The Colours of Love Page 13

  ‘You mean besides the stockings and cigarettes and other luxuries, and the fact they get paid four times as much as us?’

  Harold grinned. ‘Yeah, besides that.’

  Caleb smiled briefly, before his eyes returned to the slim figure across the room. Even with two legs, he would never have had the nerve to approach someone like her. But now . . . He reached for his glass. What would she want – what would any girl want? – with a cripple, and one who still had a couple of operations in store, according to Dr Walton, the last time he’d seen him: ‘We need to poke about for more of that shrapnel in your left side, old man, but not till you’re stronger. It’ll wait.’

  The doctor’s words came back to him, and for a moment Caleb could see the stocky little man who resembled nothing so much as a goblin, with his extra-large ears and short legs. But he was a great surgeon; more than that, he had the human touch with his patients, which was as good as a shot of morphia on occasion. Caleb knew Dr Walton had fought to save his other leg and, but for the doctor’s expertise and to some extent his stubbornness, he’d be minus both of them; but he still found the loss unbearable on the bad days. Which – when he looked at Kenny and Harold – he felt ashamed about. Kenny’s girlfriend had fainted clean away when she had come to see him, and two weeks later he’d received a ‘Dear John’ letter. His friend hadn’t mentioned her from that day on, although they’d been planning to get married in the autumn.

  The band was striking up another tune, and inevitably it was mostly GIs who took to the floor with their female partners, jitterbugging around the wooden floor of the hall with such enthusiasm that it vibrated under their feet. After an hour of looking at the laughing Americans in their snazzy uniforms enjoying themselves, Caleb knew he couldn’t stand a minute more, without doing something he’d regret. Muttering that he needed some air, he hauled himself up on his crutches and shambled out of the hall, nearly going headlong when one of the crutches slid under a chair leg and propelled him forward in an undignified scramble. Swearing profusely under his breath, he reached the door and stepped thankfully outside, away from the noise and underlying smell of the GIs’ aftershave and their girlfriends’ perfume, courtesy of Mother America. He stood for a moment on the top step of the village hall, and then manoeuvred himself down the half-dozen wooden slats and onto the surrounding grass.

  He suddenly felt desperately tired, with an exhaustion similar to the one he’d experienced the first few weeks after being injured, when his life had hung in the balance for a while. He’d sobbed during the long hours of the night, once the danger was past, wishing he had slipped away into oblivion. Exactly what his tears had been for, he hadn’t known himself. Perhaps for the death of his companions, who had ended up as body parts scattered around him, after the shell had scored a direct hit on their trench; or from self-pity; or even because he was now isolated, cut off from everything he knew. It was only when Dr Walton had happened along one night and had sat and chatted to Caleb for a bit that he had begun to feel more himself.

  His tears were a natural reaction to the strain of years of fighting, the doctor had explained, along with the violent shock to his system after sustaining such extensive injuries. It happened in the majority of cases, although – the good doctor had smiled ruefully – men being men, and ever conscious of the British stiff upper lip, it wasn’t talked about.

  He didn’t know if Dr Walton had been speaking the truth or merely being kind, but it had helped, both at the time and in the repetitious setbacks that had accompanied his recovery. If nothing else, he wasn’t going doolally, like some of the poor devils he’d seen. The fear of going down that road – of losing his mind – had been as bad as what had actually happened to him.

  The warm June sun had sunk below the horizon, and dusk had settled since they had been in the hall. Now, as he stood in the lengthening shadows, the frail, dark forms of bats swooped over his head in the half-light, searching for insects. Despite knowing that the creatures’ reputation for getting tangled in hair was a fallacy, Caleb found himself ducking as one came particularly close, and the next moment he had sprawled full-length on the ground, as his crutches slipped away from him.

  Cursing himself, and Hitler and the Luftwaffe pilot who had dropped the bomb that had nearly done for him, Caleb didn’t notice the dark figure emerging from behind a nearby oak tree, until a tentative voice said, ‘Are you all right?’

