Wartime Sweethearts (23 page)

Mary took a deep breath, anger replaced by a cold heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘So he could have been taken prisoner. It is possible, isn’t it,’ she asked in a small voice that didn’t sound like her own.

Her father tapped the stem of his pipe against his chin.

‘We don’t know.’ His voice was strong and his expression was unfaltering. ‘We’ve received nothing official and until we do, we
can’t
know.’

‘Excuse me.’

A small man with thin grey hair and clasping a fistful of papers, came rushing up to them, colourless eyes peering at them through spectacles with very thick lenses.

He addressed the twins, his pale eyes blinking from one sister to the other. ‘You are Miss Ruby Sweet and Miss Mary Sweet?’

Ruby glared at him, angry that he’d interrupted. ‘That’s us and we’re not available at the moment.’

He looked taken aback. ‘I’m sorry! But I have to inform you that you are wanted back inside. Both of you.’ He looked at Mary then back at Ruby.

Ruby looked him up and down and decided he must be a doorman or someone who worked at the Vic Rooms.

‘Unless we’ve won first prize, we’re not bothering. We haven’t won first prize have we?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘Tell him to go to hell,’ said Mary. She already knew they hadn’t won. She assumed that Michael Dangerfield had sent him out to fetch them.

‘But Miss Sweet. It’s very important—’

‘I’m sorry,’ she snapped. ‘We’ve just received some worrying news. We have to go.’

She looped her arm through that of her father’s. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s go home.’

It wasn’t until they had left the city behind and were heading up past St George’s Park, roughly halfway home, that it suddenly struck Mary that Michael Dangerfield, so full of himself in that air force uniform, had asked her to marry him.

Something about it struck her as funny, funny and tragic. She began to laugh, a high-pitched hysterical laugh. Both her sister and her father looked at her, both thinking this was hardly the time for laughter, until they saw tears streaming down her face.

Ruby pulled up the canvas shutter on the shop door. Normally the morning light flooding in made her feel happy. Today her sombre mood remained, mainly because of the news regarding her brother.

The weather wasn’t helping. The sky was gun-metal grey and the wind and rain set the old door rattling in its frame.

How had the South Atlantic been, she wondered? She’d learned enough about geography in school to know that even though it was December, it was summer south of the equator.

News was slow in forthcoming. The postmaster, Melvyn Chance, had come around with a telegram from the merchant navy saying that Charlie was presently missing in action and that enquiries were ongoing. It was expected that more detailed news would be received shortly.

They waited desperately to hear of his whereabouts. Ruby preferred to see the positive side of this: at least her brother was only listed as missing. She couldn’t – she wouldn’t – believe Charlie was dead. Hopefully – and she knew it was strange to hope for this – he was a prisoner of war; even a long internment without seeing him was preferable to seeing his name listed among the dead.

Stan Sweet kept making enquiries, but nothing was yet clear. The people he’d managed to hunt down were disinclined to comment, except to say they were depending on the international Red Cross or a neutral embassy to acquire a list of casualties, fatalities and those interned.

Each morning, at the sound of the postman’s footsteps, they all left the baking bread to congregate in the shop, opening the door before Melvyn Chance could post anything through the letterbox.

‘Expect he’s fine and dandy,’ he’d say most mornings with a sickening grin. Instead of wearing his postman’s cap, he’d taken to wearing a tin helmet with ARP written on the front of it as though that would somehow make up for his earlier association with the black shirts.

Stan Sweet asked when he was likely to be off serving his country.

‘Reserved occupation,’ Melvyn had stated falteringly. ‘What with the post office and my new position as air-raid warden. One day this war will be over and I’d like my grandchildren – should I ever have grandchildren – to know that I did my bit. I wouldn’t want to feel embarrassed.’ His wide mouth expanded over yellow misshapen teeth.

‘I think what you did before the war is likely to be more embarrassing,’ Stan Sweet snarled, leaving Melvyn in no doubt that his dalliance with Sir Oswald Mosley’s Nazi party would not be forgotten. At least not by him!

The weather worsened, the rain lashing against the windows. Branches of stout trees bowed and creaked in the wind, whipping backwards and forwards in the teeth of the gale. Broken branches and twigs littered the ground.

