Charlie wanted to come home safe not just for his own sake, but for Sara’s. He knew that she needed him, if only to get away from that dreadful husband of hers. How was he treating her? Was she coping? Had Hugh found out about their tryst? He sure did hope not.
He knew that she loved him, as he loved her. He made a silent vow to come home and save her. Wrote it in a letter and again tore it up. It might make it worse for her, if he wrote.
But he knew it wouldn’t be easy to stay alive. There’d been other, earlier raids on Europe, some quite bloody. The brave Canadians had, in one battle alone, suffered over three thousand casualties including nine hundred dead. In the cold early hours, alone in one’s bunk, Charlie, along with his comrades found it difficult not to feel they were facing almost certain death.
It was Cory who brought the news, almost running into The Ship to announce to all present that Falmouth had been hit. ‘We’ll be next,’ he cried, creating uproar in seconds.
‘What rubbish are you talking now, Cory? There’ve been no enemy planes in Cornwall for months.’
‘You won’t read it in the papers, all being kept hush-hush but tis right, I tell you! They came two nights ago.’
Everyone was aware that the time of the invasion was drawing near. The roads and narrow winding lanes of Cornwall, like the rest of southern England, seemed to be constantly blocked with military transport at all hours of the day and night. The sound of them rumbling through villages woke people up, putting an end to secrecy at last. Buses had stopped running, many roads were closed to civilians and no one was in any doubt that at long last, a mighty armada was gathering. Among them came thousands of men from Falmouth and Plymouth, some by sea, some by land.
Even patients had been sent home to free up hospital beds.
Queues to reach embarkation points stretched for miles and some men had set up stoves to cook food while they waited. But this time as they arrived at their destination, it was in complete silence. There was no rejoicing, no cheering, no flag waving or days off work to welcome them.
All people felt was fear.
Cory was well on with his tale. ‘Thirty planes came in fast over Carrick Roads and the docks, dropping flares to mark the bomb path and then their pay-loads after. The place was packed with American service men. They’re not sure how many lives have been lost yet, but hotels on the front got hit and there was a terrible fire at a fuel supply depot no one was supposed to know was even there. Sent a river of fire into the village, apparently, which the National Fire Service men are still fighting. That’s all they could tell me, but they’re saying someone squeaked, someone has been talking to the enemy. There must have been spies. Mebbe there’s spies here amongst us in Fowey, this very minute who could scupper the whole operation.’
A strange stillness fell over the pub and eyes swivelled to left and right as people surreptitiously eyed up their neighbour.
Hugh said, ‘Drinks all round, Iris. Fill up everyone’s glass, on the house. Let’s drink to the courage of the Falmouth fire fighters, and hope to God it doesn’t happen here.’
Hugh was growing nervous. Could he have been instrumental in taking information about fuel depots to the enemy? He’d no idea what had been in any of the documents he’d delivered for Iris. The money she had promised him had never materialised, not so far, yet he’d found it impossible to extricate himself. How could he, when she threatened to blow the whistle on him over that American aircrew he’d left to drown.
If fingers started pointing in his direction he didn’t care to imagine what sort of trouble he’d be in. They wouldn’t see him as the town hero then, but as a traitor. Not that Hugh saw himself in that role. In his mind he was a victim, a man fighting a war of survival on the home front, protecting a way of life from invaders of a different sort, trying to save his marriage.
It was all Sara’s fault. If she hadn’t let those Yanks fawn all over her, he wouldn’t have been so anti-American, and then he might not be in this mess.
He’d been highly suspicious over her weekend away, the answers to his questions evasive, and at night, in their bed, even more distant than usual. He deeply regretted not following her to Penzance.
Even his efforts to win Iris back had failed miserably, which deepened his black mood all the more. His temper was strung out like a high tensile wire that could snap at any moment. Where better to expel that fury, than on his wife? All he had to do was choose his moment with care and he’d get the truth out of her, one way or another.
