Wartime Sweethearts (20 page)

The twins had planned what to bake and what recipes relevant to a wartime diet should be considered.

In line with the letter they’d received notifying them that there was a new section in the baking competition, open to all, Mary had not actually come up with three distinct wartime recipes so much as three days’ main meals based on a Sunday joint and using up easily available ingredients. Nothing must be wasted.

Ruby had gone in the opposite direction, devising three pudding recipes designed to disguise the fact that ingredients were likely to become scarce and their diet bland. Frugality still figured strongly, though, with Ruby’s own take on what was possible if you really put your mind to it.

‘Everyone likes a little treat,’ she’d declared. Engrossed in being outstandingly creative, she forgot she’d left a tin of condensed milk on the hob. In fact she didn’t discover it until the next morning.

She eyed the tin with dismay. ‘I was going to make a rice pudding. I can’t use it now. It never rains but it pours.’

Mary was mixing leftover vegetables in a bowl before turning it out on a floured board, forming the vegetable mix into roundels then placing each into a pan of hot bacon fat left over from breakfast that morning. The end result would be eaten for supper this evening, though she was saving two to take with her to Bristol. It didn’t say anything about taking samples to the bake off, but she made up her mind she would do it anyway.

‘Why is it pouring on you?’ she asked her sister in response to her despondent tone.

‘There’s not going to be much sugar around in this war, and flour is going to be on ration too. How do I make a dessert with the minimum of those particular ingredients?’

‘Ingenuity, my dear Ruby, ingenuity!’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Throw in what you can and see what happens!’

Ruby laughed. Mary grinned.

The smell of frying rissoles filled the kitchen and didn’t help Ruby’s concentration. The rissoles were for lunch and made from some minced lamb left over from the Sunday roast, onions and potatoes mixed with freshly cut herbs from the garden.

While Ruby kept her eyes on the rissoles, Mary fetched the tin opener from the dresser drawer and picked up the tin of condensed milk.

‘It’s probably ruined,’ Ruby remarked.

‘The proof of the pudding …’ said Mary and set to with the tin opener.

‘Well,’ she said once the contents were revealed. ‘That’s different.’

Ruby looked at her. ‘What is?’

Mary was sucking her finger. ‘It tastes like creamy toffee.’

‘Let me look.’

Ruby left the rissoles for Mary to oversee. Mary half turned from the pan knowing very well that her sister was already creating a pudding in her head based on the contents of the heated-up tin.

‘And?’

Ruby dipped her finger in again, sucking off the toffee-flavoured mixture until her finger was quite clean.

‘Creamy toffee pudding on a light sponge base? Victoria sponge with creamy toffee pudding? Creamy toffee and hazelnut pudding – just a little gelatine added to make it set? Frances collected a load of hazelnuts. I used some hazelnuts in a cake, but with this added …?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Frances brought me a sack full, there’s loads left.’

At the mention of Frances, they both fell silent.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Mary said to her sister, though Ruby hadn’t actually said anything. They were twins. They knew when the other was happy or sad. They both thought the same way, though one was more focused than the other. In the case of Frances they were of the same mind. They cared for her and hoped she was happy.

Ned Masters, the butcher’s son, came into the shop to ask Ruby to go to the pictures.

‘I don’t think so,’ Ruby replied.

Mary was quite surprised. Ned was a nice-looking young man, though perhaps a bit on the big side, but then he was a butcher’s son and ate more beef than most people.

He looked disappointed, his cheeks reddening. Nobody liked rejection, thought Mary. She felt quite sorry for him.

‘How about you then, Mary. Only I’m off shortly. I got my call-up papers.’

Mary was sympathetic. ‘I didn’t know that. When are you off, Ned?’

‘Two days’ time. I’ve joined the army. I’m off to Aldershot – wherever that is.’

Mary smiled at him. ‘Aldershot is eastwards. That’s about all I know. Good luck, Ned.’

‘Do you fancy going to the pictures with me?’

It was foremost in Mary’s mind to say no, but Ned was off to war, so she agreed to go with him.

‘Anything good?’

