Wartime Sweethearts

by Lizzie Lane

Please take care of Auntie Betty for me.

  Love Michael. (Again)

  Smiling and feeling warm from the tip of her nose to her toes, Mary folded the letter and put it away with the others she’d received from him. This was her twelfth and all written in a very short time, the last four arriving within days of each other.

  ‘He’s keen,’ Ruby had remarked. Just for once she didn’t sound peevish about her sister’s beau. Her moodiness had almost vanished since becoming one of the Ministry of Food’s kitchen economists.

  ‘I suppose he is,’ Mary replied, though didn’t mention he’d asked her to marry him in every single letter.

  She’d asked herself why she didn’t say yes and came up with various excuses. Number one, she had known him for so little time. Number two, there was a war on. Number three, she had Dad to think about. There were a whole list of other more trivial reasons, though basically it was all back to it being too soon after meeting him.

  ‘I noticed that the last four letters came hot on the heels of each other,’ remarked Ruby.

  Mary sensed her sister was digging for details, but didn’t bite.

  ‘Almost as though time was running out,’ Ruby added. ‘I only meant …’ she began, suddenly aware she’d been a little thoughtless. ‘Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …’

  Mary had been in the process of laying out fresh leaflets on the shop counter for the women expected to attend this afternoon’s event. On hearing Ruby’s statement her fingers seemed to freeze in the process of sorting them out. The fact was that Ruby was right. The same thought had occurred to her. Why the sudden deluge of letters unless he was being posted somewhere? Hopefully it would be somewhere safe and in this country, but there was no telling.

  Ruby apologised immediately. ‘Don’t mind me. You know how I am, don’t think before I speak, half the time.’

  Mary was her usual stoic self. ‘He’s a pilot. Who can say?’

  She went back to sorting the leaflets. Not another word passed between them after that and Ruby could see there was no point in prodding her to be jolly or anything else. Mary had turned in upon herself, alone with her own thoughts, throwing herself into getting the demonstration and talk ready.

  Unlike a few demonstrations they’d attended at the insistence of the ministry, theirs would not be centred on cooking meals from fresh ingredients. Not all the ingredients used in such meals were available in country districts or indeed to the poorer sections of the community. What they did have was access to local game and fish, fresh field mushrooms, wild garlic, nettles and all different kinds of fruit.

  They’d also devised a Country Kitchen Cookbook, though it was far from being a book, just a number of useful recipes handed down and adapted to wartime conditions. Mary preferred to call the recipes ‘meal plans’, as the whole week’s meals were planned from one shop with perhaps a few top-ups of fresh items during the week.

  Central to the idea was the Sunday joint. They’d been lucky enough to be given extra meat rations for use on the job. The result was a very big piece of beef brisket, a cheap cut most of the village women would be familiar with.

  Their father and Gilda Jacobson helped set out the chairs ready for the audience. They’d collected them from all over the house and some belonged to Bettina Hicks. Bettina had contacted a number of her friends, some of whom used to employ cooks rather than cater for themselves. However, things had changed and they too had been affected by rationing and shortage of domestic labour. They needed to know how to cook for themselves.

  Ruby nervously surveyed her father and Gilda’s handiwork and pronounced that fifteen chairs might be a little optimistic. She just couldn’t believe that somebody would want to come along and hear someone of her age lecture on meal planning and food frugality. The thought of it was making her nervous.

  ‘I reckon you’re wrong there. I reckon you’ll have a full house,’ stated her father, before adding that he’d also acquired a couple of wooden forms from the village school. ‘They’re not needing so many what with kids being evacuated.’

  The clock struck two.

  ‘Time for the kick-off,’ stated Stan Sweet as he strode towards the bakery door.

  The blinds at both the windows and the door were still down. On pulling up the blind covering the door, he found himself faced with a queue of inquisitive-looking women, all chattering away like magpies.

  He turned and looked at his daughters. ‘Have you seen this bloody lot? Must be half the women in the village outside my door. Quick. Set that bench out now and get the other one in from the back. Lucky I got two.’

