For All Our Tomorrows (11 page)

And all of this necessitated numerous meetings between Sara and Charles Denham, and as a result their friendship grew. Sara made a point of always holding these meetings at the primary school with Miss Ross present. It wouldn’t do to appear to fraternise, or for Hugh to start thinking she was getting too ‘cosy’ with Charles.

When the meeting was over, they would often walk back to town together, as Charles always insisted on seeing her home.

Sara would laugh. ‘It’s very kind of you but I shan’t be in any danger. This is my town. I shall be perfectly safe.’

‘Where I come from, no man would ever let a girl walk home alone, no matter how safe. It simply isn’t done.’

‘How does your wife manage then, with you away? Oh dear, there I go again, being nosy. Sorry, it’s really none of my business.’

‘She copes, as we all do.’

For some stupid reason the thought of him having a wife brought a lump to her throat. But then why shouldn’t he have a wife? Didn’t she have a husband? What difference did it make? ‘You never did tell me how many children you have. You must miss them terribly.’

‘We hadn’t got around to starting a family but I do miss Yvonne, I guess. We were childhood sweethearts so we’ve never been apart before.’

‘It must be difficult. I’m fortunate that Hugh can do his bit for the war effort at home, and has managed to avoid being called up. But I worry when he’s out on exercise with the lifeboat or coast-guard, all the same.’

He looked at her for a moment. ‘Sure you do.’

‘So you married the girl next door?’

He frowned. ‘Almost, next block anyway.’

‘How romantic.’

‘One of those things, you know. Didn’t come as a big surprise to anyone. How about you and – Hugh?

‘Swept me off my feet.’ Sara laughed. ‘I’m a sucker for a bunch of roses.’

They smiled into each other’s eyes and then both quickly looked away again. They’d reached the end of Hanson Drive by this time and Sara stopped.

‘This will do fine. I’ve only down the hill to go now. Really, I’ll be all right from here.’

‘Ok, I wouldn’t want to upset your husband by seeming to hog too much of your time. Thanks for helping. It’s appreciated.’

He stood and watched her walk away until she was quite out of sight.

Surprisingly, Hugh had been amazingly calm about the whole business. But then the party was in a good cause, and he clearly thought it quite safe to have his wife work with children. Sara was careful to be equally generous in her praise of his own war work. When she got back home on this occasion he was up in his office and she went straight to him and kissed the top of his head as he bent over his desk. ‘Hello, I’m back.’

He gave a little start of surprise. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. You seem to be making a habit of sneaking in quietly these days.’
 

Sara laughed as she put her arms about his neck to give him a hug. ‘Why, what are you doing that’s so secret? Writing to your mistress?’

He scowled, then his brow cleared and he laughed with her. ‘Can’t you ever take a joke, darling? I wasn’t really complaining, though some of us do have serious work to do.’

‘I know, there
is
a war on. well, whatever it is you’re engaged in, I promise I won’t breathe a word. My lips are sealed. But am I allowed to sit on your knee for a quick kiss and cuddle or would that break the official secrets act, do you think? I mean, have we time for a little passion, or should I just go and make tea?’
 

Hugh did not respond to her teasing banter but took the question at face value and answered with all due seriousness, as if surprised she should ask. ‘Tea, I should think. The children will be home soon and I really don’t have time for your silly games today, Sara.’

She tried not to feel rebuffed. ‘Right. I shall jump to it then. Whatever you say.’ He’d already turned away from her so didn’t see her mocking salute, all meant in light hearted fun, of course, but his indifference left her feeling rather flat and silly.

Sara couldn’t even see what it was he was working on with such earnestness, because he’d slid one hand over it, covering the writing. Always one for secrets, was Hugh. It was probably nothing more than his regular stock list for the brewery. What else could it be? But he had to make out that he was the only one who could understand such things, so that he felt in charge, even if she was the one to remind him when they were running low on beer or sherry, or whatever.

‘Anyway, I think this party is going to be absolutely splendid. Thank you for letting me help, darling.’

Hugh gave a non-committal grunt. ‘The war will be over by next Christmas, so it’s unlikely ever to happen again. You can concentrate on being a proper wife and mother once we finally achieve peace.’

‘Aren’t I one already?’

‘You know what I mean, darling.’

Sara wasn’t sure that she did. ‘Are you saying that once the war is over, I shall not be allowed to work in the pub even then?’

‘Goodness, I shall make that decision when the time comes. Tea, darling. Have you forgotten?’

For some reason Hugh’s assumption that he would decide made Sara feel uncomfortable, as if her future was being mapped out without her consent, as if she had no control over her own life, no say over what she might decide to do.

Perhaps it had been a mistake, after all, to ask his permission. He seemed to be doing his best to belittle her efforts yet Sara’s resolve to heed her sister’s advice and take control of her own life, as Bette did, as even Nora Snell did, was growing ever stronger.

Why did she always obey him? Perhaps because she wasn’t entirely sure that his feelings for her had any depth? Because she wanted to see some sign of emotion, some evidence that he truly cared? There were times when she felt that her husband merely saw her as a possession, like a pet dog, or his favourite mahogany clock.
 

‘Besides,’ he continued, his head still over the stock sheets or whatever the dratted papers were. ‘The children’s teacher, what is she called...?

‘Miss Ross.’

‘Yes, Miss Ross, she is surely the one bearing the brunt of the work with the children, not you. You are only helping. You’d never be able to manage on your own.’

Sara stood silently watching him, feeling her new-found confidence drain away, her smile becoming more fixed as she struggled to remain calm.

He glanced up at her. ‘Tea! Run along and see to it. You’ve gone into one of your silly day-dreams again.’

