A chorus of moans had already started up but mention of their favourite story book character changed these swiftly to oohs of delight and the two children scampered off eager to hear if the dragon would catch Rupert, and how Bill Badger, Algy Pug and Edward Trunk would help. Perhaps he might even take to the air in his little plane.
Sara sat by Jenny’s bed with Drew on her knee and read quietly to them, always a favourite part of her day. She couldn’t ever remember Hugh putting them to bed, not in all their married life. He claimed it was her job, part of the role of a mother, as if he were somehow not involved in his children’s welfare.
When their eyes were drooping closed, she quietly closed the book, kissed Jenny’s sleep-flushed cheeks before carrying Drew, already limp with sleep, to his own room where she sat and looked at him for a long time before going back downstairs. No indeed, whatever the sacrifice, her children must come first but it was worth one last stab at happiness before she quite abandoned all hope.
She damned well would ask him. He could only say no.
‘I’d like to talk to you Hugh, if you don’t mind.’ He was sitting reading the paper, as he seemed to do a great deal these days, now that he wasn’t constantly out on his missions. His temper had grown ever more irascible, his moods blacker and more morose of late and as Sara took the chair opposite she tried to appear calm, even though her heart was pounding and her hands were trembling. She clasped them tightly in her lap,
‘I don’t think we can go on like this for much longer, hardly speaking to each other, do you? We lead largely separate lives, sleep in separate beds and . . . ‘
‘If you are complaining again about our sex lives, Sara, that is entirely your fault, not mine. I never wanted us to sleep apart, that was your choice. I can’t say I enjoy it in the least.’
Sara momentarily closed her eyes in a gesture of despair. ‘Let’s not go over all of that again. The fact is, even in our love making, if you can call it that, we are no longer compatible. We seem to have a different needs, a completely different way of looking at things. You constantly criticise and disapprove of everything I do, while I want to go my own way, do things outside of the home now that the children are older. I’m afraid I haven’t been happy for some time, Hugh. I’m not blaming you entirely but . . .’
‘I should think not, since you were the one who had the affair, not me.’
Sara was taken aback by the venom in his tone, had to force herself not to lose her nerve. After all, she suspected him of having an affair himself, with Iris, although it seemed fruitless to argue that point now that the girl had gone back home. She steadied her breath, tried again.
‘Charlie and I didn’t actually have an affair, not in the way you imagine. But it is true that I love him. He loves me too, very much, and . . . well, what I’m trying to say is that if you would be good enough to grant me my freedom, we intend to marry.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Hugh tossed aside his paper and stared at Sara, eyes wide with disbelief, brows climbing right up into that shock of fair hair which still fell over his brow. ‘Grant you your freedom? My dear girl, what are you saying? Can you be serious?’
‘Very. We need to be together.’
‘You need to be together?’
‘Do please stop repeating everything I say. It can’t come as any great surprise to you. You’ve known for some time that I’m not happy. Our marriage isn’t working, Hugh, and it’s time we accepted that fact.’
‘I accept nothing of the sort. The problem lies with the war, with women taking on roles that don’t in the least suit them, like driving buses, joining the Armed Services, and other such jobs that they were never meant to do. The problem lies with GIs who steal our wives and sweethearts, not with hard working husbands who are trying to do their bit.
‘I also blame Nora Snell and her damned committee. On top of all of that, you’ve now got yourself embroiled this nursing nonsense up at the hospital.’ He got up, carefully folded his paper and slapped it down on the polished mahogany coffee table.
‘The trouble with you, Sara, is that you’re never satisfied. You are always imagining that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.’
Sara gasped. ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair.’
‘Fair? Fair? You have a lovely home, children, even a husband who loves you, and a business we used to happily run together, but that apparently is not enough. You want fun and excitement, romance and illicit sex. Now you apparently also want your freedom. To do what? Run off to America with a Yank like your stupid sister? I don’t think so, Sara. I don’t think that would be a very good idea at all.’
