War Baby (8 page)

‘Are you in touch with any of your family?'

‘No. I told you. They're mostly dead.'

Ruby fell to silence. She felt awkward and wished she hadn't asked. It sounded as though John had lost a lot of his family either to war or disease. She had no wish to press him further. Neither did she wish to challenge him that he wasn't telling her the whole truth. Her intrusion would not be welcome.

She had to forgive him for being terse. Everyone had trouble talking about losing family members. Charlie loomed large in her thoughts, but she didn't want to talk about it. She sensed Corporal Smith didn't want to talk about it either.

Since speaking in public, she'd become quite adept at changing the subject. ‘I wonder what Frances will bring with her? Last time she brought two pheasants and a brace of trout.'

‘Lucky you.'

He seemed thoughtful the rest of the way. It wasn't until the tower of Gloucester Cathedral pierced the skyline that he relaxed again. She couldn't help thinking his silence had had something to do with his family. One day he might reveal more. In the meantime, he made her laugh, sometimes he annoyed her, but basically she liked him.

‘Are you Ruby's sweetheart?'

Johnnie was carrying Frances's luggage and a whole Severn salmon wrapped in newspapers at the bottom of a sack. Ruby caught the blatant innocence on her cousin's face as well as Johnnie's look of amusement.

‘He's my driver,' she explained in a clipped voice. ‘We work together for the Ministry of Food.'

‘I know that. But you've known each other for ages now.'

Ruby cleared her throat and tried not to laugh. Frances was growing up. She'd begun noticing such things. Pretty soon she'd be noticing boys a lot more, if she wasn't doing so already.

When they pulled up outside the bakery, a gang of Frances's schoolfriends awaited them. Chattering and asking Frances a host of questions, they gathered around the car, eyeing it inquisitively, sticky fingers leaving imprints all over its shiny bodywork.

The smaller kids leaned on it. The older ones commented to each other as to what make it was and how fast it might go. A shiny motor car was an object of interest to these children who were more used to the village bus, horse-driven milk carts and hay wagons, even if the car had become a common enough sight outside of Sweets' Bakery. Even before the war, with the exception of the doctor, there had been few private cars in the village.

Once Mary had opened the shop door, Corporal Smith stepped inside and placed the luggage down on the floor. He was about to do the same with the fish when Mary invited him to take it into the kitchen.

‘Help yourself to a cup of tea,' she called over her shoulder as she went to welcome her cousin back with a big hug and a smack of a kiss on the cheek.

‘Glad to be home?' Mary asked her.

Frances pulled a face that could have been a positive or a negative response. ‘I think so.'

‘You've got a bridesmaid's dress to try on. Isn't that exciting?'

There was not a trace of excitement on Frances's face, just a guarded wariness. ‘It isn't pink is it? I don't like pink. I like blue.'

Mary laughed. ‘You guessed correctly. It is blue. The roses in your posy will be pink, but there will be cornflowers as well.'

Frances breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That's all right then.'

Mary's arm was around Frances's shoulders, guiding her towards the kitchen when she looked back at Ruby. ‘I fancy wearing blue if you want me to be your matron of honour.'

‘Don't worry about it just yet. I've got nothing planned,' grunted Ruby as she heaved the wicker basket containing all her demonstration equipment past them, the gap so narrow they were forced to flatten themselves against the wall. ‘Nobody's asked me to marry him so it's not an issue.'

Out in the kitchen Johnnie Smith had poured himself a cup of tea and was eating one of the jam tarts Mary had set out for him.

Ruby thumped the hamper on the table. ‘My sister said you could help yourself to a cup of tea, not a full-blown meal.'

He carried on chewing. ‘I was starving.'

Ruby stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing him accusingly. ‘So I noticed,' she snapped. ‘This hamper is heavy, you know. I could have done with a hand.'

‘I brought it in from the car.'

‘But not into the kitchen.'

‘I don't have to bring it into the kitchen and, anyway, I was gasping for a cup of tea.'

‘Oh, wonderful. So you left it for me.'

