For All Our Tomorrows (33 page)

A part of her felt as if she’d lost him, as if she might never see him again.

Sara was surprised to see Hugh waiting for her at the station. Somehow it made her feel strangely edgy. Almost before he kissed her, he’d asked the first question.

‘So how was Aunt Marjorie? Was she grateful for your care?’

‘Oh, indeed, I’m sure she was very pleased to see me.’

‘Your mother didn’t even know she was poorly.’

In the end, it had proved impractical to follow Sara to Aunt Marjorie’s, much as he would have liked to do so. He’d been kept far too busy at the pub. But Hugh couldn’t help noticing how her eyes widened at this simple statement, like a startled fawn. For some reason, he loved her best when she was frightened and revealed her vulnerability.

‘Mam? You’ve been talking to mam about Aunt Marjorie?’

‘I saw her in the butcher’s queue and happened to mention where you’d gone. She offered to cook for me, though I told her you’d left everything ready prepared.’

He decided not to mention the fact that he’d deliberately made the approach, tackled Sadie on the subject straight out. He went on with his interrogation, noticing how flustered she was becoming. Why was that? Surely Sara didn’t have it in her to lie? He would need to watch her every move, and, should he discover that she was indeed playing him false, he would make her sorry, very sorry indeed.

 
‘So what was wrong with the old dear that you had to run to her side?’

‘Oh, it was all a lot of fuss over nothing. Aunt Marjorie is a bit of a hypochondriac. She’ll outlive us all in the end, as I’m sure Mam told you. Still, she is over eighty, so of course I had to go and check.’

‘So how could you possibly help? What good did it do, for you to waste an entire weekend with her? I hope this isn’t going to become a habit, Sara.’

 
‘Don’t start an argument now, Hugh. I’m tired and cold. Come on, let’s hurry home. It looks like rain.’

Hugh made no further comment as they set off to walk briskly back to the inn, but he watched carefully as the other passengers streamed out of the station, keeping a sharp look-out for anyone suspicious, such as that American officer who was always hanging round The Ship. But he saw no one, which was almost a disappointment. If his suspicions were correct and the pair had spent the weekend together, then he must have got off at an earlier station and hitched a lift back to base, as these Yanks often did. Hugh hadn’t expected her to be half so cunning yet something was going on, he was convinced of it.

When they got back home, Sara carried her bag upstairs only to find that he’d moved all her belongings back into the marital bedroom. He’d moved Drew into the spare bedroom, including his toy cupboard and little desk, and a very excited little boy was proudly waiting to show off his new bedroom.

‘Daddy says I’m old enough to have a room to myself now, Mummy, instead of sharing with Jenny. And if I look after it properly and keep it very tidy, when we move to the new house he’ll let me have the room at the front, and buy me a telescope to look at the ships out at sea. Isn’t that exciting?’

Sara caught him to her breast in a tight hug. ‘Yes, darling, it certainly is.’

She considered sleeping in one of the inn’s guest bedrooms but dismissed the idea. Not only did they need the income from letting them, but also she wouldn’t be able to hear if Drew or Jenny woke in the night and needed her. Consequently, there was nowhere left for her to sleep but with her husband.

Sara came to dread the moment when Hugh joined her in bed, feeling herself grow stiff and rigid as he stroked and caressed her. After years of indifference and lack of interest on his part, suddenly now, when she wanted him least, he’d decided to reclaim what he termed as his rights.

He’d never been a particularly unselfish lover, but any tenderness that had once existed between them had quite gone, replaced by something far more dark and troubling.

Thankfully he didn’t ever repeat quite the display of aggression he’d used when he’d tied her up, but the memory of that night was strong in her. It hummed below the surface between them and Sara was aware that his mood could change in an instant. Resistance was not only futile but dangerous. If she turned away or told him she didn’t feel like it tonight, he would be irritated and impatient and take her anyway with a brutal heartlessness. She became simply grateful that he at least no longer used the pyjama chord, allowed him to have his fill of her, on the grounds that the sooner it was done the better.