  Gilda jumped to do his bidding with Mary to help.

  Bettina Hicks chuckled. ‘Stand back, Stan, and let them in or you’ll be trampled in the rush.’

  Ruby would have laughed if she hadn’t suddenly got cold feet. She began taking backward steps. ‘I can’t do this,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I can’t do this! The ministry really should have chosen older women. You know what village women are like, they all make the best jam, and their recipe for chutney has been handed down and there’s nothing to touch it. They’re also used to feeding a huge family on next to nothing. They’ll say it’s like trying to teach a grandmother to suck eggs and we were making jam and dishing up roast dinners before you were born.’

  Her father laid his hand on her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘Then you have to speak to them from a more personal angle, one they can sympathise with but have no experience of.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Her father smiled. ‘You’ll think of something.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes you can.’

  Mary pushed her forward so she was jammed up against the counter.

  Stan Sweet deftly slid back the bolts top and bottom, undid the door and stood well back.

  ‘Jesus,’ he muttered as the women stampeded through like a herd of cows heading for the best grass in the meadow, though in this case it was the front-row chairs. Chair legs scraped and some chairs creaked under the weight of the wide bottoms sitting on them. Some women were asked to remove their hats, and smaller women asked to change places with the meatier females who’d bagged the front row. There were a few snorts of protest, but on the whole the mood was amiable and everyone wanted to see what was going on.

  Once everyone was seated and facing forward, Mary gave her sister a nudge.

  ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  Ruby got to her feet.

  ‘Ladies,’ she shouted, her heart pounding in her chest. ‘Welcome to you all and thank you for coming.’

  Even to her own ears she sounded incredibly confident, just like that toffee-nosed woman who’d judged the baking at the Victoria Rooms – though not such a cut-glass voice of course. So here she was, standing in front of women older than she was and trying not to be tongue-tied. The nerve of it! She was going to tell this lot how to cook economically and nutritionally in a time of war.

  A personal perspective … food … war …

  Suddenly it came to her.

  ‘Some of you may be questioning why someone of my age has the right to stand up here in front of you, handing out advice like a mother to her children. On reflection I feel I have earned that right, in fact, I have a vested interest in ensuring that all of us do our utmost to take the pressure off the brave men of our merchant ships whose job it is to supply this country with everything we need to win this war and that includes food.

  ‘Some of you may be aware that at the end of last year my brother Charlie was taken prisoner by the Germans after having his ship shot from under him, a ship containing a very large amount of food destined for these shores. At first we were told he was missing and of course in anybody’s books, that means he might possibly have been dead. We were lucky. Charlie was lucky. He was released and is already serving on another merchant ship. We are here to support men like him.’

  There followed murmurs of approval and a nodding of heads. The women were hanging
on to her every word. Ruby was thrilled and it gave the rest of her talk fresh impetus.

  ‘I think we all agree that we women left to fight on the kitchen front must do our bit. That is why the Ministry of Food recruited me. I hope my advice and ideas will be of use to you. If any of you have some helpful hints yourselves, both I and the Ministry of Food will be very grateful to hear of them. So will your country. After all, as I have already said, we’re all in this together. Every scrap we can save will help my brother Charlie do his job. Thank you and God Save the King.’

  The women erupted in an echoing chorus of ‘God Save the King’ accompanied by enthusiastic clapping.

  ‘You couldn’t have put it better,’ whispered Mary who was sitting in the chair at her side, clapping along with the rest of them.

  Her father, Stan Sweet, gave her the thumbs-up sign. Mrs Hicks smiled benignly before whispering something into Stan’s ear.

  Ruby glowed at the praise, returning to her subject feeling far more confident than she had before.

  ‘We shall begin with advice on fuel saving. Please take one of the small leaflets with you on the way out. It covers all sorts of fuel sources that many of you may use in your cooking; electric, gas and coal-fired ranges – I know a lot of you have the latter.

