For All Our Tomorrows (37 page)

He reached across the chasm of the great bed and stroked her hand, lingering a little before he withdrew it. ‘Sure I care, hon. How can you think such a thing? I can hardly wait for us to be wed. Don’t you know that I worship the ground you walk on. You and me is gonna be real cosy together. I’ll be a good husband to you, Bette, I swear it.’

She wriggled closer, curling up beside him to whisper softly in his ear, not wishing to quarrel but anxious to make her point. ‘But you’re not, are you, love? You’re not my husband at all, not even my lover, but folk don’t know that, do they? If people knew that we still weren’t married, they’d take me for some sort of tart, living here, sleeping with you and still unwed. If your mother is as bible-loving as you say, how come she puts up with it?’

‘Because she thinks you’ll up and leave any day.’

Bette was shocked to the core. ‘What? Is that what all this is about? You won’t name the day because your mom thinks I might leave? Where would I go? I can’t even get to town unless someone drives me in the pick-up. I’m stuck here. Trapped.’

‘That ain’t no way to look at things. You are happy, aren’t you, hon?’

He sounded so intense and worried that Bette took pity on him, as she always did, put her arms around his too thin shoulders and hugged him tight. ‘Of course I am, at least, I’m sure I could be. Big and empty as this country is, I think I might get to quite like America. I might even come to like your sassy, difficult family, if they’ll let me. Come on, let’s snuggle up so’s I can kiss you. It’s long past time we were lovers again, as we once used to be, don’t you think?’

‘Aw, hon, I’m not sure I can, not yet.’

‘We could try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, isn’t that what they say?’ She wanted to show him that she cared, that he was truly important to her.

Bette began to kiss him, to stroke the rough brown hair, smooth a hand over his broad shoulders and down his chest, feeling the tension in him as her fingers grazed his skin, a quiver of longing run through him. She didn’t touch the stub, the place where the strong muscles ended leaving the flap of empty flesh which for some reason shamed him.

He began to relax a little, to respond to her kisses, even cupped her breast in a sweet caress but then took his hand away, slid it awkwardly around her waist and then on her thigh, as if not quite knowing how to hold her and love her at the same time.

Bette longed to love him in her heart, truly and deeply as she once had, not just go through the physical motions, but her mind was filled with Barney. Even though he’d rejected her in the end, it was Barney’s kisses she longed for, his hands she wanted to caress her. Chad was holding back, she could sense it. Was he too waiting for that thrill which had once pulsated between them like an electric storm. Where had all that emotion gone? Had the war destroyed that too? And then suddenly, without warning, he turned abruptly away, to lie with his back to her.

‘It ain’t gonna work, not tonight. I’m too tired and we don’t want to hurt the baby none. We’ll leave it for now, till we’re wed, or the baby’s born.’

Bette blinked back a blur of tears. She knew it was her fault. She’d been thinking too much of Barney and he’d sensed her lack of interest. How difficult it was to put the past behind her, to love two men after all.

At length, when she was more in control of her emotions, she snuggled closer and whispered to his unyielding back. ‘Would you like me to tell Peggy about the baby? I don’t mind. She has to be told some time, then we can get on with planning the wedding. I’ll choose the right moment and be very gentle, I promise. Maybe then things will get better for us. Shall I try?’

She took his silence as assent but was quite certain that neither of them slept much that night.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The skies were still filled with bombers but the streets of the town were strangely quiet now that the Yanks had gone, ominously so. People walked about in silence, hardly speaking, their eyes constantly glancing out to sea as if willing the Armada to appear on the horizon, to come home safe.
 

Sara felt empty and alone and Hugh had scarcely spoken a word to her since they’d left. The subject of her betrayal had, apparently, been swept under the carpet and the illusion that they were a devoted couple continued as before.

The thought of Charlie waiting for her in vain at St Catherine’s Castle, as she guessed he would have been, filled her with anguish. Did he think that she’d abandoned him in his hour of need? Perhaps he went off to war believing that she no longer loved him. Oh, she did hope not. That was far too terrible a prospect to contemplate. Surely he would realise that she’d tried but that something had occurred to prevent her.

Underneath this awesome silence, there was an air of anticipation, a bubble of excitement, the whole town waiting for news, glued to the wireless, listening for John Snag’s voice to give them some hint of what was happening on the front line.

Confirmation came at nine-thirty on the morning of the sixth when the familiar voice announced that D-Day had come. ‘Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the north-western face of Hitler’s European fortress.’

The town seemed to erupt in jubilant cheers. People threw impromptu parties in the street, danced and kissed and hugged perfect strangers who passed by.

Even Nora Snell popped into The Ship for a port and lemon to drink a toast to Montgomery. Sadie brought round a game pie that she’d made specially, and family and friends ate together that night, to celebrate, Cory declaring he was itching to be out there on the sea with them, that he’d knock the spots off those blooming Germans if he got the chance.

Later they all listened to the king together as he told them that ‘After nearly five years of toil and suffering we must renew that crusading impulse on which we entered the war and met its darkest hours.’ He exhorted them all to pray as the great crusade got underway, and they did, Sara amongst them. There was little else left for them to do now.

More than eleven thousand aircraft, four thousand ships and over three hundred thousand men were out there fighting the last battle. If they didn’t win this one, the war would indeed be over and they would be the losers.

News spread around Fowey’s streets like wild fire over the next few days: that France had been liberated, that General de Gaulle was encouraging his compatriots to fight on and win, that the Americans were fighting tough opposition on the road to Cherbourg, hampered by floods.

Then just as news filtered through that enemy E-Boats sheltering in Le Havre had been attacked by Bomber Command, Hamil Charke came dashing into the pub one evening to announce that his cousin in London, together with his entire family, had been killed by a new sort of flying bomb, called a V1.