Ned beamed with satisfaction. ‘
Wicked Lady
. Margaret Lockwood.’

Mary didn’t tell him she’d already seen it. Neither did she tell Ruby the true reason she agreed to go with him.

‘He’s off to war. How could I refuse?’

In her heart she was thinking of somebody else who was also serving in the east of the country, at Scampton in Lincolnshire. She wondered if Michael Dangerfield was going to the pictures with somebody up in Scampton. In one way she hoped he was; it would be a pity for brave young men to be lonely. On the other hand she hoped he was not out with anyone else, but chided herself for being jealous of somebody she only knew vaguely.

End of November, 1939

The village was agog with the news that the next regional heat in the Best of British Baking competition was on and one of their own was taking part. For a heady few days the baking of loaves and pastries displaced what was happening in the war.

The consensus of opinion was that the competition was more relevant to the village than a faraway war which didn’t seem to have begun in earnest.

The war seemed to be something not quite real, leaflets rather than bombs being dropped on the enemy. Women had taken to using gas mask cases as handbags, half the time leaving the ugly, smelly rubber thing at home just so they could get their purse, cosmetics and hairbrush inside.

Ruby was like a firework, bursting with enthusiasm and excitement and keeping her vow not to get romantically involved with anyone.

Mary was more subdued, getting done all she had to get done while wondering if Michael Dangerfield would be able to make it to Bristol to take his place in the competition; after all, he was serving with the RAF.

Sometimes Ruby caught her smiling to herself, a faraway look in her eyes.

‘Who is he?’ she asked again as she had before.

‘I was thinking about Charlie. I bet he’s having a whale of a time. All those dishy Wrens in uniform.’

‘Wish I was one,’ grumbled Ruby.

Mary congratulated herself on having successfully eluded Ruby’s question. The subject of being a Wren – or at least joining one of the women’s services, was guaranteed to throw Ruby off the scent.

‘I hope my co-winner is there,’ crowed Ruby as she finished putting a glaze on her currant buns. ‘Then I can beat him fair and square.’

Mary wasn’t interested in beating him. She was only interested in seeing him and asking him why he hadn’t responded to her letter. Perhaps because he hadn’t received it? Or perhaps he hadn’t wanted to respond. The third option was that he expected to see her at the bake off anyway. Her stomach filled with butterflies at the thought of it. She hoped he’d be there. She really did.

She’d gone to the pictures with Ned Masters and had even allowed him to hold her hand and give her a friendly goodnight kiss. He’d tried for a second kiss and asked her if she would be his girl. She’d said no to each question, explaining that she’d known him all her life and even though she valued his friendship, she was not inclined to become romantically involved.

He’d looked disappointed until Mary reminded him that he was off on a big adventure, perhaps abroad. He’d meet lots of girls in Aldershot, France, and perhaps even in Italy.

Much to Mary’s relief, his expression brightened at the prospect. She guessed asking her to the pictures was merely because he was feeling a bit scared. She couldn’t blame him. The few missives they’d had from Charlie told them it was no picnic and not just because of the enemy. Atlantic storms could last for weeks, the ship rolling from side to side and tossing up and down. He wrote that he was much looking forward to having some leave, though he didn’t know when that was likely to be. The letters were being censored, though not too much. Charlie was a careful writer who could drop hints without the censor realising it.

Loved the socks you sent me. Mucho abrigado
.

Nobody had sent him any socks, but the clue was in the way he’d said thank you. Mary checked it in a book at the library in Kingswood. He’d said thank you in Portuguese. He was either in Portugal or Brazil. South America was where shiploads of beef and grain were coming from and fruit, vegetables and bottles of port were coming in from Portugal. It could be either, though they hoped the latter country which was much closer to home.

With a mind on the category in the competition for recipes to suit a wartime housewife, Mary asked her customers for any particular hints regarding catering for a large family on meagre rations and a limited budget.

Some of them were derisive of the whole idea.

‘Recipes for war? Living on meagre rations? What do they up in London think we bin doing all these years!’

‘Then you’re the right people to ask about making meals from leftovers and how to make a leg of mutton last a week,’ Mary told them.

