Home Sweet Home (38 page)

Ruined buildings lined their route, stairs precariously clinging to exposed walls climbing to non-existent upper floors, blackened facades fronting bombed-out and empty interiors.

Ruby and Frances eyed the sad scene with utmost dismay, Frances with Daisy in her arms and hugging Charlie to her side. The last thing she wanted was for him to see the grim reality of this war. Buildings that had survived centuries of other wars, other catastrophes, had been totally destroyed back in '40 and '41. She was no expert but judged it would be some time before new buildings would grow from the ashes of the old.

‘We're half an hour late,' muttered Ruby as she eyed the assembled crowd. It was probably a bit more than that and the crowd would be impatient. Whether she liked it or not, Ruby's talk and demonstration would be as much about entertainment as information on struggling along on meagre rations.

Shops with patched-up windows attracted long queues. Half the time, people weren't entirely sure what they were queuing for, but joined the long line of people in the hope of ending up with something worthwhile, perhaps liver, onions, or tins of meat brought in by merchant ships from the other side of the Atlantic. There were also rumoured to be extra rations in order that people could celebrate the final victory. Everyone was planning street parties. Today Ruby's demonstration was about sandwiches, cakes and as many sweet-tasting delicacies as possible.

The van with the drop-down side was already in situ. To Ruby's surprise, Andrew Sinclair was standing there beside it. On seeing them arrive, he pulled back the cuff of his jacket to peer at his wristwatch, a smart affair with an ivory face and a strap made of crocodile skin.

I could do without you being here, thought Ruby. The fact that he'd lied to his mother about their relationship was not her concern and she never mentioned it. So far neither had he.

Everything was ready for her. Not only had he let down the drop-down side, thus forming a counter, he had also fired up the gas ring and got out what he thought were the things she might need today.

After making sure that Frances was coping with the children, Ruby turned her attention to the crowd that had gathered. She pasted on a hasty smile, the straw hamper bumping against her side before Andrew took it from her. Once that was gone, she addressed the crowd. ‘Sorry for being a bit late. There was an unexploded bomb and we were diverted.'

There were only a few half-baked grumbles. Most people had learned to accept the shortages, the delays and the fact that things were not so dependable as before the war.

‘Oh, well. At least you're here now, love and that's all that matters.'

The speaker was a pink-faced woman with china-blue eyes and a hat that sat on her head as flat as a pancake. Only the addition of a limp feather sticking from one side marked it out as a hat at all.

She noticed her tilting her head to one side, peering enquiringly at Frances.

‘Here,' she suddenly exclaimed. ‘Is that you, young Frances? Well, I never.'

It was Mrs Kepple, the woman who took in lodgers and had been instrumental in reuniting Frances with her mother. To her credit, she had also been partially instrumental in reuniting Frances with Ruby and her uncle.

‘I knew she was a bad 'un, that Mildred Sweet,' she'd said to them.

Ruby headed swiftly for Andrew Sinclair before Mrs Kepple repeated her comments all over again in the midst of these people.

‘I've got everything ready for you,' said Andrew.

He stroked his moustache, a vague smile on his lips.

Ruby thanked him brusquely, immersing herself in the rest of the preparations – a good enough excuse not to be alone with him for too long. She was also thankful that Frances was helping out today, even though her help was somewhat curtailed by Charlie's company.

Once Charlie held a piece of bread and jam in his clenched fist, he sat down on one of the steps leading up into the side entry of the van, chewing slowly and contentedly. Daisy was fast asleep. He promised to keep an eye on her.

‘Ladies!' Ruby cried out at last once everything was done. ‘Today I am going to make a chocolate cake, an ideal confection for little Johnnie's birthday or a special Sunday tea, and perfect for a street party.'

Everyone's ears pricked up at the magic word. Chocolate was the ultimate luxury and so lacking in this wartime world, even in its aftermath. Ruby knew when she'd concocted the recipe that she was on to a winner.

