For All Our Tomorrows (52 page)

And where was Iris? If she’d gone back to her mother’s in Truro, why hadn’t she taken the wireless set with her? What was it doing in Hugh’s boat?

Sara sat in her bedroom with the door locked and listened to her husband come in after closing time, as he usually did. She heard him noisily making himself a drink in the kitchen, clearly irritated that she hadn’t waited up to make him some supper as he demanded.

It took some time but at last she heard him climb the stairs and go to bed. Even then she couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning as she went over and over the conversation, trying to remember everything Drew had said.

Could it possibly be true? Sometimes she convinced herself that they’d got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick, or that Drew had. He was only a child, after all. How could he possibly understand what his father was up to?

But then she would come back to the puzzling, and indisputable existence of the wireless. One that was clearly not British, as Cory had been at pains to point out to her, and Sara could think of no possible reason for a German radio transmitter to be on Hugh’s boat.

Would the authorities come right away? Would they wish to interview him or just walk in and arrest him? Or would they simply dismiss the whole thing as a small boy’s fantasy?

Perhaps that’s all it was. Drew must have got it wrong. Hugh had always seen himself as the town hero, and surely that’s what he was. Sailing out to France to save stranded British pilots.

Or was that simply a cover for something much more sinister?

So here she was again, right back where she started. Going round and round and driving herself very slightly mad.

They came for him just before dawn, their presence heralded by a loud banging on the door and then a crash as they burst it open. Sara was out of bed in a flash, her heart pounding almost as loud as the noise the soldiers were making.

Grabbing her cotton dressing gown, she stood out on the landing and watched in horror at what seemed to be a veritable throng of military police filling her house. They marched up her stairs, crowded in the small hall, and while some were clearly searching the rooms downstairs, others were already in Hugh’s room yelling at him to get dressed, to jump to it.

What seemed to be only moments later they were leading him out, still in his pyjamas though with a raincoat over the top, hands held in a restraint behind his back.

For the briefest second his eyes met hers. ‘You’ve got what you always wanted, Sara, your freedom. Apparently at the expense of mine. I hope you’re satisfied.’

She could think of no response. Her teeth seemed to be chattering and Sara felt nothing but an intense cold and a very real desire to vomit.

‘Move it!’ said the officer in charge.

She clasped hold of the banister rail, as if fearful of falling. Hugh said nothing more as he was ushered out of the house with surprisingly little fuss.

Only when he was gone, and all the guards with him, did the officer turn to address her. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs Marrack.’ Then he too was gone and the house echoed with silence.

Sara found she could no longer sustain any strength in her limbs and sank to her knees. Two small pairs of arms came about her neck. ‘Mummy, don’t cry, Mummy. We’re here to help you. We love you, Mummy!’

‘What you doing here, girl?’ Sadie stood, arms akimbo, filling the doorway with her ample presence.

‘They’ve taken Hugh away. Arrested him. God knows what will happen to him.’

‘I think we can guess the answer to that one. He’s committed treason, hasn’t he?’

‘Hush, not in front of the children. Come on, let’s get them back to bed.’

‘Mebbe I’ll make them some breakfast,’ Sadie suggested.

Would the shaking never stop? Sara could remember little of the last several hours since the soldiers had left. Tears had been shed, some vomiting, Jenny putting a glass of sherry into her hands. That seemed to be all her children did for her these days. The children. Where were they? How long had she sat here on the stairs, wrapped in her dressing gown, in shock? She couldn’t remember. How had it come to this? When had Hugh turned traitor, and why? Was his jealousy such that he would let innocent men die simply because they were American?

She remembered now. Sadie had the children. She could hear her mother talking to them downstairs, saying something about how they must be quiet and good for Mummy. Something about Daddy not being well and having to go away for a bit. She could hear Drew’s piping voice asking if Grandma would read him some more of Rupert Bear.

Could they forget so easily? Could she hide the reality from them? Dear God, she hoped so.

Cory explained to her later what would happen. Hugh would be tried as a traitor and, if he was found guilty of treason . . . She’d stopped him at that point, didn’t wish to consider what would follow such a verdict.
 

Jealous, unfeeling husband though he might have been, she wouldn’t wish such a fate on him, not in a million years.

Drew’s childlike confession of his father’s secrets were later backed up when connected with a tale told by two surviving American aircrew of a rescue attempt that had gone badly wrong for them. The boat had apparently not spotted them, or at least had turned to leave at the crucial moment, resulting in the drowning of several of their comrades.

Evidence was also found among Hugh’s belongings of petty pilfering. Officers returned to search his room, and The Ship, and several items were found in his possession which had clearly been ‘lifted’ from ships where he was present to supposedly rescue the crew. Looting, wasn’t that what they called it?

Nor was Iris with her mother. She hadn’t been seen since earlier in the summer when she’d been spotted heading out to sea in Hugh’s boat. It could only be surmised that something dreadful had happened to her and, when challenged, Hugh had apparently admitted it. He agreed that they had indeed been lovers, and confessed to having ‘tossed her in the water’ when she became a ‘problem’, declaring that she’d got what she deserved, since she’d not kept her word over the money.

What a terrible death, to be drowned by your lover.

It was the final, damning evidence. Within hours he’d been transported out of Fowey to Exeter jail where he would be tried, and no doubt convicted of murder and treason. His final words to Sara that she had gained her freedom at the expense of his, rang in her head, proving to be cruelly accurate.

But what kind of freedom could it be without Charlie? He’d caught his train and left, knowing nothing of this.

What was worse, Sara hadn’t the first idea where he lived, or how she could contact him. He lived somewhere in Boston, that was all she knew.

