For All Our Tomorrows

by Freda Lightfoot

  Not me, Sara thought bleakly. She’d always been the quiet one, the one in the background expected to offer support but never to actually instigate any humour or action on her own behalf.

  Even her marriage had been engineered, she saw that now quite clearly. Sadie had selected a husband for her, pushing the gauche young girl she’d once been into accepting a date with a mature, handsome man with money enough to provide for her. Hugh had flattered and charmed her and she’d fallen for him, hook, line and sinker.

  But if she could turn back the clock, would she do anything different? Sara instantly thought of Jenny and Drew, and knew in her heart that she loved her children far too much to wish any such thing. It would be like wishing they’d never been born. In any case, she really shouldn’t put all the blame on to her mother just because things had gone wrong between them. She could have refused Hugh at any point during the courtship, had she felt the slightest doubt. Even now, in the depths of her unhappiness, she couldn’t bring herself to leave him. Sara kept hoping that something would happen to make him stop treating her so badly, that the war would end, that he’d fall in love with her all over again. That she could love him as she’d used to, and put everything right.

  Yet all she did was long for Charlie.

  In the days following Bette’s departure Sara was grateful, in a bleak sort of way that Hugh was away on one of his “ops”, thankful to have this time on her own to grieve for a much-loved, greatly missed, sister.

  ‘Oh, Bette, I miss you so much. I hope you are safe and well.’ She glanced at the calendar which she kept pinned up on the kitchen wall. She’d been four days at sea, almost half way.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The only way Sara found to deal with her loss was to work harder than ever for the WVS, burying her sadness in activity. She’d thrown herself into helping to plan Salute the Soldier week which was to be at the end of May, their target being to raise twenty-five thousand pounds to equip a medical unit. There was to be a parade, bands, a dance, flags and bunting everywhere, and a big opening ceremony up at Place, with Mrs Treffry herself doing the honours.

  Meanwhile, there were other, smaller events, like the one this coming Saturday, when a small fête was to be held in Mrs Glynn’s garden on the Esplanade, which might raise a contribution towards that huge sum.

  There were stalls selling all manner of things from home-made cakes without fat, of course; jam with very little sugar; a good supply of plants and vegetables at least, and the usual supply of woollen sweaters, mitts, socks and even kettle-holders, knitted in rainbow colours of every hue under the sun.

  Cory was selling great tubs of scallops and mackerel. Hamil Charke could be heard tunelessly sawing away at his fiddle while folk dropped pennies into his collecting box, more out of pity than appreciation. Isobel Wynne dressed as a gypsy and told fortunes, and Nora Snell stood at the gate and charged everyone a penny as they came in, collecting their praises as they left, just as if she’d organised the whole thing herself single-handed. The weather was kind to them; prizes were awarded to the children who had collected the most salvage and the event, on the whole, was a great success.

  If it hadn’t been for Nora Snell, it might have been fun as well.

  She cornered Sara as she returned to the kitchen to refill a teapot. ‘Were you looking for someone, dear?’

  Sara assured her that she wasn’t.

  ‘I thought perhaps you were looking for that nice Lieutenant. He isn’t here.’

  Sara didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I’ve been talking to Fred Pullen, as a matter of fact, admiring his vegetables and ordering some more for my pasties.’

  ‘You should try growing your own dear, or at least some herbs. The government is advocating that we all do. Even POWs need them to augment a monotonous diet. Look at all these grown here in this lovely garden: mint, sage, thyme, parsley and what is that one?’

  ‘Marjoram.’

  ‘Well, there you are then. If Mrs Glynn can grow herbs, so can you?’

  ‘Where? Among the grave stones in the church yard?’

  ‘No, dear, on a window sill. You have plenty of those even at The Ship, which you generally fill with geraniums I know, and very pretty they look too, but herbs are so much more useful, dear. Pity you don’t have a garden, it would be so much better for the children. I was saying so to your dear husband only the other day. You should have a place like this. It would be lovely for them.’

