Home Sweet Home (29 page)

Frances swallowed the web of nervousness that seemed to have been spun across her throat. ‘Do you know where she is?'

Stan regarded her steadily. She couldn't know that Mildred had first been brought to the village by Gertrude Powell. For some reason he didn't know, Gertrude had taken the young and destitute Mildred under her wing. To Stan's eyes, Mildred, with her blousy figure and familiar way she looked at men – as though she could eat them whole – had not seemed the sort to fit into Gertrude's ideal of Christian womanhood. As it turned out, he'd been correct. Eventually, Gertrude Powell had concluded she had a cuckoo in the nest whose inclination was men rather than Bible studies. And Sefton had been the man Mildred set her cap at.

She'd got pregnant by his brother, got married and might have perhaps lived happily ever after if Sefton hadn't died when Frances was seven years old.

‘I don't know for sure, but I had an address for her years back,' he said to her, reluctance hanging heavy in his voice.

Feeling a sense of destiny being fulfilled, he ambled over to the old roll-top desk where he kept family wills, property and insurance documents. The papers were in no particular order, in fact far from it; he could never bear to throw anything out, and anyway, paper was precious.

Beneath the rolled-up bundles, he brought out a small diary from a long time ago in which he'd jotted down useful addresses and the names of people he'd long since lost contact with. From the back of the diary he took out a small piece of paper.

There was a sad and apprehensive look in his eyes when he handed it to the lovely young girl whom he had brought up as his own.

‘This is your mother's last known address. I would suggest you write first. Despite all your best intentions, Frances, I think turning up unannounced on her doorstep is not going to be favourably received. Write and tell her you're coming, make sure you know she's still there and plan a definite date and time, but be prepared: she might not want this.'

Frances felt herself filling up with a mixture of joy and gratitude. Her eyes brimmed with tears of happiness she could barely hold back. ‘Uncle Stan! Thank you. Thank you so much!'

Throwing her arms around his neck, she buried her head in his shoulder, closed her eyes and breathed in the pungent smells of the garden and tobacco. No matter where she went in the world or what life threw at her, she would always relish that smell as that of security and love. Her uncle had always been there for her and somehow she couldn't help feeling just a little guilty that she was insisting on finding the mother who'd deserted her, the woman he so clearly disliked. The woman who, from the fragments of things told to her, might be willing to sign a consent form for her to marry the man she loved, the man who she could possibly dupe into believing that the child she was carrying was his.

Breakfast was over and Stan Sweet had gone across the village to tend to the garden at Stratham House on the day when Ruby finally tackled Frances about Declan O'Malley.

‘Don't think I don't know about you and him,' she said to her. ‘The whole village knows.'

Frances shrugged. ‘If they're not talking about me, they'd be talking about somebody else. The village likes gossip.'

‘You're being flippant.'

‘Really? I thought I was being honest.'

Ruby wagged her finger and raised her voice. ‘Now don't speak to me like that, young lady!'

Frances sighed and placed her hands on her hips while holding back her anger. ‘Are you jealous?'

Ruby looked at her in amazement. ‘Jealous? Why would I be jealous?'

Frances folded her arms and held her chin high and defiant. ‘Because you wanted him for yourself.'

Ruby's jaw dropped. At first, it seemed she'd been about to voice a strong denial. Her open mouth finally closed and she chose her words more carefully. ‘We were friends. We had a good time for a while. But that was all it was. We never got that serious. We didn't suit each other and we knew it. So you're wrong. I am not jealous. The plain fact is, Frances, I think he's too old for you.'

‘I don't care!' Everything about Frances was defiant: her eyes blazed, her jaw was firm, her chin jutted forward.

‘Look,' said Ruby, sighing as she pulled out a kitchen chair and sunk into it. She didn't consider herself the type to play big sister or be a mother figure; Mary was so much better at that. But Mary wasn't here. She was. ‘He's much more mature than you. Yes, he's very masculine, handsome and all that, but you have to realise that he'll be off before very long and you'll never see him again. You're just a play thing to him—'

‘No! You're wrong! He loves me and …' Frances took a deep breath. ‘And I love him. We're going to get married—'

‘He's asked you?' Ruby looked at her in disbelief. This was totally unexpected. Seduction had been her best guess, though on reflection she had to admit that Declan had always struck her as an honourable man.