She’d hear him chuckle to himself in the darkness, as if it amused him to know she no longer wanted him, but that he could take her at any time he wished. He seemed to enjoy toying with her as a cat would with a mouse. Some nights he would make no approach, do nothing, on others he would start to kiss and fondle her and then abruptly turn away and ignore her, as if needing to make clear that the moment would be of his choosing.

She knew only too well that at some point during the night, although not every night by any means, or perhaps in the early hours of the morning, or even when she was about to rise and make breakfast, he would pull her to him and take her without any warning whatsoever.

All of this meant that Sara was quite unable to sleep. She would doze a little then wake in a panic, wondering if he’d touched her, or when he might reach for her.

She hated it most when he talked to her, which dragged out the agony.

‘I know you enjoy this every bit as much as I do, for all you refuse to respond. I shall possess you, Sara. You are my wife and it’s been too long, far too long. We’ve let life and this dratted war get in the way of our love. We mustn’t shut each other out ever again. As you once said yourself, we need to put some romance and excitement back into our marriage.’

When he was done with her, she would thankfully turn from him to sleep on the furthest side of the bed, or get up and creep to the bathroom to eradicate every trace of him.

‘I ask only loyalty and obedience,’ he would carefully explain, in those falsely patient tones she’d come to hate.

And what of love? the voice inside her head would cry, hotly rebelling, longing to declare that she was innocent of all charges, except of trying to live a useful and worthwhile life.

Yet in her heart Sara knew that wasn’t strictly true. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop wishing she’d slept with Charlie after all.

Chapter Thirty-Two

They were all seated at the table waiting for her, when Bette finally plucked up the courage to go downstairs. Aware that she’d spent far more time than was strictly necessary fussing over her hair, putting on lipstick and making herself presentable, yet she’d needed to do all of that in order to bolster her flagging confidence. Bette addressed her apology directly to his mother, who was presiding over events from the end of the table. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mrs Jackson. The bath was lovely and I was so desperately tired after all the excitement, I nearly fell asleep in it.’

The response was more informative than warm, but forgiveness was implicit in the words. ‘It’s your first day, so you’re allowed to be late, but we never do start eating till all the family is present.’

Chad chipped in. ‘Come sit by me, hon, and I’ll remind you of everyone’s names. This here is Jake, my rascal younger brother; over there is Mary-Lou and her husband Harry, and these whipper-snappers are their offspring: Laurie, Mel, and Billy-Jo.’

Bette swiftly offered a polite smile of apology all round, including the three little girls, then sat quickly down in the chair he’d pulled out for her. ‘I’ll remember to be on time in future, Mrs Jackson.’

Chad gave a shout of laughter as if she’d made some sort of joke. ‘Her name is Peggy but you must learn to call her Mom. We all do.’

Bette smiled and nodded, privately wondering how she would ever manage to think of her in such terms. The woman was reed thin, the bone structure of her gaunt face sharply defined into a broad forehead, high cheekbones and blunt jaw line. No one could call her beautiful yet there was a handsome, regal quality to her, almost formidable, if only in the erectness of her posture as she sat like a queen before her family. Her very stature seemed to imply that she had been beautiful once. The grey hair had been dragged up into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, which somehow made the clear blue eyes seem overlarge and Bette shifted uncomfortably in her seat beneath the woman’s scrutiny.

As she set dishes and plates on the table, Bette noticed the work-worn hands, ingrained with the kind of dirt that no amount of cream or lemon juice could dissolve. The scrubbed, pale complexion that might once have been porcelain-like was now marred by pink threads of broken veins from being out in all weathers, and Bette thought with almost nostalgic longing of Sadie’s more flamboyant, colourful looks, scarlet lipstick and the flowing, pink floral gown she wore at the salon.

