War Baby (11 page)

Stan stared at her as he digested what she was saying. Suddenly he was no longer looking backwards, wishing things had been different. It was like when Sarah had died and he'd taken on the reins of raising his family on his own. This is what he would do again.

‘Can you write back to them?'

Bettina leaned forward slightly. Her tears had dried up though her eyes were still puffy.

‘What do you want me to say, Stan?'

Stan Sweet's features had drooped for far too long. He was fifty-two years old and about to take on raising his baby grandson. But he didn't feel as though he were over fifty. He felt reborn, ready again to take on the world. For the first time in months the ghost of a smile spread over his lips and brightened his eyes.

‘Tell them that my son is dead but I'm coming for young Charlie. I'm coming for my grandson.'

This time her tears were of happiness and she was smiling through them. ‘If that's what you want.'

He nodded profusely. ‘I do. I most certainly do!'

‘I'll reply right away.'

Stan clasped his hands in front of him as Bettina got up from the table and went to the writing bureau sitting in an alcove to one side of the fireplace. Suddenly he felt terribly guilty at the way he'd behaved over the last few months since Charlie's death.

‘Bet,' he said. ‘I'm sorry.'

She turned round and looked at him, her reading glasses perched halfway down her nose. ‘Sorry about what?'

He looked down at his hands, one thumb rubbing against the other. ‘Sorry I've been so offhand of late, but …'

‘There's nothing to apologise for, Stan. You've lost your son. But now you've got to pull your socks up. You've got a grandson to think about. Your Charlie would want you to. So would Sarah.'

‘You're right. Of course you're right.'

There was only one thing left to worry about. Bettina noticed his sudden frown.

‘I know what you're thinking.'

He looked up sharply.

Bettina continued. ‘You're wondering what Mary and Ruby will think of all this.'

He nodded. ‘I am. It's going to be quite a shock.'

She couldn't stop smiling. In fact, she felt she could burst with joy.

‘You're not as young as you were when they were babies, so they'll have to step in on occasion. It's just a case of a bit of give and take.'

‘Yes.' He nodded resolutely. He thought he could see things very clearly.

What Bettina said next pulled him up short. ‘You've neglected them too since Charlie died. You can't preserve the past, Stan. Keep his memory in your heart, not pinned on your shoulder. Your Sarah would have told you that – if she'd thought you'd been listening.'

 

 

SITTING AT THE
kitchen table, Mary contemplated her list for the wedding, a pencil clutched between finger and thumb.

Booking the village hall already had a big tick beside it.

Next her pencil hovered over the list of food wished for, acquired and promised.

Tins of salmon and ham were already sitting in the larder. A pound or two of Cheddar cheese had been promised by Mrs Martin whose brother had a dairy farm between Cheddar and Yeovil in Somerset.

Ruby had made sure they had enough dried fruit and sugar for the cake. Miriam Powell had donated a packet of icing sugar.

‘It's the last one.' She'd told Mary this proudly before whispering that they also had some tinned pineapple arriving shortly.

‘At least bread won't be a problem,' Mary murmured to herself.

She was just ticking off the last items on her list when a blur of blue passed the kitchen window accompanied by a lot of childish tittering and laughter. Then came Frances's bragging. ‘This is the dress I'm going to be wearing when I'm a bridesmaid. Isn't it pretty?'

Mary let both her list and the pencil fall, dashing outside to rescue the bridesmaid's dress. ‘Frances!'

Half a dozen surprised faces turned to face her. Frances, the little minx, was wearing her blue bridesmaid's dress, showing it off to her friends.

‘Frances! Who said you could try that dress on?'

Frances looked totally shocked. She'd thought everyone was in the shop. ‘I just thought—' she began.

‘Do you realise how much effort Ruby put into that dress? It is not for wearing in the garden. Now get into that house and take it off this minute!'

Getting this angry was alien to Mary, but during the past couple of weeks it seemed as though Ruby's feet had been welded to the cast-iron plate of the treadle sewing machine and she didn't want her sister's efforts to be ruined.

