SUGAR AND VICE

By Nel Barton

A small English town in the 1930s. Stanley Domblebee made exclusive chocolate confectionary and was a respected trader in the area. But Stanley had a secret which none knew except his wife. When he befriended Sarah, who was escaping from an abusive boyfriend, it was with motives Sarah would never have believed. Or how  her minor misdemeanour would lead to deceit and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nel Barton
• Release date: Aug 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501404627

Book preview

Chapter 1

Stanley Domblebee leaned heavily on the mahogany shop counter, his head cupped in his hands. Fleetingly he gazed at the door hoping upon hope that a customer would enter, if only to break the monotony of the endless, motionless afternoon. He yawned, a great, gaping, noisy yawn that shattered the relentless ticking of the clock. Five more minutes until closing. Five more interminable minutes. A stupid thought. A minute is a minute. No more no less, and another five had to pass before could turn the door sign to 'closed', count up the day's takings in the back room and enter once more into the land of the living – the street, the world beyond 'Domblebee's Confectionary'.

He owed a lot to chocolate, he mused as he spread the coins over his counting table. It had provided him with a living for quite a number of years and the shop was his own little kingdom where he was lord and master and there was no-one to tell him what to do. He gave a little grin. Maybe it was the enticing aroma of chocolate which seeped into his clothes which had encouraged Her to speak with him? Not that he liked the stuff. After so many years mixing, pouring and moulding he was sick of the cloying gooey brownness and rarely could he bring himself to even try his own concoctions. He had lost interest in them.

It was the same with his wife. He had lost interest in her, too. Chocolate and Alice Domblebee were two sides of the same trap which had held him captive for so many years. There was no possibility of escape, no chink of freedom that he could envisage. Not until last night. Something happened then, an inexplicable something which snatched at his breath and sent a surge of energy through him like ... he didn't know. He had never felt it before. He had no experience of it. Could it be love at first sight?

He pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come to him. He was being ridiculous, wasn't he? A man of his age even considering such a notion. Alice would tear into him if she knew. She wouldn't brook such nonsense. But Alice didn't know. Alice would never know.

Usually he was in no hurry to reach home, but tonight was different. Not for home, but for the blessed in-between which existed from Domblebee's to No.7 Carlisle Avenue. That tiny space where the bright throbbing world impinged on his consciousness and revealed the merest possibility of release from his ties. For just a moment he thrilled to the delicious notion that he might see Her again. His pulse raced and the corners of his mouth curled up as he enjoyed the pleasure of the thought before common sense swamped it and told him he was being a silly old fool, lost in a daydream. He had duties. Responsibilities.

Ten past six. Her bus came at 6.25 yesterday. He would have to hurry....

The street outside was still shiny wet from an earlier shower. It was getting dark now. Lights reflected and danced in the few remaining puddles adding to the growing sense of anticipation which was bubbling in his stomach and making even his shoulders tingle. It was raining yesterday too, but heavily then, falling in straight rods which smashed into the pavement, bouncing into starlight and laughing and gurgling on its way to the drains. He had cursed it at first since it soaked through his suit and trousers and he was forced to take refuge in the bus shelter until the worst of it eased. That was where he saw Her.

Looking across she glanced (warmly he thought) in his direction, as if to say awful, isn't it? That smile – as sweet as the confectionary in his shop – seemed to strike his soul. He found himself doing something quite unexpected – entering into easy conversation with a young woman he had never seen before. It wasn't his way. He was a stickler for correctness. Introductions should be made. She was young. Twenty five years junior to him. Thirty even. Her umbrella had blown inside out, she told him, almost apologetically, and he, like some young gallant, had taken it and wrestled it back into shape for her.

Thank you so much, she had said and her voice, like the rest of her, was soft and gentle. He wanted her to keep talking just so he could drink in the soothing tones, but she was blushing at her own forwardness and his blatant attention, and she turned her eyes to the pavement and fell silent. She had no wish to encourage him. Unlike Alice, she could read the thoughts in his head. She had encountered men like him before.

He couldn't remember what he had said to her – nothing of import – just the usual innocuous banter about the weather and how the seasons were becoming unpredictable. That was hard enough, when every fibre strained to say something physical and revel in the delight of it.

