Wartime Sweethearts (28 page)

She shook her head, her smile tight and expression intent with purpose. ‘I want it for free. You owe me wages anyway. I’m taking the sugar.’

‘Huh!’ he exclaimed, regarding her with disbelief. ‘Are you bloody kidding?’

‘No. I am not bloody kidding!’

She felt like adding that she’d grown up. She also felt like adding how angry he made her feel. Dirty scum like Gareth Stead were taking full advantage of the dire situation the country found itself in.

She levelled her most menacing look at him. ‘If you don’t give me that sugar, it’ll be the worse for you. I’ll tell the police all about you, Gareth Stead, which means that you’ll lose your licence. I mean it.’

His smirk wavered at first then widened once he’d had chance to consider it. At the same time he caressed the top of his new wireless, looking eminently pleased with himself.

‘Look, if it weren’t me, it would be somebody else. People are going to want a few luxuries during this war. Everyone wants to indulge themselves in the things they like. Even you.’

His sneer was derisive, but she still had the ace card to play.

‘May I remind you that sugar is a basic food stuff. As for indulging oneself, well, you should know a bit about that, shouldn’t you. You’re quite a one for indulging your secret passions.’

The sneer froze on his face. ‘What you on about?’

‘I’m talking about you being attracted to young girls, and I don’t mean me. My father would kill you if Frances should ever tell him what you tried to do. Or if I told him. I wouldn’t want to be the doctor who tried to patch you up. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

Even the red face of a hardened drinker can turn pale when faced with something truly frightening. Gareth’s did just that.

Ruby plunged in. ‘Now. About that sugar.’

It gave her great satisfaction to see a trickle of drool run from one corner of his downturned lips. It was even better when he mutely agreed to deliver the sack of sugar when the rest of the family were out.

On the walk here she’d planned everything out. Tomorrow her father, Mary and Frances were going into Kingswood to visit Aunt Betty, her mother’s sister. Someone had to stay to man the shop; Ruby had volunteered. She ordered him to bring it over the stile and along the back lane, leaving it by the back door. From there she would manhandle it down into the cellar, though not until the shop was empty of customers.

‘Eleven o’clock sharp. And don’t be late.’

His jaw moved in time with the grinding of his teeth. ‘Don’t look as though I’ve got much choice.’

‘No. It doesn’t.’

‘We could go halves—’

‘No. We cannot. Eleven o’clock. Sharp.’

If he keeps grinding his teeth, he’ll lock his jaw she thought to herself and felt triumphant. She’d done it. She was taking her revenge.

‘You’re a blackmailer,’ he growled.

Ruby smiled and felt quite proud. If a man deserved to be blackmailed it was this one. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I am!’

News came through that Charlie was being brought home on a merchant ship carrying beef up from South America to Southampton and wasn’t likely to be home until after Christmas.

Stan Sweet considered postponing their celebrations until he arrived. Frances burst into tears at the prospect. ‘I came home for Christmas! I’d sooner have stayed with Ada if there isn’t a Christmas!’

Stan Sweet wasn’t a man given to changing his mind unless there was good reason. His niece’s outburst was reason enough.

‘Hmm,’ he said, pipe in hand and clearing his throat. ‘On the other hand it’s the right time for a celebration. My boy is on his way home. There’s no law says we can’t celebrate Christmas twice. Now I’d better see to making some dough for proving.’

Mary and Ruby planned a trip into Bristol. ‘At least we can look in the shop windows if nothing else,’ said Mary. Their spirits had risen enormously since receiving the good news about Charlie.

Ruby was impatient. ‘I don’t want to just look. I want to buy something.’

‘Let’s hope there’s something left,’ returned Mary. ‘You heard what it said on the wireless. People are determined to enjoy this Christmas, which means …’

‘Nothing left for us.’

The news that people were panic-buying turned out to be more or less correct. What goods were available in the shops were swiftly snapped up. They did what they could, buying presents for each other. In their case they also had Charlie to think about so perhaps they bought a little more than they should have. The good news had cheered them up no end and energised their buying, that and the prospect of this being the last decent Christmas they’d have for a long time.