‘I was very careful. And it hasn't even been ironed yet,' Frances protested. She was standing with her arms outstretched, her hands clutching the fine material to either side of her.

‘You heard what I said. Get indoors and take it off now!' Mary pointed a finger at the back door. It wasn't like her to lose her temper, but everyone had been working and saving so hard to make this wedding special. Frances could be so thoughtless at times.

Defiant to the last, Frances gave one more twirl, the fragile skirt wafting out from her legs, the hem catching on the rose bush.

Frances gasped. ‘Whoops!'

Seeing what she'd done, the village kids hot-footed it out of the back gate, one or two pausing to make faces at the woman who'd spoiled their fun.

‘You'll get “whoops” indeed!' Mary scolded as she crouched down to untangle the hem from the rose bush. ‘Stay still.'

Frances covered her mouth, her eyes round above her hand. She'd been enjoying showing off in front of her village friends. She'd also enjoyed regaling them with tales of her stay in the Forest of Dean, embroidering some of the details in order to make them sound even more impressive.

‘I was telling them about the Italian and thought I'd dance too,' Frances explained to her cousin.

Actually she'd embroidered the truth to the extent that the hungry man she'd met in the forest had been an Italian spy – which was only half a truth. He had been Italian, but she'd no idea whether he was a spy or not.

Mary slapped her arm. ‘Stop telling stories and keep still!'

Her fingers seemed turned to thumbs and even toes as she attempted to disconnect the hem of the dress from the thorny stem.

Frances wasn't good at keeping still and even though Mary was careful, the material was old and thus rather delicate. There was a sudden ripping sound.

‘Oh no!'

Mary eyed the tear, which was about four inches in length.

‘Now look what you've done!'

Frances pouted. ‘I just wanted to show them how pretty it was. I like blue. They like blue too – except for Christine. She likes pink.'

The moment Frances was out of the dress Mary shouted for Ruby. There was no response.

After putting her old clothes back on, Frances slumped at the kitchen table holding her head in her hands. She might have deserved the telling off, but that wasn't quite the way she saw it.

‘I didn't mean to tear it. I didn't do it on purpose.' She wished her cousins would stop treating her like a child. She was beginning to get curves and bumps in the same places that they had them. At least Ruby had noticed and given her a cast-off brassiere. It was a little big yet, but Ruby had assured her she'd grow into it and Frances was pleased at the prospect.

‘I can't wait for them to grow,' she'd said to Ruby. ‘I want big ones. Do you think I might have big ones?'

Ruby had laughed and told her that anything was possible. Mary, Frances decided, was just being mean. Perhaps she didn't really want her to be a bridesmaid.

Mary ignored the hangdog expression and puppy-dog eyes. As far as she was concerned, Frances was still a child, though not a very obedient one.

‘The fact is you put the dress on without telling anyone, then went outside wearing it. It's a bridesmaid's dress, Frances. You're supposed to wear it when you follow me up the aisle. You do
not
wear it out in the garden to show your friends! And that's it. And before you ask me again, no, you cannot go off with those children today. You are not going out to play!'

‘I don't play. I'm too old to play.'

‘Well, you're not going out anyway, and that's it and all about it!'

After another quick examination of the tear, Mary wondered whether Ruby could sew some pink silk flowers over it. There were some tiny ones in the sewing box, clipped from a dress one of them had worn as a child. She decided it was possible and went in search of her sister.

The living room was her first port of call, the room where everything for the wedding, excluding the tins of ham and salmon, was being stored. It was also the room where Ruby had been making the blue dresses, pressing Dad's shirt and suit, and the best linen tablecloths and napkins.

The chair set in front of the treadle was unoccupied and the sewing box was nowhere in sight. The simple blue bridal dress was there, all finished and pressed. There was also a veil made from the lace Bettina had given her and some tulle Mary didn't recall having seen before. Of Ruby there was no sign. Wherever the sewing box was, there Ruby would be found.