Frances took a deep breath. ‘Yes. He has. We're going to get married and have a house and children and everything, and there's nothing you can do about it.'

‘Yes, there is. You're a minor. You have to have the consent of a parent or guardian before the age of twenty-one. Under the circumstances, I'm not sure my father will sign for you.'

‘I know. Why do you suppose I'm so eager to find my mother?' Frances saw the look of comprehension on her cousin Ruby's face.

‘So that's it. You want to find your mother and get her to sign for you!'

‘That's my plan.'

‘But Declan is—'

‘Promise you won't tell Uncle Stan about Declan. I don't want him to know. Not yet. Not until I have my mother's signed consent.'

She wasn't certain Ruby would agree to keep her secret. Like her uncle, her cousin still regarded her as little more than a child.

She had thought this through so carefully and was adamant it would happen. Being the kind of woman she was, her mother would understand, she was sure of it.

It was clear from Ruby's hesitant response that her loyalties were divided. On the one hand, she loved her father and was unwilling to do anything to hurt him. On the other, the look on her cousin's face touched a chord within herself. If she were so in love with a man, what wouldn't she do to get him?

She thought of John Smith, a prisoner of war. What wouldn't she do to get him home?

Ruby looked down at her folded hands, her clean, neatly cut fingernails. She shook her head. ‘I won't say a word about you and Declan. It won't come from me if he does find out.'

Frances voiced her appreciation. ‘Not that I care what the small-minded of this village think of me, but I do care about Uncle Stan.'

Living in a village meant everyone knew everything about everyone else, and judged their neighbours by their behaviour, in effect what they saw on the surface.

‘Then please don't hurt him,' Ruby pleaded, strain showing on her tired face. The sound of the telephone ringing came from the hallway. Feeling she could have run away there and then, Frances went to answer it. It was Mary.

‘Frances! I wanted to know how Charlie is getting on.'

‘Yes, he's doing well. Oh, Mary, I'm so glad we've got him back. I wish you were here so I could give you a big hug.'

‘You sweet girl. I wish I was too. But there. I'm happy. Everything here is happy.'

‘Shall I hand you over to Ruby?'

‘Not yet. First tell me what you've been up to.'

Frances felt her reluctance to talk about her predicament and her life in general fall away. Mary had always been so understanding, replacing the mother she'd hardly known.

Frances's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Mary. I've got something to tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else. It's a secret.'

Relieved that Michael was home, Mary was feeling much brighter than she had felt earlier that morning and cheerfully assured her cousin that, yes, she could keep a secret and that she wouldn't tell a living soul.

She waited while Frances took a deep breath. ‘I'm in love with an American soldier called Declan and he's asked me to marry him.'

‘So what did you say?' Mary asked.

‘I told him he would have to wait until our Charlie was better. I couldn't possibly give him an answer until then.'

‘So what did he say to that?'

‘He was okay.'

‘Okay?'

Mary was getting used to people saying okay, though she'd balked at it at first. People were readily accepting the Americans and their sayings and ways. They also had access to things that had been in short supply or virtually non-existent since the beginning of the war, nylon stockings and chocolate being top of the list.

‘He says I'll have to make my mind up before the big invasion happens – you know – the invasion of Europe. He doesn't know when that's likely to be, but he thinks it will be pretty soon.'

Mary smiled into the telephone. ‘Your sweetheart seems a knowledgeable young man. Is he an officer?'

‘A captain.'

‘My, my. At this rate you'll be getting married before Ruby!'

‘It's possible. Though she has received a postcard from John Smith. It's got his thumbprint on it – in blood,' she added, and felt a little queasy

‘I know. She told me. It's wonderful news, even though his captors didn't allow him to say much.'