Something seemed to shift in his eyes. ‘You didn't have to struggle. You could have left it until I'd finished.'

He brushed a few stray crumbs from his tunic while eyeing her speculatively. Earlier today he'd thought a truce had occurred between them. She hadn't snapped at him and he hadn't made cutting remarks about her attitude. They'd got on really well at lunchtime, her making sure he had enough to eat, and him brushing away the spiders she'd noticed in the pub's outdoor lavatory. All in all it had been a grand day and he'd thought quite seriously about asking her to go on a proper date. Not now though. She was back on her high horse and all because he'd grabbed a cup of tea and a tart before bringing in her precious hamper!

‘I'll be going then,' he said, already sliding his beret from his shoulder and on to his head.

‘You're welcome to join us,' said Mary brightly. She threw a questioning look at her sister. Something was going on here that she wasn't quite sure of.

Ruby gave nothing away. She liked Johnnie even though she sometimes found him exasperating. What she couldn't quite come to terms with was that she was finding it hard to cope with her feelings. She didn't want to face them. She didn't want John to think he could be more to her than the bloke who drove her around to baking demonstrations.

John nodded. ‘Thank you, Miss Sweet. I would love something to eat. It's a long way back to the depot.'

He had noticed that Mary was far less abrasive than her sister and he really fancied another bite before he went back to barracks. She pushed the plate of tarts in his direction. Ruby pushed them beyond his reach behind the teapot.

‘Try these,' said Mary and pushed forward another plate containing small pasties. ‘Pilchard pasties,' she added.

On eyeing the golden pastry, Corporal Smith's stomach had rumbled. But the moment he knew what the filling was, he withdrew his hand. ‘No thanks. I don't like fish. I think it's time I went after all.'

As he headed towards the door, Mary nodded at her sister and mouthed a silent, ‘Well go on. See him out!'

Ruby glowered. ‘Let me see you out,' she said. ‘Just in case you steal the silver.'

He threw her a surly look. ‘Very funny.'

Ruby jerked open the front door. ‘Just for the record, the only piece of silver we have is a candelabra on the dining-room sideboard. We're not rich, Corporal Smith, even though you seem to think we are.'

His eyes, such a delicious shade of hazel, narrowed as he looked at her, the two of them standing close in the doorway.

‘I was Johnnie at lunchtime. Seems now I'm back to being Corporal Smith.'

‘That was today.'

‘A “thank you” would be nice.'

‘Thank you.'

She didn't raise her eyes. ‘And the pictures?'

She bit her lip. ‘I'm sorry. Frances has just come back and I have to measure her up for the bridesmaid's dress.'

‘If that's the way it is.'

He sounded angry. She wanted him to be angry so she could argue and dislike him as she once had. It was only working to a point; her feelings had definitely changed. She liked him a lot, perhaps more than a lot. But she couldn't, wouldn't, get involved, and sharp words were her only defence.

‘I'll see you on Friday. Nine o'clock sharp.'

After closing the door on him she pulled down the blind, closed her eyes and rested her forehead against it.

Sitting up front with him, talking as they drove along, then eating sandwiches and drinking cool beer, had been quite wonderful.

Why aren't we nice to each other all the time? she thought. Why do we speak nicely one minute and strike sparks off each other the next?

Mary met her on her way back in. ‘Is he gone?'

‘Yes.'

‘You weren't very nice to him.'

‘He's an oaf.'

Mary looked quite shocked. ‘No, he's not. He's sweet. And he's sweet on you. That much is obvious.'

Ruby dug into the hamper, taking out the dirty dishes, the paper bags, the cutlery and Thermos flask. ‘He's just a work colleague who had the means of taking me to Gloucester to collect our Frances.'

‘He's not just that at all. I can see it in your eyes.'

‘See what?'

‘I think you're getting quite fond of him.'

Ruby stopped flattening the paper bags she'd extracted from the wicker basket for reuse.

‘He's just a friend.'

‘I think he'd like to be more than that,' said Mary, a little warily, because she'd obviously rattled her sister.

‘Well, he never will be. He's not my type. Besides, he's only a corporal. I'm off out with an officer tomorrow night. Much more my cup of tea!'

