to be fighting other Christian folk. How can the Lord be behind the both of us? It don’t make sense. Frank’s nobbut a milksop with hardly hair on his chest yet, but I’m the last one as any will listen to in this house these days. He should be here by my side, learning his trade.’
‘Now don’t go on, Asa, getting yourself worked up about what can’t be changed,’ Mam was quick to silence him. ‘Don’t spoil their leave. I’m so proud of the both of them.’
‘But they don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for. They’re too young to be let loose on the battlefields. Now I’m wondering if I ought to volunteer myself to keep an eye on them both.’
‘At your age? Don’t be so daft. You’ve got your work here.’ Selma heard fear in her mother’s voice.
Alone in the kitchen, she pulled out the little iron pot they kept for toffee making, gathering the ingredients, measuring the butter and sugar, bicarb of soda at the ready. Everything was spick and span for Aunty Ruth’s visit, brasses shining, fire high, table laid. Having company to visit was a highlight, war or not. There was always a welcome for an honoured guest.
She smiled, thinking of Guy’s last letter filled with histrip to London, the shows and musical concert and visit to an art gallery. His world was so different from her own. They didn’t have to scrimp and save for every little treat. Lady Hester bought whatever took her fancy but Selma wouldn’t swap her family for his starchy one any day.
Tonight her little pupils were going to bring the house down with their drilling and marching antics. The school hall would be packed out and she would be showing off her soldier brothers in uniform. Marigold Plimmer would be making eyes at them; all fluttering eyelashes and simpering little laughs at their jokes but for once, Selma would not begrudge them this attention.
She would write to Guy describing all the details of the fundraising concert and the latest news from West Sharland.
Dearest Guy, she composed in her head, wondering what he looked like in his smart uniform. Are you coming home for Christmas or staying in London? Will we be able to go riding on Jem again? I’m busy with my pupils, dressing them up like soldiers, but I can’t get them to march in step. Frank and Newton are here. I do miss you…Then the smell of burned sugar hit her nostrils.
Frank and Newt were laughing in the doorway. ‘Dolly daydream, wake up, your pan’s on fire!’
Liquid toffee spurted over the pan top. The mess was everywhere. Frank went for the water jug and before she could stop him he flung it on the mixture and it exploded in all directions, splattering the range, the clean tablecloth, every nearby surface.
‘What did you do that for, you dozy brush?’ Selma yelled. She cried tears of rage, trying to wipe up the gunge. The molten toffee was solidifying fast.
In the end it took hours, scouring bits of toffee off thefloor and the walls, the boys laughing at her all the while. She was furious with them but most of all herself. What would Mam say about that sickly smell of burned sugar, and her wasting all that precious food? And all because of Guy…
Ever since then just the smell of burned sugar or caramel transports me straight back to that afternoon. There should be an orchestra playing in the background, a soundtrack to such special moments as these. How can a scent open the floodgates of memory to a time and a place so fixed in your heart when your history was in the making?
If only we’d known how precious those few evenings were in the autumn of 1915, when we all gathered for a singsong round the piano, walked over the Ridge to watch the last of the autumn leaves painting the trees, me arguing with my brothers, as we always did about whose turn it was to do the washing up? Then I stood on the platform of Sowerthwaite station waving them off as if we had all the time in the world, as if our lives were secure and unchangeable.
‘Now don’t go on, Asa, getting yourself worked up about what can’t be changed,’ Mam was quick to silence him. ‘Don’t spoil their leave. I’m so proud of the both of them.’
‘But they don’t know what they’re letting themselves in for. They’re too young to be let loose on the battlefields. Now I’m wondering if I ought to volunteer myself to keep an eye on them both.’
‘At your age? Don’t be so daft. You’ve got your work here.’ Selma heard fear in her mother’s voice.
Alone in the kitchen, she pulled out the little iron pot they kept for toffee making, gathering the ingredients, measuring the butter and sugar, bicarb of soda at the ready. Everything was spick and span for Aunty Ruth’s visit, brasses shining, fire high, table laid. Having company to visit was a highlight, war or not. There was always a welcome for an honoured guest.
She smiled, thinking of Guy’s last letter filled with histrip to London, the shows and musical concert and visit to an art gallery. His world was so different from her own. They didn’t have to scrimp and save for every little treat. Lady Hester bought whatever took her fancy but Selma wouldn’t swap her family for his starchy one any day.
Tonight her little pupils were going to bring the house down with their drilling and marching antics. The school hall would be packed out and she would be showing off her soldier brothers in uniform. Marigold Plimmer would be making eyes at them; all fluttering eyelashes and simpering little laughs at their jokes but for once, Selma would not begrudge them this attention.
She would write to Guy describing all the details of the fundraising concert and the latest news from West Sharland.
Dearest Guy, she composed in her head, wondering what he looked like in his smart uniform. Are you coming home for Christmas or staying in London? Will we be able to go riding on Jem again? I’m busy with my pupils, dressing them up like soldiers, but I can’t get them to march in step. Frank and Newton are here. I do miss you…Then the smell of burned sugar hit her nostrils.
Frank and Newt were laughing in the doorway. ‘Dolly daydream, wake up, your pan’s on fire!’
Liquid toffee spurted over the pan top. The mess was everywhere. Frank went for the water jug and before she could stop him he flung it on the mixture and it exploded in all directions, splattering the range, the clean tablecloth, every nearby surface.
‘What did you do that for, you dozy brush?’ Selma yelled. She cried tears of rage, trying to wipe up the gunge. The molten toffee was solidifying fast.
In the end it took hours, scouring bits of toffee off thefloor and the walls, the boys laughing at her all the while. She was furious with them but most of all herself. What would Mam say about that sickly smell of burned sugar, and her wasting all that precious food? And all because of Guy…
Ever since then just the smell of burned sugar or caramel transports me straight back to that afternoon. There should be an orchestra playing in the background, a soundtrack to such special moments as these. How can a scent open the floodgates of memory to a time and a place so fixed in your heart when your history was in the making?
If only we’d known how precious those few evenings were in the autumn of 1915, when we all gathered for a singsong round the piano, walked over the Ridge to watch the last of the autumn leaves painting the trees, me arguing with my brothers, as we always did about whose turn it was to do the washing up? Then I stood on the platform of Sowerthwaite station waving them off as if we had all the time in the world, as if our lives were secure and unchangeable.
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