Home Sweet Home (4 page)

Ruby slid her hand possessively through the crook of the American's arm and smiled when he bent to kiss her cheek. So this was Ruby's latest beau! Frances knew there was one but hadn't met him until now.

Declan O'Malley's demeanour was warm and courteous. His smile was all embracing.

‘I should have known,' he said, shaking his head and adopting a doleful expression. ‘Two beauties like you had to belong to the same family. Tell me: how do the guys around here cope with their fluttering hearts?'

Ruby nudged him in the ribs. ‘Declan! Stop that.' She turned her attention to Frances, her gaze running down over the red dress that had once been hers. ‘You haven't spilt anything on it already, have you?'

Frances shook her head. ‘No. I've only just arrived.'

‘You look flustered. Are you a little peeved?' asked a smiling Ruby, still clinging on to the American's arm.

‘Of course not,' Frances responded hotly. ‘Why should I be?'

In the presence of the good-looking American, Frances held back from telling her what Mrs Powell had said.

Ruby was not fooled. Looking her cousin in the eye she said, ‘Frances! I can tell, you know.' She turned and smiled at Declan O'Malley. ‘My cousin has always worn her heart on her sleeve, even when she was a child.'

Declan's expression was inscrutable. ‘But she's not a child now. That much is obvious.'

Frances had been simmering at being referred to as a child. ‘That's right. I'm not.'

Ruby apologised. ‘It's just that you seem a bit off.'

‘I'm fine. I was just wondering whether red suits me.'

A small frown puckered Ruby's forehead. ‘Of course it does. Actually, it suits you better than it suited me. Red is your colour. Don't you think so, Declan, my love?'

Declan, a knowing smile on his lips, added his opinion. ‘I have to agree with Ruby. You look like a movie star. Perhaps I can have the pleasure of dancing with you later on?' His very black pencil-thin eyebrows rose with quizzical amusement.

‘Perhaps you can,' returned Frances, unable to stop herself from blushing.

His smile was warm and full of the confidence every American seemed to have in buckets.

‘I'm not the best dancer in the world, but I promise not to step on your toes.'

Wishing her face didn't feel so hot, Frances tossed her head so that her hair fell around her shoulders in the seductive way it had earlier. ‘Oh, I don't think you're being honest, Declan. I bet you're a really good dancer.'

‘I try to be.'

‘There!' Ruby said in breathless exclamation. ‘My good friend Declan is in agreement with me. You look good in red. It's been confirmed.'

Frances thanked them both, at the same time wondering that Ruby had called Declan a good friend, not ‘my sweetheart', ‘my boyfriend'. Though she had referred to him as ‘my love', earlier. But that was without meaning, Frances decided. Ruby tended to use the same endearments for customers, for everyone.

Ruby flitted from one man to the next, never staying too long in the company of any of them. Except her driver, thought Frances. Johnnie Smith, the corporal from the Royal Corps of Transport, had been assigned to her by the Ministry of Food. It had been his task to drive her from one baking demonstration to another. Ruby had spent more time with him than any other man, even if only in a working capacity.

But Johnnie Smith had been taken prisoner when Singapore had fallen to Japanese invasion. If it hadn't been for that, who knew what might have happened between the pair of them.

Frances said nothing until Ruby's friend Declan was out of earshot on the other side of the hall ordering fresh drinks. He'd been cornered by George Gibbs, an old farmer who was out tonight dressed in his Sunday best which, unfortunately for him, smelled of mothballs and mouse dust. Frances took advantage of being alone with her cousin to ask about her mother.

‘Ruby. Do you remember my mother?'

Ruby frowned. ‘No. Not really.'

‘Do you know where she is?'

Ruby appeared agitated. At the same time she surveyed the dancers on the floor as though their steps were slightly out of sequence and needed a severe frown to bring them into line.

‘I'm not sure. You need to ask my dad.'

Ruby's eyes continued to search the dance floor. Her lips were sucked inwards. ‘You mean Uncle Stan knows?'

Ruby shrugged and still didn't meet her cousin's look. ‘I don't know. Not for sure. What's brought this on?'

‘I would like to meet her.'