How had it been for Charlie, Ruby wondered again, all that stormy sea and then being sunk by an enemy battleship?

She bowed her head, tears filling her eyes. On looking up she found herself face to face through the glass with Miriam Powell.

Brushing the wetness from her eyes, she opened the door. ‘Good morning, Miriam.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Miriam. She bustled in, her eyes wide and her face pale with fear.

Ruby nodded, saying that the news was indeed grave, but gave a tight smile in an effort to look brave even if she didn’t feel it. ‘We don’t know whether he’s been taken prisoner. We’re waiting to hear.’

‘I shall pray for him,’ Miriam said softly, laying her hand on Ruby’s arm, her eyes closed in prayer. ‘Dear Lord, please hear our prayer. Fold thy wings around thy beloved servant, Charles Henry Sweet. Keep him safe from harm. Pluck him from the perils of the deep and the clutches of evil men. Amen.’

Ruby was taken by surprise. She’d presumed Miriam was referring to praying in church this coming Sunday. It had also surprised her that Miriam knew Charlie’s middle name. Henry.

Ruby found herself repeating ‘amen’. She might not be as dedicated a churchgoer as Miriam was, but in the present circumstances, she would try anything if it meant Charlie’s safe return.

‘I’ve had a letter from my grandmother,’ Miriam went on. ‘She says that Frances has settled in very well and seems to like the forest very much.’

Mary joined them and couldn’t help smiling. ‘She would. She loves trees.’

‘Have you had a letter from her?’

Both twins shook their heads. Mary laughed. ‘Frances must be enjoying herself and wouldn’t dream of writing to anyone unless they write to her first. I’ve been meaning to but …’

‘I think I’ll write to her today,’ said Ruby, promising herself that she would.

Mary covered Miriam’s hand with her own. ‘Just one thing. Tell your mother not to mention about Charlie being missing, but if she does, tell your grandmother not to mention it to Frances. She’d be very upset.’

Miriam promised faithfully that her wishes would be adhered to and bought a loaf of bread.

‘My mother will pray for him too and I’m sure Cecil Mayhew, the new Methodist minister, will be only too happy to oblige. He’s very considerate.’

Mary noticed that Miriam’s eyes glowed almost as much at the mention of the new minister as they did when she spoke of Charlie. Could it be that Miriam had transferred her affection from Charlie to the minister? Despite everything, she smiled at the thought.

The day continued to be wet and overcast, customers rushing in to buy bread during the infrequent lulls in rain and wind. Between serving customers, Ruby wrote her letter to Frances. She wouldn’t mention Charlie: Frances adored Charlie and if she was to be told at all it was probably best if it came from their dad.

Mary went upstairs, toying with a piece of writing paper and a pen. She had it in mind to write to Michael Dangerfield and tell him that if he was the last man on earth, she wouldn’t marry him. Surely it wouldn’t seem out of the way to write and tell him about her brother Charlie – even though he’d never met him. She finally decided to leave things as they were until they had more accurate news.

Her father had announced a decision at teatime that Frances would come home for Christmas. He would tell her about Charlie then, face to face. Surely the enemy wouldn’t bomb them at Christmas?

Before the news of the sinking of
Baltic Legend
they’d all hoped that Charlie might get leave at Christmas. Everyone agreed that if he wasn’t home they would all go along to midnight mass at St Anne’s. It was the least they could do.

Christmas, they all concluded, would be bleak this year. Nobody felt like celebrating until they knew Charlie was safe.

Frances had decided not to speak to Ada Perkins for the whole journey to the forest. Not that Ada seemed to notice. She herself hadn’t spoken a word since they’d said their goodbyes at the station. She’d sat there, her head resting on the back of the seat, her eyes closed.

Frances contented herself with looking at the passing scenery, the silvery thread of the River Severn showing beyond the green fields on one side of the railway track, trees and scattered cottages on the other.

Only when she was certain the old woman was asleep did she dare look at her, the strong face in profile, mouth open, jaw sagging, nostrils dilating and expanding with the sound of resonant snoring.

Frances fidgeted, sighed and purposely sounded fed up and sorry for herself. In response Ada Perkins opened one eye surveying her like a snake who’s just decided it’s hungry.

‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she said at last. ‘My daughter asked me to do this favour. So you’d better behave yourself. I have no time for girls who don’t behave themselves. Have you ever read the story about Hansel and Gretel?’

Frances nodded.

‘Then let it be a warning to you.’

Before being evacuated, Frances had made up her mind not to like either the place or the woman she was to be boarded with. Stan Sweet’s powers of persuasion were exactly that – powerful – but once away from his influence, the seeds of rebellion sprouted into life.

Pouting and barely speaking was only part of her campaign. Another was adopting a hangdog expression and sloping shoulders, her hands held disconsolately at her side, fists clenched, like the orang-utans she’d seen on a visit to Bristol Zoo.

Despite the intrigue of a forest and all its legends, she had made up her mind to miss her family, miss the village kids and Oldland Common in general. As for Ada Perkins, she was old and wore funny clothes. She also smoked a pipe, not that she was the only woman she’d seen do so. Some of the old women in Oldland Common did too, mostly the widows of coalminers and labourers, tough sorts who killed their own chickens and spat like men.

Ada was just as tough and uncompromising as those women.

‘Stop looking as though you’ve only got a few minutes to live and get used to it. You’ll settle in soon enough,’ said Ada Perkins. ‘I took you in out of the goodness of me heart. Like it or lump it! I don’t care which.’

Once off the train and walking along a forest track to Ada’s home, the old woman strode on ahead, leaving Frances to walk along behind, still lugging her battered brown suitcase.

Meaning to keep up her disconsolate manner, Frances kept her head down but found feeling sorry for herself wasn’t easy to do especially considering she was surrounded by the most beautiful trees.

In some places no daylight penetrated the thick canopy of fir trees and pines. In other places oak trees grew. She couldn’t resist slowing her footsteps and staring at them. It didn’t escape her notice that they seemed to be planted in a circle.

‘It’s called a grove,’ Ada Perkins shouted over her shoulder having noticed the girl’s reason for slowing down. ‘They’re very old. It’s where the priests of the old religion used to pray to their gods.’ She turned, her bright eyes seeming to glow silver against a background of tangled branches and silver-grey tree trunks. ‘Oak groves are sacred and should never be violated. Do you hear me, girl?’

Frances shuddered at the look in eyes that seemed to shine with different colours. She made a mental note never to do anything wicked within sight of those oak groves.

The track through the forest zig-zagged ever upwards through tall evergreens, big enough to make telegraph poles, which Ada informed her were probably what they would be used for once they were fully grown. She also explained that the track was mainly used by loggers, Free Miners – whatever they were – some of whom owned the straggly coated Jacob sheep that roamed the forest at will. Few other people ever came this way.

The house in which Ada Perkins lived was little more than a shack clinging to the hillside overlooking a wooded valley through which the River Wye meandered like a grey silk ribbon. Sheep grazed in green pastures and the sky curved over it all, like the inside of a silver lid.

Logs were piled to one side of the shack and a small shed on the other which Ada told her was a smoke house.

‘So why do you smoke your pipe out here?’ asked Frances having never come across the term before.

Ada Perkins closed one eye when she looked at her and lit her pipe. ‘What d’ya mean?’

‘The smoke house. Is that where you go to smoke?’

Ada threw back her head and laughed long and loud. ‘No. No. No. I smoke things in the smoke house. Fish, fowl, sides of Gloucestershire ham. I might even smoke you if you’re not careful.’

During those first days, the local minister dropped by. Frances overheard him asking whether he might expect the young girl lodging with her at Sunday school.

‘If she wants to, but don’t expect me as well. You don’t, do ya?’

‘We … ll n …o,’ he said slowly, sounding more than a little bit nervous.

‘Then don’t expect her if she don’t want to go.’

‘But the child might be used to going to Sunday school—’

‘I was used to going to church until twenty-five years ago, my friend. I parted with God back then and have never regretted it, so if the girl wants to go, she can, but I’m not forcing her to.’

‘You say that very loudly and eloquently,’ he said in his hesitant, soft-mannered tone.

‘You should try doing the same yourself, Mr Jones, then less of your congregation would be falling asleep during your sermons.’