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Back After the War Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Anita Frank
  5. Note to Readers
  6. Dedication
  7. Part One
  8. Chapter One
  9. Chapter Two
  10. Chapter Three
  11. Chapter Four
  12. Chapter Five
  13. Chapter Six
  14. Chapter Seven
  15. Chapter Eight
  16. Chapter Nine
  17. Chapter Ten
  18. Chapter Eleven
  19. Chapter Twelve
  20. Chapter Thirteen
  21. Chapter Fourteen
  22. Chapter Fifteen
  23. Chapter Sixteen
  24. Chapter Seventeen
  25. Chapter Eighteen
  26. Chapter Nineteen
  27. Chapter Twenty
  28. Chapter Twenty-One
  29. Chapter Twenty-Two
  30. Chapter Twenty-Three
  31. Chapter Twenty-Four
  32. Chapter Twenty-Five
  33. Chapter Twenty-Six
  34. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  35. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  36. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  37. Chapter Thirty
  38. Chapter Thirty-One
  39. Chapter Thirty-Two
  40. Chapter Thirty-Three
  41. Chapter Thirty-Four
  42. Chapter Thirty-Five
  43. Chapter Thirty-Six
  44. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Part Two
  49. Chapter Forty-One
  50. Chapter Forty-Two
  51. Chapter Forty-Three
  52. Chapter Forty-Four
  53. Chapter Forty-Five
  54. Chapter Forty-Six
  55. Chapter Forty-Seven
  56. Chapter Forty-Eight
  57. Chapter Forty-Nine
  58. Chapter Fifty
  59. Chapter Fifty-One
  60. Chapter Fifty-Two
  61. Chapter Fifty-Three
  62. Chapter Fifty-Four
  63. Chapter Fifty-Five
  64. Chapter Fifty-Six
  65. Chapter Fifty-Seven
  66. Chapter Fifty-Eight
  67. Chapter Fifty-Nine
  68. Chapter Sixty
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. Extract
  71. Chapter One
  72. Chapter Two
  73. Chapter Three
  74. About the Publisher

But it wasn’t her abilities he was questioning. Just her judgement.

Chapter Twenty-One

Jack

July 1939

They wake to rain on the morning of the fete. Gwen pulls back the curtains in the kitchen and lets out a cry of dismay. Jim is on his knees, lighting the range. He sits back on his heels, unperturbed by the haze beyond the speckled panes.

‘Oh, don’t you worry, girl, it’s nothing more than a scud. It’ll turn out nice by this afternoon, you mark my words.’

‘I hope so. I have my dress and shoes all chosen and rain won’t do with my outfit.’

‘You’re going to a lot of trouble this year,’ Jim observes, clanking the range door shut as flames lick the wood. He reaches for the rail and hauls himself up.

Jack is at the dresser collecting mugs for the tea. He catches the furtive look that flickers across Gwen’s face, but it is gone before her father draws himself up to full height.

‘Oh, you know how I enjoy the fete,’ she says brightly, ‘and there’s nothing wrong with making a bit of an effort once in a while.’

‘No, nothing wrong in that at all,’ Jim agrees, pulling out a chair.

Muriel arrives, huffing and puffing about the shower, her raincoat glistening.

‘I hope it clears up or this afternoon will be a washout,’ she declares, tying up her apron.

‘You girls … it’s a shower, nothing more,’ Jim grumbles.

Gwen cries off her chores that morning in order to help Muriel bake for the cake stall. Jim chunters under his breath as he strikes a match to light his Woodbine and rolls his eyes at Jack as the women flour the scrubbed tabletop, ready for patting out scone mix, the fluted cutters already retrieved from the pantry shelf.

The two men spend the morning snagging hedges. The blades of their billhooks flash in the sunlight that breaks through the lingering cloud, and by the time the foot of the hedgerow is trimmed with unruly ribbons of cut shoots and hacked brambles, the clouds have been banished to distant lands. The cobalt sky above them soon plays host to little more than wisps of white, and the rising heat has their shirts soaked with sweat.

They break off at midday. With the fete due to start at two, they need to eat and make ready in good time, bearing in mind Gwen has to arrive early to help set up. They will burn the rubbish the following day, Jim announces as they walk back to the farmhouse, the wooden handles of their blades clamped in their damp palms.

They find the kitchen crammed with the fruits of the women’s labours. Jars of jewel-coloured jam lie nestled in straw-bedded crates. Wooden trays – so many Jim wonders aloud where they have come from – cover the table, each bearing plates of sugar-dusted buns, fruit tarts and sponge cakes filled with buttercream.