War Baby (33 page)

‘I'm not supposed to be out.'

‘Then you'd better come on back with us,' suggested Paul. He was standing with his hips thrust forward, shoulders back as he tried to work out what was going on here.

Somebody suddenly called out from a point between the church and the manor house. It was Tom Shepherd and a few of the others.

‘We've found him,' Frances shouted, intent to get back and tell her uncle Stan that all was well. ‘He's all right. Miriam said she found him.'

Whatever her reservations with regard to Miriam's story, it was as near the truth as they had at present. Charlie was safe. She turned meaning to acknowledge Miriam, but she wasn't there.

‘Off towards the church by the looks of it,' said Paul.

‘And I'm off home,' murmured Frances, exhausted by all that had happened and concerned what her uncle's reaction might be.

‘I'll come with you.'

Her uncle Stan was waiting for them with Bettina Hicks. The moment he saw Charlie, the anxiety left his face. ‘You've found him!'

Too choked up and relieved to reply, Frances beamed and nodded.

Her uncle went down on one knee, arms outstretched. Charlie willingly went into his grandfather's arms.

‘He was with Miriam Powell in our den at California Pit. She said she found him there, but …' Frances chewed her lips backwards and forwards.

‘Miriam Powell found him?' He sounded amazed.

Frances nodded. ‘She smelled of coal and her head was covered in blood. Whoever cut her hair didn't do a very good job.'

Stan mentioned this fact to Bettina that evening. They were sitting in her front room with a small glass of brandy each.

‘She was in a right state,' Stan said to Bettina. ‘And she smelled of coal dust and her hair was shorn – not just cut – shorn!'

‘Stan, you're making me shiver. I sometimes think that Gertrude isn't all there, but with this happening …' She waved her hand despairingly. ‘I wonder what Miriam did to make her mother cut off her hair.'

Stan looked at her. ‘Are you implying what I think you are?'

Bettina sighed and looked down into her glass. ‘For a while Miriam was wandering around the village looking as though she might be in the family way. Then suddenly she disappeared and when she reappeared her figure appeared back to normal. Something happened to make Gertrude cut off her daughter's hair. I can't help thinking …' She paused, unable to speak the terrible truth she couldn't help suspecting.

‘That Miriam had got into trouble and Gertrude had taken matters into her own hands.'

Bettina nodded. ‘Gertrude certainly won't own up to it.'

The two of them sat silently, both contemplating the same thought. It had been noticed that Miriam had put on weight, but had never reached the stage where she was undeniably pregnant. Could it be that she had never reached full term? The question had to be asked whether she'd miscarried naturally, or otherwise. If the latter then Gertrude Powell had committed a grave crime that could land her in prison.

‘Nothing can be proved,' said Bettina. Stan had to agree.

 

 

ANDREW SINCLAIR PHONED
to speak to Mary about the radio broadcast she was doing the following day. ‘Seeing as the Americans have entered the war, I thought you might like to mention doughnuts. I presume you can make them, can't you?'

Mary almost choked. ‘Yes. Of course I can make them, Mr Sinclair.'

‘Plea … a … se,' he said, drawing out the single word, a sign that he was quite hurt. ‘I've told you before to call me Andrew.'

Mary sighed and rolled her eyes. Ruby noticed and mouthed Andrew's name. Mary nodded.

‘Look … Andrew. Doughnuts require a lot of sugar and a lot of fat both to make them and deep-fry them. They have to be deep-fried or they don't fluff out as they're supposed to.'

‘Oh dear. I didn't know that.'

Mary wondered how on earth he'd landed his job at the Ministry of Food. It certainly wasn't down to his baking expertise or even cooking in general. It had to be a friend of a friend. Someone from his schooldays, perhaps.

She decided on an alternative suggestion. ‘How about straightforward apple pie? Americans love apple pie.'

‘Do they?' Andrew sounded quite surprised.

Obviously you don't go to the cinema very much, thought Mary, or you would know that.

