Wartime Sweethearts (7 page)

It was mostly the women who continued to talk but after one look from the man nicknamed Bullhorn, real name Jeremy Wilkes, they dropped the hands they had been talking behind and faced forward.

Like a ringmaster in the circus, ‘Bullhorn’ made a big show of being in charge and of introducing the judges – as if they were lions or performing seals, thought Mary, who was standing with her sister and father about three rows back from the front of the crowd.

The judges were all from London, two master bakers with round bodies and plump facial features, plus a top chef with black oily hair and a drooping moustache. A nerve flickered beneath his right eye so it seemed as though he were continually winking and his face was almost as greasy as his hair.

Bullhorn went into action.

‘And now!’ Just in case he didn’t have their attention … ‘First, the split tin loaves will be judged.’

Most of the entries for the bread section were not from the village. Mary spotted a number of strangers in the crowd. One in particular caught her eye. He saw her looking, turned his head and met her gaze. He winked.

Blushing profusely, she turned to face the front. She told herself that she wasn’t interested in handsome young men who winked at her. She was interested in the baking competition, and that was all. All the same, she glanced that way again. This time he was facing the front and not looking at her. She was only slightly disappointed. He was not the reason she was here. She was here to see what was going on.

Each loaf was looked at, then smelt, then upended and tapped on the bottom by all three distinguished personages. Once that was done, they put their heads together, backs and bums to the crowds. The crowd began to murmur.

Bullhorn ran his beady eyes over them, but made no move to hush them up. The judges were in conference. The crowd had free rein until they’d finished conferring.

The whole village plus the supporters of the other competitors, some of whom had come from quite a distance, were gathered as tightly as sardines in a can. Necks craned for a better view. Children were perched on parents’ shoulders and some young men had purloined a few wooden crates from the beer tents to stand on.

Following the initial inspections, a slice was cut from each loaf and then cut in three so each judge could savour a piece. None of them added butter. Their jaws moved; their eyes glazed over.

Mary and Ruby were standing side by side watching the event. Charlie had been spotted by Miriam Powell and had promptly headed for the beer tent, wishing Mary good luck before leaving. Mary had said nothing to anyone about the favour Ruby had asked her. After all, both the apple loaf and the pie had been entered by a Miss Sweet. Either of them could claim the prize with impunity.

The judges still had their heads together.

Stan Sweet, having cast a beady eye over the entries for each category, didn’t exactly trust people from the big city to know what a good country loaf should taste like.

‘All done with machines that don’t need a master baker to knock it into shape,’ he grunted.

The honest truth was that he too had mechanical help in his bakery, but he didn’t approve of making big batches. ‘Too many to keep an eye on,’ he sniffed before turning his attention to the number of entrants for the speciality loaf.

‘Only six entered,’ he whispered to his daughter, his face shining with excitement. ‘You’re definitely in with a chance, my girl.’

Mary exchanged a furtive look with her sister, one that said, ‘Perhaps we should have told him.’

Ruby gave a slight shake of her head.

‘All we have to do is win,’ Mary whispered.

The apple loaf was a favourite of hers; something moist and fruity, good to have at tea time with butter and jam, or even by itself.

‘I’ll always be grateful for this, Mary. Always,’ said Ruby.

‘You’d better be,’ growled her sister. ‘But let’s not count our chickens yet. The competition looks pretty good.’

Ruby had to admit she was right. The three of them had taken a look at the other loaves they were up against. One of the loaves was entitled Sunlight Blush, the dough stated to have been mixed with tomatoes that had been dried in the sun plus a hint of garlic. ‘Not very British,’ their father had grumbled. ‘The British don’t like garlic. It’ll never catch on.’

Two of the loaves favoured sultanas and nuts. The other two were as dark as fruit cakes and when cut had the distinct smell of alcohol, probably brandy but just as likely to be whisky.

Mary couldn’t help being pragmatic about their chances. ‘Oh well. Either you’re going to Bristol and perhaps then to London or we don’t win at all; then we both stay at home.’

‘I can’t stay at home. It would be just too unbearable,’ Ruby said, once their father was out of earshot. ‘You know how people gossip.’

