Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lizzie Lane
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Recipes
Eggless Cake
Honey Scones
Treacle Scones
Cut and Come Again Cake
Spoon Cake
Date Cookies
Historical Note
Copyright
Wartime Brides
Coronation Wives
A Christmas Wish
A Soldier’s Valentine (digital short)
A Wartime Wife
A Wartime Family
Home for Christmas
Wartime Sweethearts
War Baby
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473502918
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Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London, SW1V 2SA
Ebury Press is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © Lizzie Lane 2015
Lizzie Lane has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published by Ebury Press in 2015
www.eburypublishing.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780091956615
Sumatra, September 1942
John Smith eased over on to his side, wincing as he did so. Every bone in his body, every wasted muscle, cried out from the effort. Oh, for a bed with proper springs! Just a dream. Something he’d once enjoyed and nothing like he slept on in this hellhole!
A proper bed! Even a mattress! What he’d give for a feather bed or even a mound of moss in the middle of an English field. Or a Scottish, Irish or Welsh one. A place where the air was cool and his bed soft. Not like this bloody thing, no more than wooden slats banged together with iron nails. And only a few slats at that.
Thanks to burrowing insects and the skin-soaking humidity, the slats rotted quickly and needed frequent replacing. Where slats had not been replaced, only the iron nails remained on the struts sticking up to trap the slack skin of the man who lay on it. It took a great deal of effort to pull them out. Iron nails provided currency, a poor currency maybe, but anything one could barter or sell was like money in the bank. Taken out and hammered straight, they could be exchanged for food, a cigarette, or an extra ounce of rice. You needed a lot of nails to barter for anything like that.
Even here nails had a use: they were needed to form secret compartments in an inmate’s bed, or used to form a box which was then buried deep in the dirt floor – anywhere hidden from the Nips – their slang for the Japanese and Korean guards. Everyone kept a little cache of something precious that could be bartered or merely treasured: jewellery, watches – anything that hadn’t been taken off them.
Johnnie had originally been interned in Changi – heaven compared to this place, which was surrounded by hot, humid jungle, the air a perpetual swamp of sticky heat.
Leather boots fell to bits, the stitching that had fastened the uppers to the soles rotted away along with the rough bits of string that had long since replaced army issue boot laces.
Men rotted here too. Their uniforms, once proudly worn, were either a mass of ragged patches or completely gone, replaced by a sarong knotted at the waist and obtained in exchange for the last precious item a man might own – a cigarette lighter, a wedding ring, a lucky coin – not so lucky here.
Photographs were vulnerable to both insects and humidity. And photographs were the most precious of all: each photograph contained a memory, a reminder of a life once lived before ending up as a prisoner of war on the other side of the world.
After making sure nobody was watching, John eased the photograph of Ruby Sweet from the tobacco tin he kept it in. The sun was going down and there wasn’t much light left. What with the stink of sweating men and the crowded surroundings, it was hardly the most romantic setting in the world. However, he’d made a habit of studying her photo before he fell asleep. In that moment he forgot his dire surroundings. Looking at her kept him sane, gave him hope. He’d received no letters from her since he’d become a POW, but then, he conceded, it wasn’t her fault. None of the other blokes had received letters either. The only one he had was the one he’d received before Singapore had fallen. He’d read it until the folds broke, the paper softened with moisture. Still he kept it; and kept reading it, even though he could recite it almost word for word by now.
The letter contained a recipe. He’d read that recipe over and over again, salivating as he did so. In his mind’s eye, he could see her giving one of her cooking demonstrations. Those memories always made him smile.
The photograph had been taken by an official of the Ministry of Food for propaganda purposes. He’d been lucky enough to persuade the photographer to make an extra copy for him. He’d forgotten to tell Ruby about it, but he was glad he had it.
Gazing at the photograph, he remembered everything about their time together. In fact, he went over each occasion in his mind as often as he could just so he wouldn’t forget that he’d once known her in another life.
Another life. In this one, fear had become a tight band around his chest. Hopefully, he would return to that other life. He held on to the hope that he would survive his incarceration, that the war would end and Ruby would be waiting for him. He imagined her cooking an evening meal, just for the two of them, husband and wife. The future he imagined with her might be a leap too far, but a future in which they would be together was the only thing keeping him going.
What would she say about that? he wondered, and couldn’t help smiling. They’d never expressed anything definite. They’d just flirted. Sometimes they’d argued, but they’d been slowly getting closer. And then there was that day in the field close to the railway station. I mean, you can’t get much closer than that, he thought to himself.
He sighed, rolled on to his back and held the photograph to his chest with both hands. If it wasn’t for his memories of Ruby, he would go mad. If he didn’t cling to the hope of better things to come, he would give up and die.
