Wartime Sweethearts (21 page)

‘I didn’t expect there to be so many people here.’ Even to her own ears she sounded awestruck.

‘Free admittance, I expect,’ said her father who had now climbed out of his van and was standing beside her. ‘A bit of light relief for nothing.’

He nodded to a sign stating,
BAKING COMPETITION
–
OPEN TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC
.

‘Or the prospect of being gassed,’ Ruby added, a cynical expression on her face as she nodded at another sign relating to the dispensing of gas masks for babies.

They made their way up the steps to where a sign said
COMPETITORS ONLY
. Both girls were carrying large wicker baskets containing the items entered for the baking competition, plus the sealed envelopes containing their recipe ideas. The instructions about using sealed envelopes had been typed on the back of the letter they’d received.

‘Conserving stationery,’ their father had stated. ‘It makes sense.’

Mary had baked a fruit loaf sweetened with blackberries picked from the hedgerows, the plumpest and sweetest Frances had managed to find before being evacuated. She’d added a tablespoon of honey for a little extra sweetness. ‘It’ll taste really sweet with a cup of sugarless tea,’ she’d written on the entry form. ‘If you go without sugar in your tea, this tea time loaf will taste even sweeter.’

Ruby was envious. Mary had always been better at baking bread than she had. She consoled herself with the fact that the loaf had been entered in her name, seeing as she was the one who’d won the regional heat for the Kingswood area.

Ruby had made a trench cake, a recipe she’d found in an old newspaper from the Great War. It seemed kind of apt seeing as they were presently in another war.

The third item was syrup loaf, made from simple ingredients and didn’t take too long to bake.

They’d also brought the required recipes, three main meals and three desserts. The main meal recipes were entered in Mary’s name, the desserts in Ruby’s.

The addition of entering recipes for the competition had come as something of a surprise and it had specifically stated meals made from ordinary ingredients. On top of that it was open to all, which to Stan’s mind had little to do with a competition, more as though somebody was gathering them in for a reason.

Remember that brave men in ships are risking their lives to bring us food. Not a scrap must be wasted. Be frugal and remember that every morsel wasted on the kitchen front means wasted space in ships, and wasted efforts on the part of our merchant fleet
.

Ruby and Mary took that last line on board. Charlie was one of those brave merchant seaman. After Ruby had read it out, both girls looked at each other, determination shining in their eyes.

‘This is personal,’ said Ruby.

Mary agreed. ‘We have to do our bit.’

They’d totally understood – or thought they did – that the organisers were actively requesting ideas for making something from next to nothing. The regional competition at the village fete had required exquisite innovation, a luxury now confined to a pre-war environment.

They’d talked about how to cut corners, how to avoid wastage and what recipes would better suit the likely rationing scheduled to come into being in the New Year.

Despite everything, the prospect of dreaming up ingenious dishes had excited them. They both put in the maximum effort, running their ideas past each other and also past their father. Stan Sweet became their guinea pig, sampling each recipe and giving his honest opinion. Like them he felt that doing their bit supported Charlie and others like him, crossing the oceans to bring them supplies.

The crowd queuing to view the competition, the ‘free entertainment’, Stan Sweet had suggested, turned out to be larger than those queuing for the latest gas masks made for infants. People jostled on all sides, but gradually the queue evened out and they were directed to where they had to go.

‘Excuse me.’ A well-dressed woman with an imperious manner brushed past them, the square shoulders of her impeccably designed suit hunched as though disinclined for her shoulders to brush against theirs.

The woman’s eyes were fixed on the podium set at the far end of the room and she was flanked on either side by two officious-looking men wearing bowler hats and carrying rolled-up umbrellas and brief cases.

Ruby frowned. ‘They’re not the same judges as before.’

Stan Sweet felt uneasy. ‘Don’t look like bakers to me. Looks more like men from the ministry.’

Mary’s feelings echoed theirs. She’d been feeling uneasy all morning and now even more so.

Ruby had confided she was feeling the same but had added, ‘Today should be exciting, but somehow … Oh well,’ she’d said, shrugging off her nervousness as normal. ‘I’ll keep my mind on what comes after.’

