War Baby (25 page)

The whole family had breakfast together on the day Michael was scheduled to return to base.

Michael and Mary were sitting together directly opposite Ruby. What was more they couldn't seem to stop smiling and touching each other.

Ruby noticed the lingering looks, their fingers intertwining and Mary brushing her husband's hair back from his forehead. Something had changed – for the better – and she could guess what it was.

It appeared nobody had seen the change in the two of them except for Ruby.

‘Right,' said Stan Sweet. ‘Let's all go with you to the train station and give you a good send off.' He was in the process of making his way to the hallway when Ruby headed him off.

‘No, Dad.' She said it quietly and firmly.

‘No?' He eyed Ruby dubiously, puzzled until she whispered to him that his daughter and new son-in-law might want some time to be alone together. Nobody knew when Michael was likely to get more leave. They escorted Mike and Mary halfway to the station, then left them to walk on alone so they could share their goodbyes in private.

Although she was happy for her sister, Ruby also felt envious. They might have got off to a rocky start, but her sister had undoubtedly found the love of her life.

‘All's well that ends well,' she whispered as she waved them goodbye along with the rest of her family plus Bettina Hicks.

Only Bettina, lately returned home from visiting her friend, heard what she'd said.

 

 

THE SWEETS' HOME
had changed for the better since the baby's arrival, and so had Stan. His world revolved around the smiling little chap who had dropped like a bomb into their lives.

‘Nothing's too good for my grandson,' he'd declared loftily insisting that Charlie should have the best of everything and nothing second-hand. He had given in on the cot once used by his own children, seeing as it was already there on the premises and in good condition. He hadn't taken the wartime government's rules and regulations into account when it came to actually getting everything new.

Gilda, quite rightly, had used up the rations allocated to her as an expectant mother and purchased what was needed, including a pram, all of which had been destroyed on the night the bombers came. There was a scheme in existence for those who had lost their belongings in the blitz. It didn't apply to the grandparents who were taking the child in, after all they had not lost anything. Not that it worried Stan Sweet. As he never failed to remind everybody, they'd gained something very precious.

Mary and Ruby took turns with regard to cooking demonstrations and looking after the baby. Frances had also become a willing nanny to young Charlie, playing with the little fellow as he edged towards becoming a toddler. Life revolved around the little chap's needs, though the bakery carried on and so did Ruby's affair with Ivan Bronowski.

Mary wrote a letter to Mike every other day. Ruby had stopped looking for letters from John Smith, though every now and again his surly smile crept into her thoughts. Ivan helped her cope.

Three months after Charlie's arrival, just two days after his first birthday, the wicker hamper was filled. Yet another cooking demonstration was on the horizon and it was Ruby's turn. Everything was ready. All she had to do was wait for her driver – whoever that happened to be this morning.

‘I just hope whoever it is, isn't late,' she grumbled. The last driver she'd had had got lost. ‘A few more like that and I'll drive myself.'

When the shop bell jangled it came as something of a surprise to see that it was dead on nine o'clock. On time!

John Smith was standing on the doorstep. ‘Reporting for duty.' He stood to attention and saluted stiffly as he might for an officer, certainly not for a woman about to deliver a talk on menu planning using basic ingredients.

‘John! You're back.' She couldn't help sounding surprised. He'd hinted he might be, but also hinted he might ship out to seek more active service. Now he was back. She guessed it might not be for long.

Although the urge was strong, she resisted throwing her arms around his neck.

He didn't smile, but there, that was his way, a brittle shell hiding a humorous interior.

‘There was nobody else available to drive you around, just in case you were wondering.'

‘I wasn't wondering. Not really. Anyway, I thought you were off to where the war is really going on.'

‘In time.'

‘Goodness. What am I going to do without you?'