Charlie did write her a letter, in the end. He called at the back kitchen door and again finding it locked, scribbled a hasty note and stuck it through the gap at the bottom. It was simple enough, suitably discreet, saying only “Monday - 7pm.” He wrote it in block capitals so that should Hugh chance upon it, he’d assume it was a note from the dreadful Nora Snell about another committee meeting.
But as things turned out, it was ill judged.
Hugh was indeed the first to go into the kitchen that lunch time to turn on the oven to warm the pasties. Sara was at her mother’s and Iris had volunteered to do lunches but was late, as she increasingly was these days. He picked up the note, read the single, pointed instruction and stuffed it in his pocket, a thoughtful frown on his face.
Sid Penhale later told his best mate, Cory, that he’d never known his boss to be in such a foul mood.
‘Must have lost a shilling and found a halfpenny, he were that crotchety today. Near snapped my head off just for not tightening the screw lid on a Sarsaparilla bottle. Then Iris comes in, half hour late and he yells blue murder at her too. Heard him shout at his missus often enough, but not at Iris. Favours her, he do. Don’t know how you little maid puts up with it.’
When Cory arrived back home, Sara was still with her mother with whom words had clearly been exchanged, not for the first time during these last weeks. Relations seemed to be at an all time low. Yet again Sadie was tight-lipped and Sara’s eyes all red and blotchy.
He went over to her. ‘And how’s my little maid? Not working too hard?’
Sara hugged her father. ‘I’ve been showing Mam a letter from Bette, well, a postcard really, saying the ship has landed safely and she was waiting to catch a train. Nothing much else, except that it’s hot and she promises to write more later. I’m missing her something dreadful.’
Cory patted her shoulder, looking suddenly old and haggard for he too missed his younger daughter sorely. He sighed and moved away, not wanting to share his grief since no one could offer him any comfort. She was at the other side of the world and he really didn’t expect ever to see her again.
He blew his nose loudly before returning to the other matter on his mind. ‘I’ve been hearing that Hugh is a bit hot and bothered at present. Quite lost his rag with Sid this morning, all over something and nothing. Why is that? Can’t he cope with you not helping out in the bar any more? Is he regretting that daft jealousy of his?’ No one was under any illusion of the reason behind the decision.
‘Who knows what he thinks, I certainly don’t. But you’re right, he is tense. He doesn’t just run the pub, remember, he’s out all hours of the night on exercise and ops. He says little about it, but I do know he’s involved in pretty dangerous work.’
Sadie said, ‘All the more reason for his wife to stay home and look after him properly, not go gallivanting off on unnecessary trips to see Aunt Marjorie.’
Sara did not take up the challenge. She’d heard the same accusation times without number since that fateful weekend. Her mother had dismissed the Aunt Marjorie story as nonsense, on the grounds that the old lady had never enjoyed a day’s illness in her life and certainly would not send for Sara if she did.
‘Wouldn’t even let a doctor in the house, let alone a useless niece.’
The questioning started up every time she called. Even today Sadie had called her all manner of dreadful names, the sort you use on women of ill repute, not on your own daughter. So far, Sara had managed to hold fast to her ta
le, though there were times when she nearly cracked under the strain. Her mother was nothing if not persistent, gnawing away at the subject like a dog with a bone.
What had she made Aunt Marjorie for tea? Had the old lady taken to her bed? How had she contacted Sara in the first place? And why hadn’t Sara thought to mention the fact that she was ailing?
Now Sara was anxious to be off before it all started up again. ‘Bye Mam, bye Dad. I must go and join the queue at the butcher’s in the hope of finding something decent for tea, and then pick up the children.’
But Sadie must have the last word. ‘Next time you go to see Aunt Marjorie, I’ll come with you.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Would it never end? Now she would have to go and see Aunt Marjorie, certainly before her mother did, and try to find some way out of this web of lies she’d created. And it was so difficult to keep track, to maintain the fiction. Every now and then Hugh too would ask her a question. Innocent enough but fraught with hidden traps, unless she kept her wits about her at all times.
