can tell that by the way she dresses. Very elegant. She’ll go for something very upmarket or foreign. One of my Italian breads perhaps, brioche, or that French lemon tart. Did you see that? Light as a feather and a very piquant taste. Very piquant!’
He’d heard a lot of French people use the word piquant. Sharp as a lemon, he thought. Very apt.
Mary scowled at him. He was making fun of her again and smiling at her, then smirking, then smiling again as though he couldn’t quite make up his mind how she would react. If she’d been able to read his mind she’d know just how clumsy he was feeling, undecided on how to get her to go out with him. But she didn’t. Her tone was sharp – as piquant as the lemon tart he’d been praising.
‘Surely not! If this war isn’t over by Christmas, the ingredients will become scarce. Dishes calling for special ingredients – and lemons will be special seeing as they don’t grow in this country – just won’t be practical.’
‘She wouldn’t agree with you. Anyway, you might as well prepare yourself. I’m going to win.’
He didn’t want to believe it, but Lady Huntspill knew his family. All the same he wanted to lose. He wanted to make it up with Mary. He wanted to do a lot of things with Mary.
Mary clenched her jaw while recalling how Ruby had felt over misinterpreting Gareth’s intentions. It now looked as though she too had foolishly misinterpreted Michael Dangerfield’s intentions towards her.
‘I believe you’re telling the truth,’ she said solemnly.
‘You mean that?’
He winced under the power of her beautiful eyes, detecting a hint of violet in the piercing blue. Perhaps it was her dark lashes aiding that impression, so black they looked as though they’d been dipped in soot.
Mary eyed him steadily, not caring to admit even to herself that she’d misread him so totally. She looked for some sign that she had not. Although the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes were still obvious, the eyes themselves held a cynical look.
‘That would be so unfair.’
He shrugged. ‘All’s fair in love and wa
r.’
He wanted to add ‘and with us it could be love’, but he did want to win that prize. He had plans for it and, besides, his mother would be so pleased.
This time when she looked at him he thought he saw contempt in her eyes, certainly not love.
Mary turned angry. ‘You had no business entering if you know that woman. It’s unscrupulous!’
Heads turned at her raised voice.
Michael shrugged helplessly, aware that he’d gone the whole hog and blown any chance of getting to know Mary better.
‘I don’t care about winning. It’s not why I’m here. It just doesn’t matter. I had a plan for the money—’
‘Yes. Your bar bill. You said so.’
‘And for my mom. She’d be so proud if I won. Things haven’t been—’
Mary failed to pick up on everything he said, failed to ask him why he was really there. All that mattered was the competition and it being fair to everyone who’d entered.
Her eyes were blazing. ‘My sister and I put a lot into those recipes and our entries. We used our brains to work things out based on what ingredients would be available. You upper-crust types just don’t have a clue!’
‘I’m sorry—’ He laid his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
‘I’m sorry too. Forget I ever sent that letter.’
‘I don’t want to forget it.’
‘Your aunt thought it would be a good idea. She asked me so I did it. She’s a nice lady.’ She hoped her words would hurt him, hoped he would take it that she had not written the letter on her own volition but at the request of his aunt.
Up until now Michael had believed she had fallen for him on the first occasion they’d met, just as he had fallen for her. That was why she’d written to him.
The disappointment stung. Baking competitions were fun and he prided himself on what he did. As it was, his duties with the RAF now took up most of his time, but he’d managed to wangle some time off – not really so much for the competition, but to see Mary again. He’d even held off replying to her letter because he much preferred to see her in the flesh. He had been going to tell her that. The situation had changed. It seemed things were not as he’d thought.
