‘What will you do in a strange country if he doesn’t?’ Bette asked her, appalled.
The girl had no answer.
Lying beside the baby, rocked by the boat and drifting quietly into sleep, Bette thought that perhaps she was the lucky one, all things considered. At least she had the comfort of knowing that Chad loved and wanted her. She missed Barney, would always love him, but everything would turn out fine, she was quite sure of it. She resolved to be optimistic for hadn’t this been her dream for so long? A new country, a new life, a new husband. Despite the difficulties of her situation, she couldn’t help but feel excited.
At least Chad would be pleased to see her.
There was no welcome for the freight carrier as it berthed unnoticed among a dozen other similar vessels. It had travelled back to the US largely empty, save for the women, returning to its home port for its next load of munitions, basic supplies and food. They’d been instructed to stay below until after the ship had docked, crowded together with their pitifully few possessions and fretful children, in one stuffy room, so were deprived the pleasure of standing at the rails to take in their first sight of land as it approached. They were not allowed to marvel at New York’s famous skyline or the Statue of Liberty, save for what they glimpsed out of a tiny porthole.
The women’s first view of their new country was when a member of the crew came to let them out and ushered them secretly down a gangway set up at the stern of the ship. Some of the babies were crying, but there was no one to hear, it being night and with no one about. There was nothing in fact to see but stacks of boxes on the docks waiting to be loaded on board once the ship had been cleaned and checked ready for its return voyage.
The most amazing thing of all to these women was that despite it being night-time, there were lights everywhere.
‘Christ, no blackout,’ said Joyce. ‘What a bloody treat.’
There’d been great excitement beforehand, hair washed and curled, best dresses dragged from suitcases and crumples smoothed out, lipstick applied. Every woman present wanted to look their best. Bette was no exception, even though she knew she wouldn’t be meeting up with Chad until the following day.
Before that, she faced a long train journey south and her first task was to the find the railway station, and the right train, which suddenly seemed an overwhelmingly difficult task.
Fortunately there were one or two others in the same situation, which was a comfort since there were no Red Cross officials to help these war-brides who had entered the country illegally. But then nor would there be any medical check-ups, no interrogation about status, or paperwork to process, and no hot supper waiting for them either. For the first time since the journey began, Bette felt a pang of hunger, though that could have been purely a pang of nervousness.
Bette stood with the other women, blinking in the glare of lights, wondering what was to happen next, then noticed a group of men approaching out of the shadows. Fear stabbed in her, sharp and strong. Had they been discovered? Would she be put back on board and sent home, without even having seen Chad?
And then she heard the squeals and whoops of joy. Some of the girls’ husbands had come to meet their wives, found their way to this quiet corner of the docks. They elbowed one another aside, seeking a familiar face, and when they found it, reunion in many cases was ecstatic. The women wept in their arms, babies were cuddled, there were tender hugs and passionate kisses. Bette looked on and marvelled with tears in her eyes. How could one not be moved by such a sight?
True, there were one or two who enjoyed a less than enthusiastic reunion and there were other women, like herself, and like Joyce, for whom there was no one. One girl just stood there crying and was eventually led away back to the ship, to be returned home like an unwanted parcel. The rest picked up their suitcase, gathered up straying children, and followed the crew member who had volunteered to take them to the station. Bette could only hope that when this long, unknown journey finally ended, there would be a welcome for her too.
The women had a long wait at the station before the train finally left, by which time Bette was exhausted. She’d had problems changing her money and buying a ticket, which cost five dollars, far more than she’d bargained for, plus some food for the journey which would apparently take an entire day.
She felt tired, dirty, hungry, exhilarated and afraid, all at the same time, emotionally unstable before even the train left the station. It was all so strange, so different.
The member of the crew who’d accompanied them to the station had given careful instructions on procedure, including that they make sure they got into the right “car”. This had puzzled Bette at first, until she realised he was referring to the rail carriage, or compartment. The ones at the back would be uncoupled and dropped off early in the journey, so you had to make sure you got into the right one. But clearly, even the language was going to present problems.
At least she wasn’t alone. Several of the women had banded together and their little group began to attract some attention. Quite out of the blue, a flashbulb went off. Someone had taken a photograph and suddenly they were surrounded by the press, who’d apparently got wind of their arrival and started firing questions at them.
‘Are you all war-brides?’
‘Where are you meeting your husbands?’
‘Do you reckon they’ll be pleased to see you?’
‘What do you say to folks who accuse war-brides of depriving the wounded of their rightful place on the transport that brought you here?’
‘Is that kid your husband’s?’
‘Quick, let’s get on board,’ Bette cried, seeing one poor girl reduced to tears and another in danger of socking one journalist in the mouth if he didn’t shut up. Pulling open the nearest “car” door, they all rushed on board, falling over each other in their anxiety to escape the melee of reporters gathering on the platform, and find themselves a seat.
Their undignified arrival alerted the other passengers who craned their necks around to see what all the fuss was about, then started chatting to them.
‘Are you folks from Canada?’ was generally the opening remark.