Ruby's frown returned. ‘Meet her? After all this time?'

‘She's my mother. I want to know what she was like.'

Seeing the desperate look in her cousin's eyes, Ruby reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose it's only natural that you would want to meet up with her, but—'

The time seemed ripe to change the subject. ‘The spread looks good. If you hear what seems like thunder, don't worry! It's just my stomach rumbling!'

Ruby pretended to treat the matter in a light-hearted manner. At the same time, she eyed Frances with nervous apprehension. She had not expected her cousin to ask something like this. What with that and the way she'd seen Declan look at Frances, the night had not turned out exactly as she'd hoped. Turning the conversation to food was an acceptable alternative to discussing more serious matters.

‘We're not allowing anyone to indulge until the interval or there'll be nothing left. I think the apple cake will go well, don't you? Did you know that dried apples are fetching nine pence per pound?'

Frances replied that she didn't know. Quite frankly, she didn't care, but if it took discussing the price of dried fruits to stop Ruby's questions, then she would do it.

‘Dates are the cheapest. Seven pence a pound.'

Declan still hadn't returned from fetching drinks for himself and Ruby.

Ruby carried on talking about the price of provisions until he'd signalled from the other side of the room, raising the two drinks he'd bought.

‘I'd better go.' Ruby paused, her expression one of concern. ‘You will be all right, won't you?'

Frances nodded. ‘Why shouldn't I be?'

Ruby stroked her cousin's arm in a gesture of sympathy. ‘We'll talk about it later. Is that all right with you?'

Frances nodded again. Ruby was not to know that she had already made her mind up: she was going to find her mother. Nobody would stop her. She wouldn't let them.

On the other side of the room, Declan handed Ruby her drink. ‘Does your cousin want something?'

Ruby lay her hand upon his arm. ‘With regard to your comments to my cousin and the way you looked at her, Declan, can I remind you that Frances is only fifteen years old?'

His smile gave nothing away. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

Ruby was not fooled. Her jaw was set, her eyes hard. ‘Oh, yes, you do. You know very well. Leave her alone, Declan. She's too young. Leave her alone or you'll have my father to answer to. And me. I promise you, it will not be pleasant!'

Ruby was up early the following morning, preparing for a talk she was giving to St George Housewives Group. St George was a suburb of Bristol and thus most households were more dependent on shops rather than farmland for their food. With that in mind, she'd devised a pie made from vegetables and Spam. Tins of Spam were becoming quite commonplace on the shelves of grocery stores, thanks to the American allies.

She'd also devised a pie recipe using snoek – a variety of dried fish imported from South Africa.

The last items were loaded into the wickerwork hamper just as her father came in from the bakery.

‘I'm parched. Is that a fresh brew?'

Ruby reached for the pot. ‘I'll pour one for you.'

‘I thought you had to be off?' Stan Sweet knew his daughter's schedule off by heart; in fact, he made a point of being well informed about all his family.

Ruby placed the cup of tea in front of him. ‘Dad. It's our Frances. I wanted to warn you before she gets up.'

It was not yet six thirty. Stan Sweet regularly got up at five to bake bread. Ruby or Frances would take over once the bread was baked and cooling, ready to be transferred to the shop.

Stan looked at his daughter over the rim of his teacup. He took a big slurp. ‘What's wrong?'

Ruby took a deep breath. ‘She wants to find her mother.'

Slowly and thoughtfully, her father placed his cup back into its saucer. For a moment, he was totally silent as he mulled over what Ruby had said.

‘That's bad news. Come to that, her mother was always bad news.'

‘I told her I had no idea where her mother was. I told her to ask you.'

Still silent, eyes downcast, Stan nodded in his usual thoughtful way. ‘I suppose the day had to come.'

Ruby eyed her father, wondering when it was that he'd began to look old, when his hair had started thinning, when the loose skin of his jowls had become so wrinkled.

She hesitated before finally asking whether he really did know the whereabouts of Mildred Sweet, Frances's mother.

‘Yes. I do.'

A wary look came to Ruby's face.

Pushing his teacup away, Stan asked, ‘Why now? She's never shown much interest before.'

