Home Sweet Home (19 page)

Frances offered. ‘I will—'

Brushing Frances aside, Stan Sweet decided otherwise. ‘No. I'm his grandfather. It's my place to go with him.'

He didn't see the scowl on his niece's pretty face or the hurt look in her eyes. He wasn't to know that his brusque manner, born of extreme worry, had caused resentment. With steady advancement, her feeling of being an interloper in this family was growing.

Ruby and Frances stood at the shop door with their arms around each other, Frances crying softly.

‘He will be all right, won't he? He won't die?'

Ruby gave her cousin a reassuring hug. ‘No, of course he won't die!' Even to her own ears, she sounded more confident than she felt.

The hospital smelled of pristine things: antiseptic, starched uniforms and lavender polish. Every sound echoed from unadorned walls, and metal trays rattled on glass trolleys pushed by crisply attired nurses.

The hospital doctor told Stan that Charlie was a very poorly little boy.

To Stan those words were a stab to the heart. He'd lost a son. Surely he couldn't lose his grandson too?

Dr Foster informed him that he had to get back to the surgery. ‘I've got another call to make tonight before I go to bed, so I have to get back. Do you want to come back with me?'

Stan shook his head. ‘I'll stay here. The lad might wake up and ask for me.'

The doctor's square hand thudded on his shoulder. ‘Do as you will, old friend. I'll be back to see Charlie tomorrow.'

Stan didn't see him go. The hospital doctor was just as old as Foster, a dishevelled band of white hair circling his pink scalp, his eyes peering through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Many old doctors had been dragged back from retirement, the younger doctors having been conscripted into the army.

He watched as the doctor's stethoscope dotted the soft flesh of Charlie's chest. The knife in his heart plunged deeper in response to the little lad's gasps for breath. The little boy's eyes were closed. His cheeks were flushed, his grizzling subsided.

‘There's nothing you can do here, Mr Sweet,' said a gentle female voice.

‘I don't care. I won't be moved!'

‘Get some rest. I promise you we'll take good care of him.' The nurse who had spoken laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘I promise.'

Touched by the sincerity and sweetness of her voice, he looked up. She was a ward sister, probably in her early forties, in charge of a number of patients and junior nurses and normally a bossy type. He bit down on another acerbic response that he had no intention of leaving. That was his grandson lying there clinging on to life. He had to be with him – just in case.

Her eyes were brown and when she smiled her expression was kind. ‘We will do everything for him we possibly can. You have to leave us to do our job. Do you know anyone with a telephone, or do you have a telephone box close by?'

‘We've got our own. My daughter works for the Ministry of Food …' His voice trailed away. Why had he bothered to explain the reason he had a telephone when the majority of people did not?

‘Could you give me the number?'

He nodded and gave her the telephone number of the bakery.

She wrote it down, then, taking hold of his elbow, purposefully escorted him to the door. Once that was in sight, she walked slightly behind him, one arm stretched out some distance behind his back.

Just in case I get stubborn and turn around, and run back to Charlie's bedside, he thought. As if she could stop me.

He wouldn't do that. She was right. It wasn't easy to leave but it made sense to leave little Charlie with the people who could save his life.

‘We've had a number of cases locally,' she said to him when they reached the door. ‘Not everyone seems to have heard of the vaccination programme. Diphtheria is an entirely preventable disease now, thanks to vaccination.'

‘Some of them have heard but don't have the money to pay for it,' he couldn't help pointing out, even if he knew that he would pay all the money he had to see Charlie well.

Her gaze was steady. ‘I understand.'

Stan stood in the open doorway wishing he hadn't allowed his fear of needles to affect his judgement regarding Charlie. ‘How many of the cases you've had survived?'

‘Quite a few.' She looked away. ‘Now, do excuse me. I've a busy night ahead.'

The blackout blind was drawn first before she opened the door. Stan stepped outside. It was like leaving one black hole to be swiftly engulfed by another.

