Wartime Sweethearts (43 page)

‘Dad!’ Mary covered his hand with hers. ‘Dad …’

She swallowed. There was nothing she could say, nothing that really mattered, except …’

‘Dad. There might one day be a grandson to pass Charlie’s toys on to. As you already know, Michael’s asked me to marry him.’

He nodded and smiled through his tears. She knew he was happy for her, though perhaps her giving him a grandson wasn’t quite the same.

It was hard to prevent tears running from her eyes, but she persevered. Somebody had to be strong.

‘Are you coming back to Bettina’s with me?’

He shook his head. ‘No. You go on. Make your excuses for me, will you? I’ll stay here. I’d like some time alone.’

Mary bit her lip, wanting to tell him about Gilda leaving but not sure that she should. Eventually she decided it might as well be now; he’d find out about it anyway in time. He sighed when she told him, his arms seeming to hang heavily from his shoulders as his back slumped in despair.

‘You can’t blame her,’ he said softly. ‘There’s nothing left for her here now. And besides, you know what the village gossips are like. She’d be crucified especially if she latches on to somebody else. They’d call her flighty then all right.’

‘But she didn’t say … not at the church …’

‘Of course not. She just wanted to set the record straight, though she didn’t really need to. We could all see what it was like between them, couldn’t we?’

Mary nodded. ‘Are you going to be all right here by yourself?’

He kept his head down when he nodded. ‘You go on.’

Ruby looked shocked when she told her about Gilda.

‘Gone? But why? Where’s she gone?’

‘London. As to why, well, I suppose there was nothing left for her here.’ Mary frowned. ‘Dad’s in a bad way. I’ve left him in Charlie’s old room looking through the toy box. He told me to apologise for his absence.’ She wrapped her arms around herself in a tight hug. She felt so cold. So lost, in fact.

‘He’s going to be a long time getting over this,’ said Ruby mirroring Mary’s own thoughts. ‘Does Mrs Hicks know about Gilda leaving?’

Mary slapped her forehead then shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think … but she must. Surely.’

Ruby put down the tray of dirty plates she was holding. ‘You look as though you could do with some fresh air and a minute to yourself. You go on. I’ll tell Mrs Hicks.’

She’d wanted to add that Mrs Hicks had just received a telegram and had gone up into her bedroom to read it. Whatever the news was, it wouldn’t hurt for Mary to have some time to compose herself. She’d find out soon enough what it said.

‘Go on,’ she said, lightly touching her sister’s arm in an act of reassurance. ‘Get some time to yourself. Go and tell Mother all about it, just like Dad does.’

‘I might very well do that.’

Mary walked in a daze down the hill, over the little stone bridge that crossed the stream and up the other side.

The churchyard was empty, the stone angels and carved headstones her only company.

The rain that had threatened all day arrived, though only in the form of a light drizzle, droplets of water spangling her hair.

Grasping the cast iron ring of one half of the oak door, she swung it open. The smell that only churches have, of dust, incense and old hymn books came out to greet her.

Her footsteps echoed in the stillness between the ancient stones as she made her way up the aisle. The last rays of a setting sun shone through the arched window immediately to the right of the altar, the coloured glass throwing a mote-filled rainbow across the silver cross and candlesticks. She vaguely recalled them having been bequeathed to St Anne’s by some long dead benefactor.

She stood there looking up at the altar and the cross hanging behind it for some time. Her thoughts naturally turned to Charlie and then to her father. Today he had voiced his sadness that there would be no grandson – well not from Charlie anyway. But what about her? What about Michael?

Perhaps I won’t have children either, she thought to herself. If Michael never comes back …

She looked around her at the church, the windows, the altar, thinking that she’d quite like getting married here.

Turning her head she imagined him standing there next to her, tall and handsome in his RAF uniform, smiling down at her, completely unscathed from his ordeal – she hoped for that most of all.

Love matters very much during wartime, she decided. Inside she held the vision of Gilda fleeing a monstrous regime that had killed her husband, falling in love again only to have that same regime take his life too. Neither Gilda nor Mary and her family would ever get over it.

Michael was right. There was only the moment and not necessarily any tomorrow. War was cruel and also unfair. It had seemed headstrong and foolish to marry after such a short acquaintance, but now she realised just how right it would have been. At this moment, she wished she had accepted his proposal.

Closing her eyes she imagined a church full of flowers and relatives, the organ playing, the singing of a choir, she and Michael standing before the altar. She imagined him there beside her.

Something clunked behind her, but she gave it no attention. Churches and old buildings famously contracted and made noises towards evening.

‘I do,’ she said softly, and in the quiet of the church she imagined him repeating the same and the vicar pronouncing them husband and wife.

‘I do? I sure hope you mean what I think you mean.’

Her eyes snapped open. It wasn’t a dream! It wasn’t a vision. It was Michael. He was looking a little careworn, but alive and well.

‘Michael!’ She threw herself against his chest, breathing in the damp moistness of a jacket soaked with rain.

‘I’m wet,’ he said to her and sounded amused.

‘I don’t care. I don’t care! You’re here!’

He tangled his fingers in her hair when she looked up at him, her face flushed and eyes shining. His kiss was long and furious, strong enough to take her breath away.

‘You’re here,’ she whispered again, her voice racked by sobs which might have been sobs of happiness, but were also of relief. ‘When …?’

‘I tried to get a message to you, but apparently the lines are down between here and London and the east of England. I couldn’t get through … Ruby told me you might be here.’

