War Baby (35 page)

‘Tell her I'll be in to see her.'

Mary said that she would.

Once she was gone, Stan asked Ruby if there was anything wrong with her sister. ‘She just seems a bit tired,' he added.

‘Oh, I think she's just a bit tired trying to sort out Christmas what with Mike coming home. Mind you, Bettina's been a good help. Stratham House is like Aladdin's cave; you never quite know what else Bettina has stored away in her cupboards and attic.'

She said it laughingly, anything to throw her father off the scent of the real problem.

Last night she'd confided in Mary the fact that Ivan Bronowski was married and she didn't want to see him ever again. In turn, Mary had confided in her about the cottage close to where Mike was stationed. Mary's face had been taut with indecision and regret. ‘I can't go. Not yet anyway.'

Ruby pointed out to her that her first obligation was to her husband not to her family.

Mary had bent her head. Even though her hair fell forward like a thick veil, Ruby didn't need to see the anguish on her sister's face because she could hear it in her voice. ‘I know,' she said softly. Only two small words, but so heartfelt. ‘And then there's the work with the Ministry of Food.'

‘You could still work for them, only in Lincolnshire.'

‘You'd have more work to do here.'

Mary had brushed her hair behind her ears. Ruby had reached out and tucked back a strand she had missed. She said she didn't mind having more work. Up until now they'd divided the load between them, Mary concentrating on the BBC broadcasts, taking turns to do talks and demonstrations in factories, shops, offices and women's groups. Ruby couldn't bring herself to speak into a microphone; she had to have real people to talk to. Mary could do both.

Sworn to secrecy, Ruby had no intention of letting her father know about Mike wanting Mary to move up to Lincolnshire. If anyone was going to tell him, it had to be Mary.

This morning neither of them had mentioned the conversation. It was Ruby's opinion that Mary should be with her husband; she would be if she had a husband.

‘But I don't,' she mumbled to herself as she opened the cupboard beneath the stairs and dragged out the carpet sweeper.

She was just about to attack the runner in the hallway when Frances came in from the shop wearing a cheeky grin. ‘It's him,' she said. ‘Ivan.'

Ruby couldn't believe it. The humiliation she'd felt on finding out he was married, flooded her face with anger. ‘Is it now!'

Her temper was up. What a nerve! Coming here, no doubt straight from the birth of his baby. She was tempted to get Frances to tell him that she wasn't at home, but then her father would suspect something was wrong. He was very adept at pretending to read the newspaper but actually noticing everything that went on around him.

Frances followed her to the door. ‘He's very handsome. Are you going to marry him? If you are, can I be a bridesmaid?'

‘I doubt it,' said Ruby under her breath.

He was standing with his back to her. Sensing her presence, he spun round, the quirky smile she had loved immediately apparent.

‘Ruby. Are you free tonight? I thought we could go to the pictures.'

He didn't know she'd visited the airfield! Nobody had told him!

‘No. I don't think so.' Her words were clipped. Her lips tight across her teeth.

He didn't seem to notice. ‘How about tomorrow night? I could swap duty and then we could—'

‘What did you have? A boy or a girl?'

At first he laughed as though he thought she was joking. When he finally realised that he wasn't joking, the laughter died in his throat and his smile froze. ‘I can explain.'

Ruby raised one eyebrow quizzically. ‘Can you? Quite how do you explain away a wife and baby? Come on. Let's see you try!'

Ivan shook his head, all pretext of innocence absent. ‘I was lonely when I first came here. She trapped me …'

‘An English girl?'

He nodded. ‘Yes. English.'

‘You mean you got her pregnant and married her.'

She heard Frances gasp.

Ivan persisted. ‘But I don't love her! I love you!'

‘You have a wife and child. Look after them. Goodbye, Ivan.'

She turned her back on him, retracing her steps to the living room behind the shop counter. She was seething.

‘You can't mean that!'

‘Goodbye, Ivan,' said Frances, taking great delight in repeating what her cousin had said and in the same tone.