Mary bought her father a pipe rack shaped like a five-bar gate. Ruby bought him a book about making the most of an allotment; not that they had an allotment, but like most folk in the village, they did have a pretty big garden. Part of that garden was taken up with flowers, a riot of colour from spring all the way through until the first frosts. Stan Sweet had already stated his intention to turn the whole garden over to vegetables.

‘Can’t eat flowers,’ he said to them. ‘I’ll bring one of the pigs over to snuffle up the roots. That should save me having to do too much digging. Might be as well to keep a few pigs close by. They’ll be safe here. It doesn’t do to keep them out of sight at present.’

Mary patted her father’s shoulder. ‘That’s fine with us. It won’t be so far to go with the pig bin.’

The pig bin received all the leftovers suitable for making pigswill. Stan Sweet took it over to his pigs on a regular basis. The fact that one had gone missing recently grieved him.

‘Just wait till I gets me hands on him,’ he growled. ‘I’ll give them pigs if I bloody well gets hold of them! Old Sam Fowler had one pinched a while back, and now the same’s happened to me.’

The prospect of keeping a few pigs in the back garden wasn’t to either Mary or Ruby’s taste, but Frances was quite taken with the idea.

‘I can give them names.’

Buying something for Charlie was more difficult.

‘Nothing knitted,’ Ruby warned. ‘Everyone is knitting. Everyone is giving servicemen socks and gloves for Christmas. Charlie deserves something better than that.’

Mary had been thinking this through. They all wanted to get him something special, something that Charlie would appreciate.

‘He loves our garden. Perhaps we should buy him something for that,’ she suggested.

Ruby was scathing. ‘Oh no. Not a spade or a shovel, surely!’

Mary bristled at her sister’s habit of jumping to conclusions.

‘Of course not! I was thinking of a plant for the garden. Something flowering among all those vegetables. I shall miss our summer flowers once Dad’s dug them all up.’

Just for once, Ruby agreed. ‘That would be nice. But what?’

As usual, Mary had thought about this in great depth.

‘Mr Forbes at the nursery is keeping a rose bed among the tomatoes and cucumbers in his greenhouse. Young rose bushes mostly. He has one called Charles Stuart. What if we all clubbed together and bought one?’

Ruby’s face considered it only briefly before nodding in agreement ‘Charles Stuart. Charlie! He’d love it.’

So did Stan Sweet. ‘A single rose bush among the cabbages is hardly wasting good growing space,’ he said contemplating just how Charlie might plant it in to best advantage. ‘And the fact that it’s named after our Charlie …’

Mary exchanged a grin with her twin. ‘I think Charlie Stuart was a king of England. I think the rose was named after him, Dad.’

Frances bought her uncle some cotton handkerchiefs with the money she’d had for helping out at the big house. Living in the forest had not given her much opportunity to spend her earnings from that day so she was happy to spend it on her family.

She’d also not come back from the Forest of Dean empty-handed: when Mary had fetched her home from Ada’s place, she also found herself having to struggle back with a large sack containing a smoked salmon big enough to last them for three meals, including soup. There were also herbs and bags of nuts plus a much appreciated flagon of sloe gin. The eyes of Stan Sweet lit up at the sight of the latter.

‘Lovely on a cold winter evening.’

‘It’s for Christmas and special occasions,’ said Mary who attempted to snatch it back from him.

‘It is a special occasion,’ he said, hugging the flagon close to his chest. ‘Our Charlie is safe and on his way home. Let’s drink a small one to his health. No doubt we’ll drink the rest in the New Year when he gets back.’

Ruby fetched four small tot glasses.

‘I think our Frances is too young for sloe gin,’ remarked Mary.

‘No I’m not,’ protested Frances. ‘Please …!’ she whined when it seemed she might not get any.

Her uncle regarded her with amusement. ‘Can you give me one good reason why you should have a tot – a very tiny tot mark you,’ he added.

‘Because I helped Ada make it,’ Frances declared with a thrusting out of her chin and a haughty toss of her head.

Stan relented, though he wasn’t sure he agreed with Ada Perkins having a child help her brew alcohol. However, he knew Frances cared deeply for her cousin and was thankful the news he was safe had coincided with her coming home for Christmas.

Stan raised his glass and proposed the toast. ‘Here’s to our Charlie. Thank God he’s on his way home. No matter if he don’t get home for Christmas. It’s enough to my mind that he’s on his way.’