The night was black as coal. For a moment, he stood there, nose lifted like a dog sniffing the night air in an attempt to work out the way home. He started to walk, his hands in his pockets, his head bent. Not anticipating being turned out of the hospital to walk home, he had omitted to bring a torch. Not a light showed anywhere, though at least on the main roads he could follow the white lines painted along the pavement edges. Without those he could easily have tripped and broken his ankle. The painted pavement edges finally ran out, replaced by the grass verges of the country road that led home. He was in empty countryside.

It would have helped if there had been some traffic, but there wasn't any. Nobody drove out into the countryside at that time of night. There wasn't that much traffic around in the daytime either.

The sky was clear enough, but there was no moon. Living things scurried in the hedgerows; cows lowed from damp pasture and the leaves of oak, elm and ash rustled in the breeze.

Watching his step, Stan turned his coat collar up around his neck. The night air was mild and he sweated as he walked, but still he felt cold. Thinking the worst chilled him to the bone. Diphtheria! Why hadn't he listened to the doctor's earlier advice? Fancy ignoring it just because he'd hated receiving the sharp sting of a syringe back in the Great War. He couldn't even remember what it was for. TB? Typhoid? Smallpox?

Catching his foot in a rut, he stumbled, falling on to the banked-up hedgerow. He swore, got up and brushed himself off.

Finding his way home was never going to be easy, but somehow he instinctively felt he was going the right way. Like a pigeon, he thought, homing its way back to the loft where it lived. Yes. That's what I am. A homing pigeon.

The night was still and soundless and was easy to get used to. When he did hear a sound, it didn't quite register, not until it was close behind him. Not until it drew level did he recognise the vehicle for what it was.

‘Hey, bud! Wanna lift?'

The hooded headlights of the American army vehicle threw dim circles of pale light. At road level they picked out the white line along the pavement. By their weak glow he could see the white star on the driver's door.

‘On your way back to camp?' He guessed they were on their way to the camp at Siston Common.

‘We sure are. Do you want a ride or not?'

‘Don't mind if I do. I'd be grateful if you could drop me off on the main road before you turn up to your camp.'

‘That's the plan, buddy. Climb in.'

He didn't know the three young men, at least he didn't think he did. They'd obviously been out on the town and had brought a bottle which they held up and offered to him.

‘Have a drink, pop. Keep out the cold.'

At first Stan was disinclined, but what with the happenings of the night and his concern for Charlie, he accepted gladly, taking a generous swig.

The liquid was hot and raw on his throat, but enjoyable for all that. He exhaled a deep breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I could do with it. I don't mind telling you I've had one hell of a night.'

‘So have we,' one of them chirped, sounding well and truly pleased with himself. ‘We met some dames and—'

‘Cut it out,' said one of them to his colleague. To Stan he said, ‘Take no notice of him, pop. He's an innocent abroad. Never even met a dame before he came to these shores, I reckon. But let him ramble on and you'd think his name was Romeo not Rudolph!'

All three of the soldiers laughed and went on ribbing each other with regard to their sexual exploits, their drinking habits and other habits not mentionable in polite company.

Stan smiled to himself. The first company he'd met since leaving the hospital and they were talking like all soldiers do about drink and women. Nothing had changed much since he was a serving soldier.

Every now and again, one of them broke into song. Stan was in no mood to join in.

‘So where have you been tonight, pop?' asked the driver.

‘Been to a party, pop?' asked another.

Before he could stop himself, Stan told them about his grandson being ill and having to stay in hospital.

All three young men agreed that it was just too bad.

‘So how come you're walking home, pop?'

He could have got irritated at being called ‘pop', but they were young men and from another country. Pop was as good a name as any.

First he explained about the diphtheria. ‘They refused to let me hang around so I started walking home. Unfortunately, I left my torch behind.'

‘Torch?'

‘Flashlight,' explained one of his colleagues. ‘So where do you live?'

He told them he was the baker in the village of Oldland Common.

