Wartime Sweethearts (39 page)

He took hold of the hamper, opening the car door and placing it on the back seat. He then made as if to take the case from her too, but Ruby jerked it away from him.

‘Up to you,’ he said, leaving her to slide into the back seat while he opened the driver’s door.

The twins exchanged a muted grin through the car window. They both mouthed goodbye, Mary fingering her mouth as she smiled and pulled a face in the driver’s direction.

Folding her gloved hands in her lap, Ruby settled back, determined to enjoy the ride and the day out despite the morose attitude of Corporal Smith. She also studied the back of his head. He had a thick neck sprinkled with golden hairs that the army barber had failed to razor away. They were only discernible in a certain light, perhaps the reason the barber hadn’t trimmed them off.

Ruby amused herself picking specks of dust off her new gloves. They were of grey leather and again offered on loan by Mrs Hicks. ‘We all want you to be a great success, my dear.’

Ruby guessed she was doing her best to keep herself occupied while Michael was missing. Mary too was keeping herself busy, buzzing around the shop and the house, even helping their father out in the garden.

Ruby got out her powder compact and touched up her nose. Then she took out her lipstick, plastering on another coat of red, sucking in her lips to ensure it was evenly spread.

She sensed Corporal Smith glancing at her via the car’s rear-view mirror, but didn’t manage to catch him at it. He faced straight ahead unmoving. as though he were carved from wood.

The fields and village cottages were left behind as the road wound up through Hanham and into St George, a suburb of Bristol. Soon the semi-detached houses gave way to a shop-lined street.

‘Are we nearly there?’

‘Yes, miss.’

‘It’s very different here,’ she said, meaning it was different from the more rural aspect of her home village and the suburbs they had so far passed through.

‘This is where ordinary people live, miss; them that work hard for a living.’

Unsure that she’d heard right, Ruby frowned. ‘I get up at five to begin making bread. Me or my sister.’

He grunted something unintelligible.

Ruby sat back again.

The demonstration was to take place at a Methodist church hall somewhere around here. The closer they got, the more nervous she became, though the collywobbles weren’t as rife as they had been, a fact she was very glad about. However, if she didn’t concentrate on something other than giving the talk and demonstration, they could easily return. Despite Corporal Smith’s previous statement, she decided to attempt pleasant conversation.

She poked the corporal on the shoulder, partly to gain his attention and partly by way of reprimand.

‘Have you done this before, corporal?’

‘Yes, miss. I’ve driven a car many times. It’s what I do in the army.’ His tone was unaltered, in fact he spoke in a dull monotone as though he had no wish for the conversation to continue, as though he made himself be uninteresting so she wouldn’t bother him.

Ruby wasn’t giving up that easily. ‘I meant, have you driven a Kitchen Front Economist around before?’ That’s what Andrew Sinclair had declared was her title: Kitchen Front Economist.

Corporal Smith was slow in replying. In fact she fancied he was chewing, either that or grinding his teeth. Anyway she perceived that his jaw was moving. ‘No. I drove a colonel around.’

‘Oh. I expect that was far more interesting than driving me around.’

He said nothing.

‘Well? Was it more interesting driving the colonel around?’

She sensed the grinding of teeth again, the flexing of his jaw. ‘No, miss. It was more dangerous. Right. Here we are.’

There was no more time to ask him more questions. They’d arrived at a red-brick church hall, the window panes carefully taped as required.

The only question she did ask him was if he could help her get her picnic hamper and case down the front of the hall to a table prepared for her on a raised platform at the far end of the room. Once that was done, he turned to go.

‘Excuse me, corporal. I’d like you to stay.’

‘Why?’ He looked at her grimly as though fully intending to refuse.

‘I think my audience may need reminding of exactly why I am here this evening. It’s because of you, corporal. I need to remind them why I am here. We have to support our armed forces and one way of doing this is to ensure that the ships coming into these shores are used primarily to bring arms to help us win. That’s why we have to get the most nutrition we can from food. And before you begin talking that tripe about people who work for a living, I work for a living and my brother is presently serving as a merchant seaman. He’s already been sunk once and survived. It sounds as though you too survived, you and your colonel.’