  Sara made her escape, promising she would give the subject of herbs her most serious attention. Could she never escape Nora and her endless organising?

  The highlight of the afternoon was the raffle, the major prize being, to everyone’s delight and amusement, a banana, generously donated by one of the GIs. Sara wondered if it had been Charlie. It was just his sort of humour.

  It was after all the prizes were gone and Sara went off in search of a much needed cup of tea herself when he suddenly appeared before her, conjured out of thin air, or her own thoughts.

  They stood and stared at each other in silent delight for some seconds. ‘There you are,’ he said, thereby admitting that she’d been on his mind too. ‘I’ve been hoping to run into you but you always seem to be dashing in the opposite direction.’

  Sara sent up a silent prayer that Hugh wasn’t here. He’d opted to open the pub in the hope of making a few bob from escapees who grew bored with the excitement of buying other folk’s cast-offs. ‘I think I probably should do so again now. I don’t suppose it would be a good idea for us to be seen together. I’m sure Nora will notice, even if nobody else does.’

  ‘Not even for a cup of tea? I know how you Brits do love your cuppa?’

  She couldn’t resist letting a small smile play at the corners of her mouth. ‘Are you taking the Mickey?’

  ‘The what? Who’s Mickey, another of your conquests?’ And they both laughed. ‘Come on, I’m just your regular Joe, no harm in me. And you look in need of sustenance. Look, let’s skip the tea tent if you like and do a runner. Would they miss you, do you think? Have you done all that’s required of you, madam organiser?’

  ‘I – I think so, but . . .’ She glanced nervously about her. The children were happily playing with Cory, but where was Nora? Did she have her binoculars trained on her quarry?

  ‘Great, then I’m going to spirit you away for a little well-earned peace and quiet. I need you to myself for a while, is that possible?’

  Possible or not, it was highly desirable.

  Sara couldn’t afterwards imagine what had possessed her to allow him to take charge of her in such a way, except of course that he did it so much more delicately, more charmingly than Hugh ever would.

  They took the Bodinnick ferry and set off along Hall Walk, her favourite place as a girl, where she and Bette would follow the wooded footpath through the woods to walk the perimeter of the creek all the way to Polruan where they would take the ferry back to Fowey again. Sometimes Cory would row them up the creek in his clinker-built boat in search of a secret spot to enjoy a picnic, Sadie grumbling about the weather and mud on her clothes.

  It had felt like fairyland, a magical kingdom and Sara and Bette had marvelled at the secret silence of the place, the sweep of green branches bowing over the river from where at any moment a Cornish pisky might appear. Not that they ever saw one, no matter how hard they looked, though they sometimes might see the blue flash of a kingfisher, or disturb a heron seeking its lunch.

  Bette was now on the other side of the world and she was strolling along with a man who was not her husband.

  ‘I’m not sure I have the energy to walk all the way to Polruan,’ she told him. ‘Not after all the work I’ve done today for the fête. Could we just sit on the bench at the end here and look out over Pont Pill?’

  Sara never tired of watching the river, there was always something going on, the ferry tacking to and fro, shipping coming and going, and on the opposite shore the cluster of white cottages by Fowey harbour, topped off by the chu
rch tower.

  The men who had been born and raised in this place claimed to have the sea running in their blood, whether they were pirates in the middle ages, pilchard fishermen, or the shipping of minerals in more recent times. They’d built the old fashioned tall ships, and now turned their skills to the new. And the soldiers, sailors and marines who had come here to train and build their landing craft, depended upon their capable hands to help them survive.

  ‘Perfect. I can’t think of anything I’d like better.’

  They sat side by side, not saying a word. Sara utterly tongue-tied, acutely aware of the fact that they were alone, that he was seated so close beside her she could sense the heat of his body, hear his every breath.

  ‘I know you aren’t happy. I can tell. Unhappiness emanates from you like a miasma. I wish I could make you smile, make you truly happy.’

  ‘I think you’ve only made matters worse.’