  He peered up into the beautiful young face of the girl he had been staring at most of the evening and, conscious that his language had been ripe, to say the least, he groaned inwardly. His next thought was how he must look, spread out like a beached whale at her feet. ‘I’m fine,’ he muttered inanely.

  His humiliation and embarrassment increased when she retrieved his crutches, saying, ‘Let me help you up.’

  ‘I said I’m fine.’ It was curt and he knew it, but he wanted nothing more than for her to disappear. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he added, ‘I’m sorry, but I am all right, really. I wanted some time by myself, that’s all.’

  She didn’t take the hint. Instead she plumped herself down on the grass beside him. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said softly. ‘It’s too stuffy in there, isn’t it? Suffocating.’

  Had she noticed him watching her? Worse, did she think he had followed her out here hoping to strike up a conversation? Did she feel sorry for him? His thoughts tied his tongue and made colour flood his neck and face.

  ‘I’m Esther,’ she said quietly after a few moments.

  ‘Caleb. Caleb McGuigan.’

  ‘You’re one of the men from the big house outside the village, aren’t you?’

  ‘You can call it what it is: a dumping ground for the crippled flotsam and jetsam the war spits out.’ He hadn’t meant to say it, especially not in the tone of voice he’d used. He hadn’t even been aware he thought of the home in that way.

  She was still for a moment. Then, instead of words of encouragement or fatuous praise regarding bravery, or any of the other platitudes that were regularly meted out, she said quietly, ‘If that is how you think of yourself and your friends, I’m sorry.’

  He shifted uncomfortably, aware that he was being a pillock, as his pals would have put it. But, painfully conscious of his empty trouser leg, the McGuigan mulishness kicked in. ‘What other way is there to think?’

  ‘That, but for you and your friends and the rest of our boys, our country would now be occupied by a murderous madman.’

  Well, that had put him in his place, hadn’t it? Mortified to the depths of his being, Caleb cleared his throat. ‘You’re right, and I apologize. I’m not normally such bad company.’

  ‘No need to apologize.’ Her voice was a cut above and without an accent, so it surprised him when she said, ‘You must be from the north, like me. I used to live near Chester-le-Street. Do you know it?’

  ‘Aye, I know it. Me an’ some pals used to go for bike rides that way on a Sunday afternoon. I remember the viaduct at the north end of the town. Massive great thing, with eleven arches. I’m from Sunderland, the north side of the river.’

  ‘My mother and I used to shop in Sunderland’s town centre sometimes. We’d normally finish up having a cream tea at Binns.’

  ‘Not any more, you won’t. It’s a burnt-out shell.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t know.’

  ‘Aye, the town’s been hit hard. The Winter Gardens copped it, along with plenty of factories and shipyards, and some streets have been all but flattened. Near the docks, you see.’ It struck Caleb that, for the first time since he had been injured, he was having a normal conversation with a female other than the nurses. Sitting as they were in the shadowed night, it didn’t seem difficult, and suddenly he wanted it to go on. ‘Have you been back home recently?’ Even as he said it, he remembered what Harold had intimated and realized it might be a touchy subject.

  When she did not answer immediately, he purposely didn’t look at her, his fingers idly plucking at the grass as he men
tally kicked himself. Then she said, ‘No, not recently’, and he breathed again. It was a few moments before the silence was broken once more, and it was Esther who murmured, ‘On a night like this you can almost forget there’s a war going on. Do you think the men who start wars – like Hitler and the rest of them – ever sit quietly on a warm summer’s evening listening to the birds at twilight, and drinking in the scent of flowers as the stars come out?’

  He stole a glance at the lovely profile. The sadness in her voice was reflected in her face. ‘Do you?’ he asked softly.

  She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Nor do I. My mother always says if the world was made up only of women, there would be no wars, because mothers think differently. It’s men’s egos that’s the trouble, she says.’

  ‘She’s right.’

