Read Online Wartime Sweethearts by Lizzie Lane - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    His father repeated what he’d said along with an elbow in his ribs. ‘I said he’s not from Warmley, is he?’
    A bone in Charlie’s neck made a cracking sound as he jerked his head round. ‘No. I don’t know the name.’
    ‘Excuse me, ma’am. I need to get past.’
    Such was the timbre of his voice and the unusual accent Mary felt an overwhelming compulsion to see from whom it came.
    On turning her head she found herself looking up into a bronzed face. White streaks radiated from the corners of his eyes as though he had spent a lot of time squinting into strong sunlight.
    For a moment it seemed as though the world stood still until he spoke again and broke the spell.
    ‘You’re twins, right? You worked this between you?’
    She heard his voice but didn’t like what he was saying. ‘What do you mean?’
    He glanced at Ruby up on the stage then back to her. ‘Just that I thought I was seeing double. Her up there, you down here.’
    ‘We’re sisters,’ Mary blurted. ‘Twins.’ There was no way she was going to admit to collusion. She only hoped her guilt didn’t show on her face.
    Bullhorn’s voice bludgeoned its way between them. ‘Mr Dangerfield. If you are here, will you please come up to the rostrum!’
    His smile was memorable. ‘Excuse me.’
    Her gaze followed the back of his head as he made his way to the front of the crowd.
    ‘So that’s Michael Dangerfield,’ she heard her father say. ‘He’s definitely not from around here.’
    ‘No,’ she said, unable to take her eyes off the man standing up front with her sister. ‘No. He’s not.’
    Ruby smiled with her lips and glared with her eyes at the man joining her on the rostrum. He nodded and smiled back.
    ‘Ma’am.’
    Ruby nodded back.
    ‘A pound each,’ said the bald-headed Mr Neate, his smile exposing large yellow teeth. His hands shook as though he suffered from some nervous disorder when he handed them their prize money.
    ‘Congratulations,’ he said to both of them. ‘And may the best man – or woman – win when you attend the next heat in Bristol.’
    ‘It’s an Italian classic,’ stated Michael Dangerfield.
    Ruby gritted her teeth. Surely this competition should be about British baking not foreign