Ice Cream in Winter Read online

  Ice Cream in Winter

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Copyright

  Ice Cream in Winter

  Grace Thompson

  Chapter One

  Patricia ran down the lane muffled against the wicked December weather. She was almost hidden by the layers of clothes she wore; a heavy, mud-splattered coat, a hat which had lost its shape, around which she had tied a woollen scarf, heavy boots with thick socks which were pulled up almost to her knees around corduroy trousers. She looked a sight, she knew it, but it was cold standing around on the hill while Mr Caradoc checked his flock of pregnant ewes. He did this twice a day at this time of the year. She knew the exercise would continue for weeks.

  It was Boxing Day 1940 and she was on her way home from work on the small farm where a seven day working week never changed. Animals and the routine work of their care ignored even the celebration of Christmas. Cattle had to be fed, the chickens’ food mixed and distributed and the eggs gathered.

  The village of Nant Cysgu was on the side of a hill below which ran the stream that gave the village its name: Slumbering Stream. The water gurgled without being seen, underground for part of its journey and deeply embedded in the earth as it wandered across the fields below the village. Only the sharp eyed would recognise its presence and follow its route by the hummocks that grew tall and leaned over and hid its deep progress.

  Patricia was tired. The nightmares were always worse around Christmas time. For almost a week she had been woken several times each night and when the dream spewed her into shocked wakefulness near the slow winter dawn, she would lie there afraid to go to sleep again, partly because of reliving that awful day and partly because she was afraid of over-sleeping and being late at the farm.

  Today, besides being tired and very chilled, she had another reason to hurry home. She intended to spend the afternoon getting ready for the party. Perhaps if she drank too much pop and ate too much food, and stayed up later than her usual bedtime, she might have an uninterrupted sleep.

  Her friend Vanessa Drew was celebrating her engagement to Matthew Morris and half the village would be there. After recent months of air-raids, during which a few bombs had fallen alarmingly close, and the announcement of many deaths of people from the village, on the battle fields the party was going to provide much-needed relaxation. For Patricia, the deaths were sad but few touched her deeply. At seventeen she, and many of her age, rarely thought about death and if they did it was something that happened to others. Death was for the elderly or strangers, for themselves it was a long way into the future; so far it hardly seemed worth a thought.

  It was only when she remembered her mother that she felt death singeing the wings of her youth.

  Patricia believed it was she who should have died five years ago. As she walked through Deepcut Lane the memory returned, poignant and sharp; a picture of her lovely, dark haired, dark eyed, vivacious mother who had died five years ago this week, after she, Patricia, had brought disease into the house. The guilt of it still gave her pain. It slowed her footsteps and clouded her face with guilt.

  The nightmare that haunted her came with daytime clarity and tears filled her eyes. She could recall her father’s face; she heard him sobbing and telling people she was responsible. The scene was as clear as if it were only five days, not five years, ago, when she had stood with her sisters and watched the coffin being carried from the house.

  Her father’s kindly face had distorted into an unrecognisable grimace as he walked behind that frightening, sealed box; the voice that had rarely been raised in anger had exclaimed then in that funny, choking way, that his daughter, Patricia, was to blame for his wife’s death. Her sisters had told her that it was only his grief making him say such a thing, that he was out of his mind with shock and talking utter rubbish.

  She didn’t believe their protestations. She had known then and ever since, that it should have been herself who had died and not her mother. Besides the nightmares, which disturbed so many a night’s sleep, a flashback would suddenly occur when she was enjoying herself and the happy mood would be snatched from her.

  Her friend Vanessa had been ill with Scarlet Fever. Patricia had defied her parents’ warnings and words like dangerous, infection and isolation hospital, and sneaked in to sit with her, hugging her and comforting her while the doctor was on his way. She had even helped Mrs Drew to clean her up after she had vomited. Days later, the tell-tale signs were upon her and she too became ill. The sore throat and the vomiting, the rash and the strawberry tongue, the dreadful stomach pains and the fever. Her mother had nursed her, bathed her with cool cloths to reduce the raging temperature and, unbelievably, had caught the disease so many considered an affliction of childhood.

  There was no treatment, apart from dealing with the symptoms. Her mother had died within days. It had been her fault, of this she had no doubt.

  She sighed and hurried on. It was pointless to rail at what was long ago done with. But in the five years since her death, few weeks went by without the stab of that guilt which her father’s words had planted.

  It had been at Christmas time and she was thankful that, during the anniversary of that awful time, there were plenty of parties to attend, and guilt could be diluted by hectic activity, crowds and dancing and laughter. As her friend Vanessa frequently told her, seventeen isn’t a time to be sad.

  Vanessa and she had sat beside each other on their first day at school and remained friends ever since. Patricia had been the out-going one and had taken the role of protector and friend to the frail and beautiful Vanessa. Patricia had dreamed of becoming a nurse, but the death of her mother and the intervention of war had ended that hope with the necessity of leaving school at fourteen and finding a job. Vanessa had stayed on to study music and art.

