For All Our Tomorrows

by Freda Lightfoot

  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.

  Mrs Jackson was clearly exceptionally house-proud and although she declared that it really didn’t matter a hoot where Bette put things, if she set a salt pot or mug back on the wrong shelf, the cupboard door would be quietly opened again for her to retrieve it and place it on the shelf above, or wherever it should properly reside.

  Bette tried various opening gambits to get a conversation going but it was like trying to draw the proverbial blood from a stone. She was having none of it, making only occasional, non-committal grunts. Bette was almost dropping with fatigue by the time they were done, beginning to wonder if this day would ever end. At last she put the sopping dish towel to dry on the rack by the stove and declared her intention to retire.

  ‘I’ll say goodnight then, Mrs Jackson, or would you mind if I called you Peggy? Mom does feel a little – er - um – too familiar at this stage.’

  ‘Peggy will do fine!’ The woman kept her back steadfastly turned towards Bette as she wiped down the sink, even on this homely task remaining stiff and unbending.

  ‘Thank you. Oh, and thank you also for an excellent supper. It was wonderful.’

  There was no immediate response to this and it was not until Bette reached the door that the comment which fully explained the coolness of the woman’s attitude, finally came.

  ‘If you thought you’d hooked yourself a fine GI with a pocketful of dollars, I hope you’ve realised different now, girl. Goodnight!’

  Bette could see that she had a long, hard hill to climb so far as her future mother-in-law was concerned.

  Lying in the big bed waiting for Chad to join her, was nerve-racking. Bette’s mind turned back to those times spent hidden in the rocks on the beach at Whitehouse. It hadn’t seemed to occur to them then that there were ships just yards away in the river, the Pillbox on the rocks behind, a war going on out at sea. They’d been in love, desperate to touch and kiss and be together, hardly able to keep their hands off each other. Why had it all changed when he went away?

  Because of Barney.

  For some reason Bette couldn’t begin to explain, she’d fallen in love with him too. But was it possible to love two men, or had she simply been infatuated with Chad, charmed by his quiet Southern charm? But if she didn’t truly love him, then why was she here, willing to become his wife? Because she’d no choice. Barney had let her down, in the end. He was ready enough to make love to her, but not to shoulder the responsibility of a child; willing to fight the enemy but not his buddy, not for her anyway.

  She could see Chad’s awkwardness as he undressed some distance from the bed, his back turned towards her as he struggled with the buttons on his pyjama jacket. Bette’s heart went out to him. He deserved a better wife than she could ever make him. She’d no right to love two men, particularly one as dangerous and heartless as Barney had turned out to be. It wasn’t decent. Hadn’t Sara told her so a million times? Oh, why did her big sister always have to be right? No wonder Peggy had made that barbed remark. She’d looked like a tart in her fancy frock and
mouth plastered with lipstick.

  Bette didn’t care to think how her future mother-in-law would react when she learned the truth, that she’d behaved like one too by getting herself pregnant at just twenty years old. She must never let it slip that she wasn’t even sure that Chad was the father.

  She slid out of bed and went to help him but Chad was quick to protest that he could manage very well on his own, thank you very much.

  ‘I’m sure you can, but I want to help. That’s what wives do.’

  ‘You’re not my wife.’

  ‘Not yet, but I soon will be.’

  He made no further comment, pulled back the sheets and lay down in the bed. Bette did the same. They were lying side by side, stiff and awkward and, true to his word, he didn’t touch her, didn’t even speak to her. They might as well have been planks of wood for all the romance there was between them. She could have been sleeping with a complete stranger.

  Exhausted as she was, Bette would have welcomed a little cuddle, to feel his arms about her and hear again how pleased he was that she had come. But he made no move, so she lay silent beside him as tears slid down her cheeks.

  She was woken shortly after five-thirty by a raucous din coming from the next room, which Bette took to be Mary-Lou’s children having a fight. After about ten minutes of shouting and thumping, when she was on the point of going in and sorting the little brats out herself, she heard their father’s voice bawl something at them, followed by a few more thumps and bumps, before blissful silence fell.

  She drifted back to sleep but then Chad was shaking her, telling her to get up and get dressed, quick as possible as breakfast would be in ten minutes. Since Bette had no wish to disgrace herself by being late again, she did as she told and by the stroke of six was seated at the table, along with the rest of the clan. She couldn’t ever remember having been up so early before, could barely keep her eyes open long enough to see what was happening.

  Breakfast proved to be as much of a nightmare as supper the night before, with something called grits that tasted revolting, together with scrambled eggs, and biscuits which were soft, doughy scones and tasted delicious. Bette made the mistake of reaching for a second but a warning look from Chad, stopped her just in time.

  Unfortunately, Mary-Lou noticed. She looked down her long nose and made some pointed remark about foreigners who reckoned they could walk right in and take food from her children’s mouths. ‘You know the kids aren’t done yet. Do you ever do anything but eat?’

  Peggy said, ‘Mary-Lou, we been through all this. The girl is hungering for home, as well as food. Leave her be.’

  Bette was grateful for Peggy’s intervention so rewarded her with a beaming smile. ‘Don’t worry, I mean to earn my keep. I shall get myself a job just as quickly as possible. I know it’s some distance into town from here but when we get a place of our own, we could maybe move closer, or into the town itself, so I can get work.’

  They were all looking at her as if she’d lost the use of her senses. Bette glanced at Chad, hoping he’d back her up but he‘d turned away to talk to Jake, paying her no attention at all.

  Mary-Lou said. ‘What sort of job you reckon you could do, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t mind. I could be a shop assistant perhaps, or a secretary. I’m really much more organised than you might think. I used to help my mother run a hairdressing salon.’