Hope had surged in his chest a few days ago when the Japanese guards had come round with postcards for them to fill in. It was whispered that the cards would be passed to the Red Cross, who would in turn send them to their loved ones. The camp commandant confirmed it. The prisoners, starved, despondent and abused, had received such promises before. But then no cards had materialised. The conclusion had been that their captors had been playing with them, giving them hope in exchange for them behaving themselves.
But this time the cards had actually materialised. They dared to hope that it wasn’t just a ruse. Hopefully, the postcards really would be handed over to the Red Cross and sent home.
Like the other blokes, John had avidly filled his in. There had been a fight over the few pencils they’d been handed and he’d made the mistake of getting involved. The butt of a Japanese rifle had connected with his forehead. His eye had been half-closed as a result of it, blood trickling down his cheek. It wasn’t the first time he’d been beaten. Everyone had. Bleeding was a consequence of being a prisoner of the Japanese.
He’d ignored the blood and kept writing what they’d told him to write:
I am well. I am being well treated. The Japanese are winning the war.
Nobody dared deviate. It stuck in his craw that he had to write the lies dictated to them. He so wanted to tell Ruby the truth about how cruel their captors could be. But how?
In the past, early on in the war, he’d got round the army censors by adding a cryptic note in his letters that left her in no doubt of where he was and what was going on. That was what he wanted to do now, but it wasn’t easy, not here. The guards were watching him closely. The camp commandant and his aides were carefully scrutinising each card. Those whose English was poor merely counted the words, comparing one card with another.
How to let Ruby know the truth?
A droplet of blood had fallen on to his hand from the cut above his eyebrow where the rifle butt had split the skin, and for a moment he had stared at it as though surprised there was any blood left in his body, he was that thin.
A number of flies began to buzz around the spilled blood. Another droplet fell on to the card as an idea formed in his mind.
He glanced swiftly around him. The coast was clear. The prisoners were concentrating on writing their cards, the guards on collecting the finished articles and reading what they had written.
Nobody saw him press his thumb into the droplet of blood that had fallen on to the card. Was it too obvious? He didn’t think so. No more than a smudge, almost like mud – unless one looked very closely.
It was done! Now all he had to hope was that nobody would notice it.
His heart had been in his mouth as the postcards were snatched and flicked like a pack of cards by an officer who could read English. He might see the right number of words, but he was holding them at the corners. The imprint was hidden. After that they were placed into a box marked with the Red Cross insignia. The cards were taken away for despatch – at least he hoped they were.
Now John lay back on his hard bed. From outside the tent he heard the chattering of monkeys, the droning of insects; and inside there was the sobbing of a man a few beds down from his. Groans, murmured prayers and whispering voices were background noises he’d grown used to.
Despite everything, he still felt incredibly elated. His message was there on the postcard, printed in blood. Never mind the reassuring words that he was well and being taken care of. The bloodied fingerprint would tell the truth. But would Ruby see it and understand? He sorely hoped that she would.
England
On the day Mary Sweet finally left Oldland Common for good, the train journey to the east of England seemed to take for ever. It had been bad enough the first time round when she’d fled in haste to visit Michael in hospital. Fear and apprehension had travelled with her, and the dull weather had done nothing to raise her spirits. She had left early in the morning in autumnal darkness, a darkness that had only lightened to grey thanks to the gloomy sky and pouring rain.
Just like now, the train had passed acre after acre of ploughed-up fields, the monotony intermittently relieved by a green oasis of pastureland where cattle or sheep still grazed. Even though they passed close to Newmarket, the heart of British horse racing, she didn’t see any horses. Grassland was precious; horses were a luxury, though they were also a valuable alternative to cattle. Horse steak wasn’t dissimilar to beef, though she hadn’t tried it herself.
Leaving home for good had left her with an empty, cold feeling inside. It wasn’t just leaving her family and the village she’d grown up in; the prospect of what she would have to face at the other end of her journey also concerned her. She’d seen Michael’s bandaged hands and torso on her last visit. Now he was due to have his bandages finally removed.
She’d thought herself prepared for the event, but still her stomach rolled nervously at finally having to face the extent of the injuries that Michael had endured.
Michael’s job was necessary to the war effort, but extremely dangerous. She had to face that. But how injured was he? She’d been told he would fly again and not to worry, but what did that mean? People would say anything to help her get over the shock. She didn’t blame them for doing so, but despite their reassurances she couldn’t help imagining it being worse than they admitted to.
They’d explained all this to her on her previous visit. Only some of it had sunk in. Questions remained. How badly scarred would he be? Could he still walk? Yes, he must be able to walk otherwise they wouldn’t have said that he would still fly once he’d recovered. But his hands? His beautiful hands? Would he be able to feel her when he touched her?
All those questions still hung in her mind on this journey through the flat Lincolnshire countryside. Before she’d left, her father had taken her to one side and reminded her of where she needed to be. ‘Your place is with him. By his bedside.’
‘I should have moved there when he asked me to,’ she’d replied.
Her father had looked a little sad at the prospect of losing her, but had said, ‘He’s your husband, Mary, and it’s only right that you should be living with him, not here with us.’