Another morning, another day to get through. Sadie again hovering in the kitchen, making beans on toast for the children. Trying to do something to help and getting under her feet. Sara wished her mother would go home and leave her to cry in peace, to wallow in her misery. Instead, she kept asking stupid questions. ‘Aren’t you going to do something?’

‘What can I do?’

‘You could go and find him?’

‘Find who?’

‘Don’t play dumb with me, girl, I’m yer mam. You know who I’m talking about, your Yank. Aren’t you going to find him and tell him what’s happened?’

‘Charlie’s gone. Caught his train last night, yesterday afternoon, I don’t remember which but he’s gone back to the US.’

‘No, he ain’t, none of ‘em have. They’re all still up at Windmill having a knee’s up.’

‘What?’

‘I heard they weren’t leaving till tomorrow night.’

‘Oh, my goodness, are you sure?’

Her mother grinned. ‘Why don’t you go and find out. I’ll mind the children.’

Sara was out of the door, running along the Esplanade, up Daglands Road, slowing to a walk up the steep incline as she ran out of breath.

She reached what was left of the camp, most of the equipment, tents, and vehicles either having been packed up or was in the process of being taken down, the Nissen huts already looking deserted. He wasn’t in any of them. Sara ran from one to the other, searching everywhere, growing frantic, asking everyone she could find but nobody had seen him. Most of the marines had gone home and only a few remained, clearing up the mess. The Nissen huts were apparently to be kept, at least temporarily, as local housing was in short supply.

Sara walked back down the hill much slower than she’d run up it, feeling sick inside, more despondent than ever. She should’ve known that Sadie would get it wrong. When had her mother ever got anything right in her entire life?

She must simply accept that she’d lost him. He’d given her the chance to go with him and she’d refused, wouldn’t even exchange addresses so that they could write. So there wasn’t the slightest possibility of her being able to contact him. He was lost to her forever, and serve her right.

In despair, and unable to face her mother, or even her children she felt so low, Sara instinctively turned right when she reached the Esplanade, and headed towards Readymoney Beach. She walked past the sign declaring parts of the beach open but still warning about mines, up the coastal path through the woods and out on to the headland.

St Catherine’s castle, or fort as some liked to call it, was still shrouded in camouflage, just as it had been throughout the war. She remembered how ghostly it had appeared on that fateful dawn when she’d watched the huge armada of ships leave. She’d felt such pride in that moment, and such fear. If only she’d gone to him that night, been able to see him off properly. Wish him well with all of her being, and not just in her heart.

Might that have helped to stem this great sense of loss that was now overwhelming her?

Sara stood on the headland, the breeze lifting her silver fair and gazed out to sea. It made her think of the Atlantic Ocean, when they’d been in Marazion, and of Bette. She prayed that her sister was safe, and happy with Chad, that one day they would all be together again, reunited as a family.

She spoke to the wind, to a lowering grey sky, and a sea empty of the ships which had so recently filled it. ‘It seems that all the people I love are now in America.’

‘Not quite all,’ said a quiet voice behind her. ‘I’m still here, in Fowey. I’d stay forever if you wanted me to. If you’d let me.’

Sara whirled about and there he was, emerging out of the woods before her very eyes. She could scarcely find her voice to say his name but he was smiling at her, taking her hands in his, warming them, making her heart soar with love for him.

‘I hoped you might come here, as you once promised you would.’

‘Oh, Charlie, I was just wishing that I had come before when you ... Hugh has. . .’

‘I know, I’ve heard all about it. I’m sorry. Not particularly surprised, but sorry that it should come to this, for your sake, and the children’s.’

‘I’m not sorry for me. It’s a terrible thing to say but at least I’m free now, Charlie. It’s just beginning to dawn on me that having tried so hard to keep me, he has now set me free by his own hand, by his cruel jealousy and greed. He can’t control me any more. I’m free to be with you now, if you still want me. Or perhaps it’s too late…’

She didn’t hear his reply. His mouth was on hers, stopping her hesitant words, his arms tight about her, melding her to him as if he’d never let her go. But then, there’d be plenty of time to talk later.

In case you missed Freda’s new line of historicals:

Read a sneak preview of Hostage Queen

Summer 1565

THE HOT SUMMER SUN seared through the drawn curtains of the litter as the cumbersome vehicle trundled with bone-aching slowness through the French countryside, every jolt jangling Margot’s already shredded nerves. A fly buzzed annoyingly around her flushed cheeks and she flapped it impatiently away. The clink of harness, the clomp and thud of hundreds of tired feet from those walking alongside, pounded ever louder in her ears, making her head ache. She felt hot and sticky and cross, for once uncaring of her appearance, of her rumpled gown and the fact that her dark curls hung in damp tangles instead of shining with their usual luscious richness.
 

Margot was bored. She longed to be out in the fresh air, galloping across the open countryside, not forced to sit demurely beside her governess breathing in the sweaty stink of horses and baggage mules from the confines of her mother’s litter.
 

However luxurious, however pretty a shade of green were the plush velvet cushions, it felt very like a prison.

Occasionally some incident would occur to enliven the journey: a brawl or a duel, which Margot always found entertaining. So when she heard the screams and sobs and heart-rending wails coming from some distance behind them, she couldn’t resist poking her head out between the curtains to see who was making such a din.

‘Sit still, child, and stop fidgeting,’ Madame de Curton chided.

Ignoring her governess, Margot asked a young groom riding alongside what was amiss.
 

‘Some court lady has been discovered in an indiscreet
affaire
,’ the boy confided. ‘She has been abandoned at a roadside convent to reflect upon her folly.’