War Baby (34 page)

The apple pie was placed into the hot oven behind her while she got on with the regular advice covering all kinds of cooking. Although both her and Mary's speciality was baking, the Ministry of Food required her to cover just about everything to do with cooking and that included how best to save the precious fuel they cooked with.

At the end of the day, she headed swiftly for the dark green van supplied by the government. Since Johnnie's departure, fed up with being supplied with one driver after another, she'd grabbed the bull by the horns and drove herself around, though at first Mary had driven around with her just until she'd gained confidence. The only drawback was having the car exchanged for a van.

The van rattled as she drove. Putting the red brick factory behind her, she headed for the aerodrome.

The rounded roofs of the aircraft hangars were outlined against a grey sky. It looked like rain. She didn't mind if it rained today as long as it didn't rain when she gave the demonstration at RAF Locking. A day at the seaside should be full of sunshine, not rain. Not that the day concerned her that much. It was the night she would look forward to.

At night the bombers were likely to come, though there hadn't been any raids for quite a while. The battle termed by Churchill as the Battle of Britain, when so much had been owed by so many to so few, had been won. The worst, they hoped, was over, though there were still skirmishes now and again. Though not tonight, she hoped. Tonight she wanted to tell Ivan the good news, that she would shortly have the opportunity to stay at a seafront chalet in Weston-super-Mare. And he was welcome to share it with her.

Her heart raced at the thought of her decision. If she was going to do it with him, it had to be in the right place at the right time and the promise of a seafront chalet was too good to miss. Johnnie Smith crept into her thoughts; but he's not here, she reminded herself. You might never see him again. In the meantime you have to live.

The guard at the barrier stepped out smartly, asked for her papers and who she wanted to see.

‘Pilot Officer Bronowski,' she said briskly, her heart dancing against her ribs. She knew her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. If his knowing smile was anything to go by, the guard had noticed the excitement in her face. She only hoped he wasn't able to read her mind. If he did she was likely to blush even more.

‘I'll ring the mess and let him know you're here.'

Her fingers drummed the van's steering wheel as she waited, peering into the basic brick structure to see what the sentry was doing. She could just about see him inside the brick built guard post, the telephone clenched against one side of his face. His back was to her. She perceived a sudden rigidity in his shoulders and heard him say, ‘I see. I see. Right. I'll tell her, sir. If you say so, sir.'

He was wearing a stern expression when he came back out. She was instantly reminded of the vicar when he was about to deliver a sermon he knew nobody would like.

He stood over her, looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. ‘I'm afraid he's not here.'

There was something oddly furtive about the way he glanced from side to side as though expecting more dangerous incursions to take advantage of his time dealing with her, plus his tone was brusque when before it had been friendly.

Something was wrong. She could feel it in his tone, in his stance. She automatically thought the worst. An iron band seemed suddenly to constrict her breathing. ‘Oh no. Please don't tell me he hasn't come back. Or he's injured. Please …'

Her voice faded away. The odd look on the sentry's face intensified, though was as unreadable as it had been before. ‘Nothing like that, miss.'

‘So where is he?'

‘I hardly think it's my duty to tell you …'

‘Please. I have to know. Please.' Never had she poured so much pleading into her voice. She wasn't the pleading sort. Not the type who begged for anything really. But this – she could tell something was wrong and she had to know – whatever it was.

The guard cleared his throat and for the first time met her eyes. ‘I'm afraid he's at the hospital.'

A little gasp caught in Ruby's throat. ‘Is he hurt badly?' He had to be hurt. Why else would he be in hospital?

The answer was like a hammer smashing through glass.

‘He's at the maternity hospital with his wife. She's just given birth to their first child. That's where he is. Sorry, miss.'

A feeling of despair travelled from her neck and over her shoulders. It was all over. The romance had never really been, and indeed Ivan was the charmer John Smith had said he was. She didn't need him to tell her that Ivan, her handsome, exotic Ivan who kissed her hand and clicked his heels together when they met, had a reputation. He loved women. He also left broken hearts all over the place. Why hadn't she seen it?

