Home Sweet Home (33 page)

Remarks were hissed from pursed lips. Ruby carried on regardless.

‘Let us begin with canapés. Pastry made from flour and rolled oats … fillings of sardine, puréed vegetables with added spice …'

Ruby warmed to her task, finding it rather amusing that some of the elegant ladies had brought their cooks with them. Not all, it seemed, had jumped ship and found work in a munitions factory.

Amazingly, a full-size gas stove had been manhandled into position behind her. Once her recipes were safely ensconced in baking tins, she placed them in the oven. Before very long the aroma of good things baking filled the air.

‘Canapés are a fitting alternative to a three-, four- or five-course dinner,' she told them. ‘We all have to make sacrifices,' she added after receiving one or two sour looks. They disappeared once she'd suggested soup or carrot and cucumber crudities with a spicy dip were a suitable starter for a proper dinner, while rabbit casserole with vegetables was ideal for a main course. ‘I'm sure some of you must know people with country estates. Rabbits may be vermin to a farmer or gamekeeper, but they're as succulent as chicken and an economic alternative to more expensive game.'

As she made suggestions for dessert, which included every possible dish using apples, she went on to praise the delicacy that was egg custard made from dried egg.

At the end of it all, when Andrew asked the audience to put their hands together and applaud her presentation, she took the time to think of the contrast between these people, the lives they lived and those at the other end of the social scale.

A hubbub of cut-glass voices erupted as those at the back of the room threaded their way through the swathes of chairs to the exit.

A large number of them had tasted the canapés she'd passed round. Most had taken a copy of her recipe book, the latest thing she'd put together. Andrew had assisted.

‘It should be published,' he'd told her.

She'd shaken her head at the time. ‘Don't be silly.'

Much to her amazement, he had them printed courtesy of the Ministry of Food.

‘Your work is vital, Miss Sweet. Absolutely vital.'

She thanked him, though a trifle tersely. Give Andrew an inch and there was no knowing what length he would stretch to.

‘Though I really do think you should have kept to the script—'

‘Andrew. Look at that table.'

She pointed. Only a few of her baking booklets were left on the table, which made her smile. It had given her great pleasure to see one after another being picked up by a group of kid-gloved ladies.

‘Young lady!'

The woman who addressed her was the one Andrew had been waving to.

‘My mother,' he said. His manner was deferential but also apprehensive. It turned out he had rights to be.

‘Lillian Lavery-Sinclair. I'm Andrew's mother. Lavery was my maiden name. My son prefers not to use it. He says it's old-fashioned and too feminine, as though dropping it could make him more masculine than he actually is.' The look she gave her son verged on contempt.

Was it Ruby's imagination that Andrew's face flooded with colour?

His mother wore a pale mauve dress. Her fur jacket was mink. Her wrinkled lips were red. Ruby guessed that the fingers clothed in white gloves were stained with nicotine, judging by the woman's teeth.

Lillian Lavery-Sinclair fixed Ruby with a cold blue stare. ‘I take it you've never been in service.' Her voice was sharp, her words clipped.

Ruby responded in the same clipped manner. ‘No. I have not!'

‘No. I thought not. Andrew has been very selective in what he tells me about you.'

‘I can't understand why. I live in a small village and my father owns the local bakery, which was also where I was working prior to the war.'

Looking slightly embarrassed, Andrew intervened. ‘Mother, this is hardly the time. Don't you have to meet your friends for tea at the Ritz?'

The hand he attempted to rest on her shoulder was brushed off. ‘There's no point in going there. I can get tea here.'

‘But your friends …'

Ruby sensed Andrew was doing his best to get rid of his mother. The old lady was having none of it.

The piercing eyes landed on Ruby again. ‘I insist on you having tea with me, young lady.'

Andrew interrupted. ‘Mother. Time is pressing. We really must be going …'

‘I wasn't inviting you. I want to speak to this girl alone.' Andrew looked as though she'd suggested something quite alien, something he feared.