It was dark by the time she’d alighted from the train at a branch station. The sound of a whistle screeched before the name of the station – the one she’d travelled to on her last visit – was shouted out. A dim blue lantern, similar to the dim bulbs they used in the railway carriages nowadays, cast just enough of its cold, blue light so people could see where they were going. Apart from the lantern, the unfamiliar surroundings were as black as a coal pit.
Shouts and laughter fell on to the platform as a whole battalion of army privates bundled out of the train carriages making jokes and laughing, their burning cigarettes glowing red in the deep black night.
On the train, one of them had told her that they were on their way to important east coast bases. The south and east coasts would be the front line should the enemy invade and had been packed with troops since the outbreak of war – more so now the Americans had arrived.
She had looked at the faces of the private and his companions, bright and cheerful despite the gloomy compartment, young faces that would soon turn old and worldly wise once they’d experienced what a war really was.
What the station lacked in light it made up for with other noises besides those of the men in uniform. Their boots clattered over the platform and clouds of steam hissed from the underbelly beneath the locomotive and the funnel on top.
In her heavily pregnant state, Mary’s sense of smell was extremely acute, sickeningly so sometimes. Damp wool, men’s sweat, cigarettes and smoke smelling of cinders from the steam engine formed an acrid brew that made Mary gag. Swaying slightly and closing her eyes, she placed her hand over her nose and mouth.
The crowd pressed on around her, a human tide surging towards the ticket inspectors and the exit, the former only serving to slow the flow but determined to do their job.
Once the throng had largely dissipated and she had room to breathe, she placed her case between her feet, took a deep breath and looked around her. Last time she had come here, Mike’s friend Guy had been waiting for her and taken her straight to the hospital, where she had stayed until it was clear Mike was out of danger. Then she had returned to the only home she’d ever known, to pack up and return.
The light from the lantern threw a pool of light immediately in front of her. Whoever had been sent to pick her up would see her here, picked out by the poor light and close to the station clock. She looked up at it, saw its Roman figures. Nine o’clock. It had indeed been a long day, though according to some on the train, fifteen hours to cross from one side of the country to the other was quite normal.
Emerging from the gaping blackness of the exit, a figure paused to flash his identification at one of the ticket inspectors. Like a shadow that had come to life, he made his way to her, the only woman still on the platform. It wasn’t Guy.
‘Mrs Dangerfield?’
The light played tricks with his features, but his uniform was that of a member of RAF ground crew. He was of average height and build, not a prepossessing man at all, though there was something odd about one side of his face. At first glance, she put it down to the dark shadows thrown by the blue lantern. On second glance, she knew the cold light was not to blame.
Fear and a creeping sickness tightened her stomach. The skin on one side of his face resembled a mask, a cruel mask that made it seem as though his face had been torn apart then reassembled from the wrong pieces. The skin of his right cheek looked paper thin, one eye slanting downwards, his mouth uneven from a silky patch of skin that seemed to have been sewn on to his upper lip.
Her mind raced and her blood ran cold as the man in front of her saluted smartly and offered to take her case.
‘Yes … yes … of course.’
‘My name’s Sergeant Paul Innes. It’s a bit late to go straight to the hospital, so I have strict orders to make you comfortable tonight and take you to the hospital tomorrow.’
Mary tried not to let her mouth hang open, but it wasn’t easy. It was difficult to take her eyes off the damaged side of his face. Suddenly she became aware of her bad manners.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said apologetically and tried to sound light-hearted, as though nothing was out of the ordinary and his face was unblemished.
My voice sounds shaky, she thought. My smile is too stiff, and as for my hands …
She curled the fingers of one hand into her perspiring palm. Luckily she was wearing gloves otherwise she would have left red crescents behind. Her teeth ached with the effort of smiling and pretending that nothing was wrong.
Sergeant Innes didn’t appear to notice, or if he did, he hid it well. It was no good. She just had to apologise properly.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to stare.’
He smiled a lop-sided smile. ‘Oh, don’t you be sorry about that, Mrs Dangerfield. I’m afraid it’s a legacy of a burning Hampden bomber. I’m still alive. That’s all that matters. The wing commander sends his apologies, Mrs Dangerfield. He would have collected you himself, but he’s on Ops tonight. I’ve been ordered to take you to your cottage. I’ve got you some food in and lit the fire.’
He was affable and kind, but she shuddered as she wondered how many times he’d had to carry out this duty.
After placing her luggage on the back seat, he helped her into the car. They moved off, away from the town and into a dark, flat landscape. It took about an hour travelling along unlit country roads before they finally arrived at Woodbridge Cottage.
Once out of the car, he grabbed her luggage from the back seat, helped her out from the front seat and switched on a torch. They followed the flashlight’s circular beam the length of the garden path.
‘Where are you from, Sergeant?’ Asking a question helped to keep their conversation light and friendly, away from the taboo subject of Michael’s injuries.