At first she didn’t think she’d got through to him, but suddenly, the surly countenance softened.

‘You’re right. And you’re wrong. I survived. My colonel snuffed it.’

Ruby was lost for words. She guessed he was one of those not long back from Norway.

‘I came back before Norway fell,’ he told her as though reading her mind. ‘Orders. Unfortunately we were attacked by a low-flying fighter. Couldn’t be helped. It’s war. Isn’t it.’

His tone was chilling. There was no point in sympathetically stating how awful it must have been. She could see that from the look in his eyes.

‘Will you stay?’ she asked him. ‘The sight of a uniform does tend to remind people of why I’m doing this.’

He nodded curtly.

A hum of conversation ran through the audience, mostly of women, though Ruby was surprised to see there were also a few men sprinkled among them. Some wore uniform; some did not.

On this occasion there was nobody else to bang on the table for silence or to hand out leaflets. Everything was down to Ruby. She looked around her and told herself they could hardly hang her for speaking. Once on her feet she used her knuckle to bang on the table and shouted at the top of her voice.

‘Ladies! And gentlemen!’

The response was muted, a gaggle of irrepressible chatter continuing to warble among the hardened few, mostly from the older ladies who thought that as they’d been cooking all their lives there was nothing a whippersnapper like her could hope to teach them.

Beside her, Corporal Smith sprang to his feet. ‘Fall in! Eyes front!’

His voice rang out and immediately brought everyone to silence.

Corporal Smith sat back down, folded his arms and crossed one army-booted foot over the other. He looked totally uninterested in what was going on, his attention firmly fixed on his boots.

Having already laid out her demonstration items on the table, Ruby faced her audience. ‘Unfortunately there is no cooking range or gas stove here, so I’m afraid I have to talk to you quite a lot. I have, however, brought some samples of items I have made from the most frugal ingredients. This war may last a short or a long time, but while it lasts nothing in our kitchen goes to waste. Our boys in the merchant navy will appreciate our efforts. Every bit we save helps them survive. Believe me I know this. My own brother serves with the merchant navy. With our help victory will be achieved!’

When a huge cheer went up, Ruby breathed a sigh of relief. She’d learned stirring up patriotic fervour was the way forward.

She went on to discuss meal planning, the leftovers of one meal being reused in the next one, bulking out with oats, bread and vegetables.

‘You’ve all heard of the Woolton Pie, of course, contrived by the chef at the Savoy Hotel in order to preserve meat rations and named after Lord Woolton, the man in charge at the Ministry of Food. Well, the recipe for one pie isn’t the answer. Recipes to my mind are a day-to-day thing in these troubled times. We can plan, but we must also be flexible.’

She went on to outline a weekly recipe plan based on the Sunday joint, but rolling over ingredients from one day to the next.

‘Our slogan must be, waste not, want not, or use up, don’t throw out.’

After the basic talk, she touched on the subject of desserts.

‘Something special to cheer us all up. We all need a little luxury at some point in our lives, something to look forward to and indulge in.’

The recipes for Brown Betty and a crumble using stale breadcrumbs instead of flour and fat, and a custard tart using dried eggs had been printed by the ministry; Andrew Sinclair had very much approved, telling her that his mother had got their cook to make it.

Afterwards she invited the audience to sample the food she’d brought with her.

‘A good nosh-up. That’s all they’ve bloody come here for,’ grumbled Corporal Smith.

Ruby told him to be quiet. ‘I’ll save some for you.’

He gave no sign that her generosity was appreciated.

She found herself studying him. His features were quite gaunt, very similar in fact to how her brother had looked when he’d come back home for Christmas. His manner was unerringly grouchy, not that she could hold it against him.

Once the audience had filtered out of the church hall, still chattering away and chewing the samples they’d been given, Ruby was left with just Corporal Smith and the caretaker.

‘Something to take home with you,’ she said to the caretaker, carefully wrapping up a large slice of apple pie. ‘It’s got sultanas in it.’

The caretaker was most appreciative and brought both of them a cup of tea.

Ruby turned to the corporal. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. I’ll wash these spoons and we can finish one of the puddings.’