Mary gave her sister’s hand a tight squeeze. ‘I know.’ Then, after a pause. ‘I will miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’

After a good deal of deliberation, the judges made their decision, which was given in writing to the man with the foghorn voice.

Bullhorn stepped up on to the rostrum, his voice ringing out loud and clear.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the first winner has been decided and will be announced once the other categories have been judged and decisions made,’ he bellowed.

There was a humming of outraged conversation, a shaking of heads by people impatient to know the results.

‘Oh, lord,’ whispered Ruby, her breasts rising tightly against the bodice of her favourite blue and rose-pink dress. It was the same dress she’d worn on her last meeting with Gareth Stead. ‘One more category before the apple loaf gets judged.’

The same procedure for the split tin was used for the plaited bread, although because of its nature – beautifully twisted seams plaited like golden hair – inspecting the plaits took longer than smelling and tasting. Bullhorn explained the judges were looking for ingenuous presentation as well as smell and texture. ‘A presentation of plaits and twists likely to bring a sparkle to the eyes of John Barleycorn himself!’

There were a few titters, though some of the professional bakers thought the master of ceremonies should take his job more seriously. A bit of grumbling resumed.

‘Shhh!’ he hissed, putting a fat finger to his mouth. ‘Shhh! Quiet please.’

The crowd’s grumbles quietened but didn’t go away. Their craned necks were leading to dry throats and the beer tent was selling out.

‘Get on with it,’ somebody shouted. Ruby recognised the voice. Gareth Stead was here, likely taking a break from running the beer tent. Her heartbeat increased, the blood flowing faster to her face.

‘How he’s got the nerve to show his face,’ Mary growled.

She might have said more, but the proceedings were now moving swiftly along.

‘Here it is! We have the results for plaited breads.’

Bullhorn held up another piece of paper on which each judge had declared their findings.

Mary sucked in her breath. Her heart refused to stop hammering against her ribs.

Ruby let out a deep breath like a balloon slowly deflating. ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Mary whispered back. ‘If we win, it wouldn’t look good if you can’t even go up to collect your prize.’

Yet again she had referred to the apple loaf as though they’d both had a hand in baking it. She felt only a slight twinge of regret. Does it matter, she asked herself? The Sweets baked it. That’s all that really counts.

Ruby smiled haltingly. Her sister was being outstandingly generous, but there was no guarantee that the apple loaf would win. The suspense was incredible. It was time for the judging of their class.

Unlike the other categories, small cards were propped up against each of the loaves in this section detailing the ingredients added. Just as Mary had guessed, sultanas, fruit, nuts and alcohol topped the list. As for the bread infused with sun-dried tomatoes and garlic – it might be interesting, but as her father had intimated, it might not appeal to the British palate.

The chef’s face had brightened on smelling then tasting the savoury offering. The two bakers had been less impressed. Their expressions were almost as impassive when sampling the breads mixed with fruits.

‘Get on with it,’ somebody shouted.

Ruby was in no doubt as to who that was. Gareth – again, and he sounded drunk.

His outburst was followed by impatient whispers. Obviously the crowd also wanted the judges to get a move on.

The judges huddled together, the two bakers nodding in agreement, the black-haired chef looking red faced and unhappy.

Bullhorn joined the huddle, the whispering somewhat intense, the odd word tumbling out like a tin can thrown over their shoulders.

‘Superior …’

‘Classical …’

‘Traditional …’

‘British taste …’

Then there was quiet. The judges came out of their huddle, the bakers looking pleased with themselves, the chef looking resigned, the corners of his mouth drooping beneath his moustache.

Bullhorn looked self-satisfied as though, just like a circus ringmaster, he’d tamed professional egos. Before announcing the results, he had a quick word with a representative of the company sponsoring the competition.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ He began shuffling his papers, back to the first category, the split tin loaf. ‘And the winner is …’ A roll of drums was intimated, though none was heard. Bullhorn was standing with his arms above his head, like an auctioneer about to bring down his hammer on the last bid.

‘Mrs D Leyton!’

A loud cheer went up in response to Bullhorn’s resonant pronouncement as Diane Leyton, an active member of the local WI, went up to receive her prize and the chance of going forward to the next round.