At this point in his unstoppable lecture, he leaned so close to Sara that flecks of spittle from his mouth cascaded over her as he spat his next words at her. ‘Let’s put it nice and plain, so that even you, dim as you are, can understand. If you leave me, Sara, I shall never, ever, allow you to take the children. Got that? Have you hammered that simple fact into your thick skull?’
Sara stared at the notice as she had done a dozen, a score of times over the last few weeks, with unseeing eyes. The public may use and bathe from this part of the beach but at their own risk. Beware of barbed wire and other obstructions. Do not touch any suspicious objects.
It was dated 25 July, 1944, by the garrison commander.
Readymoney Beach was being returned, at least in part, to the people of Fowey. Did this mean that life too could now return to normal? Somehow she didn’t think so. Sara couldn’t imagine ever feeling as carefree as she once had, before the war, when she had been young and full of hope and optimism.
She turned over the conversation she’d had with Hugh the previous night and knew, in her heart, that the result had been entirely expected. In a way the decision had been made for her long since. She’d no choice but to stay, because of the children. Nothing, not even her love for Charlie, would induce her to risk losing them. She was trapped, with no way out.
But living with Hugh once the war was finally over would be very far from easy. It was going to be every bit as dangerous as crossing the wrong part of this beach. An absolute mine field.
Chapter Forty-Two
Chad was spending a couple of weeks out in the forest, sleeping under the stars, hunting the odd turkey or the white, red-eyed quail, and licking his wounds. The peace and quiet gave him much needed time to think and recover from the shock of Bette’s betrayal, and he’d come to the decision that perhaps he’d been a bit hard on her.
Both Bette and Barney must have believed that he was dead. No information to the contrary could possibly have come through because he’d been in that coma for weeks, and the army had been at great pains to keep everything hush-hush, under wraps.
Besides which, Barney could charm the birds from the trees, if he set his mind to it. Was it fair to blame Bette if she fell for his flattery while beside herself with grief? The poor girl probably didn’t know what the heck she was doing, what with the baby coming an’ all.
And it still could be his. He’d made love to her first. How could Mom be so sure that it wasn’t? Didn’t all new babies look alike? He hadn’t so much as glanced at the poor creature, or made any attempt to form his own opinion on the matter. Bette must think him entirely heartless. It wasn’t the baby’s fault, after all, and the poor thing would need a pappy.
The question he had to ask himself was, did he still love Bette? Did he want her to stay or should he assume that this whole marriage was a sham and call an end to it? What would happen then? Divorce? It didn’t bear thinking about.
The answer came back to him clear and strong. He did still love her and although he felt badly hurt and let down, by his best buddy as much as his wife, he supposed Bette at least deserved the opportunity to explain. Maybe even a second chance, if he thought she still cared for him some.
Harry and his father were out on the land somewhere and only his mother and Mary-Lou were sitting at the kitchen table, peeling vegetables when he walked back i
n, carrying his bag. Peggy half glanced up, nodded at the bag and asked, ‘Turkey?’’
‘Sure is.’
‘Just in time for thanksgiving. You feeling hungry, son?’ She wiped her hands on a cloth and got up to slice a loaf of bread, fresh baked that morning.
‘No, I’m fine. Had me some beans. I need to see Bette right away.’ Dropping his bags he pulled open the door and was half-way up the stairs when Peggy called up to him.
‘She ain’t there.’
‘Why not? Where is she?’
‘She packed her bags, took the baby and left. Harry ran her to the station, like she asked. Gone back to where she came from, I imagine, and good riddance.’
How long had she been here? Bette couldn’t quite remember. That had been her first mistake then, not to start a calendar and keep a track of the days. Her second, and far more serious, was to believe that the loaded boxes of food were the result of generosity on Peggy’s part. Now she understood that they weren’t anything of the sort. The food had been meant to last her for weeks because she was stuck in this cabin, miles from civilisation with a new baby and no transport. Once that food was used up, Bette hadn’t the first idea how she would survive.