His only response was to shrug his shoulders. ‘If you like.’

‘It’s not poisoned. I promise.’

Her attempt at humour made no difference at all. He shrugged himself into the wide shoulders of his khaki jacket and sipped at his tea.

After she’d washed them, she handed him a spoon. ‘I’ve brought a little cream. Do you like cream?’

She didn’t wait for him to answer but spooned the cream out on to the pudding.

He ate in silence; she watched him, wanting to see him smile or at least say one word to her that wasn’t monosyllabic or openly hostile.

‘Here’s a loaf of bread,’ she said when they’d finally eaten their fill. ‘I made it myself this morning. It’s a fruit loaf. It’s got dried blackcurrants in it. I used to make one before the war with bananas in it. I can’t do that now because I can’t get bananas, but last year’s blackcurrants seem to do the trick. Smell,’ she said, thrusting the loaf close to his face.

He eyed her warily over the sweet-smelling bread. She wasn’t entirely sure whether he’d sniffed it or not.

‘It’s yours,’ she said, placing it on the table in front of him. ‘If you don’t want it, leave it. I’m sure the caretaker will make good use of it.’

She began putting everything left over back into her picnic hamper. The food was gone and so were half of the leaflets so she refused the corporal’s offer to carry it for her.

‘I’m not helpless. I mix vast bowls of dough when the electric mixer breaks down and I heave trays of bread around probably long before you’re even out of bed.’

He looked stung at first then accepting. ‘Please yourself.’

‘By the way. You don’t have to drive me around forever. It’s only until I get used to driving myself.’

Again one of those curt nods, yet this time she perceived a pensive look in his eyes.

The atmosphere in the car on the ride home differed from the outward journey. To Ruby it felt as though her driver was considering his options.

Just before arriving back at Sweet’s Bakery, Ruby consulted her diary for the following day. First a demonstration at a factory making nuts and bolts in Bristol, then one to a group of ladies at Mrs Darwen-Kemp’s house; quite frankly the latter unnerved her far more than the former. Ladies who had benefitted from domestic staff were usually more pernickety than women who cooked on a daily basis because they had no idea about preparation. She sighed. Another day with Cheerful Charlie Smith, her less-than-friendly driver. Oh well, both feet first!

‘Corporal Smith. We must endure each other’s company again tomorrow and for some time in the foreseeable future – unless you ask for a transfer. In order to make it as pleasant as possible, perhaps you could tell me your name – your first name.’

She saw him look at her via the rear-view mirror. ‘John. Johnnie.’

‘And I’m Ruby. Ruby Sweet.’

Andrew Sinclair, their contact at the Ministry of Food, had acquired the habit of dropping in unannounced.

Mary opened the door to him. ‘What a surprise! You do know Ruby’s out giving a demonstration?’

He smiled and accepted her offer of cake and a cup of tea.

‘It was you I wanted to see. I’ve arranged with the BBC for one of you to broadcast on a programme entitled
Women at War
. It doesn’t matter which one of you does it, though of course your sister is very busy on the demonstration front and I know you were speaking of dividing duties between you.’

‘Well,’ said Mary, who had just finished mixing dough before setting it aside for the final evening prove, ‘it’s quite a privilege.’

He smiled. ‘I’m glad you think so. No need to worry about transport. I myself will take you there. The ministry has provided me with a car and an almost inexhaustible supply of petrol coupons. I do hope you can come.’

His smile was warm, his look intense. From the very first he’d been able to tell the two of them apart having seen the mole on Ruby’s face – no more than a beauty spot and quite attractive – but it was Mary he was interested in. She had such a serene look in her eyes that it calmed the day-to-day stress of his job. He couldn’t help being attracted to her.

Mary hoped the film of flour on her cheeks – she always acquired some – would help soften the blush she felt rushing there. Was she interpreting his words correctly? ‘Well I’m not sure …’

‘I thought we might go to the theatre afterwards. I hear there’s a good show on at the Hippodrome. It’s only just down the hill from the BBC place in Whiteladies Road. I suppose you know the BBC have made it their headquarters for the duration – London’s too dangerous.’