What Tomorrow Brings

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also available by Mary Fitzgerald

  Title Page

  Part One: 1937–1938

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Two: July 1939–July 1947

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  August 1937

  Seffy Blake falls in love with Amyas Troy from the moment she sees him on a Cornish beach. But when he disappears, she is forced to face the consequences of their affair alone.

  In London, Seffy makes a new life for herself working as an assistant to journalist Charlie Bradford, and as Europe hurtles towards war, it is Charlie who sees her through her darkest times.

  But when Amyas reappears in her life, Seffy must decide whether to follow her heart, or accept her genuine love for Charlie and keep what remains of her family safe from the terrifying consequences of war.

  About the Author

  Mary Fitzgerald was born and brought up in Chester. At eighteen she left home to start nursing training. She ended up as an operating theatre sister in a large London hospital and there met her husband. Ten years and four children later the family settled for a while in Canada and later the USA. For several years they lived in West Wales, northern Scotland and finally southern Ireland until they settled again near Chester. Mary had long given up nursing and gone into business, first a children’s clothes shop, then a book shop and finally an internet clothes enterprise.

  Mary now lives in a small village in north Shropshire close to the Montgomery canal and with a view of both the Welsh and the Shropshire hills.

  Also available by Mary Fitzgerald

  The Love of a Lifetime

  When I Was Young

  Available in ebook

  Mist

  Knight on the Potomac

  Traitor’s Gate

  The Fishing Pool

  What Tomorrow Brings

  Mary Fitzgerald

  PART ONE

  1937–1938

  Prologue

  ‘DON’T GO.’ I tightened my hand around his arm and pulled him back into the doorway. ‘Please,’ I begged and didn’t mind that I sounded pathetic, and that tears were beginning to run down my face. ‘Stay. Stay with me.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘This is something I have to do. I believe in it totally and I thought you did.’ He gently pushed me away and bent to pick up his bag.

  I gazed at his hand. It was thin with long, smooth fingers. A hand that had never used an implement larger than a pen and which would be required quite soon, if what he had said was true, to carry and use a gun.

  ‘But it was only talk,’ I wailed. ‘We didn’t really mean it.’

  ‘I did.’ He smiled and bent his head to kiss me. ‘Goodbye, my darling girl.’

  That scene lives with me still. On days like this when the morning sun makes diamond patterns on the sea and the little half-moon beach is smooth and golden, washed clean by the gentle summer waves, I think of Amyas and how I loved him. I love him still really in memory because that feeling of utter adoration has never left me. Oh, it has modified, yes. The long years between then and now have left their mark on me as they have on everyone, yet if, by some miracle, he walked into this room today I would still see him as I did and feel the same.

  Can you love someone and despair of him at the same time? I have to say yes. For I loved Amyas from the first moment I saw him on that summer day when he walked out of the sea and into my life. Later he found another life. Other lives. Other loves. But for me, he was the only life. The only love.

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, 1937

  I WAS AT the house by the sea with my younger sister, Xanthe. Poor Xanthe, always unlucky in love and this time so distressed by the callousness of her latest beau that my mother begged me to take her away from London.

  ‘Go to Summer’s Rest,’ my mother had said. We had come into Father’s study so that Xanthe wouldn’t hear us discussing her. ‘That’s what you must do, Seffy darling. Take her on long walks, wear her out so she’s able to sleep. That way she’ll get over that despicable man very quickly.’ She’d sighed and patted her immaculate iron-grey hair. ‘How she gets into these scrapes I’ll never know. After all, with her looks she should have no trouble in finding a suitable husband.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I’d protested. ‘I’ve only just started my job. What will they think of me if I clear off now?’

  Mother had shrugged, bewildered by my objections. ‘Darling, don’t be silly. What job could possibly be more important than your sister’s happiness?’

  I looked to my father for support. He’d been the one who’d got me the job, via a friend of a friend, and I was loving it. Working on a national newspaper and being at the heart of everything was what I’d dreamed of and although at the moment I was a glorified tea girl I was positive that some day my talent would be recognised.

  ‘Daddy,’ I begged. ‘I need to stay in London. Tell Mother.’

  He was at his desk with a sheaf of notes in front of him and an open copy of the Iliad beside them. ‘What?’ He looked up, his eyes huge behind the magnifying spectacles, then back again at his work. ‘Do what your mother says, child. She knows best.’

  It was hopeless. Neither of them would be moved, and the sound of Xanthe’s wails from her room on the half landing made my mother even more determined. So we were here at the house by the sea where we’d come every summer that I could remember.