‘As American as apple pie. That's what I've heard said in American films,' stated Mary, then rushed on, just in case he used any silence to ask her out again, regardless of the fact that he knew she was married.

‘There's also pumpkin pie, of course, but that's a bit too American. And anyway it's a bit late for pumpkins and they're not that plentiful in England.'

There was silence on the line as he paused to think before conceding that apple pie was a distinct possibility.

‘It's traditional to us both. Going back to the same roots,' Mary offered. ‘And apples are plentiful.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course they are. Now on another note, I believe Ruby is off to give a demonstration at Colman's in Bath today, or are you doing it?'

Mary explained that it was Ruby's turn and that it was her turn to look after the shop and the baby.

‘Ah yes. Of course. Your brother's baby.'

He always said ‘your brother's baby' as though needing to reassure himself of the fact. As with her marriage, he simply couldn't seem to grasp that she quite liked babies.

He went on to outline the events he had lined up for her and Ruby. ‘I have been asked to arrange a demonstration at RAF Locking just before Christmas, not specifically for the RAF catering staff, but for all interested parties in the area. By that I mean those involved in voluntary work such as the WVS. It would be quite a large audience and will take place in the evening. It would also be something of a morale booster. Would you be interested?'

Mary frowned. ‘RAF Locking? I have heard of it, I think. Where exactly is it?'

‘Not far from you. Well, not terribly far. Weston-super-Mare, in fact. By the seaside. Quite bracing at this time of year I shouldn't wonder.'

There was something about his tone that made Mary suspect he had an alternative motive. Weston-super-Mare was a train ride away. She could drive the car, but there was of course the petrol issue. Train journeys nowadays took a lot longer than they used to, plus he had specifically stated it would be an evening event.

‘Andrew, thank you very much for the opportunity, but I really don't think—'

‘You could stay overnight! All expenses paid. I would be there to chaperone you – if you feel the need, that is—'

‘No, Andrew!' Mary felt her face colouring up. ‘I couldn't stay overnight. I've got Dad to think of; the bakery, the baby …'

‘I'll do it.' Ruby snatched the telephone from her sister's grasp. ‘Andrew. I would love to cheer up the catering corps,' she said in her cheekiest, cheeriest voice. ‘Who knows, they might know some short cuts in baking that I don't know about.'

Silently she mouthed the words sugar, flour and fat to her sister. Everybody knew the forces got a bigger share of rations than the civilian population. Even dried egg, and goodness knows that had taken some getting used to.

Ruby sensed the hesitation on the other end of the phone. Andrew still hankered after her sister. Even though Ruby and Mary were almost identical, Andrew had not transferred his desires from the married twin to the unmarried one.

‘Well … If Mary is sure she can't do it …' He sounded seriously disappointed.

‘You have her willing sister,' Ruby declared, her voice ringing with both amusement and enthusiasm. ‘Right. Now as I'll be speaking to people who cater to the masses, I'll be thinking simple baking enhanced with a few extra things to make them more interesting. I also think I too should bake an apple pie in honour of our American cousins entering the war. Now about that accommodation … it won't be with some doughty old landlady who doesn't allow dogs, babies or visitors will it?'

Andrew confirmed that she would be comfortably accommodated in a seafront chalet.

‘What's it like? Room for two, is there?' She winked at her sister.

Andrew cleared his throat. ‘I understand it has two bedrooms and is extremely comfortable. It is also heated. I believe it belongs to a professor boffin who used it for holidays before the war. He's too busy to use it now so lets it out to Government departments.'

All this was delivered in a dour, straightened tone. Ruby guessed he'd wanted Mary to himself even though she had made it clear that she wasn't interested in him – even as a friend.

‘Oh, and I won't need a chaperone. Just give me the date.'

Once he was gone, she blew a raspberry into the mouthpiece of the telephone and laughed. ‘Well, that's his little plan well and truly scuppered.'

Mary shook her head. ‘He just won't take no for an answer.'

‘Never mind. I'm game to do it. All those lovely RAF types. Catering corps, but lovely all the same.'

