Home Sweet Home (16 page)

The stove worked a treat, the audience clapped and Ruby felt tired but well satisfied. For just one final moment, her eyes yet again surveyed the crowded canteen. Some friendly faces smiled back at her, but most were talking among themselves. All the same she felt sure the demonstration had been a success.

The canteen manager wove his way through the crowd. Ruby stood there waiting for him to shake her hand. Instead, he ducked behind her and checked the gas taps.

‘Can't be too careful,' he grumbled. It was obvious he thought these talks and demonstrations were a waste of time and considered the big gas stove his personal property.

Ignoring the man's rudeness, Ruby concentrated on packing up the items she'd used. She had suggested cutting the cakes up at the end of the demonstration to serve to the workers there and then, but Mr Gillespie, the canteen manager, intervened. ‘Just leave them there. We'll cut them up and serve them for pudding tomorrow with custard – if we've got enough milk!'

Ruby gritted her teeth. ‘This food belongs to the Ministry of Food. I can distribute it as I see fit.'

His rudeness persisted. ‘Then they wouldn't want it wasted, would they!'

‘Now look here!' She was just about to put him in his place, when another man came up behind her and spoke.

‘Ruby?'

It was Andrew Sinclair. Andrew worked for the Ministry of Food and organised cookery demonstrations and talks on the wireless.

She wasn't that pleased to see him.

‘Andrew. I wasn't expecting to see you here. Official business, is it?' Why was it her teeth ached when she spoke to him? He'd been sweet on Mary before she'd married Michael. Lately, he seemed to have transferred his affections to Ruby. Not that either one of them had ever encouraged him.

‘Indeed it is, Miss Sweet, or may I call you Ruby, seeing as we have known each other for some time?'

‘You've called me by my Christian name before, Andrew. Nothing's changed.'

He ignored the put-down. ‘Can we talk?'

‘Of course we can.'

He helped her pack everything up and for that she was grateful. He chatted as he packed, asking how the family was and outlining her timetable for the next fourteen days. However, he looked as though he had something else in mind. She waited for it to come.

‘Now there's something very special I want to talk to you about. My mother has suggested you give a talk at the Dorchester to her ladies' circle. Some of them are ladies both in nature and in title. Do you think you could do that?'

‘At the Dorchester?'

‘Yes. Don't sound so surprised. My mother is very well connected.'

‘I do hope you are not harbouring ulterior motives, Andrew.'

He gave a nervous laugh followed by an equally nervous cough. ‘Of course not, dear lady. Of course not.'

Ruby prided herself on being able to read Andrew quite well. Her mind was working overtime. London was roughly halfway between Bristol and Scampton, where her sister lived. This might be a good opportunity to visit her sister, and she intended taking full advantage.

Pasting on her sweetest smile she said, ‘That sounds very interesting, Andrew. How very clever of your mother to suggest it. I think it would be a very good idea indeed. Can I leave it with you to arrange the details? Though not yet. I have to check my timetable.'

Andrew beamed so broadly Ruby thought his face was going to burst like a balloon. ‘Of course.'

‘Then that's settled.'

‘Can I give you a lift?'

‘No. The Ministry have seen fit to provide me with an official car. Remember?'

He looked disappointed. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot. My, my. Well aren't you the lucky one. You never used to like driving.'

‘Needs must. Drivers are in short supply, nowadays. Most men are off fighting the enemy.'

Andrew, who she knew was definitely in the right age group, fidgeted briefly with his spectacles. ‘Ah, yes. I wish I too could be there, but what with my sight and my flat feet. And Mother, of course. She would be terrified during a bombing raid without me around.'

‘I dare say she would,' murmured Ruby.

Back to being his bumptious self, Andrew's dewy eyes peered at her through his glasses. ‘And I suppose your Corporal Smith has let you down.'

Ruby gave him a fixed stare. ‘Yes, if you can call being imprisoned in a Japanese prisoner of war camp letting me down. He is slightly indisposed,' she snapped.

‘Ah. Yes. Yes.' He nodded three or four times but gave no sign of being at all put out by her attitude. ‘So I can count on you to fulfil this very invaluable role at the Society of Titled Ladies?'