  He said nothing beyond a small sound of disgust at the back of his throat; ran his hands through his hair then leaned forward, elbows on knees, clasping them loosely together, then rubbing one against the other in a cycle of agitation. She longed to reach out and gather those hands between her own and carry them to her lips. They were strong and brave and yet clearly in need of a gentle touch to still them.

  ‘I’m not blaming you, Charlie. Don’t think that for one minute. My marriage was in a mess anyway. Hugh is – difficult. Moody. He expects life to be ordered to suit him, which isn’t always possible. Certainly I don’t seem able to provide whatever it is that he needs to make him happy.’

  He turned to her then and those strong hands were grasping her own, their warmth seeming to envelope her and reach right down into her soul. ‘What have we done? Nothing!’ I wish we had done something. I know that I could make you happy. You could make me the happiest man in the world.’

  She smiled at him, all her love in her eyes, saying all she wasn’t allowed to say.

  ‘I can’t help the way I feel. I never meant this to happen.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘I know it’s impossible, that there are obstacles, huge obstacles between us. But don’t we deserve a little happiness? Come away with me, Sara, just for a weekend. If we can’t have a lifetime together, let’s have one night at least once.’

  Sara blushed fiery red and snatched her hands away. ‘I couldn’t do that!’

  ‘Yes, you could. You know this op is coming up. Operation Overlord. The invasion will be soon and I’ll be amongst it, along with hundreds of other men. I’m not asking for your sympathy, Sara, and it’s unfair of me, I know, to put this sort of pressure on you but it’s a fact nonetheless, that some of us won’t come back. I might be one of the lucky ones. I might not. Can’t we have a little happiness before I go?’

  She was gazing into his eyes, seeing the love he held for her shining out of them. Never had she known such a blissful certainty that this man was right for her, that they belonged together. It was as if she had been waiting for him all her life.

  ‘Ask yourself one question: Do you love your husband? If you do, then I’ll go away and never bother you again. If you don’t, then I flatter myself that I might be able to give you the love that you deserve.’

  An unwelcome picture of the violence that Hugh had brought into their marriage, flashed into her mind. How could she love such a man, a man who thought only of his own selfish needs, who didn’t consider the effect of what he did to her? Had he ever been truly caring of her? Suffocating, cloying, domineering, dictatorial, overpowering at times, but had he ever asked her what she wanted? Did he ever unselfishly take her views or wishes into account? Not that she could recall, whether in their bed or in their life together.

  His jealousy over the GIs was a result of a need to possess her, like an object, not out of love for her as an equal partner. Perhaps he was angry because he realised that he never could possess her, nor control her. Maybe that was the reason he was using brute force on her instead. Sara shuddered.

  ‘Are you cold? Do you want my jacket?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. It was just a goose walking over my grave.’

  He laughed. ‘You Brits have the oddest expressions. Sure sounds a gruesome thought.’

  ‘Yes, that’s just about what it is.’

  He ran his hands up her arms. ‘You know that I haven’t even kissed you yet, and I sure do long to, but hey, you’re a married lady, as you keep on reminding me, so I’ll put my hands back in my pockets, shall I?’

  ‘They never were in your pockets.’

  She was laughing at him now, gently teasing him. Unaware of having made the decision to do so, Sara leaned forward and put her mouth on his. She felt the tremor run through his body then his arms were about her, crushing her to him, and she was wrapped closer to heaven than she had ever been in her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bette had never felt more sick in her life. She’d expected the crossing to be rough but she was normally a good sailor, certainly whenever she’d gone out with Cory in the fishing boat she’d been fine. But then, the coastline of Cornwall wasn’t anything like this great ocean, and being pregnant didn’t help one little bit.

  The food was plentiful but just the smell of it set her heaving. And despite it being April, the chill of the Atlantic was bone numbingly cold. She realised almost at once that she hadn’t brought nearly enough clothes with her, and those she had packed were wrong. She’d had the soft warmth of a southern climate in mind, which Chad had talked about with such fondness. In the teeth of a gale force wind she felt she might die of exposure. So bad was it that she gratefully accepted a pair of dungarees and warm sweater from one of the crew. They were a good bunch of men, some of them a bit rough around the edges but generally keeping their distance.