His grin widened. Although John had been her driver since the very first, she'd avoided studying his features to any great extent, only on a very perfunctory, need-to-know basis. Now she looked at him more closely. He had a bump in the middle of his nose as though it had been broken at one time. It looked hooked when viewed in profile. One side of his mouth was tilted upwards, the other down, almost as though he hadn't made up his mind whether to smile or scowl.

For the past few months since Brenda's departure, there had been a number of other drivers, all of them men who had moved on to more active service. The exception was Doreen who had been hospitalised with suspected appendicitis, which actually turned out to be a baby girl. Nobody knew who the father was and that seemed to include Doreen. Two female drivers, both of whom had fallen pregnant. Who would credit it?

Ruby hadn't seen John since her sister's wedding, which was also the day she'd met Ivan Bronowski – her very own RAF pilot.

‘Well,' she said smartly, handing him the familiar wicker basket that had seen better days. Still, they soldiered on. ‘We'd best make a start.'

It didn't wind him when she slammed the hamper against his chest. He just smiled knowingly and she found herself smiling back.

On their way out, Bettina Hicks begged a lift into Kingswood. ‘I need to see my solicitor.'

She didn't elaborate as to why she was going to see him and nobody asked. When the conversation turned to young Charlie, John fell unusually silent.

Today Ruby's demonstration would be given from a dark green caravan provided by the Ministry of Food. It was a big square old thing located in Kingswood High Street, with a drop-down hatch held up by chains. It was lit by gas and boasted a decent-sized cooker, a sink and cupboard space. Originally she was supposed to have one for her sole use, but the Ministry had run out of funds.

‘You have to share,' Andrew Sinclair had said to her. ‘I'm so sorry. They're in short supply.'

‘Hardly news,' grumbled Ruby. ‘Everything's in short supply.'

It turned out she had to share it with eight other regions from Gloucester to Taunton. On the plus side the caravan was already in situ so they didn't have to tow it.

At first nobody took much notice of it, that was until the flap was down and Ruby shouted for their attention. Curious, a host of women out shopping – which consisted of queuing for even the basic necessities – gathered round, all glad of a diversion from the daily grind.

As usual Ruby began her talk by saying how British merchant seamen were doing a dangerous job, how she herself had lost a brother to enemy action.

‘It's up to us to help them in their work. We have to leave space free on our ships for weapons with which we can defeat the enemy.'

Once that was over, once the crowd was on her side, she began talking food starting off with the Sunday joint.

‘Depending on whether it's a joint of brisket, a breast of lamb or offal, a little imagination and you can make it go a long way while still providing a tasty meal.

‘Beginning with brisket, which is a piece of beef within everyone's price range – depending on availability of course – roast in the oven in water rather than lard or any other fat. It's simply not needed. In order to save gas or whatever other cooking fuel you use, place your vegetables around the joint rather than cooking them in separate pans on the top of the stove. Every little bit of gas you save means less coal having to be burned.

‘Once your joint is done, remove it from the roasting tin and leave to rest on a suitable platter. Place your vegetables around the meat. Allow the juices left in the pan to cool, that's after you've taken some out to be mixed with cornflour to make gravy. The rest can be used to make stock for soup, but only after you've scraped the fat from the top. You'll find that fat forms a nice crust on water and is quite easy to scrape off. You can use the fat for making pastry.'

A buzz of approval went through the women gathered around the van.

‘For those of you who queued for hours only to end up with a bullock's heart, my sincere commiseration: a heartless task indeed!'

Ruby paused to allow for the expected titter of laughter. She wasn't disappointed. Those crowded around the van were a down-to-earth lot, the type of women capable of rustling up a meal from a few vegetables and a pound of pork bones. They'd managed all through the desolate thirties when the dole queues had been long and many had gone without food in order that their children didn't starve.

‘I usually stuff mine,' said one woman. Although she had few teeth and wore a hat with a wilted feather, she spoke proudly, her chin held high.

Ruby nodded and agreed with her that was the way most people roasted a bullock's heart.