The church seemed to spin around them as he kissed her again, neither of them letting go until they just had to take a breath.

‘I was so scared. I thought you were dead. There was no word …’

He laughed as he stroked her face, not once averting his eyes from hers as though if he did she might vanish in a puff of smoke.

‘I got shot down but was picked up by a Danish fishing boat. They helped me get home.’

‘You’re here! You’re here!’ She couldn’t stop saying it. Even to her own ears she sounded totally surprised and not entirely believing.

‘I’m here.’

‘Can I pinch you?’

‘If you like.’

She pinched the back of his hand. His flesh was firm and warm. ‘You’re real.’

‘I hope I am. Let me check.’ He smiled the way she remembered him smile as he pinched the back of his hand just as she had. ‘Yep. That hurts. I’m real.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I know. But I heard you. In fact, I believe I heard you say “I do”. You marrying somebody by any chance?’

‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes moist with tears and her mouth smiling with happiness. ‘Yes. He keeps asking me. I can’t hold him off any longer. I don’t want to hold him off any longer.’

‘Then don’t,’ he said and kissed her.

On the way back to Stratham House, she told him about Gilda taking the children and leaving for London.

‘I can’t quite believe it. I so wanted to speak to her about Charlie, to make her feel, well, as though she were part of the family. I don’t think your aunt knew she was going, but I haven’t asked her yet. Ruby might have told her by now.’

After thinking about it, Michael shook his head in a sombre manner. ‘Poor kid. She’s been through a lot. It takes some guts to go through what she’s been through, but everyone has a breaking point.’

‘And losing Charlie was the last straw.’

Mary tried to imagine how she would have coped with everything Gilda had coped with; first having her husband arrested, then being forced to testify against him or put herself and her children in dreadful danger.

‘I don’t know how I would have coped with all that she coped with. It makes me shudder.’

She found herself clutching his hand more tightly.

Michael thought about how he’d been rescued and the rumours he’d heard about the horror that went on in the camps. Poor Gilda had been in the thick of it all. Mary wasn’t the only one shuddering at the prospect of being invaded by such a ruthless regime.

Michael was in tune with her thoughts. ‘Let’s hope the enemy never gets here and subjects you folk to the same treatment.’

‘Let’s hope,’ whispered Mary.

Ruby and Bettina Hicks were standing at the end of the lane when they got back up the hill. Both were smiling and looked purposeful.

‘You found her,’ Ruby exclaimed.

Michael’s arm snaked around Mary’s shoulder. Holding her close, he looked down into her face. ‘She was exactly where you said she would be.’

‘I’d only just read the telegram,’ exclaimed Bettina, while passing a wicker shopping basket to Ruby. ‘I nearly fainted when I saw him in the living room as large as life.’

Michael looked from his aunt to Ruby. ‘Are we going somewhere?’

‘Yes,’ said Ruby. ‘We’re taking these cakes to Dad. He’s feeling pretty low and needs something to cheer him up – and I don’t mean Madeleines,’ she said, winking at Mary. ‘It’s been a sad day, but now we have some good news to share. Michael’s home. I think he’ll be very glad about that.’

There really were Home Front Economists and Kitchen Economists who went round demonstrating how to conserve both food rations and fuel. When it comes to recycling and preserving what we have, never has it been done so efficiently and effectively as it was during the Second World War.

The recipes below are similar to those the Sweet sisters entered in the competition. At that time the ingredients would have been relatively plentiful, though stockpiling had begun. It wouldn’t be long before they were rationed and things were very different. Oh, and it really is true that the first vegetable to become scarce was the humble onion.

NB: All the measurements are imperial, unaltered from when they were first devised.

Grease and flour a cake tin. Mix the blackberries with the golden syrup or sugar, melted margarine and boiling water. Leave to cool, then add the beaten egg. Sift flour, salt and bicarbonate of soda together. Stir into the blackberry mixture and mix well. Put into prepared tin for 50 minutes in a moderate oven (gas mark 4 in modern parlance).

Cream the margarine and sugar. Warm the milk and pour on to the bicarbonate of soda. Add the prepared fruit, the milk and the flour to the margarine mixture. Mix well. Bake in a seven-inch cake tin in a moderate oven for about two hours.

Sift flour and baking powder and salt. Heat the syrup and milk, pour over the flour and mix well. Pour into a greased one pound loaf tin. Place in a moderately hot oven for thirty minutes or until firm.

NB: Whenever a joint was cooked, the dripping was skimmed off to use as fat for baking, cooking fats being in short supply. Oats were used as a filler and thickening agent. The glaze from cooked meat (jelly) was used as a base for the stock pot or spread on bread then sprinkled with salt for supper. Nothing was wasted and the Sunday joint itself provided the basis of many recipes that would hopefully last until Friday, Wednesday at least.

Oldland Common was only a village at the outbreak of war. It grew into a suburb of new houses and schools during the sixties and seventies when I lived there.

The characters are all fictitious although my grandmother’s family were called Sweet.

Real characters at the time of war are mentioned, including the owner of the dog that I have named Felix in this book although his real name would be regarded as non-pc at present. His owner, Guy, is the famous leader of the Dambuster raid, the squadron based at Scampton in Lincolnshire.

For further reading on Wing Commander Guy Gibson VC OSO and Bar, DFC and Bar, I recommend the book
Enemy Coast Ahead
. He died at just twenty-five years of age, one of the most celebrated and decorated pilots of World War II.

Also by Lizzie Lane:

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