Ruby smiled. A cup of tea with the old lady in the hallowed portals of the Dorchester was something she would never have experienced before the war. Blow Andrew. She had time before catching the train.

‘I'd be delighted,' she said, picking up her handbag. ‘As long as Andrew would be kind enough to pack up all the bits and pieces he supplied for my talk.'

‘Of course he can,' snapped Mrs Lavery-Sinclair. With the air of somebody used to being obeyed, she slid her arm through Ruby's without it actually being offered.

Having the manner of somebody used only to having the best in life, she ordered that a table in a quiet corner should be allocated for their use. Ruby studied the woman sitting across the white tablecloth. Tea had been brought, two cubes of sugar per person and a small jug of milk. The cakes were of a superior quality, commensurate with its clientele.

‘Before the war, there was a far greater variety.' Andrew's mother nodded at the cakes. Ruby counted four. ‘They used to bring a three-tier cake stand, choux buns and cream cakes of every description. Now look at it.'

Ruby did look. ‘I think they look quite good.'

Her companion raised a thin eyebrow. ‘I suppose it depends what you're used to.'

‘I suppose it does,' Ruby responded. She wondered at the woman's intention. She would not be servile, even if that's what was expected of her.

Holding her smallest finger aloft, Mrs Lavery-Sinclair eyed her over the top of her teacup, her lipstick leaving a smear of red on the rim.

Ruby took a bite. The cake was good. Andrew's mother crumbled a piece on her plate and didn't seem that bothered about eating.

The feeling that she was being studied made Ruby feel ill at ease.

‘I hear you have a twin sister.'

Ruby confirmed that she did.

‘And she's married to an air force pilot. A Canadian. Is that correct?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your father is a baker, you say. Is he a successful baker?'

‘I think so.'

‘And you met my son in Bristol.'

‘Yes.'

‘I worry about him when he's away from home. He's all I have since his father died. I look out for him and he looks out for me. Unlike his father, he's not the most masculine of men. You do realise that, don't you?'

Too many questions! Ruby sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowed. Being assessed as a woman was one thing, but feeling like a bug beneath a microscope was something else. She wasn't the sort to allow herself to be the subject of such scrutiny.

‘Mrs Sinclair!' She purposely omitted the Lavery. ‘What am I doing here?'

Both thin eyebrows now rose as though the question bordered on downright cheek. ‘I thought the reason was obvious. You came here at my son's request.'

‘I don't mean that. I mean why have you invited me to tea?'

Gloved fingers played with the cake crumbs as Andrew's mother considered her response. She didn't seem at all fazed by the question.

‘Again, my dear, I think the reason is obvious. As Andrew's mother I have every right to know as much as possible about his fiancée …'

‘Fiancée!'

It took all the self-control Ruby had not to burst out laughing, but after her exclamation, she found herself lost for words.

Mrs Lavery-Sinclair frowned. This was not the response she'd expected. For the first time since they'd met, she looked unsure of herself. Her thin lips moved almost imperceptibly as though she were chewing over something distasteful. ‘You're not my son's fiancée?'

‘I am most certainly not!'

‘He led me to believe he'd asked you to marry him and that his proposal had been accepted.'

Ruby shook her head, her glossy brown hair dancing around at chin level. ‘He's never asked me.'

‘Hmm.' Andrew's mother visibly relaxed, her shoulders seeming to diminish beneath the weight of her mink stole. ‘Good. When he does, I wish you to know that I would not approve of my son marrying you. Quite frankly, I think he can do better.'

‘Quite frankly, I think I can do better too!'

At first Mrs Lavery-Sinclair looked surprised, arching her pencil-thin eyebrows as though she'd had something thrown into her face. Once that had passed she looked positively relieved.

‘I'm so glad you understand,' she said after calling for the bill. ‘Don't take it to heart that I don't want you to marry him. I suppose I'm just old-fashioned, but I know what I want in a daughter-in-law.'

