Read Wartime Sweethearts for Free Online Page B

didn’t have that bleeding. It got in the way of everything, gave her stomach ache and the ugly towel she had to wear would probably show through her knickers if she ignored Mary and went scrumping. She decided to mention it to Ruby.
    ‘Mary told me not to tuck my dress into my knickers. Is that disgusting too, especially when I’ve got my – you know – when I’ve got to wear that towel thingy?’
    Frances looked so confused and sounded so innocent, Ruby felt her anger melting. Anyway, she realised it had been misplaced. She smoothed her cousin’s hair back from her eyes, noting that the childish face was beginning to thin as she approached adolescence.
    ‘Well, you are getting a bit old to be doing that. Boys look at you different as you get older.’
    ‘Differently. Mary said it’s differently not different.’
    Ruby laughed. ‘She’s probably right. She usually is though sometimes I can’t help pulling her leg about it. Here. I called in to Powells’ on the way home from the post office.’
    Frances’s eyes opened wide at the strip of liquorice she gave her. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Just don’t give me away. And don’t ever tell lies about Mr Stead. It could cause a lot of trouble – for everyone.’
    Frances pulled a face and pouted her lips when she promised not to tell. After Ruby had gone, she sat herself up straight on the bed, the strip of liquorice lengthening as her teeth tore into it. If Ruby hadn’t given her the liquorice, she would have protested that she hadn’t been lying, that Mr Stead had helped her down from the wall after yet another foray into the orchard next door. That was when it had happened. That was when he’d sworn her to secrecy and told her it was just a game that adults played. Unconvinced, she’d kicked him on the leg and run away.
    Stanley Sweet was up at four o’clock every week day morning to knead the rested dough and flash up the bread oven. As the oven whooshed into life, he listened for the sound of movement upstairs. Mary was down first, a white kerchief covering her head turban style, her face pink from the wash flannel and her eyes bright with excitement.
    ‘Is that enough dough for you, Mary?’
    She prodded the plump mound he’d indicated with her finger. It felt springy beneath her fingertip. ‘That dough has the makings of a good loaf of bread,’ she said, looking up at him, and laughed.
    It was a frequent saying of her father and made him laugh too. ‘Your apples are ready. Better get on with mixing them in with the dough before they go brown.’
    Mary barely acknowledged him, her attention fixed on the job in hand.
    Her father watched, breathing deeply as she folded the apples into the bread mixture. He’d never tired of the fragrance of a freshly baked loaf. Even the scent of the dough before it was cooked was a pleasure. Mixing the yeasty smell with that of sautéed apple slices and cinnamon only doubled his pleasure.
    ‘It smells really good, my girl. Can’t wait to taste it.’
    He’d taught all his children to bake, and they were all good at it but Mary
loved
doing it and because of that, she went that extra mile, always aiming for perfection, a genius at making bread, but also cakes, pasties and all the other things they made for sale in the shop.
    At Christmas it was Mary who decorated the cakes, even the great big one they baked especially for the folk up at the big hall, a splendid cake full of nuts, cherries and spices, moist with the flavours of ingredients sourced from all over the world.
    Today was special. Today Mary was making her apple loaf to enter in the Oldland Common Best of Baking Award, Speciality Bread Baking Class.
    The baking competition at the village fete had been a topic of conversation for some weeks. All three of his children were looking forward to it, as was Sefton’s girl, Frances, though not all for the same reasons.
    Mary and Ruby were both entering the baking competition, Mary with her apple bread and Ruby with a