Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

  ‘I am not a pervert,’ he growled, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. ‘I was drunk both times. I thought she was you – in my head, that is. She looks like you, and she’s tall and I was missing you so much—’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘You and me had something special. You’re throwing it away.’

  ‘Get out,’ repeated Ruby, though louder this time. ‘I won’t tell you again. Once more and I’ll call the police.’

  Gareth stuffed the stockings inside his jacket, his expression as black as thunder.

  ‘I always thought you was a sweet girl, a real bit of all right. Sweet by name, sweet by nature. But you ain’t sweet. You’re a right fucking bitch!’

  Ruby had got used to his bad language when she’d worked for him, and had once thought it funny to see how it shocked people. She didn’t think so now. He’d needed to shock people, needed them to think he was something different and not to be messed with. On the last count she wished she hadn’t messed with him – in any sense of the word.

  ‘And you are a disgusting excuse for a man,’ Ruby responded. ‘And you smell. It’s bad enough that you stink as though you have not washed for a week, but what with the boozy breath … no plastering yourself with Brylcreem or drenching yourself in cologne will ever hide that!’

  Burning with anger, he levelled a finger at her. ‘It works both ways, Ruby Sweet. You’re just as guilty as I am and just as likely to get in trouble. You’re stockpiling a basic ration. Be careful I don’t report you to the authorities. Then we’ll see who gets in the most trouble.’

  Ruby grabbed the door, the brown blind rattling on its track as she jerked it open. ‘For the last time, get out of this shop. Now!’

  ‘I’m going, but mark me well Ruby Sweet. No matter your threats, if the chance comes I’ll shop you. You just see if I don’t!’

  With that he wrenched the door from Ruby’s grasp. It slammed shut behind him, the old doorbell jangling crazily, the glass rattling in its frame.

  For a moment she leaned against the closed door in order to catch her breath. Her heart was still racing though not with fear. She had held her ground and hadn’t flinched.

  No matter what Gareth had offered her, she was beyond him now. Even if he’d asked her then and there to marry him, she would have refused. His behaviour towards Frances had been bad enough and he deserved her anger. However, she had also enjoyed seeing him look surprised that she refused to be intimidated by his threats or bribed by his stolen gifts.

  Her only concern was that he might exact his own revenge and spin a tale to the authorities about her hoarding and dealing in black-market sugar. She wouldn’t put it past him and it did worry her. The sugar was carefully hidden and sparingly used. Even her family didn’t know about it and she wouldn’t tell them. It was her little stockpile, her precious something to make her cakes eatable and her pies tasty.

  All she hoped was that Gareth would sober up and keep his mouth shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  February, 1940

  Rationing had come in. Everyone had known it was coming and nobody had been looking forward to it.

  As a bakery producing bread for general consumption, Sweets Bakery was an integral part of the war effort and answerable to the Ministry of Food.

  The twins were sitting on either side of the kitchen table looking through the various leaflets they’d been flooded with.

  Ruby had given up smoking in order that she could send her ration to Charlie. He was issued with cigarettes anyway as part of a serviceman’s right, but she had no doubt he would appreciate having her ration as well. Mary also sent hers, no loss seeing as she didn’t smoke anyway.

  Mary sighed at the piles of leaflets, handy hint cards and booklets with advice on everything from how to be economical with cooking times: using water in which meat had been boiled to make soup, cooking potatoes in their skins in order to preserve their nutritional value. It was also pointed out that less fuel was consumed and cooking hastened when saucepans were fitted with lids.

  ‘As if we didn’t already know that,’ grumbled Ruby.

  The ration books and how to use them demanded their attention more so than anything else.

  Mary read it out. ‘Four ounces of bacon and ham, meat to the value of one shilling and sixpence with the exception of sausages and offal unless stated otherwise. Two ounces of butter, two ounces of cheese …’

  Ruby, a great lover of cheese, sighed. ‘Hardly enough to keep a mouse.’