‘However, with an eye on gas consumption yet again, how about slicing it up and mixing it with sliced onions and any bits of fatty bacon you might have? Or even getting hold of a few bacon bones from the grocer? Even the fatty bits some members of the family leave on the side of their plates can be used. Bacon keeps the offal moist and adds extra flavour. Finish off with seasoning and pour over some stock. That should keep it juicy …'

Out of the corner of her eye she saw John looking at her. In the past he'd stood to one side shaking his head and eyeing her as though she didn't have a clue what she was talking about. It wasn't the best time to analyse what change had occurred to make him look at her that way, the way that made her blush. When had it happened? Asking that question brought on a second one: why had he chosen to return to his position as driver to a home economist?

After taking a sip of cold water, she cleared her throat and went back to her talk, hauling her gaze away from John Smith and refocusing on the job in hand.

‘And of course all offal can be minced and mixed with other more fatty meats. Offal is full of iron, so it's very good for you.

‘Finally we come to my favourite bit. Cakes, pies and pastries. Everyone has a sweet tooth, and we all love a cream bun, a slice of fruit cake or a spicy pastry. My name is Ruby Sweet. I can't help but like sweet things!' The comment had the desired result: laughter followed by closer attention.

On the drive home John Smith purposely went to the front passenger door. She'd sat in the back in the early days of their acquaintance and had done the same when she'd had other drivers. John was different. Mrs Hicks wanting a lift into Kingswood had resulted in Bettina sliding gratefully into the back. Ruby had sat at the front. John had already placed the wicker basket on the back seat. She slid in next to him.

‘So. How have you been getting on?'

‘Fine.'

She didn't know how she knew, but there was something just a little bit different about his manner. He was holding something back.

Another long silence ensued.

She glanced at his profile. ‘You didn't write.'

A shorter silence this time. ‘Neither did you.'

‘But you said …'

‘I hardly thought you'd want a letter from me after you met the bozo from the RAF.'

‘Bozo?'

‘The Polish flier.'

‘He is not a “bozo”, as you put it.' She spat the words, she was that indignant.

He grunted in a disparaging manner that left her in no doubt that he held her flier in contempt.

‘All right. Not a bozo. A charmer. Prince Charming in air force blue.'

‘He is not!' Arms folded, face rigid, she turned her eyes to the passing hedgerows.

Silence reigned again. She presumed it would be that way all the way home, but Corporal John Smith had other plans. All of a sudden, he pulled in front of a farm gate where the earth was packed hard and no grass grew. He switched off the engine and pulled on the handbrake. ‘Right. Let's talk.'

‘Why?'

She turned to face him, her eyes blazing.

In a split second his arms were swiftly around her and she was devoured in the most voracious, passionate kiss, so intense that she was left breathless.

‘Well!' Her chest heaved as she fought to catch her breath. What a kiss that was!

He nodded. ‘That was good. Shall we do it again?'

He didn't wait for her answer, not that she was likely to protest. John Smith kissed her again. Again she was breathless, though not quite so breathless as with the first kiss.

‘I want to take you out tonight.'

‘I do have a boyfriend …'

He nodded. ‘Yes. I know. The Polish pilot.'

A sullen look made both ends of his mouth turn down, but there was a determined look in his eyes. Usually they were bright blue, but today they seemed darker, as though the thoughts behind them were darker too.

‘Ye … sss,' she said slowly. ‘The Polish pilot.'

‘Is it serious? Do you see him on a regular basis?'

‘Whenever he can get leave. About every two weeks depending on …' She heard the evasive rambling in her voice and stopped. Why tell him? He was only her driver! ‘Look, I don't think it's any of your business …'

She said it despite herself, despite the fact that she wanted him to kiss her again.

‘Pilots are like sailors,' Johnnie proclaimed. ‘A girl in every port, or as is the case with the boys in blue, a girl for every night of the week – or for every night when they're not flying …'

‘Now look here!'