But she had seen it. She'd just chosen to ignore it.

Her hands shook as she heaved the steering wheel to the left, the back wheels squealing as she did a quick turn before heading for home.

Home! How could she go home right now?

Blinded by tears she headed for the outskirts of Whitchurch village. She pulled into a layby, no more than an indent in front of a farm gate. To one side of it the bare branches of an elm tree creaked in the wind. The field on the other side of the hedge was almost as dull as the sky, the earth ploughed up into evenly spaced rows.

Still gripping the steering wheel, Ruby rested her head on her hands. She told herself not to cry and that there were plenty more fish in the sea. That it was more her pride that was hurt than her heart. It did nothing to ward off the tears. They came anyway.

Mary was taking the Christmas cake out of the oven when Ruby got home.

‘I think it looks good. What do you think?'

Absorbed in admiring her handiwork, Mary hadn't noticed Ruby had not bounced into the kitchen as she normally did after a demonstration, demanding a cup of tea and taking out of the hamper whatever food hadn't been devoured by her audience.

Ruby didn't want Mary to notice how upset she was. It suited her to admire the cake. She tapped it with one finger. ‘It sounds right. Looks good too.'

‘I used the eggless recipe. The honey should help it keep just like sugar does.'

Ruby entertained a violent urge to pick up the cake and throw it out of the window – not because it wasn't a fine cake, because it was. And Mary was a fine cook and would be heartbroken if she did that. So would everyone else. They'd been saving up coupons for weeks, setting aside what they could to celebrate Christmas. The cake, along with a cockerel Mrs Hicks had earmarked for slaughter, would form the centre of their Christmas celebrations.

‘I expect it'll be fine,' said Ruby, turning her back on her sister, the kitchen and her inexplicable urge to explode. All because of Ivan Bronowski. Why was it she always fell for the wrong man, the scoundrel, the man who had to have more than one woman in his life?

‘I've written the recipe down. I thought you might want to use it when you go down to RAF Locking. It was quite easy.'

Ruby took the small notebook in which Mary noted down every recipe they could use when one of them gave a talk, or in Mary's case broadcast on the wireless. The BBC in Bristol was very encouraging.

Ruby stared at the recipe and the instructions accompanying it. ‘How ridiculous.'

The comment came without warning.

‘I'm sorry?' Mary looked hurt.

Ruby tried laughing it off, but her voice even to her own ears sounded brittle and insincere. ‘I meant about the carrot. Who would have believed back before the war that we'd be cooking a cake made from carrots? Carrot cake. Still, you never know. Plaster the top with icing and it might catch on.'

The following day Mary received a telegram informing her that Mike would be spending Christmas with them. The back bedroom over at Stratham House was immediately earmarked for their use. On this occasion Bettina would be staying there too and everyone would be eating Christmas dinner together.

Mary was overjoyed. Her heart raced every time she heard reports on the wireless of bombing raids over Germany. The announcer always sounded upbeat and very matter of fact when he reported of planes and lives lost. All the same it was worrying and Mary always felt that her heart was in her mouth until Mike phoned her to say that he was home safe and sound.

On the same day Ruby received a letter from abroad. It wasn't hard to guess that it was from John.

Stan discreetly looked away from his daughter, concentrating his attention on his beloved Charlie.

‘Here. Have a bit of my breakfast. I know you think your granddad's breakfast tastes better than yer own.'

That said, he cut his breakfast sausage in half. It wasn't often they had sausages for breakfast and he couldn't help noticing the girls never ate them themselves but made sure he had one.

Charlie wrapped his little fist around the cooled sausage, his eyes bright with joy. ‘Sozzy.'

‘That's right,' said Stan, who glowed with pride every time a milestone was reached in the little lad's life. ‘It's a sausage. A bit of Granddad's sausage, so I suppose “sozzy” is the right word for it. Only a bit of the word and a bit of the sausage.'

Ruby sat staring at the letter. The paper was light and crisp, a bit like tissue or tracing paper. Judging by the fact that the envelope too was very light, the letter had come by air rather than the slower sea route.

