Wartime Sweethearts (27 page)

Sugar would soon be scarce and there was no guarantee the contraband would be circulated to those who really needed it. Besides, she felt that her family had a stake in that sugar. Her brother had been serving on a merchant ship that had been attacked and sunk by an enemy warship. If the battleship hadn’t in turn been attacked and forced into a neutral port, Charlie would have been interned in a prisoner of war camp until the end of hostilities. It just wasn’t fair that people like Gareth should make money based on the misfortune and gallant services of others.

To Ruby’s mind that meant she had a right to some of that sugar, if not all of it. Her family might not approve, certainly not her father and she doubted Mary would either. It didn’t matter because she wouldn’t tell them. She’d made up her mind.

There was no sign of Mary back from her walk and the only sound was of her father painting Charlie’s room prior to his coming home. He’d found a pot of distemper from two years back. Ruby went up to tell him where she was going.

‘I thought I might see if Mrs Martin’s hens are laying yet. She’s got a new batch. She might even have a boiler going spare.’

‘Roast chicken?’ her father asked hopefully.

‘No, Dad. It’s an old boiler. Stew most likely.’

Once outside, the chill wind making her face tingle, she headed towards the Apple Tree pub. Gareth Stead was about to get a very big shock.

After eating lunch with her father, Mary went upstairs to change the beds. Once in her own room she couldn’t resist reading once more the letter she’d received from Michael Dangerfield. Perhaps she had been mistaken and read it wrong. Perhaps he was only joking when he asked her to marry him.

The words she’d read sometimes came to her mind in the middle of the night. On the one hand she regarded his proposal with disbelief, but on the other hand she wanted it to be true.

Just after returning the letter to its hiding place, she heard the squeal of the rusty hinges on the side gate. A spider scurried for cover when she lifted the curtain back, just enough so she could see who it was. Her assumption was that Ruby had changed her mind about fetching eggs, or perhaps seen Mrs Martin or one of her brood and been told the new hens were not laying.

A figure wearing a knitted black hat and a faded black coat slid through the gate, cautiously looking from side to side like a hen seeking corn.

Mary recognised Miriam Powell. She was about to tap on the window with her fist but due to Miriam’s furtive manner thought better of it. She was creeping along towards the outside lavatory, a solitary brick place now used to store gardening equipment thanks to the new one built closer to the house. Judging by the furtive ducking around of her head, she was loath to be discovered.

There was a flash of white as Miriam took something from her pocket and ducked behind the small brick building, popping out again just as quickly.

As a child Ruby and Mary had posted each other notes, slipping them into the gaps where the mortar had fallen out between the bricks. Unseen in the upstairs window, Mary smiled to herself. It was very likely that she’d left Charlie a note, just as they’d left notes for each other as children. She must have heard the news that Charlie was safe and that he would be home visiting soon.

Poor Miriam. She was a nice person and might even look quite attractive if her mother didn’t insist on her wearing clothes suitable for a matron twice her age. Perhaps then Charlie might consider her as more than a friend, though she doubted it. The fact was that Charlie could have his pick. He’d always been popular with the girls.

Mary chewed at her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed as she tried to guess what Miriam might have written.

Overcome by curiosity, she waited until the coast was clear and the garden empty then ran down the stairs and out through the back door.

The frosty air took her breath away and she immediately regretted not having grabbed a coat on her way out. Wrapping her arms around her shivering body, she hurried to where she’d seen Miriam taking the white note from her pocket. Peering round the side of the old outhouse, she saw the tip of a piece of paper poking out between the bricks.

The paper was jammed quite securely although the mortar was long gone. She paused before prising it out. If Miriam had wanted Charlie to find it, why hadn’t she left more of it sticking out? Why was it folded so neatly and forced so tightly into the gap?

Using her finger and thumb like a set of tweezers, she gripped it tightly and pulled it out. Rather than taking it indoors to read, she decided to read it there and then.

Judging by its jagged edge, the piece of paper had been torn from a writing pad and folded into four. On unfolding it and reading what was written she was surprised to see not a love letter but a prayer, though not one she recognised.