Surely the woman wasn’t so heartless and unfeeling as to leave her to starve?
Yet despite all appearances to the contrary, Bette remained steadfastly optimistic, clinging to the hope that Chad had perhaps been away from home, down in Carreville on business for his father. She felt quite unable to believe that he would abandon her completely.
‘He will come today, Matthew,’ she would say to the baby whenever she woke to yet another empty day.
She’d given up walking down the lane. There was no point, nowhere to go.
Bette busied herself cleaning the cabin, giving it a good bottoming as Sadie would call it, making it as comfortable and homely as possible. She even picked some of the golden rod and aster to make the place look loved and cared for.
She found an axe and split some of the logs from the wood-pile. By dinner time she had quite a stack.
Next, she set about trying to make the cabin weather-proof. With the weather likely to worsen, every hole and possible source of draft must be stopped up. She used rags, cardboard, some of the newspapers she’d found, anything to make the place cosy and sound.
The roof rattled ominously in the wind and the chimney seemed to howl and whistle, as if in pain. The stove was always difficult to light and get going and sometimes she would be blinded by smoke, her eyes stinging, nostrils filled with the stink of it. She must take such care. Once it was burning well though, her cheeks would glow from the heat and the fire would smoulder happily on very little wood for hours. The smell of the pinewood was soporific and in the evening she would find that it had warmed the loft above, which helped her to sleep.
After that she scrubbed the old cooker in the out-kitchen and was so pleased when she got it working again. Now she could cook and each day she would make something good and tasty, once boiled ham and mashed potatoes, another day a delicious roast chicken which she and Chad could enjoy together just the moment he arrived. She even baked an apple pie.
One afternoon she set a dish of spicy chicken legs to bake in the oven, then went out into the garden to enjoy the late sunshine, rocking Matthew’s crib gently as she passed by.
‘Now you sleep well and be a good baby. This could be the day that your daddy comes. I feel sure of it.’
Leaving Matthew asleep in his crib just by the back door, she wandered idly down the length of the back garden, curious to see what grew there, to explore the woodland of oak, beech and birch which ran along the bottom of it. The day was pleasantly mild and warm, and in any other circumstances she would enjoy a walk in the woods.
When she reached it, some thirty or forty feet from the cabin, the blaze of colour from the autumn leaves faded into shadow, growing ever darker as she cautiously edged her way further into the forest.
Bette glanced back at Matthew. She mustn’t go too far, must keep him in sight. A red squirrel leapt in front of her, making her jump, and then laugh, as it suddenly scampered pell-mell up the trunk of the nearest tree along a branch and seemed to fly over onto the next one, like an aerial acrobat.
‘How clever you are, Mr Squirrel. I wish I could do that.’
Bette listened. Surely that was water she could hear somewhere in the distance, a spring perhaps.
If only Chad would come, then she might feel brave enough to explore further.
She adored that lovely tang which reminded her of autumn at home, of the bonfire they would build every Guy Fawkes night up at Windmill, treacle toffee and roast chestnuts. Why, here was a chestnut tree, laden with nuts.
Delighted to have found something which reminded her of home, Bette stepped further into the undergrowth to pull some from the tree, greedily picking as many as she could reach, gathering up her skirt to hold them. The forest smelled so fresh and moist, sharp with the tang of pine as if someone really were having a bonfire with that tantalising aroma of wood-smoke.
She whirled about, eyes growing wide with horror as she saw smoke pouring from the window of the out-kitchen, mere feet from where Matthew was sleeping.
Bette was running, scattering the chestnuts, falling over her own feet in her frantic anxiety to reach her baby. The garden seemed to have lengthened to fifty feet, seventy, eighty, twice its actual length and Bette felt as if she were running in slow motion, making no progress at all.