My bus, she had broken his reverie. Thank you again for mending my brolly.

The pleasure's all mine. He doffed his damp and felty Homburg as she moved away.

He had watched her climb aboard and seat herself by the window nearest to him. Settled, she smiled again and raised her hand as the bus pulled away. Then, as suddenly as she had entered his world, she had gone. Maybe out of his life for ever, but that didn't stop him thinking about her and reliving every moment throughout the day. He remembered he had stood in the shelter for quite some time, dazed and vaguely ecstatic. It was quite a while before he realized it had stopped raining.

That was yesterday. Would she be there again this evening?

Domblebee looked at his watch. Nearly ten past six. If she was there he could have ten or more glorious minutes with her before her bus came. Where was the harm in that? He passed the shelter on his walk home. There was nothing to cause suspicion but he must get a move on.

As the shelter came into view he could see someone was waiting there. The wooden side panel concealed most of her identity but whoever was sitting on the bench had legs slightly outstretched to be visible to him. Long legs. Lean legs with neat ankles. Black patent high heels, too high to be comfortable. It couldn't be her. She would never be so, so... showy. He looked again at the legs. From knee to heel there were too long. If the owner was standing she would tower above him as he wasn't of very great stature. No, it wasn't her.

It was only as he neared the shelter that it dawned on him that he had absolutely no reason to join the occupants – unless he pretended to need the bus himself. Yes, perhaps that's what he should do. It was with a mixture of fear and anticipation that he drew near enough to see the two ladies seated there.

Oh, hello again, she said, and her voice was just as he had recalled it all day long. He doffed his hat respectfully and seated himself beside her on the bench, taking note of her dusty pink raincoat and low brown court shoes. That's more like it my girl, he told himself. Demure, that's what she is. He cleared his throat and tried to sound as bland and harmless as possible.

No brolly tonight? he asked.

I gave up with it, Mr—?

Domblebee, he put in, and you are?

Sarah. Sarah Honeydew, and she held out her small competent hand, which he took eagerly and lightly in his own.

Delighted, he said.

They chatted for a while. He asked if she knew his shop in Market Street. Why yes! She had often dreamed of giving herself a little treat but somehow had never got round to it. She didn't tell him that she was most often penniless, and even when she had a few shillings Reg would make sure he had his share.

Oh do come to the shop, he urged, I will devise something really scrumptious and just for you.  He would give her chocolate and she would give him whatever he wanted.

Look! My bus – it's early. She seemed disappointed, though that might have been his  imagination taking flight. Again she sat by the window and waved to him as the number 27 pulled away. He doffed his hat again and hoped she was impressed by his gentlemanly good manners.

As it transpired, there had been no need for him to make any excuse about their meeting. It all seemed so – what was the word he wanted? Fate. Yes, that was it. It was the workings of fate. He would let it flow wither it willed, and see where it took him.

The walk to No.7 had never passed so quickly. He yearned for the street to elasticate and give him more moments to relish his encounter with Miss Honeydew before his own world came crashing in on him again, but it wasn't to be.

Climbing the three steps to the blue painted door, he turned the key and went inside, sighing audibly as she shut the door behind him and sealed himself away from the world of possibilities beyond. Alice was in the kitchen, frying fish for their supper.

You're late, she observed, any longer and this would have been cinders. There was a clatter of plates as she prepared to serve. The radio played quietly. We'll have this and then we can listen to the wireless together, like we always do. Have you had a good day? How was trade? She didn't expect any answer other than the grunt she usually met with. He could be a miserable old devil when the mood was on him, and it was on him more often than not recently.

So many questions. He was being bombarded before he had time to catch his breath. He didn't want to listen to the wireless, or to Alice. He craved silence and the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts, feasting on them over and over. She slapped the plates on the table and thumped down opposite him, scraping her chair forward and immediately starting to disinter her piece of fish from its batter.

Elsie called today. She was telling me about that son of hers – this is a nice piece of fish, isn't it?  Mr Smart said he would sort out a couple of good ones for me since I am one of his best customers. You could take a tip from him, Stanley. Give the regulars some special attention. Anyway, her son....