Glancing about her, Bette realised how very overdressed she was in this, her favourite green crêpe de chine dress, and suddenly regretted the swirl of auburn curls she’d so carefully arranged on top of her head, the rouge and bright lipstick, as she took in the tidy but undoubtedly shabby appearance of her future mother-in-law’s print cotton frock and apron. Even Mary Lou, at little more than thirty, looked plain and homely in faded blue cotton.

Where was the style she’d expected to find in America, the elegance, the prosperity? Bette tucked her short skirt over her knees and prayed they would at least eat soon, before she passed out from hunger. Right beside her was a dish of mashed potato which smelt heavenly and, unable to resist any longer, Bette picked it up and started to dole some out onto her plate. Everyone suddenly stopped talking to stare at her.

‘We ain’t said grace yet,’ Chad gently reprimanded her, taking the spoon from her hand.

Bette hung her head in shame, though grace was not something she was used to at home. Her own family rarely even bothered going to church these days.

When that task had been properly carried out, bowls of food were passed from hand to hand, which she found strange. Back home, Sadie would divide their meagre rations equally between them, allowing Cory an extra sausage or spoonful of potato, him being a man and head of the household, and that’s what you got, neither more nor less.

Here, there appeared to be no such restrictions and Bette set to with gusto. She was young, after all, with a healthy appetite, and the journey had been long which she’d spent largely being sick. Perhaps this desperate hunger drove her to indulge a little too freely, for after watching her scoop out spoonful after spoonful of potato, mashed suede and carrot, and help herself to two huge slices of meat loaf, Chad whispered in her ear.

‘You’re making a pig of yourself, Bette. There are other folk who need feeding here.’ Only then did she notice that the amount of food in each bowl was not as plentiful as might at first have appeared. The yellow corn she’d ignored altogether as something hens ate, not people. But if she’d consumed all that she’d piled on her plate, then some around the table would have gone without.

Bette hastily and apologetically returned some of the untouched food back into their bowls beneath the condemnatory gaze of Mom, Pop and the entire Jackson family, recognising what a terrible mistake she’d made, in more ways than one. Food was not plentiful in America, at least, not here in this town, with this family. These people were not rich. They couldn’t possibly own a string of restaurants, or anything else for that matter.

‘Didn’t they feed you back in England?’ his mother enquired, in quietly, critical tones.

‘It’s been a long time since my last meal. Sorry!’ There she went again, yet another apology.

Chad attempted to intervene on her behalf. ‘I did explain about the rationing, Mom.’

 
‘Rationing is good for the soul. Greed is not.’ Bette was about to put a forkful of food into her mouth when she continued, ‘Will you cut my Chad’s food for him, since the poor boy has lost half his arm fighting for the British, or shall I do that myself, as usual?’

‘Oh, lord, sorry, I didn’t think.’ Not more apologies! It was starting to become a bad habit. And what was that snide remark about fighting for the British? Bette bit down hard on her lip, reminding herself she was a guest in this house, a stranger in this country.

After helping Chad with his food, she remained silent for the rest of the meal, leaving the chatter to family members, thankful to fade into the background and be ignored at last.

Though for some reason, Bette’s ravenous hunger had quite vanished, leaving her sick at heart, aching for home and her own family. How she longed to hear Cory call her his little maid, have Sara give her a loving hug, or even for Sadie to scold her for being no better than she ought to be.

Which brought her to the very reason of why she was here, at the other side of the world. Her unborn child. It was too late to want to go home now. She’d burned her boats good and proper this time.

When supper was over, the men went outside on the porch to smoke and drink beer. Mary-Lou took the children upstairs to bed and Bette offered to help wash and dry the dishes in an effort to make up for her various blunders. But the taps were called faucets and didn’t work quite like they did at home.

Water had to be boiled on the mysterious wood-burning stove, and even when everything was finally washed in the big brown-stone sink, she didn’t know where anything went in the myriad of kitchen cupboards.