Sweet Mother, hear my prayer. Grant Charlie Sweet safe passage home, and when he gets here show me the way. Show me where my path lies and show him too. Sweet Mother hear me
.

Mary frowned and read it again. Miriam and her mother attended Baptist chapel, Methodist and St Anne’s Church of England. They did not attend a Catholic church, but then, there was no Catholic church in the area. Yet the prayer appeared to be to the Virgin Mary.

Charlie Sweet
was
on his way home; they all knew that. It was just a matter of time.

A sudden thought came to her that there had been previous prayers to the Virgin Mary.

Holding the note in one hand, she prised between the brickwork with her fingers, her nails filling with dirt. Her fingertips touched another piece of paper. Carefully, so that it wouldn’t tear, she pulled it out, unfolded it and read another prayer.

Sweet Mother, I pray for the life of Charlie Sweet. Spare him the cold clutches of death. If you do this I promise I will worship you forever
.

Goodness! Was it possible that Miriam Powell was about to become Catholic? What would her mother say about that? Mrs Powell had as much say in her daughter’s religion as she did in her clothes. Her word was law.

Mary refolded the two slips of paper. Whether there were more of them secreted in between the brickwork, she didn’t know and wasn’t about to seek them out. It was Miriam’s business and nobody else’s; she forced them back into their hiding place.

As she opened the pub door, Ruby was greeted by the familiar smell of stale beer and tobacco. No matter how scrupulously the place was scrubbed, the smell remained; years of nicotine and sour yeast had yellowed the roughly plastered walls, the low ceiling, the floor and the stained pine furniture.

There were no pictures hanging from the walls except for a brand-new war poster entreating everyone to dig for victory. The only other object was a dartboard hanging from a nail on the wall. The darts were kept behind the bar.

On the floor beneath the dartboard, a set of chipped skittles stood upright with a battered ball inside a wooden triangle specially made to keep them in place.

Ruby glanced up to where she’d hung a few old horse brasses on to the beams. They’d been brightly polished when she’d nailed them in place. Already victims to nicotine, they were lacklustre and totally neglected by Gareth and his cleaning lady.

Shame, she thought. The Apple Tree could look really nice in the right hands. It certainly had character, but to her mind it needed a woman to make it look its best. Not that she was volunteering for that job any longer; her romantic notions about Gareth Stead had long gone.

A log fire glowed red among mountains of white ash in the centre of the large inglenook; nobody bothered to rake it out because it was never allowed to burn low until spring. The ash merely piled up. The oak Bessemer above the fireplace was pock-marked with holes, made, so legend had it, by Cromwell’s Roundheads thrusting a red hot poker into the wood, one for every cavalier they’d done to death in the battle fought for the seaport of Bristol. The city’s castle had been destroyed in the battle.

The only other customers that bleak lunchtime were two old gentlemen sitting either side of the fireplace, their faces almost as red as the glowing embers, their hair ash white.

She recognised them as regulars, a travelling salesman who dealt in farm machinery and a knife grinder. The latter’s grinding wheel was carried in a wooden box at the front of his bicycle. He ground knives by means of a drive belt connected to his bicycle pedals which turned the stone when he pedalled, the back wheel of the bike disconnected during the procedure.

The old men, friends for all their lives, turned to see who had entered, recognised her and nodded acknowledgement. The salesman, who she knew in passing from when she’d served behind the bar, asked how she was and added: ‘Miss your cheery face, me dear. Old Gar here is nowhere near as pretty!’

He always referred to Gareth as Gar and always chortled at his own jokes.

Rather than snapping a hasty ‘never’ she smiled and said that the war had intervened. It seemed to her mind that the war was a useful excuse for everything.

The knife grinder wished her good day. She’d heard his toothless smile had been acquired in his youth when he’d boxed in bare-knuckle bouts at fairgrounds.

Gareth was behind the bar pulling a pint of cider for the knife grinder. He looked up, his expression firstly one of surprise that was swiftly replaced by casual nonchalance.