Was the man completely insensitive? Ruby sighed. She took it that the Titled Ladies he referred to would be very similar in status and attitude to Mrs Darwin-Kemp. Not her type of women at all. She much preferred the cheery women and girls working in the factories or doing their bit for the searchlight units. As for service women and nurses, well she had to take her hat off to them most of all. But this was England, and Andrew loomed over her like a small barrage balloon in a suit. Ruby sighed with resignation.

‘As I've already said to you, let me know the details when you have them. In the meantime, you must excuse me. I've had a long day and wish to go home.'

He used one fingertip to push his spectacles more firmly on to the bridge of his nose. As he did so, she noticed he had beautifully polished nails, each one symmetrically cut.

I expect his mother insists, she thought to herself. Not wishing him to see her knowing smile, she turned away. As she did so, she wondered if his mother also still checked behind his ears!

That morning, after Ruby had left for that day's assignment, Stan Sweet was holding the fort in the bakery while Frances took young Charlie out in his pushchair. When the lad was on top form, he would walk anywhere, but as he was quite poorly at present, the old pushchair was heaved out.

Stan watched Frances bundle young Charlie in warm clothes and place him in his pushchair.

‘He'll enjoy a bit of fresh air,' she said loftily.

Her manner was a bit more abrupt than usual, but on this occasion he did not reprimand her. She had a lot on her mind.

Whoever had coined the phrase about there being a spectre at the feast had surely been referring to his absent sister-in-law. He'd always thought good riddance to bad rubbish, but the ghost of Mildred Sweet was coming back to haunt him.

Perhaps it was cowardice, or merely compliance, but he still didn't consider it the right time to be tackling his niece with a few home truths about her mother. Neither was he ready to discuss Frances having a reunion with a woman who would only disappoint her. First thing first, he would have a chat with his dear friend Bettina.

‘I need to call in on Mrs Hicks when you get back,' he said to Frances. ‘So, don't be late.'

Frances, her full lips clenched in a tight line, muttered something almost inaudible that sounded like ‘I won't be', though it could just as easily have been a tad cheekier. He couldn't be sure.

The shop door shut behind his niece and grandson, the sound reverberating slowly into silence, leaving only the resonant clunking of the oak wall clock's swinging brass pendulum.

Stan sighed, clenched his pipe firmly in his teeth but didn't light it. Most of his customers didn't mind the smell of his pipe, but in a bid to save tobacco, it had become a habit that he never smoked in the shop.

He stood behind the counter, surveying the shelves of bread, and the odd baked goods that Ruby still managed to make from whatever spare ingredients were to hand.

The brass bell above the shop door clanged as Mrs Martin came in carrying a sack. Her round face was red with exertion and she was puffing and panting as though she'd been running for a bus and had overtaken it in the effort.

‘A leg of pork,' she confided swiftly without even saying hello. ‘Too big for my oven, so if you could oblige, Stan, I'd much appreciate it. Our Joey's coming home on leave. He's bringing his girlfriend with him. Hope she ain't too stuck up. She'll have to take us as she finds us!'

Stan grabbed the sack from Mrs Martin before it dripped blood on his nice clean counter.

‘Stuck up? Good grief, Lilly, has your boy found himself a duchess?'

‘Not so far as I know. She's from up north. Liverpool, I think.'

‘Then take it from me she's not likely to be stuck up. A lot of the girls up there are mill hands, hard-working girls without a stuck-up bone in their body.'

‘Can you roast it in your bread oven overnight?' she whispered. At the same time she leaned forward while glancing nervously over her shoulder, despite there being no other customers at present in the bakery. ‘And there's a bit of shoulder in there for you.'

Stan didn't need to be told that the pig had been born, reared, fattened and slaughtered without the knowledge of the Ministry of Agriculture. He used to keep a few pigs of his own, but the demands of the bakery, and the fact that his partner in pigs had been apprehended for trading on the black market, had recently put paid to his operation. The pigs had been disposed of. A shoulder of pork was worth the risk.

‘Joey's been in Italy. He got wounded,' Mrs Martin continued.

‘Nothing serious, I hope.'