Having made the mistake of trying to fend off his curiosity by foolishly telling Hugh that her aunt was a hypochondriac, when really the opposite was the case, Sara now found her tale tied up in all manner of dreadful knots. She could hardly remember what she’d said from one minute to the next and really hadn’t appreciated how necessary a good memory was when helplessly embroiled in lies.
How spies managed to fabricate stories, she really couldn’t imagine, but then they didn’t have to be questioned by her mother.
And she was so worried about Charlie, so desperate to see him again, so fearful for his safety, and yet terrified of Hugh finding out where she’d really spent that weekend.
Sara sat on her bed and cried as if her heart would break. Sadie’s persistence had unnerved her. She really would need to be careful; hope and pray that Hugh would stop fussing and asking so many questions.
Despite Hugh’s very obvious suspicions, she didn’t regret her decision, either to spend that precious time with Charlie, nor to baulk at the final hurdle. It was just one of those things. She wasn’t the cheating sort and simply longed for things to be normal.
But they weren’t normal, not in the least. Nevertheless, she must stay with Hugh, for now, even though every instinct was to pack a suitcase and leave, for good this time. Yet there was nowhere to run to. She certainly couldn’t go to Charlie, not yet.
Most important of all, the last thing she wanted was to risk losing her children.
She wiped away the tears, washed her face and put on fresh lipstick.
The invasion was imminent, everyone was aware of it. After that, who knew what fate awaited them? They would just have to be patient, wait and pray that he came home safe and well. As he’d said, their time would come. Right now there was a war to be won.
And he’d promised her faithfully that even if he got tied up with all the preparations, they’d meet up for one last time on the headland beyond St Catherine’s Castle. All she had to do was wait for him to name the day and time.
He would contact her soon, she was sure of it.
Sara had given the children some bread and jam to eat on the kitchen doorstep in the sunshine when Hugh came in, and something in his expression told her that all her efforts at secrecy had been in vain.
‘Sara, I wish to see you upstairs. At once, if you please,’ and he turned and walked away, clearly expecting her to follow.
‘Don’t wander off, stay there,’ she instructed the children before going to answer his peremptory summons. She found him in their bedroom, sitting quietly on the bed with his head in his hands. For a moment, Sara felt a stab of pity for him. He looked so lost and alone, so deeply depressed.
Yet her mind was racing. What had he found out? Had Sadie bluntly informed him that Aunt Marjorie never was and never would be ill? She took a steadying breath, warning herself to be strong, to maintain her innocence. But would he believe that? No sooner had she closed the bedroom door than he went on the attack.
‘I know what you’ve been up to.’
Sara felt a bolt of shock but she mustn’t weaken. She must hold her nerve. ‘I’m s-sorry? I don’t understand. What are you talking about?’
‘You know perfectly well. You and that officer, what’s his name, Lieutenant Denham. You spent that weekend with him, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me, Sara. I have his note here in my hand giving details, presumably, of your next assignation.’ He held it out to her but when she would have taken it from him, he slipped it back into his pocket. ‘This confirms what I’ve suspected all along, that this Aunt Marjorie story was all a complete fabrication. Well, what have you to say? What excuse are you going to offer me this time?’
Her knees had gone weak and Sara longed to sit down but there was no chair handy and she had no wish to sit next to him on the bed, so she stood before him like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, hands clenched tight, trying not to reveal that she was trembling.
‘Are you going to own up and be honest about your sordid little affair?’
The words seemed to burst out of her. ‘We aren’t having an affair. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.’ Too late, Sara realised that the very form of her denial was an admission. She saw it in the way his cruel lips twisted into a sardonic smile. But then she should have known from the outset that she was quite incapable of prevaricating or maintaining a lie, any more than she was capable of committing adultery. Oh, but that was no excuse. What had she done? She’d betrayed him in her heart, if not with her body, and having largely admitted her transgression, there seemed no alternative but to continue.