He was not listening. His body was seated at the table but his mind was on the bus. He really must find out more about Miss Honeydew. Such a sweet name. Honey-dew and Domble-bee. It sounded like a match made in heaven. Or in bright pastures anew. He wondered if she was thinking about him, too. But why would she?  A pretty young girl like that? Common sense overtook him again: no, he was being a silly old fool. If she thought of him in any way at all it would be as a substitute father or – heaven forbid – grandfather.

You've got a bone there! Alice interrupted, poking her knife into his fish, watch out for that – so I told her....

Miss Honeydew liked him. He could tell. She was easy and comfortable with him and he made her feel safe. She made him feel manly.

Honestly Stanley! I swear you haven't listened to a word I have said.

I have dear.

Then what do you think?

He put down his knife and fork and looked directly into her questioning brown eyes.

Me? I think you're absolutely right, he said, and Alice was momentarily satisfied.

So do I. I told Elsie straight, if he's going to behave like that well, his father ought to take a belt to him and no mistake. After all....

Stanley wondered what Miss Honeydew wore under that mac. He imagined sensible, practical clothes. Darkish in colour, yes, that would be right. Then he readjusted his imagination and dressed her in floaty chiffon, all frills and lace, but that didn't match the low brown court shoes he had observed. Maybe they were part of her working clothes? Surely she worked somewhere – down Market Street even – though he hadn't seen her about before, or if he had, he hadn't noticed her, which seemed impossible. And where did she live? The number 27 bus went on to Marshley, but that was miles away. How many stops did she take? Could he make some pretext and take the bus himself? Just to find out. He could go one stop further and then double back once he knew where she was heading. He looked up at Alice, who had almost cleared her plate. What excuse could he make to her? It would make him horribly delayed especially if the delectable Miss Honeydew lived some way out of town.

Alice began clearing away the fish things and reorganizing the table, placing a large syrupy sponge pudding before him. That would fasten him to his chair for many hours. It tasted good though. One thing about Alice, she certainly knew how to cook a decent meal.

Delicious, as always, my dear, he said as he pushed the emptied plate aside and she whisked it back into the kitchen, only to re-emerge wiping her hands on her pinny.

Just in time, she said, and turned up the volume on the radio until the familiar strains of popular music filled the small back parlour. Now you sit yourself down Stanley – and here's your newspaper, almost pushing him into his chair and pounding the cushion with her strong wiry hands so unlike Miss Honeydew's, the wireless programme's just starting. I love the radio ... You do too, don't you Stanley? I know we haven't had it long but I find it intriguing – you can learn so much – how the country people live and all that stuff. Quite opens your eyes, so it does. This music is nice, isn't it? Maybe we could move to the country one of these days? ... Quite takes you out of yourself. The music that is. I almost feel young again. A bit like the old times, isn't it?

It all came back to her then. The gleam of the highly polished dance floor, the great mirror ball spreading diamond beams across the hall. The sheer joy of it all.

Maybe, he agreed. When I retire. We'd miss the town though. He was envisioning fields of corn swaying in the breeze like ripples on the sea. Miss Honeydew would be running through it, slightly ahead of him. She would turn, laugh, and hold out her hand towards him and he would take it eagerly. There would be no Alice, no Elsie, no fried fish. Just the two of them in some idyll under sunny skies. It was all a daydream of course, and would never come to pass. But it was so enjoyable while it lasted.

Alice had taken her knitting from the little bag beside her chair and her needles were clack-clacking busily. He looked up from the paper he was pretending to read. She was a good sort, really she was, and he could have done worse for himself. But there was so much more to life than dance bands and fried fish. The simple things which brought her pleasure, left him cold. The reason, he deliberated, was that they were intellectually mismatched. He had an imaginative and enquiring mind whereas she was content with the simple things in life. Very simple things. Perhaps they had been together too long? There was certainly a long history between them. They had shared many secrets back then. But it was all so long ago and the daily routine had overridden occasional excitement.

He wondered what tomorrow would bring his way. He was sure he would see Miss Honeydew again. Certain of it, in fact. But to what purpose, he asked himself. What was he hoping to achieve? Nothing perhaps, but the gratification of indulging in his fantasy for a while. Just a few brief days of flirtation and fun to sustain him through the bleak winter. Where was the harm in that?