  Summer’s Rest had been in the family since my grandparents’ time, an Arts and Crafts house, built before the First World War by my father’s father so that his family could get an August break from the grimy air in Manchester. He was a mill-owner and had plenty of money. They did in those days, some of the cotton kings. He ran his mills as sweatshops and had no time for the growing number of owners who had a more charitable attitude to their workers. I remember him as an old man in his grand house in Cheshire, constantly growling about the unions who had made him raise the wages and run the mills on shorter working days. ‘They want something for nothing, those buggers,’ he would shout to us, his puzzled granddaughters. ‘Mark my words, revolution is in the air, a Socialist hell is on the way.’

  ‘What does he mean?’ whispered Xanthe. We were six and eight and it was the year before the old man died.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I whispered back. ‘It’s to do with politics.’ She looked at me blankly and then back to our grandfather who was now repeating, ‘A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, aye, a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work,’ while thumping his gnarled
fist on the arm of his leather chair. Our grandmother, fluttering her hands in their black lace half-gloves, would shush him and instruct the nurse to take him back to his room.

  But for all his grumblings the old man liked to spend his money and had commissioned a wonderful holiday house. It perched on the hillside above a Cornish headland and had a view of the sea from the white veranda so all-encompassing that it took my breath away every time I came here. Steps led down from the house to a little beach. Our beach, a private beach where Xanthe and I had built sand castles and gone shrimping in the little rock pools on the periphery. I learned to swim, with help from my father, but Xanthe didn’t. She would paddle in shallow water as it dragged across the sand but wouldn’t venture any further and if a rogue wave splashed her above her knees she would squeal and run back to our nest of towels. But I loved to swim and would breaststroke the short distance from one headland of our little bay to the other, with never the least thought of danger.

  ‘You’re a tomboy,’ Mother had said. ‘You’ll never find a husband.’ That was all that mattered to her.

  I was hoping to swim on the second morning that Xanthe and I had been at the house. ‘Come down to the beach,’ I’d said to her as we sat in our dressing gowns at the wooden table on the veranda. It was a brilliant day, warm and sunny at nine o’clock in the morning, and I’d put the coffee pot and a plate of toast in front of her.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied and lit a second cigarette. Her eyes were still red from sobbing and her pale blonde hair bedraggled and sticky from tears. ‘I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘Mother said I was to take you on walks along the headland,’ I muttered. I was still furious about being forced to come to Cornwall, and Xanthe’s miserable face didn’t help.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she thought it would do you good, you goose.’

  ‘Look.’ Xanthe stood up. ‘I did what she wanted and came here with you. I’m not doing anything else. In fact, I’m going back to London as soon as possible. I might be able to make Clive change his mind.’

  ‘Change his mind?’ I reached for the pot and poured myself another cup of coffee. ‘He’s married. D’you think he’s going to leave his wife for you? You were his “bit on the side”. And only one of his “bits” so I heard.’

  ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I hate you.’ There was more energy displayed in her stamping exit than I had seen for days and it gave me hope that she was on the mend.

  ‘I hate you too,’ I called after her as she went through the long windows back to her room. I didn’t hate her, of course, that was just sister talk, but I did resent her. I resented the fact that I’d been dragged away from my job and that I would have to work hard to regain my editor’s confidence. I knew he’d only taken me on as a favour and I was having to prove my worth daily. My English degree didn’t cut much ice with him, and my colleagues on the newspaper didn’t seem to think much of me either. In the pub, where everyone went after work, I hung about on the edge of the crowd, usually quite unable to join in the conversations. On the few occasions that I tried I was generally shot down as an ignorant junior. Only a few days ago they had been discussing the Civil War in Spain.

  ‘Why the hell are we constantly talking about it?’ shouted Peter Spears from the bar where he was ordering his third whisky and soda. The pub was crowded and very noisy and you had to shout to make yourself heard. Peter was the cricket correspondent and did some gardening features as well. ‘It’s nothing to do with us. Let them fight it out.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Monica Cathcart, the gossip columnist, with whom I’d been working for the last few weeks, sorting out the chatter and watching her decide which bit of poison to drip into the public ear. I couldn’t bear her. She was a terrible snob and a hypocrite too. She drifted on the edge of the party set to which Xanthe belonged, seemingly friends with many, but always with an ear for something scandalous. ‘General Franco has the right ideas,’ she continued. ‘He’s fighting to get the country working efficiently again. Like Hitler and Mussolini. God knows, we could do with leaders like them in this country.’

  ‘But they’re dictators and if Franco wins he’ll be one too.’ I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and regretted it immediately.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Monica snapped back. ‘And who asked you anyway? You’re just the office girl.’

  Her acolytes, who were sitting beside her at the wooden pub table, grinned and dug each other in the ribs. In my couple of months at the paper I had quickly realised that it was ridden with factions. Unfortunately I’d been put to work with the queen of the most unpleasant one.