‘The great thing about this cake is that it needs no baking, though you do have to plan your ingredients beforehand. Number one, breadcrumbs. Save every stale slice days before making it. The ingredients are as follows:

‘Eight ounces of breadcrumbs, two ounces of margarine or butter – if you should be so lucky! Two ounces of sugar, two tablespoons of golden syrup or honey, three ounces of cocoa powder – or some real chocolate – courtesy of a friendly ally.' A titter of subdued laughter ran through the crowd. The Americans had real chocolate.

‘If you don't have an American friend or prefer free stockings to chocolate, then cocoa powder will have to do. All you do is to melt your margarine, sugar and syrup or honey in a saucepan then stir in the breadcrumbs and cocoa powder.'

As she talked she lined a sandwich tin using the paper greased with a pat of margarine, glancing up every so often to add some pearl of wisdom, studying the upturned faces, taking a second glance at a man in uniform, glancing swiftly away because it wasn't Johnnie. It couldn't be Johnnie.

She went on to outline another recipe for chocolate cake, this time using flour. The chocolate icing she'd devised was based yet again on margarine and golden syrup, though here again she referred to the likelihood of knowing a generous American and using real chocolate.

By the end of the session, the smell of chocolate was getting to her. So was the look on Andrew Sinclair's face. When was it he'd switched his desire to her from her sister? It didn't matter. What did matter was keeping her job for now and having him pay Frances for helping out.

Frances had the job of circulating with the chocolate cake that, although it hadn't stood for long enough, was now cut into pieces. It wasn't long before there were only crumbs remaining, and even these were picked up on the ends of wet fingers and sucked greedily into hungry mouths.

‘Lovely talk, my dear.' Ruby was washing and packing things away, Andrew hovering at her shoulder and yet again urging her to consider an appointment in London. ‘It could lead to great things.'

‘I might not want great things. I might be quite happy with little things,' she said quite testily. Not that Andrew seemed to notice. He had a knack of not hearing anything hostile to his attentions, or at least that was the way it seemed to her.

Mrs Kepple was a welcome diversion. She was very appreciative of the talk.

‘How lovely of you to say so,' said Ruby.

Andrew looked quite astounded when she handed him the tea towel and the plate she'd been wiping. There was a bowlful of washing up still to do, enough to keep him out of her hair for a while.

‘Not that it weren't something that I didn't already know,' stated Mrs Kepple, her head nodding in time with her words.

Ruby's attention kept being drawn to the feather fluttering like a trapped blackbird with each nod of Mrs Kepple's head.

‘Baking is all very well, my dear, but it's the main courses I concentrate on. I have my lodgers to think about, tough men some of them doing tough jobs. And ladies, of course, but even ladies work in factories nowadays.'

‘Of course they do.' Ruby tried to say more, but when Mrs Kepple was holding forth, even Churchill couldn't have got a word in edgeways.

‘It's this snoek that's a challenge,' said Mrs Kepple. ‘Not a bad fish, I dare say, but it does need a little bit of something to make it more tasty. I add tripe and onions myself.'

‘Really? How interesting.'

The great thing about living in the country was that fresh food, although in short supply, was still obtainable. Not for them the long queues for fresh produce as were seen in the city.

‘I add just a little marge and a drop of milk. The fish and the tripe add the rest.'

To Ruby's ears it sounded revolting, but she smiled and intimated that she would love the recipe if she'd like to send it to her sometime – and instantly regretted it.

‘No need. I've got it here.'

Mrs Kepple pulled out a crumpled envelope from her pocket. Unfolding it took some time, the envelope having been folded numerous times until it was no more than two inches square.

Unseen by Mrs Kepple, Ruby slipped a sidelong smile at Frances. Frances merely grimaced and pulled a long- suffering face.

‘There you are,' exclaimed Mrs Kepple once the scribbled recipe was in view. ‘It's all yours to do with as you please.'

Hesitant but smiling, Ruby took the proffered scrap of paper. ‘Thank you. I'm sure it will come in useful.'

‘I bet the little'un 'ere will love it. Yours, is he?'

Ruby shook her head. ‘No. He's my nephew, and the little girl is my niece – Frances's baby, in fact.'

Smiling affectionately, Mrs Kepple ruffled Charlie's dark curls and cooed over little Daisy, tactfully not asking if Frances was married.