‘Another one?'

Mary knew she shouldn't have said it, but once it was out there was no taking it back.

A nerve flickered just beneath Ruby's cheekbone. ‘That's the way I like it!'

Mary hugged herself and bent her head. ‘Just be careful. You'll be getting yourself a bad reputation.'

Ruby saw red, slamming her hands down on the table so hard she made the tea cups rattle in their saucers. Two spots of red dotted her cheekbones. ‘That is my bloody business and nobody else's. I told you before that I intend to have a bloody good time. I belong to nobody and, quite frankly, that's the way I prefer things to stay.'

She stalked out through the back door, slamming it behind her. She leant against the wall of the house for what must have been half an hour or more. Thoughts of past mistakes and her probable future flew around in her mind like so many starlings, noisy and bustling, though she had never actually gone the whole way.

It could have been so easy to do so. The memory of Gareth Stead was still with her. She'd had a narrow escape and the experience had made her wary.

Why can't I be like the saintly Mary? she wondered to herself.

She almost burst out laughing at the thought of it, but there it was: Mary had attracted an offer of marriage without playing the field first. She's most certainly the saint of the Sweet family, thought Ruby, and I'm the sinner.

 

 

MARY'S WEDDING DRESS
was pale blue and made from the same bolt of cloth as that of her bridesmaid's, Frances. Like the length of white lace, the cloth had come courtesy of Bettina Hicks, who often popped in to see how things were progressing.

It was noticeable to all of them that their father made himself scarce when Bettina dropped in. They made a point of apologising for his absence. Bettina brushed it aside, giving the impression that she really wasn't that concerned, though it was obvious that she was.

‘He needs time to himself. He probably will do for some time.'

On this particular day when she called, Mary was standing on the kitchen table while Ruby pinned up the hem of the dress. There was barely enough fabric to make two dresses, so although Mary would have preferred a full-length wedding dress, she'd had to settle for a hem that skimmed her knees.

‘It looks lovely dear. I'm only sorry I didn't have white,' said Bettina ruefully. ‘Though I have to say, you look quite beautiful. The colour matches your eyes.'

‘I think it does. Thank you, Mrs Hicks. I really appreciate it.' Mary meant what she said. The material was lovely, but in her heart of hearts she had wanted a white wedding dress and one dress in particular: her mother's.

Ruby's fingers momentarily faltered in their task of pinning up the skirt. She knew that although Mary was thankful for the donation of lace and blue silk, deep down she would have preferred a more traditional colour.

Ruby found her father's attitude frustrating. The dress was hanging in the wardrobe upstairs, neatly wrapped, undisturbed for years. Unlike Mary, she was angry enough to want to do something drastic and had suggested that she take it and alter it to suit without telling their father that she'd done it.

‘He won't even know until your wedding day and he's a man – he probably won't even notice,' she said in a throwaway manner.

But Mary, true to form, had been downright shocked by the suggestion.

‘Ruby, I couldn't do that.' Her face had blossomed to a most becoming pink. Combined with her dark-blonde hair, it made her look positively doll-like.

Ruby looked at Mary, the sister who always acted responsibly, never one to rock the boat. No, thought Ruby. You couldn't. But I could.

She'd made up her mind. That afternoon, on the pretext that she was going to finish off Frances's dress, Ruby made her way up to the attic room where her brother used to sleep. His room had been kept closed up, empty of most of his possessions which had been boxed up and stuffed in a cupboard. On pushing open the door, the first thing she noticed was the smell. She could still smell Charlie, the faint odour of cigarettes and maleness.

She relished that faint odour serving to keep his memory alive, though there was nothing left in the room that had once belonged to him. The chest of drawers had been emptied of his things and he'd taken his hairbrush, bomb and shaving tackle with him. All that remained of him in this room was the furniture: the chest of drawers, the single bed, the threadbare rug throwing a splash of colour on the bare floorboards, the curtained-off section of wall that had served as a wardrobe. The only addition was the small table set in front of the window on which sat a twenty-year-old Singer sewing machine.