A fresh batch of wool bought, Florence pressed on towards Minton’s Bakery. Her mother-in-law’s frosty attitude towards her had not improved, but George Minton was always friendly.
To her disappointment, George wasn’t behind the counter when she pushed open the door. Unusually, there wasn’t a queue, and after finishing organising the trays of buns in the window, taking forever over doing so, Ruby Minton finally turned to face Florence as if she were a stranger.
‘Hello,’ said Florence as cheerfully as she could manage. ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? It really feels like spring is on the way now.’
‘It’ll be a lovely day when Billy comes home,’ Ruby said coldly. ‘And not before.’
The way Ruby went on, anyone would think she held Florence personally responsible for her son joining the Suffolk Regiment. As though she’d wanted him to go! It didn’t matter what Florence said to her mother-in-law, it would always be met with a caustic response. She was quite used to it now and had learnt the knack of not reacting. If she did ever feel herself rising to one of Ruby’s unpleasant remarks, she thought of the fruit trees planted in the Mintons’ back garden, each one commemorating the loss of an unborn child. Who was to say Florence herself wouldn’t turn into a sad and bitter woman if she ever suffered the same amount of heartache?
‘Have you heard from Billy this week?’ she asked. ‘I had a letter from him only yesterday. He sounded very …’ She broke off, realising her mistake. If Billy had written to his wife in preference to his mother, Ruby would be furious, especially as it might look as though Florence were crowing about it.
But her mother-in-law appeared not to hear her. Instead she said, ‘I’ve been thinking about your marriage to my Billy.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Florence warily.
‘It isn’t a proper legal marriage, is it?’ Ruby said, pushing her hands into the pockets of her apron. ‘Because you never consummated it, did you, what with being in hospital the night of the wedding? Which means Billy could divorce you if he had any sense.’
The sheer nastiness of the woman’s words was too much; she had gone too far this time. ‘Mrs Minton,’ Florence said, incensed – fruit trees and lost babies be damned! – ‘your pathetic attempts to split Billy and me up won’t work. Billy loves me and I love him, and nothing will part us. Not even your vile tongue. Now if you’ll get on and serve me, I’ll be on my way. I’ll have a large sandwich tin and a crusty white. Thank you.’
Five minutes later, she was back out on the street and making her way at speed across the cobbled, her anger increasing with every step. By the time she let herself in at the back door of Island House, she was thoroughly steamed up. She plonked the shopping basket down on the table and shook off her coat. Mrs Partridge looked up from the pastry she was rolling at the other end of the table. ‘What’s got into you?’ she asked.
‘Ruby ruddy Minton!’ Florence snapped. ‘That’s what! She only went and said my marriage isn’t real because … because Billy and I didn’t … well … you know, because I was in hospital the night of our wedding. Which means in her eyes, Billy could divorce me.’
Mrs Partridge brought the rolling pin down on the table with a sharp bang. ‘What a wicked old bat she is! Will you tell Billy?’
‘No! He’s got more important things to think about than his poisonous mother.’ Florence sighed. ‘Why does she hate me so much?’
‘It’s not you, love. That woman would hate any girl who stole her precious son’s heart. Now sit down and I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea. And don’t you go giving that Ruby Minton another thought. Pay her no heed whatsoever. Billy loves you and that’s all that counts.’
Later that afternoon, just as Stanley arrived home from school and Mrs Partridge and Florence were putting the finishing touches to his birthday tea in the dining room, there was a loud ring at the doorbell. Followed by another. And another. From upstairs, Bobby barked.
‘Somebody needs to learn some manners,’ remarked Mrs Partridge with a sniff of disapproval.
Florence stopped what she was doing and went to see who it was. But as she stepped out into the hall, an awful thought occurred to her. What if it was the boy bringing a telegram, a telegram with bad news about Billy?
Chapter Fifty-Three
‘That’s all right, Florence,’ said Romily. ‘I’ll see to whoever it is who’s disturbing the peace so rudely.’
As if to prove just how rude the person was, the bell rang again and with greater impatience.
Romily tutted and drew herself up, shoulders back, chin out, then opened the door, adopting her best Lady Fogg impersonation.
On the step before her stood a shabbily dressed woman of indeterminate years. The expression on her face, however, was much easier to read. Eyes narrowed, red lips pursed, she exuded indignant hostility from every pore. Interesting, thought Romily, a complete stranger on the doorstep who was plainly here to take somebody to task. Who could she be? And who did she imagine was culpable for whatever offence had been committed?
‘Where’s my Stan?’ demanded the woman. ‘It’s time he came ’ome. ’E’s needed.’
Ah, all was now clear! This was Mrs Nettles, come to play the part of aggrieved and doting mother. Romily had wondered what sort of woman she was to be able to wash her hands so cleanly of her son all these months. ‘Come in, Mrs Nettles, please,’ she said hospitably, conscious of Florence moving behind her. ‘You must have some tea with us.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ the woman said, bristling on the doorstep. ‘Just give me my Stan and we’ll be on our way.’
Thinking of the effort Mrs Partridge and Florence had gone to with Stanley’s birthday tea, and how much he had been looking forward to it – rushing back from school and being shooed away to his room until all was ready for him – Romily urged Mrs Nettles over the threshold and closed the door after her. But as she turned around, she saw Stanley standing at the top of the stairs looking down at them, faithful Bobby by his side.
‘Look who’s here,’ said Romily brightly, ‘and perfectly timed to celebrate your birthday.’
‘Birthday?’ repeated Mrs Nettles. ‘It ain’t his birthday.’
‘Yes it is, Mum,’ Stanley said in a faint voice. ‘You just never remember it.’