As they beamed round at everyone, she waved the five pounds she’d won. Her supporters, all of whom were in the WI too, cheered loudly.

The next winner of the plaited bread section was a baker from Quedgeley near Gloucester and turned out to be only sixteen years old. Her mother had come with her.

‘Miss Joan Forester!’

The cheers weren’t quite as enthusiastic, but young Joan didn’t seem the sort to enjoy being the centre of attention as, after accepting her prize, she marched swiftly away, head down, as though winning was something to be ashamed of.

Now it was the turn of their category to be judged. Mary patted Ruby’s shoulder. Smelling of best bitter and red in the face, their father and Charlie joined them.

‘Lost Miriam?’ Mary whispered.

Charlie grinned. ‘Her mother sent a message she wanted her at home.’

Mary grinned. ‘Lucky for you.’

He didn’t answer, his gaze attracted to a dark-haired beauty who seemed to be standing slightly apart from anyone else.

‘Who is that?’ he asked his sister in an oddly awestruck voice.

The young woman was wearing a dark blue hat, a crisp veil skimming the bridge of her nose.

Mary shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. She might be the woman staying with Mrs Hicks at Stratham House.’ Eyeing her brother sidelong, she gave him a warning nudge in the ribs. ‘And before you get entangled, I hear she has two children with her.’

Mary turned back to the main event. There was no sound from Gareth Stead. He wouldn’t dare make a move now her brother and her father were with them. She smiled reassuringly at her sister. Ruby smiled nervously back.

Bullhorn cleared his throat. ‘And now we come to the loaf that, in the judges’ opinion, is an imaginative use of ingredients. This is the category for something creative as well as tasty.’ He paused, cleared his throat again and nodded at the sponsor before proceeding.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. The judges could not agree on an outright winner in this category …’

The crowd gasped. Mary and Ruby looked at each other in dismay. This couldn’t be happening.

‘Therefore, our honourable sponsor, Mr Leonard Neate of Spillers Flour Limited, has decided to award two prizes. The first to …’ The crowd held its breath. ‘Miss Ruby Sweet for her apple loaf.’

A vast cheer went up from the gathered locals. For a moment Ruby stood with her mouth open until her sister pushed her forward.

‘Go on. Go on!’

Mary covered her mouth with her hands. Ruby looked like a little girl collecting her prize, half excited, half scared to death. It should have been me up there, she thought to herself and felt a pang of regret. Even if Ruby did leave home, it wasn’t likely she would stay away forever.

A pink flush of pleasure was spreading over her sister’s face. Even from this distance, Mary could see that her eyes were shining.

I can’t bear for her to leave home, she thought to herself. Another thought occurred to her: she was the scared one, not her sister up there accepting the prize.

Bullhorn raised his meaty arms and spread his hands, fingers splayed as he ordered the crowd to be quiet.

‘The joint prize winner is the loaf containing garlic and sun-dried tomatoes which our chef from London declared an Italian classic. The joint prize winner is Mr Michael Dangerfield.’

Heads turned this way and that, murmurs running through the crowd. There were plenty of master bakers there, but nobody seemed to know who this man was. Nobody seemed too keen on the ingredients either.

‘Garlic! It’s too foreign,’ somebody said.

‘The Johnnie Onions sell it,’ a female voice added. ‘I saw one of them at the market. I thought it was small onions and would ’ave bought some, but the Johnnie Onion said it were garlic. I had a smell of it. Didn’t like it much though.’

The French onion sellers the woman was referring to came over from France on their bicycles selling onions to shopkeepers and door to door and at weekly markets. They were a familiar sight with their tanned faces and dark berets, and their heavily accented English.

‘He’s not local. I for one don’t recognise the name,’ declared Stan Sweet, his pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth. ‘I know all the bakers around here, but definitely not this one. Not even from Warmley, is he, Charlie?’

Charlie wasn’t paying attention. The dark-haired beauty standing at the back of the marquee was far more interesting, even if she did have a couple of kids. He’d never seen such an exotic woman before and he couldn’t stop looking at her.