Home Sweet Home (13 page)

‘Now we have to get married,' he'd told her.

Of course they did, but if Pearl were to be believed, it wouldn't be a shotgun affair. Pearl knew a lot more about sex than Frances so surely she was right to be reassured?

Yes. You'll marry Ed and live happily ever after, she thought to herself. Then Declan crept into her mind again, those dark eyes, that tanned face, the black hair so glossy and tight against his scalp. Ed was an immature boy in comparison to Declan.

‘You sound happy,' said Ruby, eyeing her cousin curiously.

‘I am happy. I love these dances. Love preparing the food for them too. And anyway, it is my birthday.'

‘Sweet sixteen. Lucky you. Hopefully, we'll have enough food,' said Ruby. ‘Those boys certainly know how to eat.'

‘Ed said he could get you some extra sugar and also some coconut, oh and some tins of Spam for sandwiches. He'll bring doughnuts – you know how the Yanks love doughnuts – but he asked if you could make an apple pie. He reckons yours are the best.'

Ruby wasn't quite sure whether this was purely flattery on Ed's part. He was obviously very fond of her cousin and quite often went out of his way to ingratiate himself with her family by bringing along surplus supplies from his army kitchen. Ruby wondered if Ed was aware that he had a rival for Frances. Declan had made it clear he was interested in her cousin even if Ruby had told him she was too young.

At one time it seemed as though Ruby was the one that Declan was sweet on; not that she'd encouraged him. She liked him. There was no doubt of that. But getting serious about him was an entirely different matter. No matter how much she tried to push Johnnie Smith to the back of her mind, he refused to be side-lined.

Sometimes she thought Declan was only pretending to be serious. ‘Once this war's over, we might make a go of a life together. Let's see how things go.'

At the time she'd laughed and asked him whether he was asking her to marry him or go into business together. He'd laughed too.

He'd once showed Ruby a picture of his folks standing outside their store and smiling proudly at the camera. That was before they'd died. She'd imagined a grocery store, but it was nothing like that. His parents looked very well off, his mother wearing a fur coat. There were more fur coats and dresses in the window display behind her. To Ruby's eyes it looked like a department store, like Coleman's in Bristol or Jolly's in Bath.

That was as far as things had got and somehow, just somehow, she wasn't sure whether he was being serious or not. His plans for the future varied from one meeting to another and he'd never been that fresh with her, certainly not for many weeks. At first she'd put it down to his concern about the invasion plans for Europe; they were bound to happen shortly. If he were at all serious about her, they would reunite after the war was over. What would happen then? Besides, Corporal Johnnie Smith might come home. She hoped he would. As an orphan, his life had not been easy. The army had become his home even before the outbreak of war.

Looking back on their time together, it seemed she had always known where she was with him, despite his acid wit, and the thought of him still brought a smile to her face.

Despite the desperate stories coming in from the Far East, she preferred to think that he was still alive. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge since she'd last seen him. There had been no commitment between them, no sweet words of love as such, just an understanding. Somehow their thoughts and their instincts seemed to meet on mutual territory, each complementing the other.

Suppressing a heartfelt sigh, she cast her mind back to the job in hand.

‘Right, now let's see what we can put together for the buffet. How about rissoles? Small ones.'

Frances pulled a face.

‘Not a good idea?'

‘No. I mean, it's all right for us, but they're American …'

‘I thought you said Ed was bringing doughnuts?'

‘He is, but, well, couldn't we make something American?'

Ruby pulled a rueful expression. ‘With the ingredients we can get, it isn't easy making something British, let alone something American. They're not on rations, well at least not in the same way we are.'

Frances was leaning back on the table. Although she was attempting to look interested, Ruby sensed she had something on her mind.

‘What is it, Frances? And don't tell me it's nothing. I know you too well. Is it something to do with Ed?'

Frances sighed. She'd been thinking a lot about living in America. If she did marry Ed, then she'd have to move there. Declan threatened her thoughts again, but at least for the moment she pushed him to the back of her mind.