  Mary carried on reading the rest of the list of rationed items. ‘Four ounces of margarine. Four ounces of cooking fat. Three pints of milk. Eight ounces of sugar. One pound of preserves every month, two ounces of tea, one shell egg a week …’

  Ruby interrupted. ‘Unless Mrs Hicks’s hens are laying well.’

  Mary continued. ‘Twelve ounces of sweets.’

  Ruby sat holding her head in her hands trying to take it all in. ‘And this is for one person?’

  ‘One person, per week. Not a lot is it?’

  Ruby shook her head. No, it wasn’t a lot, though the fact that they lived between city and countryside was going to help, at least as far as local game and farm produce was concerned. And Frances seemed to be faring better in her temporary home.

  Deciding she was now fully informed, Mary opened the ration book and studied exactly what they’d done so far and how the whole system would work.

  ‘Right. We’ve registered for meat at Masters in the High Street, greengrocery at Mary Tiley’s on the corner of Court Road and general grocery at Powells’. Bread doesn’t apply to us, even though it’s not rationed. I dare say we’re going to get a run on it though, people stocking up on it to use as a filler with other food. An alternative to pastry. Did you like my Brown Betty last night?’

  ‘Yes I did.’

  Mary read out the details from their little blue book in which they were accustomed to record the dishes they contrived.

  ‘Slice apples as you would for an apple pie, place in dish, add a little water. Topping: stale breadcrumbs mixed with a dessertspoon of sugar or honey, sprinkle on top, place in oven for half an hour. Serve with custard or cream.’

  ‘Or pour over the juice from the apples. Not everyone is going to be able to get cream and even custard powder might be in short supply.’ Ruby shrugged. ‘We can’t be sure yet, can we?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No. We can’t be sure of anything.’

  Her thoughts naturally turned to Michael. He’d kissed her so passionately when he left she’d been in danger of fainting from lack of air. That’s what she’d told him.

  ‘We’ve got no married quarters at Scampton,’ he’d said. ‘I think you should know that.’

  She laughed. ‘Just as well we’re not married then, isn’t it.’

  He’d grinned. ‘Give it time.’ Then he’d kissed her again.

  He was still at Scampton but she hadn’t heard from him for days and the news coming in from France and the Netherlands wasn’t good. She had a suspicion he might be flying over there, bombing the enemy positions, though of course she couldn’t know for sure.

  ‘No news is good news,’ Ruby said to her as though reading her thoughts.

  Mary sighed. ‘Perhaps I should have taken him at his word and married him before he went back. I know it’s crazy, but who knows what time any of us have got left?’

  Ruby refilled their teacups adding milk but no sugar. Only their father refused to go without, though had cut down from two teaspoons to one as a gesture of support for his son and all those bringing much needed supplies home.

  They were interrupted by somebody knocking at the shop door.

  Ruby snorted. ‘Ignore it. We’re closed. Give it a minute and they’ll remember we close at midday.’

  The knocking continued.

  ‘Obviously they’re not remembering,’ said Mary getting to her feet.

  Unwilling to let her cup of tea go cold or to give up the precious little time she
had to herself, Ruby continued to pore over the leaflets, scrutinising the advice on how to deal with various forms of gas attack and details of where to get emergency rations should an invasion occur, and amused by warnings not to use gas mask cases as handbags.

  ‘I’m sorry. We’re closed,’ she heard Mary shouting out in the shop.

  Whoever was at the door said something Ruby couldn’t quite catch, except that it was definitely a man’s voice. Next thing she heard was the rattle of the bolts and the shaking of the fragile glass in the top half of the door. Whoever it was, Mary was letting them in.

  More muffled voices, though this time one particular phrase stood out.

  ‘I represent the Ministry of Food.’

  Ruby’s blood turned cold. Gareth! He’d done it! He’d shopped her to the authorities just as he’d threatened he would.

  She leapt to her feet, her first thought to dash down to the cellar, take the sack from the airtight bin she’d hidden it in and bury it among the coal – or anywhere it wasn’t likely to be found.

  There wasn’t time.