‘It’s raining with the damn things all over London.’ This terrible news silenced everyone. The war wasn’t over yet.

Iris was growing increasingly uneasy and hastily reminded Hugh on the vital importance of keeping his mouth shut about their clandestine activities, speaking in whispers under her breath as she smiled at the customers and pulled pints. ‘I’ve checked with the SOE and there might be the odd mission left to do, bringing agents out, I should think. After that we’re on our own, and your silence is still a requirement, understood? The French Resistance are working harder than ever against the occupying forces, while our collaborators are fleeing for their lives, so that side of our work is over and done with, unfortunately.’

Hugh became very still. ‘Are you saying that we too are in danger?’

‘Not if we keep our mouths shut!’

‘It’s your fault that I’m in this situation. You were the one who got me involved in this.’

 
‘You got yourself involved when you left those men to die,’ she snapped at him. ‘I did what I had to do, for my husband, for what I believe in. What’s your excuse?’

Hugh had no answer. He’d never really thought the matter through to its logical conclusion. His one object had always been to survive, to save his own skin. He quickly changed the subject, casting about for someone else to blame, as was his wont. ‘What about the money you promised me? I’ve not seen a penny of that yet.’

Iris frowned, clearly irritated. ‘We can talk about that later,’ and chose this moment to tell Hugh that once their last mission had been accomplished, she’d be leaving, going to live with her mother in Truro. ‘Better if we’re not seen to communicate in future. You can have Sara back behind the bar now the Yanks have gone for good, can’t you? It’s nearly over.’

Hugh felt a surge of disappointment, suffering a sense almost of anti-climax. Despite the danger and the terrors he’d had to endure, there’d been some exciting, thrilling times that he’d thoroughly enjoyed, particularly with Iris. At least until she’d put a stop to their fun and games.

He smoothed a hand over her backside and gave it a little squeeze as she stood sipping a celebratory sherry. ‘We’ve had some fun, you and me. Couldn’t we have one more, for the road?’

She smiled up at him then, that lazy, seductive smile that always turned him on. ‘I’ll think about it.’

Watching them from where she sat with her mother and Cory, Sara felt her heart sink. Some things wouldn’t be solved by the end of the war. Some problems had no solution.

What would she do when it was all over? Would Hugh allow her to take the children with her if she left him? Sara rather thought not. She was tied to him as firmly as ever.

And where was Charlie? What was happening to the boys on the ships? If only she could be certain that he was safe, that would be some consolation at least.

Charlie, along with his comrades was enduring the unendurable. The noise was deafening as the bombardment continued, the roar of guns, tanks and ship’s engines; the screams of the dying in some macabre contest of sound, each trying to outdo the other. The dead floated in a churning mass of green, stinking water, quickly turning red with their blood, the living sheltering amongst them as they struggled to reach shore. Soldiers still waiting to disembark from their landing craft checked and re-checked their weapons, touched their rosaries, kissed pictures of their girl friends and thought of their mothers.

Barney too sat patiently waiting beside his buddies, oblivious of the water washing around his knees until they heard a cry ring out.

‘We’re sinking, we’re sinking. Start bailing. Unload.’

They were too far from shore to wade in, and too loaded down with equipment to swim far. Barney took off his helmet and began to bail. In desperation they tossed overboard all unnecessary equipment, entrenching tools, gas masks, and with it, by accident, went Barney’s lucky charm and his picture of Bette which he’d fixed to his first aid box for safe-keeping. He watched in misery as it sank although this indulgence lasted only a matter of seconds before his buddy was pushing him over the side too.
 

‘We’re done for. Start swimming!’

They floundered in the water, sitting ducks under a blistering fuselage, some men sinking instantly under the weight of equipment, others screaming for help, praying they’d be spotted by rescue craft. The lucky ones were quickly picked up but when the rescue boat was full, the rest were resolutely left behind. ‘We’ll come back for you, if we can.’

Barney and his buddy were two of the unlucky ones and he didn’t hold out much hope of rescue. Only a blind fool would willingly venture into these seas a second or third time.

Minutes after the boat had gone, he watched in horror as his buddy slipped down below the waves, his last words, ‘Help me, Barney, I’m drowning. Help me for God’s sake!’

Knowing he hadn’t a hope in hell of saving him, not weighted down with equipment as they both were, Barney was in despair. He managed to catch hold of a piece of flotsam and swim over to a twisted piece of wreckage, or perhaps it was some obstacle placed there by the enemy. He didn’t greatly care but hung on and took cover behind it, desperately trying to keep out of sight. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done bit, as he saw it, it was every man for himself in this war.

Charlie was about to disembark, the ramp was let down and his Captain and comrades instantly swarmed into four or five feet of water, wading through heavy surf with weapons held high, strafed by machine gun fire with many men mowed down before ever they’d had chance to retaliate. Death could come in a seconds for some, while others reached shore easily and crossed the beach with a sense of spurious safety.

‘Keep moving! Keep moving!’ Charlie roared. ‘Don’t look back.’

Artillery roared, rockets whooshed overhead and mortar shells rained down all along the four miles of Omaha, yet still the German gun fire pummelled the Allies with uncompromising ferocity.

But that didn’t stop them. The beach was barely visible, swathed in a haze of fire and smoke. Filthy, cold and miserable, some vomiting from sea-sickness and terror, the men slogged bravely on, calling upon every ounce of courage and experience they possessed. Many had crossed beaches before: North Africa, Sicily and Salerno. For them this was just another bloody beach, another bloody battle.

For Charlie, this was his first experience of frontline action, though he resolved to do his utmost, to give his life for freedom if necessary, he could only marvel at the fortitude and courage he saw all around him. Prayed he could emulate their bravery.