‘Birmingham.’
She couldn’t help remarking that he was a long way from home, simply because she felt she had to say something, however innocuous.
‘We’re all a long way from home, Mrs Dangerfield.’ Sergeant Innes didn’t seem to have noticed her anxiety. ‘But that’s the nature of war. All hands to the pumps, no matter where they come from. Right. Open sesame.’
The beam from the torch picked out a bird box on the right-hand side of the cottage door. She couldn’t remember it from her last visit but then she’d spent so little time here. It had been just somewhere to sleep after spending most of her time with Mike at the hospital. A huge iron key hung on a hook just below it.
‘Here it is,’ he said. He took the key and swivelled the torch ahead of them to pick out the keyhole. Now she noticed that the cottage had a sweet little front door. The key clunked as it turned in the lock.
Although the sergeant wasn’t that tall, he had to duck to enter, and the top of her head barely missed the frame too. She smiled at the thought of Michael hitting his head on its low oak lintel. A pang of regret clutched at her heart. If only she’d come here sooner. They could have enjoyed some time together, talking about the baby, walking through the surrounding countryside. On the first visit she had stayed here all alone. Hopefully on this visit she wouldn’t be alone for too long.
Precious as it was, some time together was all it would have been if she had come up earlier. Nothing she could have done would have prevented what had happened.
Because it had been dark, she hadn’t seen much of the garden and had been too preoccupied to notice anything on her first visit. Tonight she smelt damp green leaves and fertile earth and imagined that in summer it was a riot of smells and colour thanks to sweet-scented stock, honeysuckle and lavender. Although the countryside was flatter than at home, the smells at least were the same.
The door opened directly into the living room, where a welcoming fire glowed in the grate. Once the blackout curtains were pulled, Sergeant Innes switched on a table lamp. The room echoed the look of a summer garden with its chintz-covered armchairs and flowery curtains. Despite the fact that the seats of the chairs sagged a little, they looked comfortable.
The sergeant offered to take her suitcase upstairs for her.
‘There’s no need. I can manage.’ She wanted him to go. Her legs felt terribly weak. She reached out and grasped the back of a chair.
Sergeant Innes reached out as if to steady her. ‘I think you need to sit down, Mrs Dangerfield. You’ve had a long journey in your condition.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ she said, attempting a light laugh. ‘You surely have more important duties with the air force.’
‘Not at all. That’s what I’m here for, Mrs Dangerfield. Would you like me to make you a cup of tea before I leave?’
‘No,’ she said, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m quite fine now.’
There was kindness in his eyes. ‘Now this here’s the kitchen,’ he said. The door he opened was almost a mirror image of the front door, planks of pine nailed to two cross braces.
‘I remember,’ said Mary.
‘Ah, yes. Of course you do. Well, there you are. It’s small but cosy. I’ve got you in a few tinned things, your bacon ration and some eggs. Had a hard job getting those,’ he said to her. ‘But where there’s a will there’s a way – and a farmer over the back field willing to gamble just about anything in a game of cards.’ He winked. The corner of his damaged right eye drooped downwards, giving him a strange, almost roguish look. ‘Trouble is he isn’t much of a gambling man. Oh, and I persuaded Mrs Catchpole, who does a bit of cleaning for the officers, to make a nice toad in the hole. Not that there’s likely to be many toads in it, but I guarantee it’ll be tasty.’
For the first time since seeing his injured features, Mary controlled her fear and looked him directly in the face.
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I think I’ll be very comfortable here.’
‘No bother, Mrs Dangerfield. Not sure what time I’m to pick up your husband, but don’t count on it being too early.’
‘Whatever time is fine. It gives me a chance to settle in.’
Once the door had closed behind him and the big iron key was hanging on yet another nail to one end of the fireplace, Mary sat down and thought about things. Just as she’d composed her expression to face Sergeant Innes, she’d have to do the same for her husband when she saw him tomorrow. It wouldn’t be easy and she thought about it long and hard, so long that she hardly noticed that the only light in the room was from the glowing fire and the meagre table lamp. Dancing shadows played over the walls, but they didn’t worry her. Today was almost over. It was tomorrow she was worried about. How would she cope?
She took a deep breath. Control yourself. Be calm.
The words popped into her mind and she took instant notice. The best thing to do is to keep yourself occupied.
Determinedly, she got to her feet. Sergeant Innes had gone to a lot of trouble. It was only right that she should enjoy what he’d arranged for her. She recalled Michael telling her that although far from town, the cottage had some degree of electricity downstairs.
‘Upstairs it’s candles or oil lamps,’ he’d told her.
Her first stop was the kitchen. Besides the eggs and bacon Sergeant Innes told her about, she found bread and cheese, tinned meats and fresh vegetables set in the middle of a simple pine table. She couldn’t help wondering whose ration card had been used.