  Patricia felt no resentment, she had no strong ambition and accepted that she would care for her father and help keep the family together. Her father, Leonard Lloyd, was not a wealthy man, having given up his small grocery shop when his wife died and taken the job of caretaker at the local school so that he would be available for his three daughters. The house in which they lived was their own and with the three girls working they managed to survive relatively comfortably but with no surplus. Money for extra schooling had not entered into his calculations, except for the oldest of the three, Elizabeth, who was so clever the teachers had told him it would be a sin to neglect her further education.

  Patricia’s friend Vanessa Drew was the complete opposite to herself. She was beautiful, artistic, a talented musician, singing a sweet soprano and playing the harp and the piano. She had a wealthy and doting family to support her every whim, was surrounded with admirers and had the promise of a brilliant future.

  Vanessa was still at art school, studying fabrics and interior design. Her older brother, Roland, taught art and was a talented artist himself. In spite of the differences in their background, the girls were very close and, apart from voluntary work helping the elderly with their shopping and other chores, and helping to run the Youth Club, did everything together. Even Vanessa’s practice times were written into Patricia’s weekly routine so she could sit and listen with enjoyment, and offer encouragement. When Vanessa sang or played the harp for local fund-raising concerts, Patricia had a seat in the
front row where her friend could see her.

  She was approaching the part of Deepcut Lane where hawthorns, hazels and a few oaks clustered into a small woodland. It was a favourite place for courting couples in summer but now she doubted if anyone was foolhardy enough to suffer the cold just for a few kisses that could be snatched in more comfortable moments of privacy.

  The ground was hard but her boots made little noise so the sound of laughter came to her easily across the icy air. A bubble of amusement filled her throat and she tiptoed into the bare trees and moved closer to the area hidden, even in the bareness of winter, by brambles and dead bracken. She heard a muffled voice, that of a man; a woman’s laughter, then the crackling of feet as they began to move from their hideaway. Patricia looked round urgently. There was nowhere to hide.

  She backed away, holding her breath, hoping that they would walk in the opposite direction. The man was tall but stooped to one side as if to protect his companion from the chill wind. She did not recognise him. He was in a waterproof jacket, mud-stained and shabby. He had on wellingtons like her father wore and a woollen hat pulled down over his ears. Incongruously, against the worn jacket he was wearing a bright yellow scarf, so bright and new it must have been a Christmas present, she thought.

  The woman she did recognise. It was Nelda Roberts, a teacher at the school where her father was the caretaker. What a laugh! If only she were still at school and able to make some remark to let the woman know she’d been spotted!

  The couple moved out of sight, wrapped in each other’s arms, whispering softly, oblivious to everything but each other. To Patricia’s relief they walked away without turning and seeing her. Her feet returned to the lane and her thoughts to her plans for Vanessa’s party.

  Clothes were a problem, she had so few, but with the aid of some beads borrowed from her sister Marion, she would manage to disguise her one party dress into something a little more festive. Perhaps a few scarves. One at her neck, another at her waist and one holding back her thick black hair. The dull brown taffeta would be almost hidden. With beads and, if Dad wasn’t looking, a touch of lipstick, it would have to do.

  Deepcut Lane sank about three feet at one point and as she rose up out of the dip and onto the part of the lane where tarmac had strengthened it she heard someone laughing.

  ‘Good heavens, Patricia! You looked like some creature emerging from the earth to haunt us. Enough to frighten the songbirds into silence you are!’

  ‘They are silent, saving their engergy to keep warm. Pity you don’t do the same, Jacky Davies!’

  ‘Been creeping up on courting couples have you?’ he grinned.

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Best you didn’t. At least not them two in the thicket. Shock for you that would be.’

  She couldn’t admit that she had crept up and recognised Nelda Roberts so she said, ‘Shift out of my way, I’ve got things to do if you haven’t.’

  ‘Going to wear that outfit to the party are you?’ he chuckled.

  ‘Of course I am. Too cold to undress!’

  ‘I bet them two in the wood didn’t think so! They say love can keep you warm, don’t they? But I bet their bums were cold and covered with goose pimples!’ Jacky walked alongside her and slowed her steps. ‘Call for you shall I? We could walk in together then and—’

  ‘And have people thinking you and I are going out together? Fat chance! I want to see what’s on offer, not be stuck with the likes of you all evening, thank you very much!’

  ‘I thought you liked me.’

  ‘Oh, I do, but then, I like chips, but I don’t want them every day of the week!’

  ‘See you there then?’

  ‘Not if I see you first.’

  ‘Not even if I save you a seat by the fire?’

  ‘That’s different,’ she laughed.

  Increasing her speed when he left her, she was half running by the time she had crossed Ebenezer Street and Woodcutter’s Row came into view. It was her job to arrange the family’s evening meals which they all tried to eat together and, it being Boxing Day, it was easy. Extra had been cooked on Christmas Day, so, with left over vegetables mashed together and re-heated into a delicious Bubble and Squeak, and the last of the cold meat plus a few pickles, her task was a simple one.