  Mary entered the kitchen followed by a tall, fair man with a ruddy complexion and glasses. It occurred to her that she’d seen him before, but she couldn’t remember exactly where.

  ‘Ah,’ said the man on seeing the official pamphlets and ration cards spread all over the table. ‘I see you’re in the process of familiarising yourself with the rationing system. I’m sure you’ll soon get the hang of it – all things considered.’

  Mary took a deep breath. ‘This is Mr Sinclair, Ruby. Mr Sinclair, this is my sister, Ruby. Ruby, Mr Sinclair is from the Ministry of Food.’

  Mr Sinclair doffed his hat. Ruby felt her knees give way but managed a muted hello. Her thoughts were still with the sack of sugar in the cellar. Perhaps he’d be lenient if she owned up.

  Mary asked him if he would like a cup of tea.

  Ruby gulped. Why was her sister being so inviting to this man? She reminded herself that Mary knew nothing about the sugar.

  ‘We don’t have much sugar,’ Ruby blurted.

  Mary looked at her as though she’d gone mad. ‘I’m sure we can spare Mr Sinclair a teaspoon for his tea, Ruby.’

  With a sinking heart, Ruby pulled out a chair and sat down.

  Mary invited Mr Sinclair to sit down which he did, taking off his hat and setting it on the table next to his teacup.

  Mary asked him if he’d like a biscuit. Ruby shot her sister an accusing look. She’d made those biscuits in an ad hoc manner using oatmeal, honey and a handful of unrefined flour that Spillers had sent them by mistake. Neither Mary nor herself had tasted them yet. Besides that she considered them hers and not to be given out generously without her say so. What with that and the worry about his reason for being here, she was not best pleased.

  She wondered what prison she might end up in; hopefully one near her home. At least then she’d get visitors. Damn Gareth Stead! Damn him to hell!

  Mr Sinclair smiled beatifically and said he would love a biscuit.

  Mary obliged, laying two on a tea plate which she placed between his tea cup and his hat.

  Before Mary had a chance to sit down, Ruby shot her sister a questioning look. What is he doing here?

  Mary told her. ‘Mr Sinclair was at the Victoria Rooms. He wants to talk to us about our recipes.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Mr Sinclair took a bite of biscuit then beamed. ‘Scrumptious! I take it you made these yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I made them,’ said Ruby feeling a sudden surge of satisfaction.

  Mr Sinclair shut his eyes. ‘I taste honey and the crunchiness is due to oatmeal flour. Unrefined. Am I right?’

  His eyes blinked open. Even though he wore spectacles, Ruby could see they were very blue.

  Her mouth hung open in surprise. How could he possibly know that?

  Mr Sinclair noticed her surprise and smiled in an oddly secretive way. ‘I have an acute sense of taste. The sensitivity of my taste buds was the reason my first job was with the Tea Council tasting various brands and blends of tea from all over the world. I could tell instantly whether the leaves had been grown on the southern slopes of the hills in Assam or on the terraces of Darjeeling. Of course I could be much more specific than that and say which plantation they had been grown on and which slope, terrace or field on that plantation. It was quite a demanding job, but I much prefer the variety of tastes I get to savour since I joined the Ministry of Food.’

  His eyes twinkled with pride.

  Mary was impressed and also intrigued.

  Ruby wanted to laugh at his pronouncement, but thinking he might resent her laughing at what he obviously considered a skilled profession, merely smiled and said, ‘How interesting.’

  ‘I think you mean unusual,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘unless you’ve met a tea taster before. But never mind. Let me get to the point of why I am here.’

  Clearing his throat and readjusting his spectacles, he reached for his briefcase which he had placed on the floor at his feet, unclipped it and brought out a buff-coloured folder. Before continuing he polished off a second biscuit and drained his tea cup. He declined a second cup.

  The eyes of both Mary and Ruby went to the folder. When he opened it they recognised the recipes they had entered for the competition.

  Mary craned her neck, her eyes following Mr Sinclair’s hands as he read quickly through a piece of paper fastened with a paperclip to the inside of the folder.