A covered pan containing the toad in the hole was keeping warm on top of a cast-iron range. The coals in the fire bed glowed hot and red. Despite the iron cover, the smell escaped, made her nose tingle and her stomach rumble. However, eating could wait. This was the cottage Michael had earmarked to be their home for the duration of the war – or at least as long as he was stationed here.
There was no gas stove. Not surprising, really. They were in the midst of fertile agricultural land, some of the best in England. She guessed there was no gas for miles. As long as she kept the kitchen door open, the range would heat the house and cook the food. Hunger hadn’t been much of an issue the first time she’d been here as she was so worried about Michael. But now he was coming home and she had it in mind to make sure the house was well presented. In the morning, she would explore the garden and pick some flowers, even if she had to put them in jam jars around the house.
After placing the tinned things on to a dresser and the rest into a metal meat cupboard, she wandered back into the living room.
Downstairs, the cottage had only the two rooms, the kitchen and the living room. The large inglenook fireplace took up one third of a wall, and while the furniture was shabby and the carpets worn, the atmosphere was warm and cosy. The smell of polish lingered in the air, evidence that someone cared for the cottage and was doing what they could to make the old furniture last that bit longer.
Armed with a wax candle she’d found in a kitchen drawer, she made her way upstairs. The candle flame flickered in the draught as she explored the two bedrooms. The front bedroom, the largest, held a double bed with a plain wooden headboard and smaller, matching footboard. The floors were of bare wood, a rag rug in pink and red to one side of the bed, a smaller green one close to the window. The curtains were of a Paisley-patterned fabric in matching colours. A wine-coloured satin eiderdown sat on top of a faded candlewick bedspread that might once have been yellow but was now a very pale lemon.
The second bedroom had a small square window, a chest of drawers and a single bed with a patchwork cover. She opened the window at the exact same time as the moon chose to emerge from behind a navy blue cloud. The air was crisp and cold. The flat land of Lincolnshire was spread out before her like a patchwork counterpane.
The blackout curtains were not drawn. She wondered at that, then recalled that Michael had said something about the pilots using the escaping light from this cottage as a kind of marker buoy, situated as it was at the very end of the runway. ‘Against blackout regulations and all that, but we don’t get many enemy bombers up here. Too far and not too much for them to bomb when they get here. Except us, that is.’
He’d laughed at his own joke, at least she’d thought it was a joke. Perhaps that business about bombers being able to see a light from ten thousand feet was rubbish.
The sight of the moon stirred a vein of anger inside her. She slammed the window shut and pulled the curtains, blotting out its silvery light. She didn’t want to look at the moon, the bomber’s moon, as Michael had described it.
‘It’s great for navigation,’ he’d told her. ‘The moon shines on a river, the water reflects light so we follow water or a river all the way to our target. Once we get there we can see everything.’
He’d been more reticent about adding that because they could more easily see the ground, those on the ground could also see them. After she’d challenged him, he’d admitted that there was a greater chance of being hit by an anti-aircraft gun on a clear night such as this.
Just for once in her life she found herself hating the moon, yet there had been a time when she’d loved it. She didn’t know for sure whether the moon had been shining on the night Michael had been hit, but she couldn’t help hating it in case it had aided his plane being shot down.
She managed to eat some of the toad in the hole, and left the rest for the next day. In the morning, she ate only a slice of toast and drank a cup of tea, and even had trouble keeping that down. Yes, there was the usual feeling of nausea, but this morning it was coupled with a sickening fear that lay in her stomach like a bag of rocks.
Closing her eyes, she willed it to pass and uttered a heartfelt prayer. ‘Please, God, don’t let him be too badly scarred. Please!’
It was a day in autumn 1942, not long after Mary had left to join her husband Michael, when something happened that made her cousin, Frances, determined to find her mother. Perhaps it might never have entered her head if it hadn’t been for her cousin Ruby’s hand-me-down red dress and her friend Pearl – suitably armed with her ration card – insisting on calling in at ‘Mother’ Powell’s for a packet of Woodbines before they went to the dance that evening at the church hall.
Gertrude Powell’s shop meant a bit of a detour, but Pearl had been insistent. ‘I can’t go without a smoke, Frances. Sure you don’t want to join me?’ Smoking didn’t appeal to Frances. The taste was bad enough; the smell of people who did smoke was even worse. ‘I’ve no wish to smell like an ashtray,’ she’d countered.
Pearl was seeing a freckle-faced boy named Ty. He was from New York and kind of boastful because he came from the ‘Big Apple’, as he called his home city.
‘He wants us to go the whole way before he heads for France,’ Pearl whispered as they tottered on three-inch heels down Court Road to the village store.
Frances sucked in her breath. ‘Are you going to?’
‘I don’t know. I want to, but … well … my mum would kill me if I got pregnant.’
‘So you won’t let him.’
‘I didn’t say that. I might. I mean, you know how it is. There are times when you just can’t help yourself.’