‘Hey. That's a few miles further on from where we're stationed. We'll give you a lift.'

He thought about protesting but changed his mind. The young soldiers had warmed him up with their whisky and their easy friendliness. They were genuinely concerned and didn't mind him talking about his family and how he worried about them. Before long they were telling him about how they were worrying about their families and how their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters wrote to them saying how proud they were of their being soldiers. Their mood turned sombre.

‘Between the lines, we know they're worried but don't want us to know that.'

‘Well, I for one don't intend getting my head blown off!' said the one whose name was Rudolph.

‘Me neither. By the way, pop, my name's Chuck,' said the guy driving.

‘Pleased to meet you, Chuck.'

‘And I'm Joe,' added the third of the bunch.

Stan shook hands with all three, Chuck shoving his over his shoulder.

‘So what are you boys going to do when the war is won?'

Chuck threw back his head and laughed. ‘I'm gonna get through this war and go home to marry Maybelline and have a dozen children.'

‘Does Maybelline know that?' asked Rudolph.

Chuck laughed. ‘No. But she's easily persuaded.'

‘I figure on becoming a boxer. Some kind of sport, anyway,' said Joe.

Rudolph said he had no plans. ‘I just want to get through this. And then I promise you I'm never going abroad again!'

There was a lot of laughter, and although Stan didn't laugh as loudly as they did, he felt proud to be with them. He also hoped they would make it through the carnage and return home to have as many children as they liked.

Half an hour after Charlie had left for the hospital, Ruby mounted the stairs to bed, insisting that Frances went too.

‘I don't want to go. I want to stay up until Uncle Stan gets back.'

‘He'd rather you went to bed at the proper time so that you can get up bright and early in the morning. The bakery needs to open in the morning, just like any other day.' Ruby's voice was stern, but underneath it all she was worried about her little nephew.

Frances followed her up the stairs, into their room and began to undress. ‘I promised to teach Charlie to make daisy chains. Do you think he'll like that?'

‘Why shouldn't he?' Ruby eased her feet out of her shoes. She didn't wear stockings except on special occasions, preferring to keep them for best. Wearing shoes without stockings had taken some getting used to, but the blisters were not as bad as they used to be.

When Frances slid her nightdress over her head, Ruby noticed how mature her body was becoming. She was filling out, getting curves. Frances sometimes acted very grown up. At other times she was still the tomboy she had always been.

Charlie was the light of Frances's life and she had always gone out of her way to entertain him. ‘Charlie is such a love. I hope he's all right.'

She wanted to add
I hope he comes home
, but the words seemed to stick in her throat.

‘He'll bounce back. He's a tough little boy,' Ruby remarked, not because she was one hundred per cent certain that he would, but to keep her deepest fears at bay.

Frances curled her arms around herself. ‘He's such a sweet boy. Tough, as boys are, but on the other hand he does like running around fields and chasing butterflies and things.'

Unable to say anything without choking on the words, Ruby silently nodded her agreement. She also pinched at her nostrils in an effort to prevent the tears that threatened to pour down her face. She knew she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight for worrying. Her plan was to wait until Frances was asleep then go downstairs and put the loaves of bread in the oven ready for when the shop opened.

Throwing herself on to her bed and the patchwork quilt she'd made, she buried her cheek against the cool cotton of the pillowcase. Closing her eyes, she ran her hand over the many kinds of materials that made up the quilt, each piece representing a phase of her life.

The silkiest were those pieces left over from Mary's wedding dress, which had once been her mother's dress. A piece of red material, flowered blue and yellow and plain pieces represented dresses made for Sunday best and romper suits for Charlie, plus a dress for Frances.

Frances silently looked down at her nightdress. It had once belonged to Ruby and the pattern of scattered roses had faded over the years.

‘I hate this nightdress. It's scruffy,' she said as she buttoned it up to the neck in a haphazard fashion. Thankfully it had never been cut down, hiding the new roundness that had come to her belly.