Feeling likely to explode, Ruby got to her feet and picked up her handbag. ‘I'm sorry. I have to go. Do tell Andrew I said goodbye. He was expecting me to come back later in the week, but I have other commitments. I hope he understands. Oh, and by the way, I already have a sweetheart interned in a Japanese prison camp. A brave man who really has served his country. Not a mummy's boy who stayed at home!'

A porter fetched the small suitcase she had left in his cubicle of an office. Face on fire, Ruby swept past the uniformed commissionaire at the entrance. The fresh air that hit her was welcome after the stifling interior of the Dorchester Hotel and Andrew's dreadful mother.

Her mood lightened as she headed for the train station; she even began swinging the suitcase as her steps quickened. She had a long journey ahead of her, but she didn't care. Mary was waiting for her – and baby Beatrice too – and they had lots to catch up on. One of the subjects of their conversation would be Andrew Sinclair. At the thought of him, Ruby finally laughed out loud.

‘You sound 'appy,' said the man in the ticket kiosk.

Ruby's smile widened. ‘I am.'

‘Sounds as though you're in love and will be waltzing up the aisle in no time,' he chortled.

Ruby pulled a face and laughed. ‘Far from it. I've just met his mother. I'm off to pastures new!'

It was early morning when Ruby had left home and ten o'clock at night when she finally arrived at her destination. The signs proclaiming the station's name had been removed at the outbreak of war so that if the enemy did land they wouldn't be able to work out where they were. The trouble was neither could anybody else. If the stationmaster hadn't been shouting it out at the top of his voice, she wouldn't have known where she was.

Her brother-in-law Michael waded through the crowds to get to her, took her luggage and led her outside to where he'd parked his little black Ford.

‘It's compact, but useful,' he said to her. ‘Also big enough to accommodate two children. We've decided to try for another one as soon as we can.'

‘Michael, that's marvellous …'

Michael relayed all that had happened as far as he could.

‘It's not going to be too long now before I'm back on Ops, at least that's what I'm hoping. Everyone thinks the big show is about to kick off.'

‘I hope it's over soon,' said Ruby.

‘Have you heard anything else from Johnnie? Mary told me about the postcard.'

‘No. No, I haven't.'

She swallowed the lump in her throat. There had been nothing after that single postcard. Headlines of allied advances in the newspapers gave her hope. At home, in consideration of her feelings, Johnnie was rarely mentioned. There was every chance that he would come back, but equally there was every chance he might not. Keeping the thought of him bottled up inside was her way of dealing with the situation.

They travelled past fields, the vast sky an indigo backdrop to the flat black landscape.

She was welcomed by the smell of fresh baking as they entered the cottage.

‘Duck,' said Michael before going through the door.

A pile of logs was glowing in the open hearth. Mary was standing by the vast inglenook, her face pink from the heat of the fire and baking. Beatrice was propped up in an armchair, giggling and kicking her legs.

‘Mary!'

They fell into each other's arms and cried on each other's shoulders. The baby stilled and looked up at them with her big blue eyes, perhaps unsure as to why she was seeing two versions of her mother, both dressed differently but looking so alike.

Mary was desperate for news. ‘There's so much to talk about. How's Dad? How's Charlie? How's Frances. How's—'

‘One at a time!'

Ruby assured Mary that everyone was well. Charlie especially had recovered quickly from his illness.

‘He's a typical rough-and-tumble little boy.'

Mindful not to hurt her brother-in-law's feelings, Ruby only glanced at Michael's face. Even so, she was sure she saw him wince before looking away. She felt for him – every man wanted a son – but perhaps this next baby would be a boy.

‘And you're not engaged or anything,' Mary went on, excitement making her eyes sparkle. ‘Last we talked I thought you were friendly with a military policeman.'

‘He was a friend. That's all.'

She had considered mentioning Declan's relationship with Frances, but desisted; perhaps she might when Michael wasn't around. Neither did she mention Frances being pregnant. In time she would, but for now there were too many other things to discuss. Andrew Sinclair was one of them.

Beatrice had long been put to bed when Ruby told them what Andrew's mother had said. Everyone laughed but also felt sorry for him. Andrew was the way he was because of his mother's domination.