  ‘She’s got a point.’ I looked round to see who’d made that remark. It was Greg Archer, the elderly political reporter. ‘I’ve seen some of the reports coming out of Madrid,’ he added. ‘They don’t make easy reading.’

  ‘Well we all know where you’re coming from.’ Monica shook her head pityingly. ‘Didn’t you campaign with Attlee last time around?’ She gave her cruel laugh. ‘Not really in keeping with the politics of the paper, is it? I wonder what our owner thinks of that?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I said hotly, upset with the way this argument was going.

  ‘Don’t worry, young lady.’ Mr Archer smiled at me. ‘I don’t need defending from Monica Cathcart. Her grasp of politics is tenuous, to say the least.’

  Monica’s face darkened. She was angry. Her casual put-down had not shut me up and she looked to her best friend, Jane Porter, who wrote occasional cookery pieces, for support.

  ‘I think you’re being most disagreeable to Miss Cathcart,’ Jane said to me in her whiny voice. ‘After all she’s been very kind, showing you the intricacies of her column. You should be grateful and not argue with her.’

  ‘We’re not arguing, we’re debating,’ I said, exasperated. ‘The fact that she can’t understand that there are two sides to the Civil War is her problem, not mine.’

  There was a nervous round of laughter at that remark and Peter, arriving back with his drink, gave me a mocking look. ‘I’ve heard everything now,’ he grinned, glancing at the other journalists who were in a group around Monica. ‘The tea girl instructing us on international affairs.’

  ‘I’ve got an opinion,’ I protested. ‘And as this isn’t a police state yet, I’m entitled to give it.’

  Monica gave one of her spiteful little laughs. ‘An opinion from a person barely out of the nursery isn’t worth listening to,’ she sneered, and the group around her fell silent, rather shocked, I now think, by her unpleasantness. At the time though I imagined that it was because I’d dared to speak up. But I was furious and, job or no job, I wasn’t going to let her get away with that.

  ‘I’m twenty-three,’ I said evenly. ‘I have a degree from a prestigious university, which I think is more than you have, and I might be learning my trade here but my opinion on the war in Spain is just as valid as yours.’

  Her mouth dropped open and she quickly grabbed her glass of brandy and took a large gulp. ‘You may be well connected, Miss Blake,’ she said slowly, and I felt as though she was drilling holes into my face with her narrow muddy-brown eyes. ‘But that doesn’t entitle you to be rude to a senior reporter, of any newspaper, let alone ours. Trust me, you haven’t heard the last of this.’

  ‘Well said, Monica,’ brayed Peter Spears. ‘These juniors have to learn their place.’

  My stomach was churning but I stared back at them until their faces were lost in the group of colleagues who had gathered around them. If they disagreed none of them said so. They knew Monica had the ear of the editor and, it was whispered, of the owner too. My face red from anger and embarrassment, I started to leave and was pushing my way through the noisy drinkers when my arm was grabbed and a voice spoke into my ear.

  ‘Well done, young lady. It’s about time Monica Cathcart was taken down a peg or six.’

  I looked over my shoulder into the amused face of Charlie Bradford, the foreign correspondent
who had recently returned from China. He was, at a relatively young age, fast becoming talked about in his field as the man to watch.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said shyly. ‘But I think I’ve just lost my job.’

  He grinned, his blue eyes crinkling up behind his rimless glasses. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Monica isn’t half as powerful as she thinks. In a toss-up between a keen young reporter and an old has-been, I know who I’d choose. Our esteemed editor would too.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You must have arrived at the paper while I was abroad. I’m Charlie Bradford.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘You were pointed out to me yesterday when you were walking through the newsroom.’ I held out my hand. ‘Persephone Blake . . . Seffy.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, Seffy Blake, scourge of dictators, how about us going for a quiet drink somewhere?’

  For a moment I hesitated. The girl from the archives department who’d pointed Charlie out had also said that he had a bit of a reputation with women. From the catch in her throat I’d guessed she’d made up part of that reputation. But that didn’t mean I had to be involved with him. Sexually, that is. Besides, I wanted to hear about China.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’d like that.’

  I had imagined that he’d take me to a different, smaller pub somewhere around Fleet Street but he flagged down a taxi and told the driver to take us to Soho. ‘D’you like Italian food?’ he asked, quite casually.

  ‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. We’d been on holiday in Italy. Twice to Rome and once to Florence and although my mother and Xanthe almost starved themselves until they could get back to plain English food, Daddy and I relished the dishes of pasta and grilled fish that were placed in front of us at our hotel.

  ‘Good.’ Charlie grinned. ‘I know a great little place.’ That was the thing about Charlie. He knew so many great little places and I had some of the best meals of my life in his company. In those far-off days, before the Second World War foreign food was something of a rarity but with Charlie I tried everything from as many countries as he could find.