Ruby slammed the door behind her. She stalked through the kitchen and out of the back door, aware of her father's eyes on her. She didn't look round. She needed to be alone with her thoughts.

There wasn't much to look at in the garden; the sprouts, winter cabbage and carrots were doing well. Beyond them the spear-like leaves of leeks and onions trailed over the hard earth. The overnight frost still lay on the ground.

Normally she might have shivered standing out here even though her cardigan was knitted from double knit wool – unpicked from her brother Charlie's old jumper.

She looked at the sombre sky thinking how greyness affected one's mood. Winter was like that.

The throaty roar of Ivan's motorbike faded into a distant rumble as he drove away. One half of her wanted to rush out after him and beg him to come back. The more sensible half knew she had to let him go. It was over. She would do the demonstration at Locking, but stay overnight in the chalet alone.

The sound of the back door opening heralded her father stepping out. One quick glance and she could see he was wearing his gardening clothes. He took out his pipe and with a practised eye surveyed the sky then the garden beneath it. ‘We need some air in the ground to give the worms a chance.'

What he meant was that he was off to fetch his gardening fork with which he would stab the iron-hard ground.

She watched him amble off down the garden, the brim of his brown trilby hat pulled low over his face. He hadn't asked her about Ivan, probably because he'd guessed she'd ended the relationship. If he didn't ask it meant he approved. He'd done the same with Gareth Stead until war had broken out. That was when he'd asked Gareth to marry Ruby, just so she wouldn't be forced to work in a factory far away from home or even to join the forces.

Ivan was history. For the moment she would content herself with her job, the family and diversionary things – like writing to Corporal John Smith. Yes. John would appreciate it and it would suit her to do so – at least for now.

 

 

THE WHOLE FAMILY
went to church that Christmas of 1941 including Mike Dangerfield and his Aunt Bettina.

The vicar mentioned the greater might of the allies now the Americans had joined in the fight. ‘Let us pray that their joining means a more rapid end to this terrible conflict.'

Everyone said a hearty amen to that!

The air outside the old church was crisp with the promise of yet another frosty night.

‘I'm fed up of bringing in stiff washing from the line,' stated Mrs Martin. ‘My Reg's combinations were stiff enough to stand up by themselves. Unnatural, it is.'

There were smiles at her remark along with shouts of Merry Christmas. Everyone began heading for the path leading down to the brook and the upward slog up Court Road to the heart of the village and the Christmas dinner everyone was looking forward to. Except for Stan Sweet.

‘Won't be a minute.' He reached for the bouquet of winter jasmine and Christmas roses that he grew especially for this time of year, which he'd left in the church porch. He also reached for Charlie's hand. ‘Let's go and see Grandma, shall we?'

Not really understanding, but wanting to be with his beloved grandfather, Charlie slipped his small hand into Stan's.

The twins, Frances, Bettina Hicks and Mike Dangerfield continued to head for home, though not before Mary called out to remind her father that dinner would be ready soon and not to be late.

Stan Sweet made his way over the frozen ground to his wife's grave, Charlie toddling unsteadily at his side.

After cracking the ice in the urn, he put the flowers in there, arranging them carefully in the way he'd seen her do all those years ago. Charlie attempted to ape his grandfather, patting each bloom into place.

‘Carefully,' said Stan. ‘We don't want to squash them. Your grandmother wouldn't want that now would she?'

The little boy giggled and began to collect sticks and stones – in fact anything that attracted his attention, most of it seemingly for no real reason.

As was his habit, Stan went down on one knee.

‘Sarah my dear. It's Christmas, that time of year when it's supposed to be peace and goodwill to all men. Unfortunately the war still rages, although, as I've already mentioned, the Americans have joined in, late but not too late, not as late as in the last lot anyway. Let's hope for a speedy end to this carnage.

‘Mike's home on leave and Mary seems very happy that he is though there does seem to be something going on between them that they're keeping to themselves. I'm hoping they're having a baby, but I can't say for sure.