Frances thought about Ed, his sweet words pouring like honey into her ear, the feel of his body against her, the boyish face and the touch of his hands … Although she was fond of him, she wasn’t sure whether she was inclined to give in.
Mrs Powell looked up when they entered, her black eyes fixing them with a dull glare, her nostrils flaring. Her face was white and her hair and clothes as black as her eyes. She wore no discernible expression, said nothing and stood stiff as a poker. If they didn’t know better, they might think she was made of wax, not real at all.
‘Five Woodbines, please. There’s my ration book.’
Pearl slammed her mother’s ration book down on the counter.
While Mrs Powell stamped her ration book and reached for the cigarettes, Pearl held her skirt some way above her knees and asked Frances if her stocking seams were straight. Not that they were real stockings, of course. Real stockings were hard to come by these days.
‘My little brother drew them with the brown from the box of crayons he had for last Christmas. The trouble was he wasn’t wearing his glasses.’
Frances fancied that one seam was a little crooked, but not enough to worry about. ‘They’re fine. Did you use gravy browning?’ Gravy browning turned white legs a more subtle shade of brown, almost like stockings but not quite.
Dropping her grip on her hem, Pearl shook her head. ‘I got some of that natural brown stuff in Woolworths when I last went to Kingswood. I heard it doesn’t go all streaky in the rain like gravy browning. What did you use?’
‘Bisto. But I think I’ll get some of that stuff you’ve got when I’m in town next.’
‘Bisto does run something terrible. That stuff I got in Kingswood works okay.’
Pearl said ‘okay’ with an American drawl that Frances found quite fascinating. It was as though Pearl was readying herself for a life with her American among the skyscrapers of New York.
Mrs Powell, who had progressed from wax-like stiffness to outright impatience, began tapping her fingers on the counter. ‘Anything else?’
Pearl didn’t hear her, busily whispering in Frances’s ear about her freckle-faced American. ‘He has such a nice body—’
‘Excuse me!’ Mrs Powell’s voice rattled into their conversation. ‘I have other things more important to do than wait on a couple of young floozies out to throw themselves at anything in trousers!’
Pearl’s mouth dropped open.
Frances was taken aback but rebounded swiftly. ‘There’s no need for that, Mrs Powell. We’re paying customers!’
Glowering, Mrs Powell snatched the cigarettes back and threw the ration book across the counter, where it slid off the edge and on to the floor.
Pearl turned bright red. ‘What about my cigarettes?’
‘You’ll have to do without,’ snarled Mrs Powell. ‘Get some off your American friends. I dare say you’ll be giving them something in return.’
‘I don’t like your insinuation,’ declared Frances. Although she was seething inside, she lifted her chin high and spoke with cold precision.
‘Insinuation? Insinuation?’ Gertrude Powell, a middle-aged woman who looked older than her years, laughed, though not jovially. It conveyed nothing but contempt. ‘There’s no “insinuation” about it! You come into my shop and keep me waiting while you hitch up your skirts and show your knickers!’
Pearl looked horrified. ‘I was only checking my seams …’ She sounded as though she was about to burst into tears.
‘That’s a disgusting thing to say,’ snapped Frances. ‘She was just showing me her stocking seams that her brother drew on her legs. So let’s have the Woodbines.’
‘I’ve told you, no,’ said Mrs Powell. Her pointed features jutted forward over the counter, reminding Frances of a gargoyle on a church roof. ‘Now get out of my shop.’
‘No,’ Frances said, her expression just as adamant as that of the shopkeeper.
Eyes unblinking and without sparkle, Mrs Powell ignored the ration book Frances was holding out to her.
‘As for you,’ she said, looking Frances up and down, ‘you’re no better than that fancy cousin of yours. Always with a different feller. Is that a red dress you’re wearing beneath that coat? Yes, I can see it is. Well, that’s no big surprise, is it? Given what your mother was like – a scarlet woman if ever there was one. I hear tell that she liked soldiers too, and the more the merrier!’
Up until this moment, Frances might have treated this whole affair differently. She and Pearl would probably have laughed about it all the way along the road. But she’d slighted Ruby and her mother. Frances could barely remember her mum, but she couldn’t stomach the older woman’s insults.
‘Take that back, you evil cow!’
Pearl gasped. She’d never heard Frances swear before – not in public, anyway.
Mrs Powell’s coal-black eyes glared at Frances from deep sockets. Her spidery fingers gripped the counter top as though she were using it to keep herself upright.
‘I’ll do no such thing! Your mother was a Jezebel! A scarlet woman. A whore, a slut and any other name you can think of that means the same thing …’
Tears stinging her eyes, Frances ran out of the shop, the strident words ringing out behind her, Pearl at her side.
Once outside, Frances took deep breaths and told herself to calm down, that they were just cruel accusations, that Mrs Powell was unhinged. She’d never used to be quite so bad, but that was before her daughter Miriam had gone away to live with her grandmother.
