War Baby (28 page)

Mary smiled sadly to herself. The puzzle would remain a topic of conversation in the village for a long time. Poor Miriam. She'd had a thing about Mary's brother, Charlie at one time, not that Charlie had been interested. She recalled finding slips of paper with prayers for Charlie's safety written on them. She'd watched Miriam from her bedroom window, surprised to see her creeping into their backyard and stuffing the prayers into a gap in a crumbling brick wall.

At first she'd thought the prayers were to the Virgin Mary. It turned out that they were actually written to some pagan deity that nobody this side of the River Severn knew anything of. But Frances had known. Frances who had been evacuated to the Forest of Dean for a while with Miriam's grandmother, Ada Perkins. It was there Frances had seen people posting notes into the hollows of old trees, prayers to a pagan goddess of the forest.

‘One step at a time.'

Parking the pushchair at the gate, Stan Sweet had taken his grandson into his arms and took him into the churchyard. On deciding the long grass looked a grand place to explore, young Charlie kicked his legs and made demanding noises.

‘All right, my boy,' said Stan recognising what he wanted. ‘You want to walk.'

Charlie had taken his first steps and now was keen to try at every opportunity with varying degrees of success. Stan clutched the plump little hand in his as Charlie tottered forward into one step after another before landing on his bottom. Undeterred, up he got, clinging to his grandfather's hand as he fought to regain his balance.

Bit by bit, the distance along the path covered partly by a tottering walk and partly being carried, they finally came to the grave of Sarah Sweet.

It wasn't the first time Stan had brought Charlie's boy to visit his grandmother's grave though on previous occasions he had remained in his pram or pushchair, either asleep or eyeing his surroundings, especially the birds and the butterflies that frequented a nearby buddleia.

After tottering for a few steps, Charlie once again landed on his bottom. Entranced by Michaelmas daisies nodding at the side of the headstone, he sat there plucking at them, chuckling in triumph when he finally managed to pick one.

Content that his grandson was enjoying himself, Stan took off his hat and got down on one knee.

‘Here again, Sarah. As you can see our Charlie is growing fast. What's more he's starting to walk already. Isn't that marvellous?'

Stan beamed. It was true. His female customers, and Bettina Hicks, had all confirmed that he was a very forward baby. He'd ignored the advice of one customer who insisted that if a baby walked too early it would end up bow legged. This was his grandson, Charlie, and he would grow up to be the handsomest man alive!

‘I have to tell you, Sarah, that the Yanks have entered the war. One of their bases was attacked by the Japanese. They weren't best pleased, I can tell you! So they're in the war now too. I only hope this means a quicker end to things. Nobody wants this war spreading and dragging on. What was it we were promised back in 1914 – it would be over by Christmas? Well, we were promised that this time too …'

Stan looked up as a sound came to him, carried on a breeze that was blowing his way. It was like crying – wailing, more like. The only sound he'd heard up until this moment had been the cawing of crows from the tall beech trees shielding the church from the slope and the lane.

After preventing his grandson from eating a particularly large dock leaf, he gathered him up into his arms and looked over to where withered grass rustled and rattled against the stone wall. All the rest of the grass in the churchyard had been cut at the end of October. The long grass at the edge of the churchyard remained, a place where slow worms lurked and stoats burrowed beneath the wall.

Somebody was crouched over, only their head and shoulders visible, their attention absorbed in whatever lay in front of them. Whoever it was seemed suddenly to become aware of his presence, stiffening at first before popping up like a Jack in the Box. He almost laughed, until he saw it was Miriam Powell, back from the Forest of Dean.

He held up his hand in acknowledgement more so than a wave. ‘Miriam!'

Her face was pale as death in contrast to her black coat. Always black, he thought. A young girl like her. It just isn't right.

He'd obviously taken her by surprise. She looked scared. ‘Miriam. Are you all right, love?'

She gave no sign that she'd heard him, though she'd definitely seen him. Her face was as pale and still as a plaster saint, her hooded eyes fixed on Charlie.