  ‘Up to a point. As I said to her, if the world consisted only of women, there’d be no mothers anyway, unless by divine intervention.’

  His attempt to lighten the atmosphere was rewarded by a soft giggle. ‘There speaks the practical male. But I know what your mother means.’

  ‘Aye, so do I, but I’d never let on.’

  ‘You love her very much, don’t you.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Aye, course I do. She’s my mam. I dare say you feel the same way about yours.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, is she . . . ?’

  ‘She died just after my daughter was born. You know I have a daughter?’ And then, before he could reply, ‘But of course you do – everyone does.’

  For the first time he sensed bitterness. Mildly he said, ‘Don’t tell me you let gossip bother you; not if you’re from the north. It’s in our blood, isn’t it?’

  Esther laughed in spite of herself. He was nice. The faint scent of freshly mown grass drifted on the warm night breeze, tinged with the sharper smell of woodsmoke. After a minute or two of sitting in a silence that, strangely, was not uncomfortable, she murmured, ‘Someone’s had a bonfire.’ And then, before he could speak, she added, ‘It’s not true. What they say about me.’ She didn’t know why she’d said it; she’d had no intention of doing so, but suddenly the words had come out of her mouth.

  His voice was studiedly expressionless. ‘Gossip’s rarely true, I’ve found.’

  ‘In my case, I suppose I can see why people would jump to the wrong conclusion.’

  ‘Listen, you don’t have to explain anything to me, or anyone else if it comes to it. Your life is your own affair.’

  ‘I know – that’s what I’ve been telling myself since Joy was born. Sometimes it helps and sometimes it doesn’t.’

  Her tone conveyed a deep pain, and Caleb didn’t know what to say to help her. Carefully he felt his way. ‘If you want to talk about it, that’s fine. It will go no further. If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. It’s up to you.’

  Esther closed her eyes and swallowed. Why it should matter that this stranger knew the truth was beyond her, but it did matter. Perhaps it was because he was a stranger? Or maybe it was time she told someone, other than those at the farm, the truth? A kind of test, to gauge people’s reactions? Which was silly, because ten to one she wouldn’t like the outcome. She didn’t want to become cynical, but she had found she didn’t like the human race much at all these days.

  The band had struck up ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ inside the hall and, along with the music, there were shouts and whoops of laughter. Clearly the dance was going with a bang. And yet, out here in the quiet darkness, it was like a little oasis. She felt she could trust this big, quiet man sitting beside her, but common sense told her that she didn’t know him from Adam. Nevertheless . . .

  Softly – so softly Caleb had to lower his head to hear her – Esther murmured, ‘My daughter is my husband’s child. I’ve never been with anyone else but Monty, so when she was born and it was obvious she was mixed-race, it . . . it was a shock. For everyone. It was then that my mother told us the truth.’

  Caleb didn’t have a clue what she meant. ‘The truth?’

  ‘About the circumstances of my own birth. It was like this . . . ’

  As he listened to the unfolding story – a story that was amazing, even fantastic, but which he didn’t doubt was true – Caleb knew he was falling in love with her. Before this night he hadn’t believed in the sort of love the poets and la-di-da intellectuals wrote about. Lust he understood, and he’d had his share of sexual encounters since the time he’d taken Mary-Ann Sprackett behind the bike sheds when they were both fourteen, and emerged half an hour later with a big grin on his face. He’d been tall and broad-shouldered even then, and he’d found as he got older that women liked him. He’d be the first to admit he was no oil painting, and he certainly didn’t have the gift of the gab like some of his pals, but he’d never had a problem securing the woman of his choice. And there’d been several during his twenty-five years of life. But this one was different.

  He said nothing for a moment or two when she finished speaking. Then he spoke as softly as she had done. ‘Your husband must be the biggest fool since Adam, but then you know that, right?’

  She hadn’t known what to expect. Having prepared herself for the worst, relief brought tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Grateful for the darkness, she said weakly, ‘I think his mother influenced him.’