Their hurrying footsteps echoed on the chill night air, the light from Pearl’s torch picking out the uneven stones that made up the pavement.
‘Frances? Do you think she’s mad?’
Pearl’s breathless tone interrupted the thoughts that Frances was trying to set into some order. As a child, she’d entertained the notion that someday her mother would come back for her. She’d grown up since then and her life at her uncle’s had been mostly happy. Her mother had never figured prominently in her thoughts. Now, thanks to Mrs Powell’s nasty comments, things had changed.
A yearning to know the truth had suddenly emerged like a buried spring bulb coaxed from the earth by incessant rain. Mrs Powell’s words had brought all those old wishes back to the surface.
‘Do you think she’s mad?’ Pearl asked again.
‘As mad as a March hare!’
They had sped on in silence towards the village hall, Frances wondering how much Pearl had taken in and what she thought of the outburst. Even though she’d barely known her mother, it pained Frances to have her maligned. Surely she can’t have been that bad? She didn’t want Pearl to think so.
But Pearl had noticed. ‘Those things Mrs Powell said,’ Pearl began, her voice hesitant. ‘Were they true?’
‘No,’ snapped Frances, glad of the blackout. Pearl must not see that her eyes were moist with hot tears. ‘My mother was wild, but she was not a whore. She was not!’
The music was loud and the village hall was hot and stuffy. Just for a heartbeat, Frances looked down at her dress once her coat was hung up. Scarlet. The colour was scarlet.
She took Pearl by surprise, grabbing her arm. ‘You won’t say a word,’ she hissed. ‘Promise you won’t repeat what that old cow said about my mother. I don’t want the whole village to know.’
Frances’s tone was insistent. She didn’t realise how much her fingers were digging into Pearl’s arm until the girl winced and asked her to let go.
‘I won’t say anything. I promise. It’s a secret. Right?’ Pearl smiled nervously before trotting off to meet her soldier boy.
‘Can I share this secret?’
A handsome stranger – a Yank at that – emerged it seemed from nowhere. He had black hair, an inquisitive expression and held a cigarette in his right hand. His smile was an odd mixture of self-satisfaction and amusement.
Frances felt her cheeks warming. She couldn’t be sure whether he’d heard or not. ‘It’s none of your business!’
‘I was close by. I couldn’t help it.’
His smile annoyed her. Was he just teasing her or had he heard what she’d said? ‘Then you should have made your presence known.’
‘But overhearing secrets is such great entertainment.’
‘It’s rude!’
His smile grew wider and he raised his eyebrows.
Frances snatched her scarf from off her head. Her hair fell in a glossy veil about her shoulders.
‘I’ve heard tell a woman’s hair is her crowning glory,’ he said to her. ‘I was undecided up to now, but after seeing yours …’
‘Stop teasing me.’
‘I’m not. I’m being my usual most sincere self.’
Tonight had started badly and she was in no mood to cope with this. She was about to tell him to get lost when she caught sight of the look in his eyes. His expression had changed. Frances realised he meant exactly what he’d said.
‘Frances! I see you’ve met my friend, Declan O’Malley. Declan, meet my cousin, Frances.’
Ruby Sweet, Frances’s cousin, looked a dream in a blue dress cut down from the bridesmaid’s dress she’d worn at her sister Mary’s wedding. Her hair was bundled into a black snood scattered with sequins. Ruby had crocheted it and Bettina Hicks, their father’s dear friend, had sewn on numerous sequins from what seemed to them a secret haberdashery that she kept in her loft. Ruby had an elegance and confidence beyond her years. Becoming a Home Economist had a lot to do with it. Speaking in front of a room full of strangers had caused her to grow up quickly. She still looked her age, but there was something more commanding about her.
Ruby slid her hand possessively through the crook of the American’s arm and smiled when he bent to kiss her cheek. So this was Ruby’s latest beau! Frances knew there was one but hadn’t met him until now.
Declan O’Malley’s demeanour was warm and courteous. His smile was all embracing.
‘I should have known,’ he said, shaking his head and adopting a doleful expression. ‘Two beauties like you had to belong to the same family. Tell me: how do the guys around here cope with their fluttering hearts?’
Ruby nudged him in the ribs. ‘Declan! Stop that.’ She turned her attention to Frances, her gaze running down over the red dress that had once been hers. ‘You haven’t spilt anything on it already, have you?’
Frances shook her head. ‘No. I’ve only just arrived.’
‘You look flustered. Are you a little peeved?’ asked a smiling Ruby, still clinging on to the American’s arm.
‘Of course not,’ Frances responded hotly. ‘Why should I be?’
In the presence of the good-looking American, Frances held back from telling her what Mrs Powell had said.
Ruby was not fooled. Looking her cousin in the eye she said, ‘Frances! I can tell, you know.’ She turned and smiled at Declan O’Malley. ‘My cousin has always worn her heart on her sleeve, even when she was a child.’