Mary suspected she was referring to leaving home.

The entries for the competition were laid out on a table to await judgement. Mary and Ruby were told where to place theirs.

For a moment they both stared at the entries, the gleaming steak and kidney pies, gorgeous-looking cakes decorated with chocolate, buns coated with icing and glacé cherries. Surely such ingredients would be in short supply before long?

Both harbouring feelings of misgiving, the twins exchanged worried looks. Their entries looked so mundane compared to the others.

Mary squeezed her sister’s arm reassuringly. ‘We’ve followed the instructions to the letter. Our recipes make sense. The judges have to see that.’

The envelopes containing suggested recipes for a wartime housewife were handed to the snooty-looking woman with the shoulder pads. Without even looking at them, she pushed them across to the gentlemen their father had said looked like government officials. They were still wearing their bowler hats, umbrellas hung on the backs of their chairs, briefcases clenched between their ankles.

Without referral to the haughty-looking woman, the men began opening the envelopes, their heads coming closely together as they conferred with each other, the brims of their hats almost colliding in the process.

Suddenly the woman in the sharp suit with the sharp features sprang to her feet as though somebody had pricked her with a hat pin.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she shouted in a shrill voice. ‘May I have your attention. Please welcome Alderman Bentley, Lord Mayor of Bristol.’

Chin held high, she began clapping, nodding at the crowd as though urging them to follow her lead.

Those come to see what was happening turned respectful gazes on the august personage coming through the door. As though he were Moses parting the Red Sea, a path opened to enable him to gain the podium.

Mary and Ruby craned their necks. ‘Can you see anything?’ they each asked their father, the tallest of the three of them.

‘Only his hat,’ Stan Sweet replied.

The two girls stood on tiptoe and managed a glimpse of a silky black topper bobbing past between the heads in front of them.

The clapping got louder the closer he got to the podium, becoming more enthusiastic once he was up there, his golden chain shining, his black moustache as thick as a sweeping brush. He wasn’t that tall, the top of his head barely reaching the square shoulders of the woman in the blue suit. Stretching himself to his full height, he began an opening address.

‘Firstly my thanks to Lady Dorothy Huntspill, home economics and dietary advisor to His Majesty’s government, who today has agreed to judge the delicious items entered for this culinary event. Secondly, I thank you all for coming here in these difficult times, though ultimately I am sure you agree, the British people will overcome their present difficulties. Hip hip hooray for the British Empire. Hip, hip hooray for our brave soldiers, sailors and airmen.’

A great cheer went up, the mayor waving his hat as though attempting to fan the flames of patriotism.

As the cheering died, the mayor turned to the woman in blue. ‘Lady Huntspill? Can I ask you to commence judging?’

The woman who he’d confirmed as the one and only judge, came down from the podium like a queen about to mingle with the peasants. She made her way to the table of delights where she moved slowly along, scrutinising some entries but hardly looking at others.

Mary and Ruby perceived a slight wrinkling of her nose and immediately surmised she was scrutinising their entries. Although her expression was unreadable, their hopes began to die.

Every so often she pointed at one of the entries, an indication she wished to taste a little. Only the smallest morsel passed her lips, each time using a fresh spoon or fork.

Ruby leaned towards her sister. ‘Hardly a healthy appetite. No wonder she’s thin.’

Mary agreed with her. ‘I doubt she’s ever going to work in a factory making bombs or drive a tractor. But then, looks can be deceptive …’

Ruby grumbled about upper-class women who only played at baking.

Mary grunted an agreement, her attention continually returning to the two men left on the stage. The judge had not had anything to do with the envelopes that she’d passed to these two officious types who were presently sifting through the contents of each one. Who were they? Why weren’t they taking part in the judging? And what was their interest in the recipes?

‘I can’t stand this much longer,’ moaned Ruby.

Stan Sweet reminded her that it was only a competition. It would be all over by the end of the afternoon and tomorrow would be normal. ‘And stop biting your lip.’

‘I’m nervous,’ Ruby said to her father. ‘She wrinkled her nose at my bread. I’m sure she did. I don’t think I can stand to watch much longer.’