  ‘Note the advice in the leaflet regarding saucepans. A clean unpolished bottom absorbs heat more effectively so food is cooked more quickly. Also note the advice about always using a saucepan lid for exactly the same reason. If you don’t have a lid, use a plate. And if you can steam a pudding or something on top your vegetables, do so. Steamers are very fuel efficient.’

  A hand shot up. Ruby recognised Mrs Martin, the farmer’s wife, whose joints of beef were celebrated and usually too big to put in a normal oven.

  ‘I don’t have a steamer.’

  ‘Then use a colander,’ answered Ruby. ‘Just place it on top of the saucepan with whatever you want to put in it. The steam from the cooking vegetables beneath it will do the rest. Oh, and never put a small saucepan on a large gas ring; that too is a waste of heat.’

  The crowd murmured approvingly. Ruby allowed her shoulders to relax. The first hurdle had been crossed. Now it was time for a demonstration and discussion centred around the Sunday joint.

  The brisket, meat nicely cooked and fat glistening, was still in its roasting tin, an island in the middle of congealed fat.

  Ruby went on to discuss getting a decent-size joint, enough to meet everyone’s ration.

  ‘Roast meat for Sunday with vegetables. Scrape the fat off from around the joint before making gravy and place in a bowl. The fat will be used for cooking other things. You may need it in future to make pastry, seeing as the usual fats are in short supply. Use some of the dripping jelly left for the gravy, the rest for supper that night scraped on to bread and sprinkled with salt.’

  ‘Lovely,’ somebody shouted. ‘I do love a bit of beef dripping.’

  ‘Once that’s done, add water to what’s left in the roasting tin, mix well and empty into a saucepan. It’ll make a good stock for soup. Oh, but one word of warning: don’t add vegetables to the stock pot as they tend to go sour if you leave your soup or stew for a week. And if you can, let your gravy cool before adding it to shepherd’s pie and other dishes. It thickens and goes further that way.’

  They went on to discuss other options for both the dripping jelly and the fat left in the bowl, but making meals from the meat was the task they focused on.

  ‘Cold on Monday with bubble and squeak – in other words any leftover vegetables you have to hand. Tuesday, minced to make cottage pie, topped with potatoes, Wednesday, if you’ve still got some left, cut into pieces to make Cornish pasties or a stew. If there are any bones, remember to remove these before cooking; after all, we don’t want to waste heat cooking bones. Not that we’re discarding those bones. Like the juices from the tin, they’ll make a good stock base for a soup. Oh, and if you want to “fill out” any of these dishes, add oatmeal. It’s cheap and relatively plentiful.’

  ‘So what about Thursday, Friday and Saturday?’ Mrs Martin again.

  Ruby grinned. ‘Well, those meals depend on whether Joe Long has bagged a few rabbits.’

  A great hoot of laughter went up from some, and a more muted response from others. Sam Pickard could be relied upon to shoot fresh game when it was available. Only time would tell if there was enough to go round.

  Everyone agreed that the event went well. There was a rush at the end to grab leaflets but also to ask about recipes, plus advice from those who knew all about managing on a budget.

  ‘We’d beat that bloke Hitler hands down if it was all down to us making a meal from a turnip and a rabbit’s leg,’ chortled a farm labourer’s wife. ‘Been living like that for bleedin’ years!’

  One of Mrs Hicks’s friends was Mrs Darwin-Kemp, the woman whose husband had connections in London. She came up to Ruby, smiling in a very smug manner.

  ‘Congratulations, my dear,’ she said, her smile smothered behind the stiff net veil at the front of her hat. ‘I knew you could do it.’

  Mary overheard and knew immediately that Mrs Darwin-Kemp had had a hand in their appointment. ‘Might I ask how you knew?’

  ‘Your young cousin who came over with the sliced bread insisted you were excellent cooks.’

  So. It was down to young Frances.

  ‘You’re both very skilful,’ she said, her gaze alighting on one twin then the other. ‘If you should ever be in need of a domestic appointment, I would be willing to employ you. I so appreciate a good cook.’