‘On another note, our Ruby has finished with her Polish flier.' He frowned pondering his thoughts. ‘Ruby is the one I'll always worry about. She's not a good judge of men. Whatever happened between her and this Ivan, I don't know and she isn't saying. I promise I won't pry,' he said in answer to what had sounded like Sarah warning him in his head. He smiled. Sarah had been such a wise woman. Beautiful too.

‘Frances is growing up. I'm glad to say she's nothing like her mother. She's bright too, especially in geography. I think it was her favourite subject at school. Not that she's likely to need it much serving in the bakery, but after the war? Who knows?

‘As for our Charlie's boy.' He turned his head, smiling proudly at the growing toddler. ‘Will you just look at him? Little Charlie. I thank the Lord that he was born.

‘Right,' he said, getting stiffly on to his feet. ‘I'm off to have my Christmas dinner and young Charlie here is off to play with his presents.'

Slamming his trilby firmly on his head, he turned to go when he remembered there was somebody else he wanted to mention.

‘Another young man our Ruby knows is in the Far East. She's writing regularly. He used to be her driver. He's a down-to-earth sort, the kind that would suit her, though I wouldn't dare say that,' he added before he imagined her warning him not to interfere.

He turned back just in time to find Charlie toddling off across the short cropped grass towards the retaining wall where rust-coloured stalks and dried grass mingled with a bramble bush. ‘Oh no you don't young man!'

His hand landed on Charlie's soft woollen hat, enough of a diversion to bring him to a halt.

‘Mum! Mmmm! Mum!' cried Charlie, pointing at the desolate patch of tangled growth.

Was he shouting ‘mum' or was it really just the letter ‘m' drawn out to make a similar sound?

If only his mum was here, thought Stan. If only his dad was. Stan visualised the last time he'd seen his son's smiling face: early spring 1940. Charlie had come home just after Christmas following the sinking of his ship. The whole family had been relieved that he'd survived, and all thanks to an enemy captain who had scuttled his ship rather than suffer any more loss of life. Rumour had it that shortly after the Battle of the River Plate the captain had taken his own life rather than have his family suffer at the hands of Adolf Hitler for his shame.

Having had such a lucky escape, he'd never expected his son to be taken from him just a short time after he'd been spared. He didn't believe that all was fair in love and war. Life itself was unfair.

Thank God for young Charlie, he thought closing his eyes. ‘And God bless Gilda,' he added. ‘She's with you and our Charlie now, Sarah. I think you'll like her.' Squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears, he got to his feet. ‘Come on Charlie,' he said to his grandson. ‘Our Christmas dinner'll be waiting on the table. And then there's cake. Would you like cake, Charlie?'

Charlie didn't show any sign that he'd heard. He was looking at the brambles and was making the same sounds as before and pointing with his mittened hand.

Stan went down on one knee and touched Charlie's rosy cheek. ‘Well, if you're not going to walk home, I suppose I'll have to carry you.'

Charlie didn't protest when he was lifted in the strong arms he'd grown to know and trust. He didn't protest at being carried, probably because he could see much more once he was above the sight of adult knees, but he did twist his little body so he could lean over Stan's shoulder and keep his eyes fixed on whatever it was that interested him.

Stan talked and chuckled to his grandson as they made their way to the gate. Once there he stopped to grapple with the latch, Charlie a weight on his shoulder. Out of habit he turned to take one last look at the church and the quiet spot where his wife was buried, when a sudden movement among the brambles caught his attention. He might have put it down to a badger or a cat out hunting for birds and rodents if a head and shoulders hadn't suddenly popped up.

The figure was wearing a black hat and coat, her face a ghostly white, her eyes too big for her face. Even at this distance he knew who it was: Miriam Powell always wore black to church. But what was she doing among that rough patch of ground half-hidden from view? The obvious thought came to him that she might have been relieving herself, but surely she could have got home in time to do that.

He turned away feeling embarrassed and also slightly disgusted – that was until it struck him that Miriam just wouldn't do that. Her mother was a stickler for conformity, a pillar of sanctimonious respectability and Miriam had had a strict upbringing.