Home Sweet Home (15 page)

He resolved there and then that some time tomorrow he would speak to Frances about her mother, but first he would call in on Bettina Hicks, tell her what had occurred and ask her advice. He needed a woman's counsel and he still thought of Ruby as a girl. Bettina could sometimes see the better angle to take, though on this occasion he doubted it. There were other options, of course. He could go along and tackle Mrs Powell direct, but then what good would that do? The fact was that while Mildred wasn't a whore, she had been a good-time girl, probably still was. But how would Frances take the truth and was there anything he could do to help the situation?

Tomorrow, he thought, turning away from the window. Sleep on it and see how it looks tomorrow.

Early the following morning, Ruby got herself ready for her morning's work at a local factory. Yet another talk and baking demonstration was on the cards. The high spot would be mentioning bunny burgers, ‘
to impress our American allies
'.

Her father's voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘Is young Charlie still in bed?' her father asked anxiously, his arms full of the bread he'd baked freshly that morning.

‘Yes. I thought a good sleep might do him good.' She paused. ‘You will let me know if he gets worse?'

Her father promised that he would. ‘Try not to worry.'

It was easy to say, and although she would have preferred to stay home and look after her nephew, she had a job to do. Ruby loved her job, but today Charlie would be on her mind. She consoled herself with the fact that her father and her cousin Frances would be there to look after the little chap.

‘Just keep an eye on him,' Ruby added.

‘If he isn't any better after a good sleep, I'll call the doctor.'

Ruby frowned. ‘I feel awful leaving you with the problem, but I've already promised …'

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I brought up three of you after your mother died. I know what to do. Anyway, Frances is here to run the shop so I can spend some time with the boy. You get on to your work. I'll pop up now and see how he is.'

At one time Ruby had disliked driving, but that was when she'd first started working for the Ministry of Food. Once Johnnie had gone away, she had taken the bull by the horns, slipped behind the wheel of the little black Austin and drove confidently to the various venues. As she hurtled along country lanes and wider roads, she would smile at the thought of Johnnie's cheeky ways and witty remarks, and how he never allowed her to get above her station. No airs and graces for him, she thought, smiling to herself. If there was a man to keep her feet firmly on the ground, John Smith was that man.

Hostile at first to what he regarded as non-essential war work, their relationship had not started well. After a while, once they'd got to know each other, he'd come round, especially after she'd involved him in her cooking demonstrations – much to his earlier reluctance to get involved.

At one point she'd forced him into an old-fashioned cross-over apron and got him to help her mixing and making dough. Amused at the sight of a man wearing a flowered apron over his khaki uniform, the women had laughed uproariously, his leg pulled mercilessly.

But that was before he'd gone away to serve in the Far East.

In the midst of mixing a bowl of dough or slicing up the ingredients for a meatless pie, she found herself glancing up at the audience and sometimes, just sometimes, thinking she saw him sitting there. On other occasions, she found herself surveying those standing against the walls of the church hall, factory canteen or social club, seeking the familiar sardonic smile, the craggy looks, the amusement simmering in his eyes.

Writing letter after letter, she'd kept him informed of what was happening in the village. She'd also sent him simple tips for eating in a country where rice was a staple.

The natives add spices to meat and fish for a very good reason: it hides the taste of bad food and also preserves it. Be careful what you eat! I hear people in the Far East are very partial to roast dog! Or even cat! Still, never mind their eating habits. How about I tell you of some of the recipes I've been given – well-meaning souls, but …

Listing some of the terrible recipes people had given her she hoped would raise his spirits, make him laugh despite whatever privations he was suffering. Some of the recipes were laugh-out-loud disgusting. She'd smiled the night before as she finished writing the latest letter on the flimsiest of paper. Terrible recipes to make him laugh out loud as well as heartfelt words about the ordinary things of home she thought he would be missing.

My dear John
,

How do you fancy sheep's stomach stuffed with onions and squashed seagull? It was hard not to laugh out loud when the old man gave it to me. I had travelled all the way down to a village on the north Somerset coast – I can't say where – to give a cooking demonstration. The old man kept sheep and gathered berries from the hedgerows. He said the bird had been run over by a military vehicle, but it was a big fat one with plenty of meat on its bones and that he never had been one to waste anything. I tried to appear interested but had already decided that seagull meat must taste a bit fishy, and that even in these times of scarce supply, mixing it with a sheep's stomach does not constitute a feast for the faint-hearted.

Charlie is growing and getting into mischief. I am so glad he came to us, especially for Dad's sake. It was hard to lose his only son.

Mary is in Lincolnshire with Michael. They have now had their first child, Beatrice. I'm desperate to see my new little niece, so is Dad for that matter. Two grandchildren. He talks about it as though nobody has ever had grandchildren before.

Frances is growing into a pretty girl and thinks herself grown up now that she's left school and helps in the shop. She has an American boyfriend whose name is Ed. I'm not sure where their relationship will go, perhaps nowhere. I know what I was like at that age. Love was wonderful – though on reflection it wasn't really love at all!

Just in case you're wondering, I do go out dancing and generally out and about, but there's nobody serious on the horizon. I'm too busy being the efficient employee of the Ministry of Food, besides taking care of Dad and the family.

I hope the recipe makes you laugh. I also hope you are faring well. I take the fact that I have received no replies to my letters means that no news really is good news.

Just to reassure you, I still think of that day when we picnicked at the railway station, the colour of the autumn leaves and the things we said. I shall always remember them. I hope you will too.

Love, Ruby.

She would post the letter on her way to the factory where today's demonstration would take place. Perhaps this time she might receive a reply. So far she'd had no news from him since the fall of Singapore. Was the Red Cross really doing its best? If they were, it didn't seem their efforts were hard enough.