  ‘Thank you but I don’t think so,’ said Ruby, her smile barely hiding a grimace.

  ‘We have family,’ added Mary.

  If she did hear, she ignored the remark turning her attention instead to Mrs Hicks. ‘You’re lucky to have them so close by, Bettina. I dare say you won’t starve.’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ Bettina snapped. ‘I can cook! Not like you, Agatha. Waited on hand, foot and finger all your life.’

  Mrs Darwin-Kemp laughed as though Mrs Hicks had cracked a particularly silly joke. Mary concluded that she didn’t really know what Mrs Hicks was getting at, or if she did, didn’t really care.

  Bettina’s attention was interrupted by Isaac who came to tell her that a telegram had arrived for Mrs Hicks. After reading it, she looked across at Mary.

  ‘It’s from Michael’s commanding officer. I’m afraid there’s a problem.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Frances wrote to her cousins about Ada Perkins, her friends and what she was up to. She also wrote about the apple orchard she had found which also had pears, plums and cherries in it.

  ‘Not so big as my orchard,’ she wrote loftily, as though the orchard next door to the pub was hers and hers alone.

  She thought about mentioning the feast that had disappeared that night in the forest, but decided not to. All the other kids had their own suspicions as to where it had gone, and for a while she’d been chief suspect, after all she was the one who’d been left to count to fifty and could easily have eaten it while the others were hiding.

  On returning from hiding and told their feast had vanished, this had not gone down well with her friends. Deacon demanded proof that she hadn’t ate it.

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die,’ said Frances, crossing her heart and closing her eyes to show she really meant it.

  ‘That’s not proof. Anybody can say that,’ declared Ralph, and of course he was right.

  Deacon leered right into her face. ‘Open your mouth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open your mouth!’

  The others held her while Deacon prised her jaw open and peered in. He shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘She might already have swallowed it,’ said Evan.

  Deacon frowned. ‘There’s only one thing left to do. If she’s ate it she’ll taste of it. There’ll be grease and everythin’ around her mouth.’

  The others sucked in their breath, awe
struck by Deacon’s deduction and knowing beyond doubt there was only one sure way to tell if she had ate it; Deacon had to taste her.

  His mouth sucked on hers so hard that her lips were drawn into his mouth.

  ‘Yak!’ he exclaimed when he finally withdrew, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing. Just jam.’

  ‘P’raps it was a dog,’ offered Ralph while wiping his nose with his coat sleeve.

  ‘Or a wolf!’ Gertie exclaimed, her round eyes looking this way and that just in case the creature was still around and still hungry.

  Merlyn merely looked up at the treetops, as though the answer might be floating around up there somewhere.

  Frances shook off the hands that had held her. ‘Don’t be so stupid. There are no wolves in this forest – are there?’

  She looked round for confirmation because she didn’t herself know for sure.

  Evan, Deacon and the rest of her school friends all exchanged shrugs and dumb looks. Nobody knew, though she could tell by the look in their eyes that the prospect excited them.

  She decided that her new friends weren’t nearly so knowledgeable as her friends back in Oldland Common. It seemed it was time for her to take charge of matters.

  ‘Are there any tracks?’

  ‘What do you mean, tracks?’ It was Deacon who asked.

  ‘Like in cowboy and Indian films. They track the bandits by following their footprints. Are there any footprints?’

  Wary eyes studied the area around the fire where the crime had taken place. And it was a crime. Whoever had stolen their supper was a thief and deserved to be punished.

  The ground around the fire was soft and there was no foliage to hide the footprints.

  ‘That is not wolves’ paw prints,’ stated Frances. The gleam of triumph shining in her eyes, she pointed at what could only be the impressions of a pair of hob-nailed boots. ‘Wolves don’t wear boots!’

  Everyone looked down at the footprints then at their own feet. Evan was wearing a pair of scuffed brown boots, hand-me-downs from his brother and still too big for him. His boots were the biggest but still no match for the footprints.