A little flattery went a long way. The village women and farmers’ wives were good cooks, stretching cheap seasonal items as far as they could. This was especially true for those with a whole army of children.

Mrs Martin, whose children comprised of strapping lads and near-grown men, suggested that the best way to add taste and flavour to leftovers and cheap cuts of meat was with onion.

‘That’s if you’ve got a home-grown supply, otherwise it’s chives. Plant one chive and you’ve got dozens by the end of the year.’

Mary had received the advice amicably, but chuckled once Mrs Martin was gone after first begging a bag of stale breadcrumbs to feed to the chickens. ‘Bread pudding, more like,’ she said to herself.

That night, she told her father what Mrs Martin had said. ‘Apparently the first thing we’re going to go short of are onions.’

Her father didn’t laugh, but nodded solemnly. ‘She could be right, especially city folk with no room to grow their own. Most of this country’s onions come in from France and Spain. I’ve planted some next to the leeks. Hopefully things won’t get that bad, but you never know. Now how are you getting on with those recipes? Are you going to win outright? I am counting on it you know.’

Ruby stood at the table ironing, a big flannelette sheet folded several times spread at one end of the kitchen table. ‘I hate ironing,’ she muttered.

Mary reminded her that it was her turn. They took turns with most housework tasks.

Ruby pulled a face and took her favourite blue dress from the pile of clothes waiting to be laundered. ‘I think I’ll wear this. What do you think?’

Creased as it was, she held it against herself so Mary could better give her opinion.

‘It’s lovely. You’ll be the belle of the bake!’

Ruby laughed. Another thought suddenly struck her. ‘Are we going to be able to get there?’

There had been some concern about this. There would be no bus service that day from the village into Kingswood where they would have changed to a city route bus that would take them into Bristol. Although the bread van was available, they didn’t have enough petrol coupons for a special trip.

The answer came swiftly, the door to the room opening to reveal their father’s big frame. The moment their father smiled in a boyish way he saved for landing snap surprises, the girls knew something wonderful had happened.

‘Well, I have to say, the people of Oldland Common have done us proud. Enough people gave me a few petrol coupons to make the run into Bristol and back again. We’ve got good neighbours, you know. Very good neighbours. So no need to worry. You’re going to Bristol courtesy of Sweet and Son, bakers of distinction!’

Their journey was further assured when a number of coupons came in the post from the Ministry of Food.

Stan Sweet was amazed. ‘Now there’s a thing. I wonder why they’d be sending me petrol coupons for a competition!’

The day of their travelling to Bristol was overcast and they’d had to battle through a fog most of the way from the village into the city. Despite the fact that Christmas was only a few weeks away, the city looked sombre and grey, no bright lights or gay window displays. The blackout was in full force.

Sandbags had been piled high between the Palladian pillars at the front of the Victoria Rooms, its imposing facade hidden for the duration of the war. So was the fountain in front of it. No longer were the reclining figures of half-naked mermaids drenched in water from fish-headed spouts, a fitting tribute to a city whose wealth had been derived from the sea and the ships that sailed on it. The fountain was hidden inside a plywood box and like everything else of beauty or importance, piled round with sandbags.

A policeman spotted the van slowing down in front of the cascade of fine steps leading up to the front of the Victoria Rooms.

‘I suppose you’re here for the competition, sir,’ he said, both hands clasped behind his back as he bent to address their father.

‘Can you read what it says on this vehicle, constable?’

The police constable gave the side of the van a brief glance. ‘Yes, sir. I take it you’re Stan Sweet? Baker of distinction?’

‘You bet I am,’ Stan Sweet responded proudly.

‘Over there.’ The policeman pointed to where he wanted them to park.

Mary stepped down from the van, glad to stretch her legs after the slow journey in. Despite the blackout and the sandbags, she felt the excitement in the air.

First she gazed in awe at the handsome frontage of the Victoria Rooms. Despite the sandbags, its steps and Palladian pillars reminded her of a Greek or Roman temple. Finally her gaze alighted on the crocodile of people queuing all the way down the steps and around the covered fountain.