‘I know. All it said was that he's being treated well and is in good health. I think Johnnie is really clever. Fancy dipping his thumb into his blood and pressing it on the card! The moment she saw that, Ruby knew he was not being well cared for. All the same, we all hope he survives.'

Ruby came on the telephone and told Mary all that was happening as regards Charlie before going on to talk about the village in general.

‘I think Bettina and Mrs Powell have had a bit of a row. Bettina used to be more or less in charge of flower-arranging at St Anne's. Mrs Powell has joined the group. Bettina isn't very happy at all. I don't know what it is with those two, but I think it's from years ago when they were young.'

Mary laughed. Bettina Hicks was Michael's aunt and it was in her garden that she and Michael had first met.

‘I'm glad Michael's safe too,' Ruby said suddenly. ‘You must have been worried.'

Mary's laughter died. ‘I'm so relieved.' She went on to tell Ruby about his hands. ‘He thinks he'll be posted somewhere else, though we don't know where.' She didn't mention the raid just in case somebody was listening. They were close to the airbase, after all, and there might very well be enemy collaborators. Anyway, Ruby had got all the details for public consumption from the BBC broadcast. Instead, she asked about Johnnie.

‘At least he's alive.' Ruby's voice was sombre. ‘I just hope he gets through it.'

‘You really think the fingerprint was in blood?'

‘Dad took it along to Dr Foster for a second opinion. He said it was. You know Johnnie; it was his little way of letting me know what's really going on. I don't think he did it to worry me …' She paused. ‘He just wants me to know the truth of what's going on. I'm scared for him. Still, at least I've heard from him. Do you know, I used to hover near the letterbox for months in the hope that he'd write. I was becoming obsessive. Now I'm not so bad. It's Frances I'm worried about.'

‘Is this all to do with her American soldier?' Mary asked. ‘She is a bit young to be thinking of getting married, but she sounds like she's in love.'

Ruby sighed. ‘I'm more worried about her wanting to find her mother.'

Each morning, following being sick in the lavatory bowl, Frances hovered around the house, flitting from making tea, breakfast and taking the bread through to the shop, listening for the sound of a letter dropping on to the coconut mat in the hallway.

‘No breakfast again,' Ruby said to her.

‘I'm not hungry.'

Seeing as she looked a picture of health, Ruby didn't press her.

Frances's ears had become fine-tuned to the sound of the letterbox. Sometimes when she was in the shop placing loaves on the shelves behind the counter, or displaying something to tempt a wartime palate, she would open the shop door having heard the postman's footsteps.

There were some days when she had failed to hear anything falling on to the front door mat. On those days, she would look up and down the street to see if the postman really had walked on by or was turning back ready to apologise that he'd made a mistake and there was something for her after all. He'd never done that yet.

Would her mother respond? There was no way of knowing.

She quite often felt Ruby's studied gaze. ‘Nothing in the post?'

Frances sighed heavily as she did every day. ‘No, Ruby. There's not.'

Every morning was a disappointment. Either there was no post at all, or nothing addressed to her.

Disregarding the pity in Ruby's pained expression, she clamped her mouth tightly shut. She had no wish to have trivial conversations about bread or the village or anything that didn't have a direct bearing on the letter to her mother.

She'd worded the letter carefully, not wanting to surprise her mother or blatantly accuse her of leaving her high and dry, a child alone in a big bad world. Would it have been so hard for her mother to have sent her a few words now and again?

Ruby was attempting to extricate a dollop of treacle from a spoon and on to the top of her porridge. ‘What will you do if she does write?'

Frances didn't meet the enquiry in Ruby's eyes. ‘Who's to say that she will? She never wrote to me in the past, not even to send me a birthday or Christmas card.' She frowned. Of late, the bitterness she felt at being abandoned as a child had ballooned into seething resentment and the frantic desire to have questions answered. ‘I wonder why she ran off and why she didn't want me?' She'd only voiced those questions of late. Being a child had been comfortable; becoming an adult made the past more questionable.