Underwear, she suddenly thought to herself. She's making me new underwear for my trousseau and keeping it a secret from me.

She smiled and blushed at the thought of it. Underwear was becoming notoriously difficult to get hold of – especially pretty underwear, things made of silk and lace. It occurred to her that Ruby might have secretly got hold of some parachute silk and trimmed it with some of the leftover lace Bettina had given them.

Mary sighed. If it hadn't been for the tear in the dress, she wouldn't dream of spoiling Ruby's secret. But there was nothing for it. There was so much still to do before she got married and having to mend this dress was an extra burden that had to be dealt with promptly.

‘Ruby,' she called again as she made her way upstairs.

Yet again there was no response. If her sister was upstairs she'd probably fallen asleep, quite likely considering all the hours she'd been spending making clothes and getting enough supplies to make a wedding cake, plus carrying on sharing the workload of baking demonstrations they'd become so good at.

She went into their bedroom. ‘Ruby?'

There was no sign of her. The window was open, the yellow check curtains billowing in like sails in the soft draught. The next option was to ascend the flight of stairs leading to the attic rooms at the top of the house.

That was when it occurred to her that there was a hand machine up in the attic, an old Victorian thing inlaid with mother of pearl. Despite its age it worked exceedingly well. And there was also quite a large dormer window throwing extra light into the room. Good light was essential to good sewing. All that sewing was bound to be making her eyes tired; in fact, hadn't Ruby said just that the other night?

The skirt of the damaged blue dress swung from her arm as she propelled herself up the second flight of stairs, the threadbare carpet deadening the sound of her footsteps.

She called out before pushing the door open. ‘Ruby?'

The doorknob was made of brass, though half the size of a standard one. It was as though it had been borrowed from a doll's house, too tinny and small to get a good grip on it. It certainly wasn't opening today, no matter how hard she tried to turn it or how fiercely she rattled the door. It was obviously locked, but from the other side.

‘Ruby!' She hammered her fist on the door before attempting to turn the knob again. ‘Are you in there? Is everything all right?'

Muffled shuffles and whispered exclamations came from inside the room. Then her sister saying, ‘Just a minute.'

The key grated in the lock before Ruby's flushed face appeared in the narrow gap. Her eyes were full of owlish surprise. The light from the dormer window streamed into the room behind her, but she kept hold of the door, keeping the opening to a narrow crack.

‘You locked the door.'

‘Did I?' Her voice was small. She
had
been asleep.

‘Did you fall asleep?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. I did.' At first she sounded apologetic. Then her look hardened and her voice turned defensive. ‘I have been busy, you know.'

Mary was taken aback and not a little hurt. ‘Yes. I know and I wouldn't have disturbed you if it hadn't been urgent. The fact is Frances decided to show her dress off. She caught the hem on the rose bush.'

She held up the blue dress, using her finger and thumb to show Ruby the damage.

Ruby groaned. ‘Better give it here. That little mare …'

She held both hands out to take the dress. As she did so, the door she'd been holding, which always had been loose on its hinges, swung wide open.

Cool northern light fell on to Charlie's old desk and the ancient sewing machine sitting upon it.

Mary's eyes strayed beyond that to the white dress hanging from a coat hanger to one side of the window. She gasped. ‘Ruby!'

‘Oh Lord!'

In no doubt that she'd been found out, her sister backed into the room, Mary following on. Then Ruby sighed. ‘Well, I suppose you had to find out some time or another.'

Mary crossed the room slowly, her eyes as round as her mouth, her expression one of total surprise.

Letting the bridesmaid's dress fall into a heap on the bed, she went to the window. For a moment she stared, her mouth still agape. Slowly, very slowly, she reached out, fingered the tulle and delved beneath it to touch the shiny satin.

For the sake of secrecy – at least from everyone else in the house if not from Mary – Ruby closed the door. Now she stood in the middle of the room wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

‘It's our mother's wedding dress,' Mary whispered.

‘It was. It's yours now. I cut it to fit and made it more fashionable. I think it looks lovely.'