For once, it was a cool bright morning and a strong breeze was blowing, which was invigorating. The slam of the front door behind him was so satisfying. Like closing a chapter of a book before moving on to find out what happens. Yes, it was all pie-in-the-sky stuff, but he would be happy while it lasted. Sooner or later his dreams would  lie at his feet  like shards of a broken mirror, but not today. Today was Saturday. The end of another week. Saturday when trade picked up and Alice would spend the day with her sister and be too tired to talk at him all evening. He loved Saturdays. It was his favourite day. He will stop off on the way home to call in at the library and find himself something of interest to grasp his mind for a few hours. Something educational of course. A travelogue perhaps. An armchair broadening of the horizons, though most times it only made him even more aware of his confines.  All of his own doing of course. He married simply because it was expected of him and bachelors of long standing were likely to attract ugly vicious rumours to themselves. And he married Alice because she was available;  she was a good cook and housekeeper, her mother had seen to that, and she was quite good company in those days. She could make him laugh in those long gone times, when he found her chatter entertaining. Now though, it was irritating. Funny how things can change without one recognising it. Maybe she felt the same way about him but had just gone on with her ‘duty’ in  Alice-type fashion.  That would be typical . She would never say what was in her head, of course, just as he never wanted to be ‘a duty’. Some things are best not spoken of. She never knew he longed to be a wild and passionate lover charging about the realm on a white steed and rescuing damsels in distress. And Alice’s dream? It was obvious. She had always wanted to be  mother to a large healthy brood. But children had never happened. It might have made all the difference if they had. Then they could both have vented their strangled emotions on youngsters since they seemed unable to do it with each other. It was with some shock that the revelation  suddenly struck  him that he had become Alice’s substitute child. She mothered him. Smothered him. In his fifties, he was too old for that sort of attention any more. Why hadn’t he understood this before?  Alice was always there. Like a mother. Forever his support and encourager. She would be his confidante too, if he let her.

As he strode along musing on these things, he was passed by a number 27 bus heading into town. Perhaps She was on it, going about her business? He craned to see, but the bus was too fast and it whizzed by in a blur of unidentifiable faces.

He has already mapped out his day.  He would open the shop, hopefully have a few customers (there were always more on a Saturday, often beaus buying gifts for would-be amours), and in between he would make a brand new chocolate confection which he would call Honeydew, or something else which sounded pertinent. It will have to be entirely original, as was She, soft and melt-in-the-mouth. Altogether delicious, reviving and leaving one wanting more. A hotchpotch of ideas came to him as he sauntered along as to how best he might achieve this, though none of them exactly fitted the bill. But he was highly experienced in his craft and would  find a way.  If at first you don’t succeed....When he turned the key to Domblebee’s he was brimming with enthusiasm and couldn’t wait to get started as this new project dominated  his thoughts.

He was right about the customers. There were several young men wanting to be served and some needed his advice on which flavours to choose. Stanley helped them all.  Chocolate almonds for this one; orange cream for that one; a mixture of Stanley’s soft centres for another.  Each choice came in its own little matching coloured box, carefully wrapped in co-ordinating tissue paper and secured with  ribbons and a bow. Orange for the orange creams of course, purple of  violet creams and white for the almonds. For Honeydew he will  have to have something  even more special. Gold perhaps, or silver which is  less ostentatious. He could decide on all those details later. Right now the shop was quiet again and he had an hour or so to experiment with his concoctions.

The back room had many uses. There was a small table on which he counted the day’s takings, a floor safe in which to stow them, and an ancient chaise longue on which he rested during the week  in the many long bouts between customers. Trade had dipped in recent years. Many still suffered from the Great Depression, and with the unsettled state of the continent and Germany up to no good again , many chose to  keep their mouths and their wallets tight shut. On the opposite side of the room were many shelves containing bottles of essences, colouring and other necessaries for his manufactory, and a long marble topped table on which he worked the chocolate and their fillings. Everything in his shop was hand-made and bore the unmistakable gloss of detailed human labour. Machines simply couldn’t do the same – not for anyone who considered himself a connoisseur or had a modicum of taste buds. Mass production was fine for the masses though, but it wasn’t money from the masses he wished to attract. He hankered still to make a name for himself, to have some notoriety and acknowledgment that he was the greatest chocolatier in the whole county.  The country