  Her cabin-mate, a girl called Joyce who hailed from Birmingham, had become quite friendly with them, not wishing them to be distant at all, for all the captain had made it clear, the day they left Fowey docks, that fraternising with the crew was not allowed. She’d whispered something rude behind her hand and ignored that rule and most others, so far as Bette could see.

  Joyce had a child, a toddler of about fifteen months who slept between them in the bunk. Each morning Bette would wake to find herself soaked in urine and if she hadn’t washed the sheet each day, Joyce certainly never would.

  ‘I’ve enough problems trying to wash these dratted nappies in salt water, not to mention getting them dry. Bette didn’t like to complain too much, as she would be in the same situation herself soon, with a baby to care for. The prospect excited and terrified her all at the same time.

  Joyce didn’t seem to feel the need to restrain herself in any way just because she wore a ring. Bette would often wake in the night to find herself alone with the baby, its mother elsewhere up to God knows what. After the third time that this happened, she decided to say something.

  ‘Look, if anything happens to your baby while you’re away, I won’t be held responsible. You’re his mother, you should stay with him.’

  ‘For God sake, a girl deserves a bit of fun. Don’t be so prissy. There are some good looking guys on this ship, too good to waste, and I’ve the rest of my life to be a good little wife.’ She giggled at this. ‘Not that it will be easy, mind. Not in my nature to be the faithful sort.’

  Joyce hadn’t seen or heard from her husband in over eighteen months yet was determined to find him. ‘We got married soon as I fell pregnant and he never has seen little Barry here. Got himself wounded and conveniently shipped home to the US of A, but the bugger can’t escape me that way. The child is his and he can bloody well take care of it, and me an’ all. What else have I got to live on? I’ve no family of me own. I’m a bleedin orphan, me.’

  ‘What if you can’t find him?’

  ‘I’ve got his address in Minnesota. I’ll find him all right, and I have my marriage lines to prove we’re his responsibility now. Stop crying, Barry, for God’s sake. You’ll see yer daddy soo
n. Oh, you hold him for me a minute, will ya. I have to go and pea.’

  Bette was yet again left alone with the baby and sat staring at it, trying to decide how she would feel if this were her own child. Would she love it to bits, or be glad to leave it with strangers as Joyce did? She touched her stomach, prodded it here and there but could feel nothing. How would she feel when the baby was born? She was hurting so much inside over losing Barney, Bette couldn’t find space in her heart to care about her child.

  Two hours later when the baby’s mother still hadn’t reappeared, he started to cry from hunger. Gingerly, Bette picked him up, holding him awkwardly aloft as the poor mite was dripping wet.

  She changed him into a dry and less foul smelling nappy, gave him his supper, although she couldn’t face any herself, and put him down to sleep. Poor soul, it wasn’t the baby’s fault that he had a useless, uncaring mother. Bette felt sorry for the little chap. Perhaps he would be better off with this unknown GI father, but she’d give anything to be a fly on the wall when the couple met up again. Somehow she didn’t think Joyce would be getting too warm a welcome.

  Some of the other girls had children with them too, others were pregnant and going out to meet husbands who had been demobilised, as she was. Except that she and Chad hadn’t actually tied the knot yet. Nor had he given her a ring. Nevertheless, Bette thought of herself as engaged and called him her fiancé, deliberately putting out of her mind the fact that she’d only recently been bragging to Sara that she was engaged to Barney, and that he was about to buy her a ring.

  It seemed ironic in a way; two lovers and still no ring. But that was a small concern, compared to some of the women.

  One had been told that her husband was dying and that she mustn’t come as she wouldn’t be allowed in and most likely sent to Ellis Island. She’d come anyway, desperate to see him one last time. Another girl, little more than twenty-one and heavily pregnant, admitted she’d been told by her husband that he’d gone back to his old girl friend but she’d convinced herself that once he saw her again, he’d come back to her.