She took a deep breath. ‘All right, I’ll confess the whole story, which isn’t in the least bit sordid. Tell the truth and shame the devil, isn’t that how the saying goes? There have been times recently, Hugh, when you’ve seemed very much as a devil to me, so is it any wonder if I found another man more appealing?
‘Charlie is attractive, of course, but also kind and caring, while you have been hard and cruel, criticising me the whole time, finding fault, treating me as an object for your own pleasure, even jealously stopping me from working behind the bar.’ Sara could hardly believe she was finding the courage to say these things. She daren’t begin to imagine what his reaction would be.
His response, as always, was calm, at least on the surface. ‘Oh, so it’s my fault, is that what you’re saying?’
Sara let out a weary sigh. ‘No, of course I’m not. We never meant this to happen, but it did, so there we are.’
‘And where are we exactly, Sara? What precisely did happen? You slept with a Yank, like hundreds of other silly young girls?’
‘No, I’ve already told you. It wasn’t like that at all. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want you, when it came to it.’ His sarcasm taunted her, yet she smiled at that.
‘Oh, he wanted me all right but he spent the night on a chair, because he loves me and had no wish to take advantage. So unlike you, Hugh, who only ever think of yourself and your own needs. That is what’s wrong with our marriage. Your utter selfishness, and your determination to treat my needs and wishes with contempt. Is it any wonder I fell in love with another man?’
‘You’re making yourself appear innocent so you can shift your guilt on to me.’
Sara had the grace to flush. Was there an element of truth in this? She sincerely hoped not. ‘We couldn’t help it. Something just grew between us. I’m not some sort of puppet whose strings you can pull to suit the tune you happen to be playing, Hugh. I’m a living, breathing person with thoughts and opinions, dreams and ambitions of my own. I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you but perhaps later, when you’ve got over the shock and calmed down a little, we can talk about the future. Obviously I would like my freedom, but there’s the children to think of and . . .’
She thought for a moment that he was going to strike her but she should have known better. Hugh was far
too controlled for anything so reckless and demeaning. Instead he strode to the door, turning with his hand on the knob to face her. ‘I’ve heard enough. Your freedom indeed. You are my wife, in case you’ve forgotten. You’ll stay here, in our bedroom, till you’ve got this silly romantic nonsense out of your head.’
‘What? I don’t understand.’
‘Then let me make it crystal clear. You will not be getting your freedom, or taking the children away, and you certainly won’t ever be running off again with your Yank. You are my wife and will remain so, even if I have to keep you under lock and key. Which is where you will stay for the foreseeable future, until you’ve repented of this foolishness. Is that clear enough for you? You are going nowhere, Sara. You are mine!’
The last thing she heard was the key turning in the lock.
Charlie waited for two hours just beyond St Catherine’s Castle, but finally gave up and went back to base. She surely must have got his note. She spent half her life in that kitchen. But then, as she had so often told him, she was a respectable married lady and it was, after all, a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.
They were almost ready to depart. Ships filled the River Fowey, so many that you could have walked from one shore to the other without getting your feet wet. A living mass of men and machines, seething with activity and noise: a throbbing, whining, whirring and rattling; a clattering of gas masks, canteens and weapons, and the endless chatter of hundreds, packed tightly into every corner, waiting for the order to leave.
Hour upon hour they waited, cold and damp, sick to their stomachs with apprehension and fear, in full combat gear, weighed down with equipment.
The loading had been done chiefly at night, scores of vehicles driving straight onto the LSTs; thousands of foot soldiers directed up the gangway and counted on board.
It was June 4 and they left later that night but by the following day were driven back by the weather to spend yet another night in harbour. After all these months of preparation, all the careful planning and organising, the fate of Operation Overlord appeared to be at the mercy of the elements. There was a storm brewing and if the weather did not improve, there would be further delays.
For All Our Tomorrows Page 26
