For All Our Tomorrows (39 page)

So for now, she depended for her social entertainment upon the sewing bee. If there was one thing Bette hated, it was sewing, but she dutifully went along, at first in the hope of perhaps making herself a new dress, regretting now all the lovely clothes she’d scorned to bring with her.
 

But no, the ladies main task was quilting, which was inestimably dull, sewing endless scraps into squares and triangles.

Bette endured it because she must, and because she was desperate to find the right moment to speak to Peggy, hoping that one of these trips might offer her the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, and despite the cosiness of the sewing circle and the undoubted friendliness of the other ladies, which was welcome, things never quite worked out that way.

On the drive there and back, Peggy would studiously ignore her while she talked to Harry, or she would sit in tight-lipped silence, often with her eyes closed, which none of them dare broach. At the meeting itself, she always sat with her friends, across the room from Bette.
 

The youngest of the group of rather elderly ladies was called Esther, who made a point of trying to be helpful. She would sit beside Bette and talk quietly to her under cover of their sewing, gently asking if she was settling in, offer some quiet advice, perhaps on the climate, or how to grow or use certain vegetables.

Esther once asked when she and Chad had got married and Bette muttered something about back in rainy old England, surprised, and really rather relieved that she believed they already were.

Bette let fall a few hints over how she worried about Chad a good deal. ‘He was very badly injured and isn’t coping too well working the land. I don’t think he ever really enjoyed it and was glad to escape to join the marines. But he can’t seem to find any alternative now, because of his arm.’

‘I’m sure he’ll think of something. He’s a resourceful young man, arm or no arm. And you’re a fine young woman. I hope you’ll both be very happy together.’

‘His family don’t seem to understand his frustration, his loneliness. And his father is pretty tough on him.’

‘That’s the mark of the Jacksons,’ said Esther. ‘Comes with the territory.’

 
Bette felt she’d found a friend, longed to open up and share more problems with her. She wanted to talk about how isolated she felt stuck up here on the mountain, her need to work, to have a place of their own, and about how cold his mother was to her but was far too aware of Peggy seated opposite, and her condemning, all-seeing gaze.

But Esther seemed to instinctively understand these concerns and tactfully asked how things were up at the farm, if she was getting along with her in-laws. ‘It isn’t always easy, don’t I know it. I lived with my Henry’s family for near two years before we escaped to our own place. Be firm, child. Put your foot down and make Chad build you a cabin, if nothing else. And I hope you’re putting your feet up and getting plenty of rest, you’re far too thin and quiet. What you need is to get out and about more, meet girls your own age.’

‘Where would I find any?’ Bette almost laughed out loud, thinking what Sadie would say to hear her younger daughter accused of being
too quiet
!

‘Well, you could join the war-brides club for a start. Wouldn’t that be a fine thing to share problems with your compatriots? You all got the same troubles, after all. Homesick for your own families and good old Blighty?’ Ester kind face creased into a smile.

Bette gazed at her in astonishment. ‘Are you saying that I’m not the only one? That there are others like me? More war-brides living around here?’

‘Of course, dear, and many, like yourself, are pregnant. When is your baby due?’
 

For some unaccountable reason, that was the moment when all the other ladies in the group chose to stop talking, and not one amongst them, Peggy included, missed hearing the remark. Esther’s words rang out clear as a bell and, realising this, she flushed deep crimson.

It was the moment that was to change Bette’s life. Realising there was no way she could deny it, and that she’d tried and failed in every previous attempt to talk to Peggy, Bette simply laughed.

‘Well, our little secret is out. Yes, Chad and I are expecting a baby in the autumn, sorry, the fall. And I must say, we’re thrilled to pieces.’
 

As one, the ladies burst forth in a chorus of congratulations, oohs and ahs, gasps and sighs, all begging for details and wanting to know whether she hoped for a boy or girl, and if they’d chosen a name yet.

Bette laughingly did her best to answer all their questions, while looking straight into Peggy’s eyes, challenging her to deny her this moment of triumph.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Later, when the cost was counted, an estimated two thousand, five hundred men were declared killed, wounded or missing on Omaha beach alone, not counting Utah and Gold, and the rest. Among them was Sid and Ethel Penhale’s son, John. And Dan Roskelly, who’d really wanted to stay on at the docks but had reluctantly answered his call-up, was blown up at sea and there wasn’t even anything of him left for his family to bury.

Even so, despite the pain and human suffering, even in the midst of it all, people were proud to have a son or husband ‘out there’, the invasion greeted with a mix of relief and pride, even a feeling of jubilation, which helped to offset the underlying fears and anxiety.

In August came the V2s, which caused even greater havoc, but the Germans failed to halt the Allied advance though the battle continued to rage. The communist wing of the French Resistance paralysed the capital, posters appearing everywhere, calling their citizens to arms against the Nazis. Even the Paris police joined in the strike.

‘Rommel has abandoned his men and gone on the run, and Churchill has visited France,’ Sid Penhale announced, having got this snippet of information from a reliable source among his mates in the fire service, ‘which must mean the end is in sight.’ No one was entirely convinced. The end seemed to be taking an unconscionably long time to arrive.

It seemed as if each and every day, a ship arrived in Fowey, some damaged and needing repair, others with wounded on board. The cottage hospital was full to bursting, as was the Navy Hospital, Carnethick House and the beds requisitioned at Fowey Hotel. The ships themselves were so filthy and stinking that hundreds of soiled mattresses were loaded into railway wagons and taken away for burning.

Sara watched the unloading of every one, dreading seeing Charlie, always breathing a sigh of heartfelt relief when he wasn’t on board. But what if he’d been brought in during the night, and she’d missed him?

