Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane Page A

Charlie’s future. Unlike the girls Charlie would not have a choice. He was bound to be called up sooner or later and there was little his father could do about it.
    Deep in thought, Charlie was drawing lines through a film of flour with the toe of his boot, both hands tucked behind the bib of his white apron.
    ‘I want to go, Dad. If war comes, I want a bit of adventure before I die.’ His manner was subdued, his voice calm and serious.
    Stan Sweet sighed. He knew it would happen. All he prayed for was that if war did come Charlie wouldn’t be called away too soon. He knew about war. He’d fought at the Somme. It had been a mind-numbing experience, the sort of thing nightmares are made of. He still had those nightmares.
    ‘I have to say that I wish there were a way to avoid it, but have to admit it isn’t likely. They’ll force the issue and take you, especially as I’ve got two daughters to help me. But I have to say, son, here and now, that the army is no picnic.’
    ‘I’m not going into the army. I’m going to join the navy. The merchant navy, I think. There’s plenty of merchant ships coming and going in and out of Bristol. Now that’s not too far, is it?’
    Mary saw fear enter her father’s eyes before he blinked it away. ‘I suppose not. I’ll be worried about you, but you’re a man now, and if this war does happen, well, a young man wants to do his bit. At least you won’t be stuck in a muddy trench taking pot shots across no-man’s-land.’

CHAPTER FOUR
    The sky over the village fete was a patchwork of blue sky and fluffy white clouds. A slight breeze stirred ladies’ skirts and cooled the sweat of the men, some with their shirt sleeves rolled up as they swung a hammer in order to ring a bell at the top of a mast and win a prize.
    There was a tombola, a coconut shy and a dog show for Jack Russell rat catchers, hare-coursing lurchers and sheepdogs; the latters’ owners were required to bring their own sheep in order to demonstrate their dog’s superior skills.
    Slap bang in the middle of the fete stood a couple of marquees. In one the produce of Oldland Common Horticultural Society was being judged. The keen gardeners were competing for no less than ten silver cups, everything from flower arranging, the biggest marrow and best Harvest Festival basket.
    The marquee where the regional heat of the best bread-baking competition was being held was next door to that of the horticultural society. It was fuller than in past years, the air heady with excitement and the warm, yeasty smell of freshly made bread.
    A long table had been placed at one end of the baking tent on a raised platform. There were three chairs placed behind it and the loaves entered for the competition arranged so they could be judged in their respective groups.
    A big man with a booming voice announced that the judging would now commence.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen! It is my pleasure, indeed my very great privilege …’
    Anyone who had dared to carry on talking was pointed at with a finger as thick as a sausage, the knuckles almost as hairy as the thick dark eyebrows that frowned in their direction.
    ‘Madam! Please!’
    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