‘Charlie is my brother's son,' Ruby explained. ‘Both his parents are dead. My brother's ship was torpedoed and Charlie's mother was killed in a bombing raid on London.'

‘That's terrible, but that's war for you. But there you are. Come to think of it, I've got a mother and baby staying with me too. She was staying with her grandmother over the Welsh side of the Severn, but she's come 'ere to wait for the baby's father to come home. Baby is as good as gold – not a peep out of it. Not sure whether they're married or not,' she said, her voice low and secretive. ‘But there. Never mind. Live and let live, I always say. Is your baby's father away fighting?' she asked Frances.

‘Yes. But he will be back soon,' Frances said defiantly. Her pride wouldn't allow her to admit that Mrs Kepple's reference to the young woman staying with her was unsettling. Declan had told her he loved her. Of course he would come back.

Charlie began rubbing his eyes, the usual prelude to tiredness. As if that wasn't enough, Daisy began to cry.

‘Time we were going. They're both tired,' said Frances. ‘It's been a long day.'

Mrs Kepple remained chirpy. ‘Tell you what, me dear. How about you come and have a cup of tea with me? I can find the little boy a slice of jam tart.' She bent down so her cheerful face was level with that of Charlie. ‘You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

Charlie, one fist still clenched at the corner of his right eye, gave a cautious nod. He didn't know who this cherry-faced woman was, but she had mentioned something about a jam tart. Charlie loved jam.

Although she too was invited, Ruby declined the offer, citing the fact that she had to clear up. She also wanted to stress to Andrew once and for all that she wasn't interested in him and neither was she interested in transferring to London.

‘You go,' she said to Frances. ‘I'll keep Daisy with me. She's not due for a feed yet, but Charlie is tired and hungry. He's only a small boy with short legs, after all.'

‘And a very deep stomach,' Frances added with a grin.

Resigned to yet again entering Mrs Kepple's house, and feeling a little tired herself, Frances accompanied Mrs Kepple to the tall terraced house with the bay window.

An aspidistra now occupied prime position in the front window, replacing the necessity for net curtains.

‘All living things need light,' Mrs Kepple had pronounced. Frances had presumed she meant just plants, though on reflection decided that people needed light too. Nobody liked winter because it was dark. Everyone preferred lighter nights so it stood to reason they also preferred lighter rooms.

‘I expect Miriam will be home too,' said Mrs Kepple.

‘Miriam?'

‘Yes. That's her name. Mrs Miriam Charles.'

Frances felt a grabbing feeling inside, what Ada Perkins would call a premonition.

Mrs Kepple prattled on with what she knew about Mrs Charles. The young woman had been living with her grandmother in the Forest of Dean. Her name was Miriam and she had a child. More tellingly, she'd said that the young woman's name was Mrs Miriam Charles.

A clammy feeling erupted on her forehead and the hairs on the back of her neck pricked upright. Miriam. A grandmother in the Forest of Dean, a baby and the name Charles. Her brother's name. Or was there really a Mr Charles?

She swiped her free hand across her forehead. It came back damp with perspiration.

Mrs Kepple noticed that something was wrong. ‘Are you all right, dearie?'

Frances managed a reassuring smile. ‘A little dizzy spell, though nothing to worry about. It's gone now.'

The outer door was wide open. The inner door, with its upper panel of jewel-like blue and red glass, was closed. There would be no need to unlock it. Mrs Kepple pushed it open.

Frances stared straight ahead as she entered the familiar house, her hand firmly grasping Charlie's.

Frances had not suspected that when Miriam had left her grandmother's home, she had come to Bristol. To her knowledge, Ada had not written to Uncle Stan, and she probably would have done, just to keep him informed. Nobody would have known whether Ada Perkins, Miriam's grandmother, had written to Miriam's mother. Ada's daughter, Gertrude, had washed her hands of her daughter, a fact she retold to everyone in the village.

‘My daughter is a slut,' she'd told them.

She'd not gone into further detail but there had been a rumour that Miriam had got pregnant by a visiting Methodist minister. Sometime later she disappeared then reappeared in the village with no sign of being pregnant. And now she was here? With a baby? Frances could hardly believe it.