  ‘Ah,’ he said after reading the note. ‘You didn’t win the actual baking competition.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Ruby feeling disagreeable at being reminded that she hadn’t. ‘We were too downmarket for her ladyship. She certainly doesn’t favour ordinary cooking on a budget, which most people round here have to do all the time. I wonder where she’ll get her caviar and sirloin of beef now there’s a war on and rations coming in.’

  It was hard to read the look Mr Sinclair shot at her. ‘What a pity.’

  Mary shot her sister a warning glance. Her voice was getting loud and she wasn’t caring too much about what she was saying.

  Mr Sinclair appeared unruffled. ‘However, you must have noticed that no prizes were given for the recipes submitted, but then, that wasn’t the point of myself and my colleague Mr Potter being there. You left suddenly and I sent him out to find you. Did you not notice us at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary sensing that they were about to hear something very interesting. ‘You didn’t seem to belong there and I noticed all the recipe envelopes were passed to you.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s right.’ He took off his glasses and laid them on top of the paperwork. Resting his elbows on the table, he clasped his hands beneath his chin. ‘The Ministry of Food have it in mind to generate a healthy food culture – waste not, want not, if you like. You may already have noticed some of this advice among the things you have here,’ he said, waving his hand at the array of printed matter they’d been perusing. ‘This war is not likely to be over in a matter of months, much as we would like it to be, and the fact is that we import a lot of our food, a factor likely to be interrupted by enemy action.’

  ‘We know. Our brother is in the merchant navy,’ Ruby explained. ‘His ship got sunk, but he’s gone to sea again on another.’

  ‘I hope he stays safe,’ Mr Sinclair said kindly. ‘We were very impressed by your recipes because they were simply made from simple ingredients, including the use of leftovers from one meal to the next. Not wasting a thing is going to be very important to the war effort. We intend using your recipes in our information leaflets and on the wireless, in newspapers and also on the silver screen.’

  Ruby gasped. ‘Fancy that! Our bacon and bubble and squeak fry-ups on the screen at the Regent in Kingswood!’

  Mary sagged back in her chair, utterly amazed. ‘So you’ve come here to ask our permission?’

  Mr Sinclair shook his head. ‘Not really. The fact is that we are on a war footing and therefore have the right to r
equisition items we feel likely to be beneficial to the public interest. I trust you don’t mind?’

  Ruby folded her arms defiantly. ‘I’m not so sure about that! Sounds like a bloody cheek to me!’

  ‘So they’re no longer ours,’ said Mary, wondering why she felt there was something else going on here, that he wasn’t here just to tell them that their recipes were being requisitioned.

  ‘They remain yours, but the use of them is in the public interest,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘But that is not the sole reason for my visit.’

  ‘You need our continuing assistance,’ said Mary, pulling up a chair and sensing something special was about to happen.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, putting his glasses back on before continuing. ‘Very perceptive, Miss Sweet. I am indeed here on a very specific mission. The fact is that you were the only entrants who based their recipes on a single weekly shop for an ordinary working-class family. You actually planned the meals for the week around a Sunday roast, that is, roast on Sunday, cold on Monday, mince on Tuesday, etc., fresh vegetables and other more perishable items being added throughout the week.’ He turned to Ruby. ‘We were also impressed that you acknowledged that people need to be cheered up now and again with a little luxury, a sweet dessert to lift the spirits, and again, done on a very tight budget with very basic ingredients.’

  Ruby positively preened. ‘Well, war does seem to be a gloomy business and after seeing what our rations are going to be, it’s only likely to get gloomier.’

  ‘So why are you really here?’ asked Mary. ‘It’s not just to ask us to invent more recipes, is it?’

  Off came the glasses again. ‘Quite right. I’ll get straight to the point of what I am here to ask you. We need women with good cooking skills and the right attitude to give talks and demonstrations to women’s groups such as WVS members, women shopping in high streets and at local markets, village halls, etc., at the same time distributing Ministry of Food leaflets.’

  Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘I’m not sure we can do that. We already get up early to help our father in the bakery and take turns serving in the shop until noon.’