She could tell by his already rosy cheeks that he’d started drinking early this morning and most likely cider, a pleasant enough drink in moderation, but ruinous over a long period. Most hardened cider drinkers downed at least eight pints a night. She wouldn’t put it past Gareth that he was drinking more than that.

‘Well!’ he said, as cocky as you like. ‘Welcome back. Took your time, didn’t you? I suppose you want your old job back. You can have it, but I can’t pay you what I did before. You’re not that special.’

Ruby smouldered with anger, wanting to tell him exactly how disgusting he was, but restrained herself. She had to stay focused. She was here for a specific reason and that reason was her main priority.

She held herself stiffly. ‘I need to talk to you. In private.’

Her tone was sharp as a knife – not that he seemed to notice.

A smug expression came to his face. He raised his eyebrows and beamed as though he knew very well what she wanted to see him about.

He winked. ‘Thought you’d come round,’ he said, once he’d served the knife grinder his drink and pocketed the money.

Her eyes followed the money to his pocket. If he went on drinking the profits and pocketing the rest he wouldn’t be in business much longer. But then, there was business and there was business. If her instinct was correct and young Frances was telling the truth – a fact she didn’t doubt – then it seemed Gareth was branching out.

Still wearing an insolent grin, he opened up a section of counter. ‘Come on through.’

The heat of his body was close, too close, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. She closed her eyes to the sprinkling of golden hair on his bare arms.

The heat and the stink of him repelled her. Why hadn’t she noticed it before, or was it just that he was letting himself go, drinking himself into a stupor he might never come out of?

‘I’ll see to you in the back room,’ he said, patting her bottom as she passed.

Ruby whirled round. ‘Don’t do that,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t you ever do that again!’

In the past he’d told her it was just fun and she’d been gullible enough to accept it. Now she knew it for what it was: a sly excuse to fondle a female body. Any female body. She’d seen him do it to other women. Some of them had laughed and called him cheeky. Some of them had been furious. One had slapped his face. ‘Just a bit of fun,’ he’d said to Ruby, and she’d believed that was all it was, his true affection for her and her alone. But now she knew otherwise. It wasn’t funny at all.

The living room behind the bar was unaltered and relatively clean and tidy thanks to Mrs Pugh, the cleaning lady. The only addition since she’d last seen this room was the brand-new radio, a smart affair in a walnut cabinet with Bakelite knobs.

‘I’m doing well for myself,’ he said on seeing she’d noticed it. ‘Buying a motorbike soon too. Got a contact in the trade. Can get me a good deal. Take you for a ride if you like, you can sit pillion on the back.’

He was crowing. Well, she’d soon stop that.

She spun round to face him. ‘Stolen goods usually are a good deal,’ she said tartly. Inside she quaked. Outside she hoped she gave an impression of a confident woman no longer infatuated by an older and manipulative man.

The self-satisfied smile died on his lips. A wary look came to his eyes. ‘Ruby! Daft girl! You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He reached out to touch her. Ruby hit his hand away.

‘I’m not daft and I do know what I’m talking about! You’re involved in the black market. You’ve been seen.’

Gareth Stead, the man she had wanted to marry, blinked like a frightened rabbit, but such was the effect of the cider and his overblown confidence he still attempted to brush her accusation aside. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I said! I dare say your contact will get you the petrol for your bike too.’

‘Could do!’ His tone had hardened noticeably, most likely because he now accepted by her manner that she wasn’t here to make up with him.

‘Is it the same one who sold you the sack of sugar?’

Something flickered in his eyes. She’d startled him. Very shortly she hoped to frighten him, but first he had something she wanted.

‘I want that sugar.’

He laughed. ‘What?’

‘Sugar. You were seen receiving a sack of sugar from a man who works at Avonmouth Docks.’

She didn’t know for sure whether the man worked in the Bristol Docks or Avonmouth Docks; she’d merely hazarded a guess.

‘I see,’ he said, nodding and sucking in his bottom lip. ‘I see. You want a piece of the action, as old James Cagney would say. Well. Can’t say I blame you. Tell you what, I’ll do a special rate for you, for old times’ sake.’

He grinned. God, but she wanted to wipe that grin off his face – and she would!