‘Poor girl,' whispered Stan. He'd always felt sorry for the girl, having a mother like Gertrude Powell. Not that it was any of his business and Mrs Powell had always been friendly enough, or at least neighbourly.

As for Miriam, well, she had always been kind to Charlie when he was in the shop, kicking his legs in his pushchair, enjoying all the attention he received from the customers. Normally she merely smiled at him, tickling him under the chin, running her fingers over the backs of his hands. But she'd never spoken to him. Not a word. Not directly to the baby, just stared at him with round, adoring eyes.

‘She makes the same comment every time she leaves,' Mary had told him. ‘He's Charlie reborn. That's what she always says. He's Charlie reborn.'

‘Deacon told me that people can get reborn as rabbits or deer,' Frances had added.

‘Better not eat them then.' Ruby grinned as she said it.

Frances had tossed her head. ‘I don't believe silly things like that. I'm not a child. I was just saying. That's all.'

Now in the cemetery, Stan was perplexed, not sure quite what to do. ‘I'm going back home, but if you want me to see you back to the shop—' he called.

‘No!'

Suddenly she was running out of the long grass, weaving between the gravestones and heading for the far gate that led over a stile and in entirely the wrong direction for her mother's shop.

Stan stared at the space she'd occupied, amazed at how quickly she'd disappeared.

‘Well, I'll be blowed!' He turned to look at his grandson's chubby face. The little lad was engrossed in crushing the head of a Michaelmas daisy between finger and thumb. ‘One thing you'll learn as you get older, little man, is that women can be funny beasts. But I expect you already know that, don't you.'

It was two weeks before Christmas when Stan Sweet picked up the post from off the doormat and took it through into the kitchen where the family was having breakfast.

‘Well, look at you,' Ruby declared to her nephew. Charlie's face was smeared with porridge. Most of it Ruby had fed him but, being a determined child, Charlie had folded his chubby fingers around the spoon and attempted to feed himself. Unfortunately his sense of coordination was such that he was having trouble getting the spoon into his mouth.

Mary laughed. ‘He's growing up so quickly, though I think we still have a year or so to wait before his table manners improve.'

Believing his grandson to be the most advanced baby ever born, Stan Sweet leapt to his defence. ‘Not that long. He's a very forward baby is our Charlie. Not many babies started walking when they were only ten months old. Our Charlie did.'

Ruby and Mary exchanged smiles. They were used to their father's pride in his grandson grabbing every opportunity to praise the little boy. They never contradicted him. Charlie had been the miracle that had changed their father's life, theirs too.

‘Besides which he's a toddler, not a baby. He can toddle. Walk. He's a growing boy,' Stan added, his face glowing with pride.

The twins hid their smiles. They knew very well that their father was totally besotted with his grandson.

After wiping Charlie's hands and face, Frances unstrapped the little boy from his high chair. She also offered to change him before taking him for a walk in his pushchair.

Mary and Ruby, grateful to their cousin, turned to the letters addressed to them. Mary recognised Mike's handwriting and the official paper. The letter Ruby had been sent was on similar paper; it had to be from John Smith.

Mary took a deep breath before reading her letter. She was missing Mike dreadfully, especially having him in bed beside her. They'd made a new start and things could only get better. Things had most definitely changed in that department. The thin paper crackled which in turn seemed to set her fingers tingling.

Darling Mary, Mary, my darling …

She smiled at the repetition, which proved he was missing her as much as she was missing him.

He went on to describe how the sunlight lit up the rooms of Woodbridge Cottage, of flying over its thatched roof, imagining them living there, eating breakfast together, sharing a bed more often than they did at present.

Mary broke into a smile. Since his last leave she too had often thought the same. She'd gone from lying beside him stiff as a wooden plank to a creature of longing, her body responding to his. However, there was still this fixation of his about the cottage. Much as she wanted to, how could she leave her father and family at a time like this? There was the bakery, the baking demonstrations, not to mention her father was getting older and now there was Charlie. She reminded herself that Mike had suggested the baby live with them. They could adopt him. But she knew her father would be heartbroken if Charlie was taken away from him. She couldn't do it. She had to think. She had to sort something out.