‘I'd just like to make something American for the buffet.'

‘I'm already baking an apple pie. That's as familiar to them as it is to us.'

‘I know, but could we make something else too? Something to surprise him?'

Ruby was pleased that Frances wanted to impress Ed, a boy close to her own age. She'd been worried that Frances had her head turned by Declan. But on reflection, she had the oddest feeling it wasn't Ed that Frances was keen to impress.

Forcing the thought away, she pulled her attention back to the question of making a truly American dish for the next village dance.

‘How about hamburgers?'

‘Wow! Could we? The guys would be so surprised!'

‘The guys? Not just Ed?'

‘Well … yes … Ed and the guys. Can't leave anyone out.'

Ruby dismissed her misgivings regarding the attraction between Frances and Declan and thought how wonderful it was to be young and excited about impressing a young man with food. ‘I think we can, though not with beef.'

It was disconcerting to see her cousin's enthusiasm change to suspicion. Like everyone else, she was getting used to making things that were similar to pre-war food though not using the same ingredients. Some were very successful. Others took more getting used to.

Food was an obsession with everybody. Make do and mend applied to clothes, shoes and home furnishings. With food it was a case of making do with what you could get hold of. The hamburgers were likely to be something of a challenge.

‘What are you going to make them with?'

Ruby was still mulling it over, but was unwilling to let Frances know that.

‘Well, let me think …' There was no denying that the older Frances got, the more astute she became. Ruby had been caught off guard, but needs must, so with quick thinking she managed to string out her words while thinking on her feet.

‘There's no problem making the bread baps, and thanks to Dad and his garden, we have plenty of onions…. We'll also need salt, pepper, herbs …'

‘I know all that, but what meat are you going to use?'

This was the question that Ruby had been dreading. ‘I guess we'll have to see what I can get nearer to the date. Will that suit you, miss?'

Frances nodded, but there was something guarded in her expression. Ruby knew something else was going on behind those dark brown eyes and that baking had nothing to do with it.

‘Are you worrying about the cake not being big enough?'

Frances shook her head. ‘No. And anyway, it'll be small slices for friends only. No. It's not the cake.'

Ruby thought back to when she was Frances's age. That period between being an adolescent and true adulthood was not an easy time.

Feeling sudden empathy, she stopped what she was doing and placed her arm around her cousin's shoulders. ‘So if it's not about the cake, what is it, Frances? Come on, you can tell me.'

Frances scraped a lock of hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were still downcast and she was sucking in her bottom lip, a habit she'd had all her life and a sign something was bothering her.

Might as well jump in with the obvious question. ‘Is it Ed?' asked Ruby.

Frances shook her head. ‘No. Ed's fine, but—'

‘Nothing can be that bad that it makes you look as though you're sitting on a stool made of thistles. What is it? Come on, I'm your cousin. You can tell me.'

Her cousin's eyes flickered and she sucked in her cheeks before looking up into Ruby's face. ‘It's that dress you gave me. The red one.'

Ruby drew in her chin and eyed her cousin cautiously. She was worried about a dress. Was that all? Inside she sighed with relief. ‘You haven't ripped it, have you?'

‘No. I took special care not to. It's a lovely dress.'

‘Good. So what's wrong with it?' she asked.

Frances held her head to one side, her eyes looking dolefully up into those of her cousin. ‘Is it true that red is the colour that whores wear?'

Ruby's jaw dropped. This was not at all what she'd been expecting. ‘Frances Sweet, if you were younger, I would wash your mouth out with soap and water! That dress was mine. I wore it and I'm not a whore, am I?'

‘I didn't mean that
you
were a whore.'

‘Well, thank goodness for that! Where did you learn that word?'

Her initial suspicion was that it might have come from Ed, in which case she promised herself to have a stiff word with him. If she didn't then her father would, if he was told, that is. Her inclination was not to tell him.