  Several pairs of eyes swivelled to her hennaed curls. Peggy sniffed, and her disapproval was all too plain. ‘Women in these parts generally find they have enough to do keeping house and looking after their men-folk.’

  ‘That’s right,’ echoed Mary-Lou, in that whining voice of hers which Bette had already come to hate. ‘Shucks, why would you want to anyway? I wouldn’t dream of going out to work when my children need me. Besides, Harry would never approve, would you, sugar?’

  ‘Ain’t normal. Ain’t a woman’s place,’ was the grumpy response, spoken through a mouthful of grits.

  Bette looked from one to other of them, her jaw slack with shock. ‘How can you say such a thing? Of course it’s normal for women to work. They’re working hard and fighting to win the war back home in England.’

  Chad’s father, who, so far as Bette could recall, had not yet even acknowledged her existence, suddenly decided to enter the conversation by bellowing out in a big loud voice, ‘Then your Englishmen should hang their heads in shame. I wouldn’t let no woman do my dirty work. I can fight my own battles.’

  ‘No, no, not fighting in the physical sense. I mean working in factories, on the buses, on the land. All kinds of jobs that used to be done by the men till they had to join up and fight Hitler.’ She turned to Chad. ‘Tell them, Chad. Explain to them how it is in England.’

  Before he could open his mouth, Peggy had answered for him. ‘This ain’t England. And I don’t reckon you’ll have time to go gallivanting off to town, even if we could afford the petrol to take you. There’s more’n enough work to do here on the farm. And why would you need a place of your own, when Chad has a perfectly good home here with us, his family? Don’t make no sense. It’d be jest throwing good money away.’

  That was the moment when Bette saw the true reality of her situation, and the closest she came to despair. The prospect of spending each and every day of her entire life, shut up in this house with her mother-in-law, with moaning Mary-Lou and her three brats was unthinkable, more than she could bear to even contemplate. But now was definitely not the moment to argue the point. She merely smiled and sipped her coffee, making a mental note to tackle Chad on the subject at the very first opportunity.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  In the two weeks or so since their stolen weekend together, there had been so much work to be done, Charlie had scarcely had time to think. Along with the other officers, he’d been ordered to make the final preparations for Operation Overlord. They’d been given details of the number of boats, which units were to be deployed, plus a comprehensive outline of the landing beaches; codenamed Utah and Omaha, with the help of maps and aerial photographs.

  The men were to be briefed, provided with French currency, and morale kept high by a more relaxed approach; good food and great movies provided every evening. The last supper of the condemned, Charlie thought with wry, dark humour.

  The time left to see Sara was becoming frighteningly tight. He was well aware that once all the men, equipment and supplies were in position, security would be tightened up considerably. Orders were that no one would then be allowed out of camp.

  Movement of civilians would also be strictly curtailed, passes needing to be shown wherever they went. But Charlie was desperate to risk one last meeting. The question was, how to achieve it?

  Late one afternoon he hung around the kitchen door at The Ship but didn’t see her and couldn’t stay too long. He tried again the next day, still with no success. If only he had the time to wait, to look around town or dash up to the school in case she was there, but he only ever had a brief half hour before having to dash back to base. And she could be on one of her WVS collection trips, out with the children. She could be anywhere.

  The Charlie who loved Sara was desperate to escape duties for just a day, half a day, to be with her for one last time; to hold her in his arms and tell her again how much he loved her.

  Lieutenant Charles Denham was forced to set this longing aside and concentrate on the task in hand. Lives depended on his doing so.

  He was quite certain they were as ready as they would ever be for the invasion. Hidden away in the forests, fields and green English valleys, in old mills and agricultural buildings, in docks and warehouses, was an arsenal of weapons and artillery.

  Tanks, jeeps, bren gun carriers, trucks, armoured cars and ambulances by the thousand. There was food and medical suppliers, howitzers and anti-aircraft guns, bulldozers and excavators, and rolling stock which would be taken over to replace the shattered French railway equipment. In addition, two huge man-made harbours, called “Mulberries”, made
up of steel floats, were to be towed to the Normandy beaches so they could be used for Allied shipping.

  Last, but by no means least, there were the strange landing craft: The LCTs or Landing Craft Tanks, designed to carry up to nine tanks or twelve lorries, and the LSTs, Landing Ship Tanks, the bows of which opened to allow tanks and trucks to be driven straight on to the shore.

  Loading was to be started by the end of May as it would take time to get everything in place. More and more soldiers and equipment were pouring in every day. Nissen huts were overcrowded, tents sprang up everywhere as make-shift accommodation, and it could take what seemed like hours to collect your chow.

  Despite his need to see Sara, Charlie, like the rest of the men, was filled with impatience for the operation to get underway. There had been any number of delays over recent months while preparations were put into place, and although the troops gave every appearance of calm, the strain was tangible. Tension was high, men spending a lot of time sitting in quiet corners writing to their loved ones.

  Charlie wrote a note to Sara, several in fact, and then threw them all away. How could he write to her? Hugh might open her mail.

  Every now and then a shout would go up. ‘Let’s go finish him off,’

  ‘Sure thing. Put an end to this goddamed war.’

  ‘Put an end to Hitler.’

  It was like a baseball chant, only much more deadly. They were buoyed up, excited, sick with fear for not a man amongst them underestimated the dangers they faced.

  They were itching to get the job done; keen to drive back the great armies of Wehrmacht and declare this damned war over. Hitler might claim to have built an impregnable fortress around Europe yet he couldn’t be entirely certain from which direction the attack would come. The hope was that the Germans would expect it at Pas-de-Calais. The bombing in that region was meant to keep his armies fully occupied with hopefully insufficient men to guard the entire coastline.