Stan Sweet noticed her face looked as though it were set in stone. Her eyes flickered over what she was reading. She read it more than once. He could see that by the way her eyes kept going back to the top of the page.

He was about to ask how John was faring in the Far East when Ruby spoke.

‘Listen to this.
Dear Ruby. Many thanks for the recipe for Victoria sponge. Hopefully I will get around to making it, though rock cakes seem to be the order of the day out here. They're all over the place in the place where we're stationed, falling from the sky in fact. All I have to watch is that one doesn't land on my head. I'd never get over it.'

Ruby looked up at her father. ‘It's dated the eighth of December. The day after Pearl Harbor.'

‘No it isn't,' piped up Frances. ‘It's the same day.'

‘No, you little know it all. Pearl Harbor was bombed on the seventh of December.'

Frances shook her head more vehemently. ‘No it wasn't. It's the same day. Hawaii is one side of the International Dateline, and Singapore is on the other. That's where John is, isn't he?'

Her tension mounting, Ruby turned to her father. ‘Is that right?'

Stan Sweet nodded.

Mary poured her another cup of tea.

There had been rumours that a Far Eastern garrison had been bombed but that everything was under control. The BBC had said so.

Stan Sweet voiced what was on all their minds. ‘Is he saying that they've been bombed quite heavily?'

Ruby nodded. ‘Rock cakes. That's what he means about the possibility of being hit on the head by a rock cake. It's his way of saying they've been bombed without the censor striking it out.'

Mary slumped into a chair, eyes downcast, her lips clenched in a sullen line. They'd heard rumours about Malaya, the country of which Singapore was the capital, being bombed, though only lightly. For Johnnie to mention it suggested otherwise.

For some reason all eyes turned to Charlie who was demanding more of his grandfather's breakfast. Charlie was guaranteed to help them forget about the bad things going on. His antics and his cheery disposition never failed to make them smile.

‘I hear they've got big guns in Singapore,' said Stan Sweet in an effort to reassure his daughter. ‘They call it the fortress of the Far East.'

Ruby smiled weakly. ‘I hope it lives up to its name.'

‘Oh, I'm sure it will,' declared her father. He wasn't sure at all, but his daughter needed reassuring and whether she knew it or not, she cared about what happened to John Smith. Never mind her Polish pilot. Ivan Bronowski was just a flash in the pan as far as he was concerned. He only hoped the corporal would survive whatever happened and come home to where he belonged.

Stan turned his attention back to his grandson though his disquiet about John's position and Singapore itself remained. ‘My, but you're going to grow into a big lad I'll be bound,' he said.

Ruby threw him a wry look. ‘He will if you keep on giving him your breakfast, Dad. Do you want more toast?'

‘No. I don't. But perhaps …' He looked at Charlie. The chubby hand was already held out in anticipation of something else to eat.

‘Dad!' Ruby's voice pulled him up short.

‘I know. I know.' He leaned closer to the little boy. ‘We don't want you being sick now do we?'

Frances began wiping Charlie's face. ‘There you are, Charlie. Wait until ten o'clock and I'll take you for a walk. I have to help open the shop first, but you can wait, can't you?'

It occurred to Stan that Frances would make an extremely good mother. Not that his daughters wouldn't also, but for Frances to become a good mother would be a great relief. Her mother, Mildred, hadn't been very good at all, taking off once her husband Sefton had died. Stan was left to bring Frances up. Not that he regretted it. She was a headstrong girl but good at heart, a tomboy most of her life, though he sensed things were changing. Frances was becoming quite pretty. She was even beginning to help Ruby take down and enhance her old dresses, even to adding buttons and bows and bits of lace. Oh, yes, he thought to himself. Time is marching on.

He was just about to ask Mary for another cup of tea but noticed she had taken her apron off and was putting on her coat. She noticed his enquiring look and informed him she was popping along the village to see Bettina Hicks. ‘She had a bit of a cold. I thought I would take her some of that curried parsnip soup left over from yesterday.'