Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane Read Free Book Online

straightforward apple pie despite her sister’s comments about any woman in the village being able to bake one. Hers would be better than any of them.
    He frowned at the thought of that apple pie. Ruby was capable of so much more than that, something more elaborate. Not that he could say that Ruby had thrown it together, though he had to admit she’d seemed more slapdash than she usually was. She’s best serving in the shop, he thought to himself, best dealing with customers. He dismissed her oft-spoken comments about leaving the village and seeking her fortune in the big city – and that was before this fall out with Gareth Stead. She’d always had her head in the clouds.
    ‘Perhaps I could get a job baking at a posh hotel,’ she’d said only the other day.
    Stan refused to believe she would really go. He couldn’t face any of his children leaving home. But if one of his girls should get the opportunity, he wouldn’t step in their way.
    He went into the garden, got his spade and fork from the shed and proceeded to stab the latter into the compacted earth. It was due for a good turning over and slamming the fork in helped alleviate the angst he was feeling.
    ‘Damn the competition,’ he exclaimed as the prongs of the fork stabbed deep into the soil. If one of his daughters won they might be tempted by the bright lights of the city and want to leave home. He drew it out and was about to have a second go along with an exclamation damning the village fete when he thought better of it.
    The village fete had been going for years and the whole village enjoyed it. So did his family. When the prongs went in this time, he damned Adolf Hitler instead then leaned on the handle, lit his pipe and mused on the pleasure the village fete gave to them all.
    Frances would head straight for the fairground running alongside the fete, a place where old gypsy women told fortunes if you crossed their palms with silver, and half-naked children ran around dragging scrawny dogs or ponies on long lead reins or leashes. Swarthy-faced men stood around smoking something that smelled like weeds while they inveigled passers-by to buy their painted tin cans, freshly killed rabbits, and baskets woven from long fronds of cut willow.
    There would be a helter skelter, a tombola and this year a carousel. If they were lucky there might even be a big wheel.
    Charlie would make his way to the beer tent along with his mates. It wasn’t often any of them had a day off, and this day was the most special of the year.
    Stan would be content to see his children enjoying themselves, and he’d be more than happy if one of his daughters should win one of the baking categories.
    The baking competition was taking place in the main marquee situated at the heart of the fete. This year was the most special, the only year in which the winners of the four categories would go forward to a ‘Best of Baking’ regional final in nearby Bristol, and then on to London if they won that round. A prize of ten pounds for the best British baker was at stake.
    ‘Right,’ Mary said once the apple loaf was ready for the oven and she was slapping the flour from her palms. ‘I think it looks good.’
    Her father agreed with her. Understanding the pride a baker takes in their work, he held back while she stood beaming at the risen dough, oddly greyish-green thanks to the apple mixture.
    ‘Ready?’
    She nodded, biting her lip nervously as she watched her father scoop it on to the big wooden paddle and slide it into the oven.
    When the iron door clanged open, the heat of the oven filled the room. The bread entered the oven, an amorphous shape of doughy whiteness. Father and daughter waited until the sweet moment the smell of yeast and apples fell over them like a blanket.
    This was the moment Mary liked best when the very air in the room became imbued with the essence of bread, its smell and its moistness. When she took a breath she could taste it.
    ‘It already smells good,’