Once they learned the women were from Britain, had come out to join their GI husbands, they took them and their precarious situation to heart. The warmth and welcome of the other passengers made the journey bearable, as they shared their food, bullied the train guard into warming babies’ bottles and supplying them with beds or blankets, even if they hadn’t paid for one, and helped to reunite the women with their baggage.
Even so, the journey seemed to go on forever, with frequent stops along the way when the train would stand at an empty platform in the middle of nowhere, waiting and waiting until finally one lone person might turn up and get on board, and then it would lurch into movement and go on its way again. Or the guard would grow bored with waiting and set off anyway, without anyone getting on. On a few occasions, passengers were allowed off to enjoy a breath of fresh air and a bit of exercise, but Bette was always anxious not to wander too far, in case the train should set off without her.
When hot meals were brought round, she would surreptitiously and repeatedly count her dollars and cents, trying to work out what the coins were worth and whether she could afford to buy herself anything. More often than not she contented herself with a cup of hot coffee. After all, a day’s starvation wouldn’t hurt and there’d be plenty of food once she reached South Carolina, her new home.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For the first time in her life, Sara told Hugh a bare-faced lie. She told him that she was going to visit her aunt Marjorie in Penzance. She did have an aunt of that name who lived in the town although Sara sincerely hoped the old lady would not be called upon to prove her recalcitrant niece’s presence, as she was well past eighty, quite deaf and a strict Methodist.
‘Aunt Marjorie hasn’t been well and there’s little point in Sadie going, she’d be hopeless, yet a member of the family should visit and check on her from ti
me to time, see that she has the care and attention she needs.’ Sara hated herself as she spun the web tighter.
If only Bette were here. It would be so much easier as they could have gone off on a jaunt together and Hugh would have been none the wiser. This was a much more dangerous plan, yet one she was determined to carry out, however much he might frown at her. She couldn’t seem to help herself.
The prospect of one night alone with Charlie seemed too good to be true. Magical.
She went to St. Austell, where nobody knew her, and bought herself a pretty new nightdress, not too frivolous or sexy, since she must wear it afterwards and needed to be careful not to make Hugh suspicious. But at least it would be something to remind her of their one, glorious night together.
She felt shivery, sick with anticipation. What would he think when he saw her in it, and in the flesh? Would he still find her attractive? She was no young girl coming to her lover with a firm young body. She was twenty-six, with two children for heaven’s sake. Her stomach was no longer as flat as it might be, and these were surely wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, although Bette had always insisted on calling them laughter lines.
‘Oh, Bette, what am I doing?’
The plan was for Sara to meet Charlie on the train on Friday evening. She would get on at Par, and he would join the train at St Austell and they would travel together to Penzance. That way she had the ticket to show Hugh. She might even call in briefly upon Aunt Marjorie, just to be on the safe side.
Before then, however, she had a whole week to get through, a week in which she must appear absolutely normal, as normal as life could be between them. Sara prayed for Hugh to be called out on one of his regular ops but, perversely, he was home every day, never going further than around Fowey itself.
Sara rushed about, as usual, taking the children to school each morning then dashing back home to cook breakfast for Hugh, spoiling him, anxious to keep him happy. ‘You wouldn’t believe how I had to bribe the butcher to get this bit of bacon for you. But you deserve it, a breakfast fit for a king, for my brave soldier,’ and she placed it proudly before him.
He scowled down at the plate. ‘No egg?’
‘You know we are only allowed one each per week and I save for them for the children.’
‘You can give them yours, but I’ll have mine fried tomorrow, thank you very much. I need the energy, Sara, you surely realise that.’
‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’
‘And don’t take it into your head to stay on with this sick aunt of yours for any length of time. I need you back home by Sunday night at the latest. How I shall manage to cope with the children all weekend on my own, I cannot imagine. It really is most inconsiderate of you. And this toast is cold. Please make some fresh.’
Sara bit back the apology which came instantly to her lips and rushed off to make fresh toast, even though it would never have gone cold in the first place if he’d not left it standing while he berated her over the lack of an egg.
The following afternoon Sara attended yet another meeting of the War-Weapons Week Fund-Raising Committee and Nora Snell, as usual, was pushing through various motions with no real protest from the rest of the members. Sara was paying very little attention, her mind elsewhere, worrying over what she should wear. Her clothes seemed so dowdy and she so wanted to look good for Charlie, yet she couldn’t dress up too much, since she was only supposed to be going to visit her aunt. She was brought sharply back to the present when she heard her name spoken. ‘Sorry?’
‘You are the ideal person for the task, dear.’
‘Am I? Oh, um, what, exactly, do you want me to do, I mean . . .?’ Sara was reluctant to admit that she hadn’t been paying the slightest attention and didn’t have the first idea what job had been selected for. Nora, however, was quick to notice her confusion.
‘Do pay attention dear, we can’t have people day dreaming when we are discussing important business.’
‘Sorry.’ Nora always made her feel like a naughty schoolgirl.
‘In any case, I’m sure there won’t be any problem, since you and he are so very friendly. Come straight out with it. Take the bull by the horns, as it were. Just pop up to Windmill this very afternoon and ask that nice Lieutenant Denham if we can ‘borrow’ some of his men to help shift scenery for the concert in the town hall this summer.’