Her expression stiffened as she reread the paragraph relating to the cottage offered to them by Mike's friend. She didn't know what to do.

Stan Sweet noticed the consternation on his daughter's face while pretending to peruse yet more directives from the Ministry of Food. She didn't see his smile of satisfaction, his gratefulness that his daughters were at home, though still doing their bit for the war effort.

She caught his smile when she looked up. ‘Everything all right with our Mike?'

‘He's fine,' Mary said quickly.

Stan Sweet wasn't fooled. His daughter's response was a little too curt for his liking. Something was wrong. Not that she'd tell him unless he asked and he wasn't going to do that. His daughter was a grown woman and a married one at that.

Ruby laughed at something in her letter. ‘John's waiting for the troop ship to leave. He's not saying in so many words where he's going, only that he hopes to drink a gin sling at the end of it. He'll be halfway there by now. This was posted just before his ship sailed.'

Mary took advantage of Ruby's interruption. ‘Isn't a gin sling something to do with Singapore?'

Ruby grinned. ‘I think so. I heard it mentioned in that film with Sydney Greenstreet. That's our Corporal Smith for you! A man who knows how to flout orders without appearing to. Anyway, he said that's where he thought he was going. How stupid. First he was free to tell me where he was going, and now he's not allowed to put it in writing. Ludicrous!'

‘What on earth's the difference between telling us and putting it in writing,' asked Mary.

‘In case it gets intercepted,' said Stan. That to him seemed the most logical answer.

Ruby laughed again. ‘Listen to this. “
Can you send me a thousand and one ways to make a meal with bully beef? Rice might be one ingredient you'd care to consider.
”'

Just like her sister, she omitted to read out the last paragraph of her letter. It was all about getting together after the war was over.

‘I'm missing you.'

Ruby read the last words again and again.

Funnily enough, I'm missing you too, you awkward, cantankerous … She smiled. John Smith always managed to stir up her feelings and being far away from each other didn't seem to have made much difference. Every time she thought of his caustic remarks, his reluctance when she'd first dragged him into assisting her with her demonstrations, a smile crept on to her lips.

He knew about Ivan, had warned her against him, but she was having fun. John was far away, and she could see herself falling for Ivan. The fact was she was torn between the two of them. Only time would tell which one of them would win through. John was on the other side of the world; Ivan was on the doorstep. Besides, she was missing the passion they'd shared and Ivan was putting on the pressure for her to give in. Was the fact that she was deliberating proof that she had stronger feelings for John than her Polish pilot, despite the fact he was so far away?

‘Is John well?'

Ruby looked up from the letter, her eyes meeting those of her father. ‘He seems to be. At least he's a long way from Germany.'

Stan Sweet turned his attention to Frances who was guiding Charlie's arms into his jacket. ‘I'm off to Powells',' she said brightly as she tied the strings of his knitted cap beneath his chin. ‘We're nearly out of cod liver oil.'

Charlie's happy little face creased and he began to cry.

‘He knows the words,' Frances said. ‘He's beginning to know a lot of words. He doesn't like cod liver oil.'

‘Never you mind, my boy,' he said, cupping Charlie's chin in his hand. ‘He doesn't have to have it, does he?'

‘Yes. It's good for him,' said Mary. ‘We can mix it with jam.'

Ruby tickled the little boy's chin. ‘Never mind, Charlie. Your auntie Mary will give you a spoonful of jam afterwards.

Charlie retrieved his curled bottom lip and flashed his two front teeth in a gummy smile. It was followed by a happy chuckle.

‘That child understands too much, Dad,' said Ruby. ‘What do you say to him when you take him to see Mum?'

‘Just a few pearls of wisdom,' Stan replied. ‘Like how to cope in a world increasingly ruled by women!'

He shoved the pile of official pamphlets to one side. His thoughts went back to the day he'd seen Miriam – and heard Miriam – crying in St Anne's graveyard. What was that all about? He hadn't mentioned it to anyone. There was enough gossip going around the village as it was. Miriam deserved some time to herself and if it happened to be in St Anne's graveyard, then so be it.