She heard a loud crack as something inside the kitchen exploded. The old cooker perhaps, and she flung herself the last few feet.
She had him, swept up tight in her arms, crib and all, but the fire was getting worse, would quickly spread. She ran back down the garden and set it down some distance from the cabin where he would be safe.
Snatching up the water bucket Bette ran to the big water barrel by the door, refilling it over and over again to dowse the flames now licking the edge of the kitchen roof. When that was almost empty, she tossed the eggs and cheese aside, dipped the bucket in the well and used that water too. She beat at the fire with the broom, gasping and choking with the smoke, feeling her cheeks and hands blister with the heat till at last there was nothing left but a charred ruin where once had been the kitchen.
She collapsed on to the grass, black with her efforts and weak with exhaustion, the baby’s cries ringing in her ears. But at least she’d saved the cabin, and also the forest. She’d managed to contain the fire and not let it spread.
Bette spent much of those next week curled on her bed in shock, the baby beside her, either in a welter of tears or snatching what sleep she could between feeds. From time to time, because it was important to keep up her flow of milk, she would climb down the ladder to find food, which she ate without appetite, standing up, before creeping back up the ladder again.
There was very little of it left, and she’d lost all the eggs, milk and vegetables in the fire.
Sleep remained her preferable occupation, although, exhausted as she was, she never woke refreshed. Deep in the pit of her stomach was this huge knot of fear, burning her up, paralysing her limbs. What was going to happen to her? Would she die? Would the baby die? What if there was another fire and she couldn’t put it out next time? What if she never saw Chad again?
However foolish and stupid she’d been, and Bette freely admitted now that she had been very silly indeed, she really didn’t deserve to be treated like this.
One morning late in the second week following the fire, or was it early in the third, Bette got up from the bed and looked out of the grimy window across to the distant mountains. They seemed to be further and further away every time she looked, the distances beyond comprehension. Was that snow on the highest peaks? Could winter be coming already?
The knot of fear tightened. How would she survive? The silence was awesome, her sense of isolation complete. She was alone, utterly and completely, save for her child.
Her clothes were crumpled an
d dirty. She smelled of sour milk, wood-smoke and sweat. The bleeding had stopped, at least, but the sheets remained soiled because she hadn’t troubled to wash them. The blisters on her hands and face were healing but still dreadfully painful to the touch. What was happening to her? She couldn’t just lie here weeping, feeling sorry for herself. Yet what else could she do? Bette wasn’t sure. She couldn’t even begin to think.
In the end, before her store of food quite ran out and the snows came, she would have to walk the ten miles or whatever it was to the nearest habitation. What alternative did she have?
Except that she daren’t take the risk until she felt certain that Matthew, and herself for that matter, were fit enough for the journey. It could be twenty miles, or fifty, for all she knew.
Her small son was lying on the bed, cooing happily at her, since his belly was full, and she sat cuddling and kissing him for quite some time, tickling his toes and making his little mouth open in delight. He seemed so perfect, and yet so fragile. Was that a smile, or simply wind? Thank God he seemed to be healthy and thriving. Not for a moment dare she risk anything else going wrong.
But she couldn’t go on like this, crying her eyes out hour upon hour, sleeping and sleeping, doing nothing, day after day. What if Chad did come, after all? although she’d largely given up hope now. It would do her no good at all to be caught looking a sight and Bette was far too vain and proud of her good looks to allow that to happen. And with winter coming on, she couldn’t, in any case, just sit here and die of cold and starvation. She had to do something.
Driven by a sudden surge of anger, and an instinctive need to survive, she pulled on fresh warm clothes over her nightdress, a pair of stout boots, then set baby Matthew’s crib in a pool of sunshine, where he would be safe and she could clearly see him. Bette found herself checking him every five minutes, so jumpy was she.
But there was work to be done and no one else to do it but herself.
For All Our Tomorrows Page 32