Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane Page B

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