Stan Sweet had counselled her not to give up hope but to take a pragmatic view.

‘He may be in a place where there is no pillar-box on the street corner.' He said it good humouredly, but Ruby wasn't fooled. Rumours were circulating about the harsh treatment handed out to captives by the Japanese army. Nothing had been officially confirmed so she had to believe that was all they were – rumours. In the meantime, she had to get on with her life.

Declan O'Malley hovered in the background. She'd first met him one day when she'd been delivering bread to the home of Mrs Darwin-Kemp.

He'd struck her as officious, standing there like a solid wall between her and the larder. Despite or probably because he was a military policeman, he had the capacity to source food and luxury items that even Ed Bergman wasn't privy to. Nylon stockings were number one on his enticement list. So was tobacco, for which Stan Sweet was very grateful.

Ruby put on her smart three-quarter-length coat she had made from a creamy coloured blanket, teaming it with a cream skirt cut down from an old pair of cricket trousers. It was just a question of opening the stitching on the inner legs and sewing them together, trimming the lower part of the legs with a pair of sharp crimping sheers. The result was an ideal outfit for spring.

‘I'd look like a tramp if I wasn't good with a needle and thread,' she muttered.

She stopped to admire her hat in the hallstand mirror. What wonders one could do with old bits and pieces! Feathers and stuffed birds had once decorated the broad-brimmed hat she wore – another item from Bettina Hicks's amazing collection of fabrics and old clothes.

Ruby sighed as she pulled on her gloves. It was difficult leaving her father to cope, and Frances didn't seem to have her wits about her at present.

Frances came through from the back, looking better than the night before, though Ruby sensed she was still harbouring questions about her mother.

‘You look nice.'

‘Thank you. Look at these,' said Ruby, raising her skirts so Frances could admire her stockings.

‘From darling Declan, I suppose?'

‘Of course.' Ruby paused, not quite understanding the condemnation in her cousin's voice. ‘Don't you like Declan?' She hoped Frances still thought he was too old for her, though she had to admit that both young girls and women old enough to know better rarely failed to fall for him.

Frances shrugged as though she couldn't decide either way. ‘He's okay.'

‘Okay? Don't let Dad hear you say that. He doesn't like us talking American slang.'

‘I might marry one, then I'll talk slang all the time.'

Ruby sighed. There was no point in arguing with Frances when she was in one of these moods.

‘I'm off. I'll be back as soon as I can. And Frances …'

‘Hmm?'

‘Forget what Mrs Powell said. She's a wicked woman.'

Frances's lowered eyes hid her thoughts.

The smell of freshly baked bread permeated the morning air both inside and outside the grey stone building that was Sweets' Bakery. The bakery with its front shop, its gas-fired bread oven, and the family's living accommodation, was situated at the top of Cowhorn Hill in the village of Oldland Common just a few miles to the east of Bristol.

In times past, the village had been famous for producing shoes and boots for the Great War. There had once also been a thriving coal industry, but that was back in the nineteenth century. The coal seams were thought to have been the outcrop of the South Wales coal fields and as such were narrow and the access to the coal face no more than three feet high. Men had hacked at those faces with small pick axes and died young.

The village had fallen back to the way it used to be, farming being predominant, though of late some of the village had found jobs in munitions and further away at Fry's Chocolate Factory at Somerdale in Keynsham, thanks to a direct railway connection. Chocolate production had been reduced at the factory, Rolls Royce using the generous facilities to build Merlin engines for Spitfires and Hurricanes.

Today Ruby was giving a talk and demonstration at that very factory. Women who used to check chocolate for flaws in the finish now checked the small pieces that made up an aero engine. They were valued for their small fingers and sharp eyes.

Ruby admired them, swapping something so sweet for something so sinister. She could imagine what the place smelled of in peacetime – the sticky sugary smell of chocolate thick on the air. Now the air smelled of heavy oil.

The upturned faces in front of her looked tired. Some of them had red-rimmed eyes, either caused from working long hours or because they'd been crying. Each one of these women was likely to have family serving in one of the armed forces, either that or their loved ones, even themselves, spent time fire-watching or doing something else after working long hours in engineering factories, all turned over to produce armaments for the war effort.

‘Right,' she said, pleased she'd been blessed with a resonant voice. ‘Let's see what we can do about baking a cake without eggs. It's either that or think about the amazing tricks you can do with dried egg!'

There followed a ripple of laughter. Everyone, including herself, had suffered both failures and successes with the vagaries of powdered egg. Ruby always began the session in a fun way before going on to stress the importance of supporting the merchant navy in their efforts to feed the nation.

‘But first, let's go through the basics. I have a list here kindly provided by Brown and Poulson – and it's not just about custard powder.'

Another titter of laughter. Everyone knew that Brown and Poulson made custard powder.

She held up the booklet in which was listed general advice and tips to help the housewife make do with the little she had available. She began reeling them off, though not without advising the women that there was a whole pile of leaflets waiting for them on the table on the way out.

‘Number one, do not waste any scraps of raw or cooked fat. They can all be rendered down and the fat used for frying or baking. We all know how difficult it is to get hold of fat, sugar and eggs to bake a cake. Let's start with a recipe that does not call for eggs. Ladies – and those few gentlemen who are present – let me introduce you to the eggless cake!'

Murmurs of conversation trickled through the women assembled. Ruby read out the recipe before making it, though informed them that the recipe was contained in yet another leaflet they could take with them on their way out.

‘Right,' she called out while enjoying the warmth of the oven behind her that some thoughtful soul had lit in anticipation of her using it. She announced each ingredient before adding it to the mixture. ‘This is the recipe for eggless cake. No need to write it down. All the details are in one of the leaflets over there by the door.' Once the mixture was in the tin, she opened the oven door. ‘Now! That looks good. Let's get it into the oven.'