In her mind it wasn't the catering corps she was looking forward to. Johnnie was far away and she had to face the fact that he was not terribly romantic. There was that moment in the field of course, but he'd not referred to it in his letters. Neither had he asked her to wait for him, suggested an engagement or anything else. In all probability she would never see him again. The thought saddened her, but war changed people. It also parted a great many. She had to hold on to what she had and at present her beau was Ivan. Up until now she'd held him off, but now she told herself that she might as well give in. Who knows what tomorrow might bring? They could all be dead. It was a grim thought but one that stayed with her. Yes, she would sleep with Ivan and maybe they might get married and have a baby like Charlie. Now wouldn't that be something!

She had to let Ivan know about this tremendous stroke of luck. A whole night away in a chalet fit for two.

Feeling Mary's eyes on her she looked up, just about managing to wipe a triumphant smile from her face. Nevertheless, it still shone in her eyes and Mary saw it.

‘You're up to something.'

Smiling enigmatically, Ruby sprang to her feet. ‘Of course I am. Just for a change I'll be talking to an audience comprising mostly of men. What could be better?'

She hung on to the kitchen door as she went out, kicking one leg behind her Betty Grable style.

Mary couldn't help smiling. Her sister was incorrigible, but who could blame her? Yes, she would have a great time with all those men and all eyes would be fixed on her. But a seaside chalet to herself? Despite the time of year it could prove quite cosy – for two.

Still, that was Ruby's business. She was old enough to know her own mind.

Her own thoughts turned to Mike. He was still pressing her about joining him in Lincolnshire, but added that he understood she had war work what with her broadcasts and baking demonstrations. He also told her about the midnight meals he cooked up for his colleagues when they came back from a bombing raid. ‘
Only after we're rested up of course. Then we eat and drink and generally let our hair down …'

He didn't elaborate on what letting their hair down meant. It could mean other women, but somehow she wasn't taking that thought too seriously. It had to be his way of exerting extra pressure on her to join him. But as he'd said, it wasn't easy to get away, to drop everything while so much was going on.

‘Wait and see,' she said quietly to herself. ‘Wait and see.'

On Thursday of that week Ruby found herself giving a baking demonstration at a factory near the aerodrome where Ivan was stationed. It had been easy to persuade her sister to swap, to take advantage of some decent weather to take Charlie for a walk. From here she could get to where Ivan was stationed and tell him about the event Andrew had scheduled, an overnight stay and accommodation included.

‘And you're looking a bit peaky,' Ruby had added.

Strangely enough Mary had agreed and willingly swapped.

Ruby was in her element.

‘In peacetime we could use whatever fat we wanted to rub in with our flour or bake our cakes. That luxury is not available to us at this moment in time. It is therefore imperative that every bit of fat that sizzles off a roast joint, off fried bacon or skimmed from the top of a saucepan of boiled mutton or soup, is allowed to cool and used for baking …'

She'd grown used to churning out the same advice over and over again. It was hoped that repetition would take root in people's minds so that following advice designed to make food go further would become second nature.

‘However, things have changed drastically since December the seventh. We are no longer alone in this war against Nazi oppression; our American cousins have joined us. We have a war in common, but also we share similar food tastes. Today, my friends, we turn our attention to the humble apple pie …'

She went on to advise on the most economical way of baking a pie, using an upper crust to cover the fruit and not bothering with a base. ‘Rather than sweetening with a tablespoonful of your precious sugar ration, add honey or a saccharin tablet, crushing it and dissolving it in a little of the juice. Add a handful of sultanas or currants, or any other fruit you have available just to make it a little more interesting. For that special occasion, an added flavour to stir your man's appetite, soak the apples in beer or cider. Take the apples out of the liquid …' She demonstrated this with the aid of a colander. ‘Place the apple slices into the pie dish adding a sweetener of your choice, or perhaps no sweetener at all, then …'

There was a murmur of approval as she poured the liquid used to soak the apples into a beer glass.

‘There you are! What could be better than a slice of apple pie and a beer?'