Swallowing a lump which blocked all hope of a response, Sara turned to do as she was bid.
 

Chapter Eleven

Sara’s efforts were certainly appreciated by the children. Just to look at their shining faces was reward enough for it turned out to be a real slap-up party. There were piles of food, huge stacks of sandwiches: corned beef, cheese and pickle and something called peanut butter which went down a treat. Then there were miniature Cornish pasties; heaps of sausages; iced buns and great bowls of jelly and ice cream. And there wasn’t a child in the room who didn’t have a great brown moustache above their upper lip from all the Coca-Cola they’d drunk.

All the children, including Jenny and Drew, had a marvellous time, collecting a stack of American comics in addition to the other goodies.

Santa Claus arrived in an army truck loaded with sacks full of presents, one for each child. There were dolls and books, dinky cars and footballs, skipping ropes and kites, candy and gum, and after the children had near worn themselves out from playing such games as Musical Chairs, Blind Man’s Bluff and Pin the Tail on the Donkey, they were given rides in the jeeps, queuing up excitedly to be taken all around town.

It turned out to be the best party the town could ever remember, a most wonderful day in their young lives, one they would never forget.

Nor would Sara forget it in a hurry either. She felt conscious the entire time of Charles Denham’s presence, aware when he crossed the room, when he glanced in her direction. She found herself actively avoiding him, not even caring if he thought her rude, so fearful was she that perhaps Nora Snell or Isobel Wynne, who of course had insisted on coming along to help serve the tea, might make more of what was nothing more than mere friendship.
 

Wasn’t it?

If that was true, why did she feel as tremulous as a young girl whenever she caught a glimpse of him, even at a distance? Why could she not speak to him without blushing? And why didn’t she trust herself to go anywhere near him when others were around?

Because they might read the feelings printed so clearly in her adoring eyes? Nonsense! He was just a nice man, nothing more. A nice,
married
man, Sara reminded herself. Just as she was a respectable, happily married woman.

Christmas passed in its usual whirl of activity with a gathering of friends and family at the pub to enjoy goose with all the trimmings: sausages and bread sauce, roast potatoes and artichokes as a special treat, and Sadie’s home-made Christmas pudding with no fat, since there was none to be had. It tasted wonderful all the same.

The children got very excited over opening their presents. They all went to church of course, then after lunch gathered around the fire in the old inn to sing carols while Sara accompanied them on the piano.

‘I’m not very good,’ she protested, but everyone seemed quite happy until Hugh told her to stop because she’d accidentally played a wrong note.

‘That’s enough darling. Don’t make a fool of yourself.’

‘Don’t be cross with Mummy,’ said little Jenny, ever-protective. ‘I like it when she plays
Away in a Manger
.’

‘Time you were in bed, child,’ snapped Hugh.

 
For one awful moment, Sara thought it was all going to go wrong, he had so little patience with the children. ‘It is Christmas, Hugh, no need for them to go to bed early.’

He turned on her, eyes blazing at her temerity to argue with him but Cory saved the day by starting to sing a jolly sailor song to the strains of Hamil’s fiddle.

Then Bette persuaded Hamel to liven up the tempo even more, pushing back the rugs so that they could dance. They all had a marvellous time, save for Hugh, who went off upstairs, and Sadie snoring happily in the corner, rather the worse for wear after a glass or two of Hugh’s finest sherry.
 

To Sara it was a relief to have the pub closed for the day, and her family gathered about her. Yet a part of her mind wondered how Charles and the other GIs were managing, so far from home.

The moment the festivities were over, Charles Denham was back in her kitchen to thank Sara for all her effort. He felt that all their hard work had been worthwhile, giving the children a Christmas to remember.
 

‘And you were splendid.’

Sara chuckled. ‘The problem is that I think I did rather too well. I’m now in charge of fund raising for War Weapons week, or Salute the Soldier, as it is to be called this year? What have I let myself in for?’

‘Excellent! I’m delighted, because it means I’ll see much more of you. I’m sure we can find some way for me to be involved with all of that too.’

They looked at each other and Sara could think of no reply to this. What was he implying? She didn’t dare to think. She turned abruptly away to slide a fresh tray of pasties out of the oven.

‘Those smell delicious.’

‘Do have one.’

‘No, no, I wasn’t begging . . .’

‘Of course you were. Here, take one. I shall have one too, since it’s lunch time. Plonk yourself on that stool and I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘What about – your husband? Won’t he mind?’

‘He’s at one of his brewery meetings, or else one of his training sessions, of which there have been quite a lot lately. Iris and Sid are running the bar. Go on, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be glad of the company.’

In the event they sat on the doorstep, enjoying the pale winter sunshine while they munched their pasties and sipped hot, strong tea. There was no conversation, simply a feeling of mutual contentment. When they were finished, he turned to her with a smile, brushing away a few crumbs.

‘I can’t remember when I last enjoyed a meal so much.’
 

‘It was only plain, home cooking.’

‘That’s what was so good about it.’ He was looking down at her but with no hint of his usual smile. ‘I really should be going, and I’m sure you have better things to do than feed hungry soldiers.’ He got to his feet, but, as was often the case, seemed reluctant to actually go.

‘You miss your wife, don’t you?’ Sara felt she should say something, try to show sympathy and encourage him to talk in case he was feeling homesick. Besides, it was occasionally necessary to remind herself that the woman existed, but he dropped his gaze, avoiding her eyes.

‘Not quite so much as I should, perhaps. She was always there, you know, always a part of my life and yet . . .’ He sat down again, cleared his throat. ‘May I ask you a very personal question, Sara. I can call you Sara, can’t I? I mean we’re buddies now that we’ve both packed presents for Santa together, right?’