Ruby shrugged. ‘I don't know, but as you've just said, the day was bound to come.'

Her father got up from his chair. ‘Leave it with me. Say nothing about this until I've thought it over.'

Ruby nodded, then glanced at her watch. ‘I have to go. Will you check the post for me? Just in case there's a letter … or something.'

Her father's smile was sad but understanding. He knew his daughter was asking him to check if there was anything from Johnnie Smith. Ruby checked every day, hardly giving the mail a chance to fall through the letterbox before pouncing on it. So far, in all this time, there'd been nothing.

Later in the morning, leaving Frances to run the shop, Stan and his grandson Charlie made their way to St Anne's church.

The weather was dull and overcast, droplets of rain sprinkling from bushes each time the north wind blew. Once they were in the churchyard, Stan used both hands to draw his coat collar up around his neck.

Finding he was no longer constrained by his grandfather's firm grip, Charlie broke into a tottering run, gleefully laughing as twigs and leaves blew across his path.

Stan headed for his wife's grave, pleased to see that Michaelmas daisies were in flower. As was his habit, he settled down beside his wife's headstone, just as he might if she'd been lying in the marriage bed they'd shared for such a few short years.

This was where he came to speak his mind, gather his thoughts and ask questions he wouldn't voice to anyone else – even to his good friend Bettina Hicks.

He called out to Charlie not to wander off before voicing what was in his mind.

‘Sarah. The war goes on. All our family are safe and sound, at least for the present. Mary rang me yesterday from Lincolnshire to say that Michael is doing well and that it won't be long before he's home and maybe flying again. I get the impression she's hoping the war will be over before that time comes. I can't say I blame her. Anyway, I think she'd like him to be there when the baby is born, any day now.'

He looked up to see Charlie chasing a baby rabbit round and round a stone guardian angel.

‘You won't catch him, Charlie,' Stan called out.

Charlie stood still, turned and regarded his grandfather with a cheeky grin, his cheeks pink and wisps of black curly hair escaping from beneath his balaclava.

‘Bunz,' Charlie shouted, pointing to where the baby rabbit had been. ‘Gone,' he said on looking back to the bare spot.

‘It's not Bunz,' Stan corrected him. Bunz was Charlie's favourite toy. ‘It's a real one.'

His grandson looked quite mystified. ‘Bunz,' he said again, more emphatically this time.

Stan chuckled as he shook his head. ‘My, my, Sarah. If only you were here. If only you could see our first grandchild.' He fell to silence as a thought hit him. ‘If only his parents could have too.'

His son Charlie, after whom the little boy had been named, had been lost at sea, thanks to an enemy torpedo. Gilda, the boy's mother, widow of a man who had died in a death camp in Nazi Germany, had been killed in a bombing raid on London. Both events had saddened the whole family, but at least they had young Charlie, a little boy born out of wedlock but conceived from love.

Stan focused on his wife's name carved on the headstone. A frown furrowed his brow. ‘Young Frances has asked about her mother. She wants to meet her. She hasn't asked me as yet, but she told our Ruby. Ruby told her she must ask me, that I'm the only one likely to have her mother's address.'

Stan rubbed his hands together, feeling their powdery roughness. Baking was not quite the soft-handed option that people tended to think. Flour could roughen hands; in fact, flour could be downright flammable.

‘The thing is, Sarah, I would prefer that she didn't meet her mother. You only knew Mildred briefly and although you cautioned tolerance for her flighty ways, even you accepted that she could be her own worst enemy. And that was putting it mildly! So, until she asks me, I won't broach the subject. I had a letter from Mildred a while back when she asked me for money. Not how her daughter was, but money! That is Mildred all over. Totally selfish.' Stan sighed. He'd thought the past was all over as far as his niece was concerned. It wasn't so. ‘I should have known better. Call me a coward, but I can't face giving Frances the information she needs to find her mother. She's only going to get hurt. But I guess if she asks, I will have to tell her.'

He looked up at the sky. A pillow of grey cloud had settled over the church steeple. Just then it seemed to break in two, sliced through by a beam of sunlight. For a moment, he thought he saw Sarah's face, smiling and shaking her head in admonishment.