Declan’s expression was inscrutable. ‘But she’s not a child now. That much is obvious.’
Frances had been simmering at being referred to as a child. ‘That’s right. I’m not.’
Ruby apologised. ‘It’s just that you seem a bit off.’
‘I’m fine. I was just wondering whether red suits me.’
A small frown puckered Ruby’s forehead. ‘Of course it does. Actually, it suits you better than it suited me. Red is your colour. Don’t you think so, Declan, my love?’
Declan, a knowing smile on his lips, added his opinion. ‘I have to agree with Ruby. You look like a movie star. Perhaps I can have the pleasure of dancing with you later on?’ His very black pencil-thin eyebrows rose with quizzical amusement.
‘Perhaps you can,’ returned Frances, unable to stop herself from blushing.
His smile was warm and full of the confidence every American seemed to have in buckets.
‘I’m not the best dancer in the world, but I promise not to step on your toes.’
Wishing her face didn’t feel so hot, Frances tossed her head so that her hair fell around her shoulders in the seductive way it had earlier. ‘Oh, I don’t think you’re being honest, Declan. I bet you’re a really good dancer.’
‘I try to be.’
‘There!’ Ruby said in breathless exclamation. ‘My good friend Declan is in agreement with me. You look good in red. It’s been confirmed.’
Frances thanked them both, at the same time wondering that Ruby had called Declan a good friend, not ‘my sweetheart’, ‘my boyfriend’. Though she had referred to him as ‘my love’, earlier. But that was without meaning, Frances decided. Ruby tended to use the same endearments for customers, for everyone.
Ruby flitted from one man to the next, never staying too long in the company of any of them. Except her driver, thought Frances. Johnnie Smith, the corporal from the Royal Corps of Transport, had been assigned to her by the Ministry of Food. It had been his task to drive her from one baking demonstration to another. Ruby had spent more time with him than any other man, even if only in a working capacity.
But Johnnie Smith had been taken prisoner when Singapore had fallen to Japanese invasion. If it hadn’t been for that, who knew what might have happened between the pair of them.
Frances said nothing until Ruby’s friend Declan was out of earshot on the other side of the hall ordering fresh drinks. He’d been cornered by George Gibbs, an old farmer who was out tonight dressed in his Sunday best which, unfortunately for him, smelled of mothballs and mouse dust. Frances took advantage of being alone with her cousin to ask about her mother.
‘Ruby. Do you remember my mother?’
Ruby frowned. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
Ruby appeared agitated. At the same time she surveyed the dancers on the floor as though their steps were slightly out of sequence and needed a severe frown to bring them into line.
‘I’m not sure. You need to ask my dad.’
Ruby’s eyes continued to search the dance floor. Her lips were sucked inwards. ‘You mean Uncle Stan knows?’
Ruby shrugged and still didn’t meet her cousin’s look. ‘I don’t know. Not for sure. What’s brought this on?’
‘I would like to meet her.’
Ruby’s frown returned. ‘Meet her? After all this time?’
‘She’s my mother. I want to know what she was like.’
Seeing the desperate look in her cousin’s eyes, Ruby reconsidered. ‘Well, I suppose it’s only natural that you would want to meet up with her, but—’
The time seemed ripe to change the subject. ‘The spread looks good. If you hear what seems like thunder, don’t worry! It’s just my stomach rumbling!’
Ruby pretended to treat the matter in a light-hearted manner. At the same time, she eyed Frances with nervous apprehension. She had not expected her cousin to ask something like this. What with that and the way she’d seen Declan look at Frances, the night had not turned out exactly as she’d hoped. Turning the conversation to food was an acceptable alternative to discussing more serious matters.
‘We’re not allowing anyone to indulge until the interval or there’ll be nothing left. I think the apple cake will go well, don’t you? Did you know that dried apples are fetching nine pence per pound?’
Frances replied that she didn’t know. Quite frankly, she didn’t care, but if it took discussing the price of dried fruits to stop Ruby’s questions, then she would do it.
‘Dates are the cheapest. Seven pence a pound.’
Declan still hadn’t returned from fetching drinks for himself and Ruby.
Ruby carried on talking about the price of provisions until he’d signalled from the other side of the room, raising the two drinks he’d bought.
‘I’d better go.’ Ruby paused, her expression one of concern. ‘You will be all right, won’t you?’
Frances nodded. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
Ruby stroked her cousin’s arm in a gesture of sympathy. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Is that all right with you?’
Frances nodded again. Ruby was not to know that she had already made her mind up: she was going to find her mother. Nobody would stop her. She wouldn’t let them.
On the other side of the room, Declan handed Ruby her drink. ‘Does your cousin want something?’
Ruby lay her hand upon his arm. ‘With regard to your comments to my cousin and the way you looked at her, Declan, can I remind you that Frances is only fifteen years old?’
His smile gave nothing away. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’