  Christmas dinner had been chicken, a luxury afforded by the generosity of the farmer, Mr Caradoc, for whom she worked. Tomorrow she would make a chicken soup made with the broth from the carcases and lots of vegetables. With meat rationed to one shilling and tuppence worth per adult per week, Christmas was a welcome few days when there was the illusion of plenty.

  The house was empty and chilly, but the fire was still glowing red amid the grey ash. Without taking off her bulky outdoor clothes she added sticks and held her hands out to the warmth. She shivered and hoped that Vanessa’s parents would have the house well warmed for the party or she’d forget about looking smart and leave her coat on!

  The bathroom was an ice box but she braved it and removed her clothes and had a soak. Getting out was agony; the frost on the windows had not even melted with the steam of the bath. Dressing before she was properly dry, she added a cardigan on top of her jumper, wrapped a towel around her wet hair and went down to start sorting out the meal.

  Her father always went out for a long walk on Sundays, and Boxing Day, although a Thursday, seemed to follow the same pattern. He had disappeared soon after breakfast with a small pack of sandwiches and was not expected back until evening.

  Patricia’s sisters, Marion, who was fifteen and Elizabeth, almost eighteen, both arrived at five o’clock. Marion worked in the stores where food and clothing were packed for distribution to the armed forces, and Elizabeth worked at a bank, but today both had a holiday.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Patricia asked. ‘It’s so cold I thought you’d both be hogging the fire.’

  ‘I’ve been visiting friends,’ Elizabeth said in her careful modulated manner. Elizabeth always answered questions as briefly as possible, she gave very little away. Marion was different.

  ‘I’ve been helping to decorate the room for Vanessa’s party,’ she said. ‘And her big brother Roland was there and he’d managed to find some balloons and there’s an iced cake. Not much fruit mind, carrots and a few manky looking dates saved from ages ago. Vanessa said it was for looking at rather than enjoying but I bet it’ll taste just fine.’

  ‘I just hope there’s a good fire!’ Patricia replied. ‘If not, I’m coming straight home to bed. With all the spare bedding and a hot-water bottle and Dad’s socks and dressing gown and—’

  ‘Considering that you work out of doors every day, you don’t seem very well insulated!’ Elizabeth laughed.

  ‘This morning, after the feeds and cleaning out, there was your poor sister, up on the top field with Mr Caradoc, looking out for new lambs. If they had any sense they wouldn’t be born till June! The wind was enough to blow their little heads off!’

  They ate at six o’clock, and soon afterwards Leonard Lloyd came home, looking wind-blown and happy for his day of freedom. He wore his best overcoat and the tatty scarf he wore to work. His shoes, left outside, were muddy and Patricia guessed that after going to look at the school and make sure there were no burst pipes, he had gone off across country for a long walk like he used to do with her mother. Sadness again wrecked her mood and she solemnly set out his meal.

  The meal had warmed them all but the house was still very cold. With a fire in one room only, even her father kept his hand knitted scarf on and moved the table closer to the fire.

  Going upstairs into the icy bedroom almost persuaded Patricia that going to the party was not a good idea. Perhaps she’d invent a headache, or the start of a cold. But no, it was Vanessa’s and Matthew’s engagement and she couldn’t miss it. Besides, you never knew who you’d meet at a party. Jacky Davies would be there teasing and making her laugh. And Roland, Vanessa’s ancient brother, was home on leave from the R.A.F. and might have brought a fe
w friends. Roland was twenty-two, even older than Elizabeth, but he sometimes brought friends home who were younger.

  She thought of the cold taffeta dress and experimentally removed a cardigan but put it back on again quickly. No point in freezing before she had to. ‘Oh,’ she told her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, ‘What we girls have to do to please the boys!’ She blew her reflection a noisy kiss and, hugging the cardigan closer, ran down stairs.

  Marion was persuaded to help Patricia to wash up. A sure sign she wanted a favour, Patricia thought.

  ‘Thanks! I’ve been working today remember, no holiday, like you and Elizabeth. I have to get ready for the party as well as you. I was up at six!’

  ‘And you, Marion, came in not much before that!’ Elizabeth whispered. ‘Where did you get to, for heaven’s sake? If you aren’t in by midnight in future I’ll tell Dad.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘Try me!’ Elizabeth warned.

  ‘It was Trevor Richards. He’s going back to his ship today and I don’t know when I’ll see him again. He couldn’t get away until ten, his family gave him a party and I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to go, him being twenty-four. I had to see him and say goodbye, didn’t I?’

  ‘There are some letters for you, Marion,’ her father said, coming into the kitchen where the girls were huddled together whispering. ‘Came on Christmas morning but I forgot them. From your soldiers by the look of them.’

  ‘There’re not my soldiers our Dad,’ Marion replied. ‘Never even seen some of them I haven’t. They’re just names I’ve picked from the pen pals list. I just write to them, that’s all!’

  ‘I hope you’ve got plenty of stamps then, there are five of them.’

  ‘Writing to soldiers is my little war effort,’ she told him primly. ‘It’s simply a kindness, with them far from home and in danger.’ She constantly reassured her father of her innocence but in fact they were all boys she had met during late night visits to local dances or trips to the pictures, where a little flirting had made her promise to write.