She began playing with the strand of hair that covered her left cheek.

Her father put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Tell you what. I saw a WVS van outside handing out tea and buns. How about we hang around there for a bit until we’re called for?’

‘If we’re called for,’ Ruby said glumly.

Mary refused the offer of tea and buns. No matter the result, she had to see this through to the bitter end. ‘I’ll stay and see what happens. I’ll come out and fetch you if you’re needed.’

Lady Huntspill moved around the exhibits like a feral cat about to leap on its prey. She did another pass of the table, revisiting the items she’d favoured on the first pass, pointing at certain items and totally ignoring others. To Mary’s dismay she totally ignored her own and Ruby’s entries, concentrating instead on some very florid items that would use up the envisaged rations and not be in the price bracket or experience of the everyday housewife.

Mary was vexed. She shook her head in dismay. What was going on here? Had she totally misread what was called for?

‘Fancy meeting you here.’

Mary turned her head swiftly. She recognised that voice. At first the brim of her hat hid the speaker’s face, but having tilted her head back, she saw him. Michael Dangerfield was here.

‘You!’

‘You,’ Michael Dangerfield repeated.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here,’ she said, trying hard not to stammer or sound breathless at the sight of him. She wanted to ask him whether he’d received her letter, but felt nervous asking him. The tall young man who had stalked her dreams was really here, smiling down at her in such a way that she went weak at the knees.

‘I knew you’d be here,’ he said in that warm drawl of his. ‘That’s why I came. That and aiming to pick up the prize. Ten pounds. A useful sum. I can pay my bar bill back at Scampton with that and have plenty left over. Are you alone?’

‘No. My father and sister couldn’t stand the suspense. They went outside for a cup of tea. There’s a WVS van outside.’

‘Good for them. At least they know what’s wanted at a time like this. Plenty of tea offered with a willing smile and a warm heart.’

So far he had not mentioned her letter, and she was loath to mention it first. She fancied he looked a little thinner, his face a little more careworn.

‘So! How’s the war?’

He shook his head. His look was grim and there was a strange haunted look in his eyes.

‘Things are hotting up.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Some of our guys are getting killed.’

Anything she could say would be a platitude, yet she wanted to keep him here, talking about anything and everything; just to hear the sound of his voice and see that boyish look on such a strong, masculine face.

‘How about your friend, Guy? He hasn’t been … I mean …’

Michael grinned. ‘He’s been decorated. A flyer’s flyer.’

Mary heard herself laughing, a light, happy laugh of relief. ‘And Felix?’

‘Felix is still Felix. The guys spoil him rotten. He’s cool with guys. I think skirts set him off – beg your pardon – until he gets to know them. And I don’t mean that you’re just a skirt … you’re a bit more than that. And thanks for the letter. I would have written, but things are getting a little hectic. Anyway,’ he added with a beaming smile, ‘I was hoping I could thank you for writing face to face. Beats letter writing any day of the week.’

Mary felt a warm glow cover her from head to foot. She even felt herself blushing, which was not something she was used to. The silence between them persisted as they both gathered their thoughts and weighed up their options.

Michael couldn’t stop looking at her, thinking how gorgeous she was and wishing he hadn’t used the words ‘skirts’. He’d dated plenty of ‘skirts’, fun relationships that hadn’t lasted a month. Even at this early stage, he knew his feelings for Mary were different than the others. They had cooking in common and that had to be a good thing, though of course there were other things to be considered. He wanted to kiss her, hug her and yes, he wanted to go to bed with her. But, more than that, something was tickling at his heart.

For her part, Mary was trying not to appear too forward even though she hadn’t stopped thinking about him.

‘So you bought a new dress?’

She said she had.

‘A big improvement on the last one, I bet. Oh. Sorry. That came out all wrong.’

Whoops! He’d done it again. What was wrong with him, Mr Smoothie himself, known to have a glib line for every occasion?

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ replied Mary tartly, smarting at the insinuation that her old dress wasn’t up to much. It was enough to convince her not to appear too keen.