‘Nothing that won't mend. Got shot in the ankle.'

It crossed Stan's mind fleetingly that Joey might have caused the injury himself. He'd seen plenty of incidents on the Western Front, tired, homesick young men shooting themselves in the foot.

‘Oh well,' said Stan, wisely preferring not to give voice to what he suspected. ‘It'll do the lad good to be home.'

He might have learned more about what Joey had been up to, as well as further details of the girl he was bringing home with him, but the shop door swung open.

In a knee-jerk reaction, Stan let the sack fall to the floor behind the counter. Anticipating an official from the Ministry of Agriculture, Mrs Martin's ruddy face paled.

‘My goodness, Lilly. You look as though you were expecting to see Jack the Ripper coming through this door.'

There was a distinct twinkle in the pale blue eyes of Bettina Hicks.

Relieved at the sight of her, Stan slapped his big palms on the counter. ‘Bettina! Mrs Martin was just telling me that her Joey's been injured and is on his way home for some well-earned leave.'

No mention of the pig, but Stan went out of his way to exude a lot of enthusiasm for Mrs Martin's news. Actually, he wasn't sure whether he would recognise Joey by sight: Mrs Martin had a whole battalion of sons and almost as many daughters.

‘That's wonderful,' said Bettina, her eyes sparkling and her pale pink lips curving into a smile. Anyone else might have asked for details, but there existed a distinct rapport between her and Stan Sweet: she could read his expressions just as easily as he could read hers. The finer points would be discussed in private.

Mrs Martin slapped a meaty hand against her thigh before adjusting her battered straw hat. ‘Can't stand 'ere gossiping. I've a lot to do before our Joey gets back.'

‘I'll have your special order ready for you first thing in the morning,' Stan called after her.

After she'd gone, Bettina looked at him and chuckled. ‘I take it her special order is more than extra bread for Joey's return.'

‘That's about right. How do you fancy coming round for a bit of roast pork on Sunday?'

‘Enough for all of us?'

‘I should think so!'

Stan's joviality was short-lived.

A small frown creased Bettina's smooth forehead.

‘Something's wrong. What is it, Stan?'

He shook his head, looked beyond her to the shop door and suggested she come out back. ‘I'll stick the kettle on.'

Leaning on the stick that helped support her right hip, though did little to alleviate the pain, Bettina followed him through.

On seeing she was having a bad day with her hip, he suggested she sit down while he made the tea. With a sigh of relief, his dear friend and confidante sank into one of the two armchairs placed on either side of the kitchen range.

After handing her a cup and saucer, he sat in the chair opposite her.

As she took a sip, Bettina scrutinised his face over the rim of her teacup. Sensing he had something serious to say, she kept silent while giving him time to gather his thoughts.

‘It's our Frances. She's been asking questions about her mother. She wants to know where she is.'

‘Oh. I see,' said Bettina, gently placing her cup back into its saucer. ‘It was bound to happen sooner or later.'

Stan sighed. He'd heard this all before and said it himself a few times. ‘I was hoping it wouldn't.'

‘I don't think that was very realistic.'

Stan shook his head. ‘I suppose not.'

‘She's at the right age to become curious.'

‘She might not have done if Mrs Powell hadn't thrown a few nasty comments at her.'

‘Ah!' said Bettina with a deep nod of her head. ‘Gertrude Powell. I might have guessed. If ever a woman was going to cast aspersions, it's her! What did she say exactly?'

As she awaited the details, she took another sip of her tea. Her eyes flickered with surprise as she studied Stan's face. His skin was a little greyer than usual and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

‘I've only got it second-hand from our Ruby but she said something to Frances along the lines of “your mother was a slut”.'

‘Not entirely untrue, but cruel to say such a thing to Frances.'

Stan looked a little taken aback at Bettina's honesty.

‘You know it yourself, Stan,' she said quite abruptly in a bid to pre-empt any condemnation. ‘Still, that's as may be. The poor girl must be terribly upset.'

‘She is, and you know how it is at that age. One minute she's a child, and the next minute … Suddenly it seems the world and especially grown-ups are against you. I'm having trouble knowing what to do.'