Unable to just sit back and do nothing, she volunteered her services.

‘I’ve no nursing experience,’ she told them up at the hospital. ‘I’ve been helping the WVS but I can wash bed pans, make beds, serve tea, whatever you need an extra pair of hands for.’

They’d handed her an overall and she’d started that very day, spending the next several weeks working harder than ever. But then keeping busy helped her to cope.

The walking wounded, and survivors from ships lost, were located up at Windmill to recover. Movies and dances were arranged to entertain them, A.T.S. girls brought in as dancing partners. This made Sara think of Bette, as she did a hundred times a day. How she missed her sister. She would have given anything to have her here with her now, helping her through all of this.

She did what she could to help here too, organising whist drives, parties and picnics, finding books for the men to read, writing or posting letters to their sweethearts and mothers, and then enduring the heartbreaking task of seeing them off again when they were returned to duty.

And always, as a new batch of survivors arrived, she would anxiously scan each and every one, seeking one familiar face.

By September, Montgomery was promoted to Field Marshal, which surprised no one and there was talk that the Home Guard would soon be stood down.

‘If that includes the river patrol, then that’ll be good for my rheumatics,’ Cory admitted. ‘Although I’ll have no excuse to escape the Mrs then, will I?’

‘There’s always the fishing,’ Hamil reminded him. ‘We all do know how good you are at catching fish.’

‘That’s true, m’boy. Very true.’

Summer was fading into autumn and Hugh and Sara had moved into their new home, all their furniture and possessions transported along the Esplanade in Scobey Snell’s old van, boxes unpacked and beds made up, even a swing put up in the garden for the children. Cory had helped her to dig over the vegetable patch, plant some leeks and potatoes, still industriously digging for victory.

The house on the Esplanade was lovely, there was no doubt about that, even though a fresh coat of paint was needed here and there to brighten the place up, and perhaps the odd new piece of furniture once such things became generally available again. Although every time she thought about the end of the war, her mind went into a sort of paralysis. Everything depended on whether Charlie came home safe.

Fortunately, Hugh didn’t trouble her much in bed these days, his mood of aggression passing as swiftly and mysteriously as it had come, for which she was grateful. Perhaps he was tired from working hard at the pub. Iris had left weeks ago, some time in late June. Hugh said she’d gone back to her mother’s in Truro which Sara didn’t question.

‘I shall need you back in the bar,’ he’d informed her at the time, rather like an imperious summons. Sara had declined.

She’d always known that she would miss living at The Ship, the hubble and bubble of locals coming and going, the chatter and the gossip around the fire of an evening, being at the centre of things, sharing with these people she loved their celebrations and joys, their fears and their grief. But she’d filled her life with other things now and was as content as she could be, in the circumstances.

‘I’m so sorry, Hugh, but I’m much too busy to spare you the time. I’m needed at the hospital every day, which is far more important work, as I’m sure you’ll agree. You and Sid can surely cope on your own, now that all the servicemen have gone.’

‘It isn’t my job to spend every waking moment behind the bar. There are other tasks to be done, the accounts and so on. And who will change the beds for guests if you aren’t there?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to manage that yourself too. It isn’t difficult. You can send the sheets to the laundry. You insisted on moving us into this new house after all, which has a created a great deal more work for me, and I do still make the pasties. Quite enough to do in addition to my hospital work and working with the WVS up at Windmill. And of course I cook delicious meals for you and the children, and dig the garden. I try very hard to be a proper wife and mother. Isn’t that what you wanted?’ Sara gave a sweet little smile.

He hadn’t liked it, not one little bit, but nor had he been able to think of any way to force her to do his bidding, not on this occasion. A small triumph perhaps, but sweet.

Consequently, he sank into one of his gloomy, black moods, rarely speaking to her, let alone touching her.

The very fact that their lack of intimacy brought Sara nothing but relief seemed to indicate that their life could never return to normal. She still hadn’t heard from Charles, had no idea whether he was alive or dead, so for now she had no alternative but to go on with the charade of being a happily married woman, if only for the sake of her children. Above everything, they were the most important factor in her life.

She would go along with this difficult situation for now, because in her heart Sara knew that it couldn’t last for ever.

Doodlebugs might still be doing their worst in London but there was a cautious optimism in the air, Folk were wary of tempting fate and yet quite certain that success was only weeks away.
 

And then one evening Sid Penhale dashed into the pub to say that our boys had reached the Rhine and a cheer went up loud enough to raise the roof, with fresh drinks called all round. Victory in Europe was in sight.

When the letter, postmarked Truro, arrived with the afternoon post, Hugh knew at once that it came from Iris’s mother. Not troubling to read it, he tore it into small scraps and threw it away in the waste paper basket, then emptied the basket into the dustbin, just to be on the safe side. He’d told all the regulars that she’d gone home and no one else had troubled to enquire about Iris’s whereabouts, not even the SOE, who were presumably winding up operations and no longer interested.

But he hadn’t considered the mother. Half an hour later he regretted the action. Perhaps he should have read it after all, so that at least he knew what Mrs Logan was doing about her missing daughter. He could have written back to the woman, made some excuse, told her that Iris had changed her mind and had, in fact, decided to go to Germany and find her husband. He could still do that, just to make sure she didn’t start asking awkward questions, except that he didn’t have Mrs Logan’s address.

Come to think of it, he didn’t even know if Logan was Iris’s genuine maiden name, or simply one she’d made up. After all, most people in Fowey didn’t even know that she was married. Drat! Hugh went back outside and began to root through the dustbin, searching for the pieces so that he could put them back together again and find it. It wouldn’t do to make a careless mistake, not at this stage.