  ‘Then he’s a weak fool, to boot.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I’ve come to understand that for some people it matters. Colour, I mean.’

  He wanted to deny it, to tell her she was imagining things. But he’d never been much of a liar, and she was right. For some folk it did matter. He remembered when one of the lassies in his street had started walking out with a lad from the Arab quarter in the East End, and the furore it had caused. Her da and brothers had waylaid the individual and knocked ten bells out of him; the lad had nearly died and was in the infirmary for weeks. The upshot of their interfering was that the lass had married the lad as soon as he was out; but when she had come to visit her mam a few weeks later, the neighbours had thrown dog-muck at her and told her to keep away. That had been over fifteen years ago, when he was nowt but a nipper, but he’d never forgotten the barbarity of the way hitherto ordinary folk had rounded on the girl. He’d gone to his mam and told her what had happened and he’d received his second shock that day, because in his mind she had sided with the neighbours, when she’d said it was understandable. When he’d protested, she’d sat him down and told him it was best for like to keep to like. No good came of mixed blood, she’d said; it only caused division and heartache for all concerned. He had disagreed with her then, and he disagreed with her still.

  Quietly he said, ‘Aye, it does. And religion is another big divide. The gangs of boys in the streets where I grew up were either Catholics or Protestants, and they’d batter you into next weekend if you were on the wrong side. Took great enjoyment out of it an’ all.’

  ‘Which were you? Catholic or Protestant?’

  ‘Me? Neither. My parents went to the Baptist Chapel two streets away; still do.’

  ‘So you were all right then?’

  ‘Not really. Us Baptist bairns used to get bashed by both lots.’ He grinned at her and she smiled back. ‘One of my sisters married a Catholic lad, though. I was only knee-high to a grasshopper at the time, but I remember the carry-on it caused in his family. My mam wasn’t too pleased, either, but she didn’t interfere, beyond insisting Prudence didn’t convert.’

  ‘Are they happy: your sister and her husband?’

  ‘They were. He got killed at Dunkirk. You’d have thought that would have brought his family round, but they won’t even come to see Prudence – and her with three little ones. Nowt so queer as folk, as my mam says.’

  ‘And cruel.’

  Caleb shot her a glance. ‘Aye, that an’ all.’ He paused. ‘But to my mind, that’s part of what this war is all about, isn’t it? Fighting against cruelty and bigotry? Those poor blighters in Nazi Germany
– the Jews an’ the rest of them who aren’t part of Hitler’s “chosen” race – they’re the ones who have had it worse.’

  ‘Do you believe this invasion by the Allies is the beginning of the end of the war, like the papers are saying?’ Esther asked. She wanted the war to end, of course she did, but it was hard to imagine what life would be like when it did. She had no home, no husband, no family. But she did have Joy, and dear Rose. And her friends.

  Caleb shrugged. ‘We’ll win – the writing’s on the wall now – but there’s nothing so dangerous as a cornered beast, and Hitler will stop at nothing.’ Realizing his words weren’t exactly uplifting, he added, ‘What was it that Churchill said a couple of years ago, after El Alamein? “This is not the end. It’s not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.” Well, I reckon this latest is the beginning of the end that we’ve all been waiting for.’

  There followed a stillness during which they both became lost in their thoughts in the warm darkness. Somewhere close by a blackbird called shrilly, after being disturbed by something or other, and the muted sounds of jollity from the village hall barely impinged on the night. Caleb had the feeling that he could sit here all night. In fact, if he was to die at this very moment, it would be a good end.

  When the door to the hall opened and someone called her name, Esther sighed, and he felt that she objected to the intrusion as much as he did. Rousing herself, she called, ‘I’m here, Cilla, and I’m fine. I’ll come in, in a minute.’

  This was followed by the blonde girl he’d seen with Esther earlier bounding down the steps of the hall, saying, ‘What on earth are you doing, sitting out here by yourself?’ Then she stopped abruptly on catching sight of Caleb. ‘Oh, you’re not by yourself. Sorry. Didn’t know.’