Frances tossed her head and looked her in the eye. ‘I'm not a child, Ruby,' she said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘I do know what the word means. We do own a dictionary.'

The reference was unnerving, but Ruby was mature enough to maintain her equilibrium. Treat Frances as an adult. She really should have remembered that.

‘I'm sorry, Frances. You're quite right. You are no longer a child, but you've still got a lot to learn about this world – and I don't want you picking up bad habits.'

‘I won't.'

‘Anyway, I don't see what the colour red has got to do with anything,' she said as confidently as she could. ‘Cardinals wear red. They're churchmen,' she added, in case Frances wasn't aware of that.

‘I know. And there are a lot of things that are good and are coloured red. Like birds. Robins, anyway.'

‘That's right. Where did you get the idea that red was worn by women of that sort?'

Frances picked up a pencil and began to doodle at the top of one of the lists. ‘Mrs Powell. It was a while back. We went into her shop. Pearl wanted a packet of … mints … yes. I think it was mints.' It was an outright lie, but Ruby would instantly point out that Pearl was too young to smoke, though many of her age and younger did. What they saw adults do, they also wanted to do.

As Ruby didn't seem to notice her hesitation, she soldiered on with her tale. ‘Then Pearl asked me if her seams were straight and Mrs Powell saw I was wearing your red dress and said … like I just told you, she said that women … well … a certain kind of woman wore red.'

Ruby laughed. ‘Mrs Powell? And all wicked old witches wear black just as she does! Take no notice of her. You know what she's like.'

Although her laughter died, Ruby couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. ‘That woman belongs in the Dark Ages. She thinks everyone else is wicked and she's the most saintly person in the village. She's a witch. Perhaps we should think about burning her at the stake …' She stopped herself from uttering the avalanche of adjectives suiting Gertrude Powell. ‘The names I could call her. I expect you could think of a few too …'

She'd expected Frances to join her with words and laughter, but Frances wasn't looking amused. Her expression was downcast as though her thoughts were dark and deeply buried. Something was troubling her. Regardless that her cousin might yet again object to being treated like a child, Ruby wanted to get to the bottom of this. She chose her words carefully. ‘What else did she say, Frances?'

Frances stopped doodling on the precious notepaper. Once she'd stopped, Ruby took hold of it and placed it out of her reach. Paper was not easy to get hold of, nowadays. Norway, where most of the pulp had come from in pre-war days, had been overrun and was now behind enemy lines. Canada helped to fill the gap, but there were more important things to bring across the Atlantic than paper!

In the absence of something to scribble on, Frances tapped the end of the pencil against her teeth. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. The unrelenting rhythm began to get on Ruby's nerves.

‘That's enough!' Ruby snatched the pencil from her cousin's hand. ‘What else did she say to you? Something nasty, no doubt! Come on, Frances. Tell me what she said. Whatever it was, it's obviously upset you.'

Pale pink lips pursed with reluctance, Frances sniffed, put the pencil down and raised her eyes.

‘She said I was no better than my mother. That she'd worn red and was always a whore.'

Ruby felt as though the lining of her throat had thickened and all the words were stuck on her tongue. It came to her suddenly that Frances knew very little about her mother, which meant Mrs Powell's comment would have come as a terrible shock.

Partly our fault, she thought, especially Dad.

She tried to recall the last time Mildred Sweet had been mentioned in conversation, but couldn't think of one single time. Her character and manner were never referred to, neither was the way she dressed or the way she looked. Ruby herself couldn't recall what she looked like, simply because Uncle Sefton had never had too much to do with the bakery when he came back from the Great War. He and Mildred had lived on the other side of Bristol until his illness became so bad her father had insisted he move in with them. By that time, it was too late for him and there was little time to get to know Mildred any better before she'd run off.

‘I think we've already decided that Mrs Powell doesn't know what she's talking about. Now let's get back to these hamburgers …'

‘Was she a whore?' Her cousin's interruption was unwelcome but couldn't be ignored. Frances had a pained expression on her face.