‘Oh, oh I don’t think I can do that. I wouldn’t be the right person at all, not at all.’ The last thing Sara wanted was to see Charlie. They’d agreed not to meet, not today, not at all this week. How could she possibly see him, speak to him and not reveal her feelings, their secret plans, just by the way she looked at him? Someone would be sure to notice her behaving like a love-struck schoolgirl, and tell Hugh. No, no, she must avoid that, at all cost.
‘Stuff and nonsense, of course you are. Absolutely ideal! But do try not to be bullied into giving away any free tickets in return for the work, dear. Rather defeats the object, I always think, if we can’t rely on people’s generosity on these occasions. We’d never buy any battleships or torpedoes if everyone was given free admittance just because they’ve done us some small favour or other. And also mention that we need someone to put up lights too, would you, dear?’
‘Couldn’t someone else go? I’m rather busy at present.’
‘Rubbish, what else have you got to do with your time since your dear husband has barred you from working in the pub?’
‘He hasn’t barred me. He just doesn’t need me behind the bar now that he has Iris. But I have other work. I’m still fully involved making the pasties and so on, as you well know.’ Why on earth did she feel the necessity to defend herself, or Hugh?
‘Yes dear, of course you do, and it must be a great relief to be free of such an unseemly occupation as serving pints of beer to raucous, noisy GIs. Although, it’s perfectly obvious that you were a favourite among them. Which is why you are the very best person for this job.’
And so the motion was carried and the meeting brought to a hasty and welcome conclusion, everyone hurrying away in case Nora should find something else for them to discuss, or a job for them to do.
It was a great relief to Sara too that it had ended, as she hated to have her personal and private business openly aired, in danger of practically being written about in the minutes.
It wouldn’t surprise her if Isobel put ‘Sara’s Friends and Working Arrangements’ or ‘The doings of the Marracks’, on the agenda.
Nora managed, however, by dint of being remarkably agile on her feet, despite her mature years, to catch up with her before she even reached the door. Perhaps to apologise, Sara thought, on a note of wild optimism. She should have known better.
‘Now you will go and see that nice Lieutenant Denham this very afternoon, won’t you, my dear. Do it right away, seeing as how busy you’re going to be over the next few weeks with your packing and so on.’
‘I beg your pardon? Packing? What packing?’
‘For your move, dear. Of course, I won’t breathe a word. As you know, I am the soul of discretion. Not a word will cross my lips until the deal is all signed and sealed,’ and she gave a conspiratorial wink, as if she were in on some private secret.
‘Um, I think you’ve made a mistake. We’re not moving. Heavens, rumour runs riot in this town. Who on earth gave you the idea that we were?’
Nora gave a girlish titter behind her hand, which somehow didn’t suit her tight-lipped, schoolmarm image. ‘Oh dear, have I spoiled his surprise?’
‘What surprise? Have you been talking to Hugh? What has he been saying?’
‘Oh, dear me, no. He hasn’t said a word, not to me. I may have got it all wrong but I spotted him coming out of Cyril Lanyon’s house on the Esplanade, and everyone knows the poor man has been trying for years to sell that property. Far too big for a widower. I saw them shake hands in a very businesslike way, quite clearly having come to an agreement. Ah, I thought, so Mr Marrack is going to buy that fine house. How very splendid. An
d good for the town too, as he can probably afford to return it to its former glory. Poor Cyril has neglected it badly in recent years. Our local hero deserves the very best, I thought. You know, we really should suggest that Hugh try for the council. Exactly the sort of candidate we’re looking for.’
Sara was listening to all of this waffle in something of a daze but this last comment was too much, and she very rudely marched away without even a goodbye.
Later, when she confronted Hugh in his den under the eaves, and challenged him on the subject, he quite calmly agreed that yes, he had indeed made an offer for Cyril Lanyon’s house and so long as the bank were prepared to give him a mortgage, which he was quite sure they would, then they would be moving into it quite soon.
Sara was flabbergasted. ‘And when were you planning on telling me this important piece of news? I mean, how could you make such a decision without even thinking to discuss the matter with me? Don’t I have any say at all?’
He set down his pen with a frown of impatience. ‘Had you been in my bed, where you ought to be, I might have thought to mention it. However, what useful contribution could you possibly have made? You know nothing about property and, as my wife, must live wherever I think is right for us, wherever I feel we can afford.’
Fury lashed through her, leaving her speechless for a good half minute. Even when Sara did finally find her voice, she spoke in a rush, breathless with anger. ‘Even a wife has an opinion, or don’t you grant me with sufficient intelligence to even be allowed any say over where we live?’
‘Are you saying that you have no wish to reside in that lovely, regency house?’ He waited patiently for her answer, a sardonic smile twisting the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous.’
‘Sara!’
She’d shocked him, at last, and oh, she was so pleased. How she hated him in that moment. She could quite easily have knocked that self-satisfied smirk right off his face. ‘No, of course I’m not saying any such thing. How could I? It’s a lovely house. Beautiful. But I would’ve thought that, as man and wife, we should make joint decisions about such things, discuss the matter together.’
For All Our Tomorrows Page 21