Christmas Day lunch consisted of a cockerel Stan Sweet had raised from a chick and kept in a shed alongside the pigs in the paddock bordering Hollybush Lane. The fluffy yellow chick had been pretty and cuddly; the cockerel it had grown into had been huge and aggressive. And as a family of bakers, no one needed a cockerel to wake them in the morning.

A large bunch of sage had been brought in from the garden and hung to dry over the gas rings on top of the stove weeks before. The onions used to make the sage and onion stuffing was all that were left of the last lot they’d bought from one of the French onion sellers. The next lot would be home grown.

Everyone enjoyed opening their presents; only Charlie’s present remained partially covered, the root of the rose bush sitting in a bucket of water.

Frances had made paper party hats from newspaper. The old rooster smelled wonderful, its skin crisp and brown, the stuffing oozing on to a willow-patterned meat platter. Roast potatoes, carrots, sprouts and cabbage provided a plentiful garnish.

Everyone sang ‘God Save the King’, following which there was a rush for knives and forks and arguments over who was having the legs.

‘Whoever breeds a chicken with four or more legs is going to make a fortune,’ remarked Stan Sweet.

Mary had made a Christmas pudding from a mixture of breadcrumbs and flour, added suet, as much dried fruit as she could spare, plus a dash of apple brandy. Charlie and his cronies had made the latter before dashing off to war. They were all thankful so many apples grew in these parts, thanks to generations of cider makers who had planted vast apple orchards from Hereford all the way down to Taunton and beyond. They were also glad that a few had been left untouched hereabouts, including the one Frances and most of the village kids had played in all their lives. The big orchard up at Perrotts’ Farm had been the first one to go. There could be more, but for now the one next to the Apple Tree pub had been left alone.

Ruby rounded off the day with the Christmas cake she had managed to make from what she had, with a little divergence from the traditional recipe.

As it turned out everyone stated that they approved of the cake being more like a sponge than a heavy fruit cake. She’d also used jam because marzipan was in short supply, though she had managed to ice the top with the very last icing sugar from a shelf in the village store.

‘Thought I’d save it for you,’ Miriam Powell had confided. ‘I suppose you’ll save a piece for Charlie?’

Ruby had noted the adoration in Miriam’s eyes and assured her that she would indeed keep a piece for Charlie’s return. She wondered how things were going for Miriam with the new Methodist minister; perhaps not so well seeing as her affection seemed to have reverted back to Charlie.

‘In fact I might very well bake another cake,’ said Ruby. ‘Providing I can get at least some of the ingredients.’

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ whispered Miriam, leaning close so that nobody else could hear her. ‘You let me know what you want and I’ll get it for you. Never you fear.’

Ruby reiterated her promise to Mary who remarked there would likely be a price to pay that had nothing to do with money. ‘She’s in love with our Charlie.’

Ruby shook her head. ‘She’s got no chance. Miriam wants a husband and Charlie’s not the sort for settling down.’

Mary said nothing about the notes stuffed into the gaps between the bricks. Neither did she remark about the way she’d seen Charlie staring at the handsome woman at the village fete before he’d gone off to war. Mary hadn’t seen her since, not up until a few days ago when she’d come into the shop, bought a loaf of bread and swiftly disappeared. Mary had been too discreet to ask personal questions and as far as she knew, the woman was married.

Stan Sweet was given the honour of cutting the cake. He was also given a tot of sloe gin to go with it.

Mary passed the plates of cake along the table. She’d bought Ruby a dark red scarf for Christmas. Ruby had bought her a dark blue one. That’s the way it always was with them, they consistently thought alike and they’d both laughed at what they’d done.

Frances had been the lucky one because Stan had managed to get someone he knew at the aircraft factories in Filton to make a scooter in the engineering workshop. All three of them had clubbed together to meet the cost. Frances was over the moon.

In the middle of the afternoon, they put on their coats and went outside. Stan Sweet fetched his spade along with the rose named Charles Stuart. They were going to plant the bush in a space where it wouldn’t impinge upon the vegetables and could still be seen from the kitchen window, ready for Charlie to see when he returned.

‘See you soon, our Charlie,’ Stan Sweet said once its roots were embedded in the dark rich earth. It was the signal for them all to go back inside, take their coats off and enjoy the rest of the day.