The Color of Secrets (5 page)

Chapter 6

“Hey, come and look at this!”

Jimmy was emptying leftovers into the pig bin when Bill called him over. The cookhouse was deserted except for the two of them. He followed Bill past the stores and out into the yard where empty milk churns stood glinting in rows, waiting for collection. Bill dived behind them, pulling out a rusty bicycle with the tattered remains of a wicker basket strung from the handlebars.

Jimmy’s mouth fell open. “Where in hell did you get that old wreck?”

“From the farmer up the road,” Bill grinned. “Best bargain I ever had—all he wanted for it was a pack of Lucky Strikes and some nylons for his old lady.”

“Man, you were robbed!” Jimmy shook his head, chuckling.

“Well, I know it’s kind of rusty, but I’ll fix it up just fine, you’ll see.” Bill knelt down, inspecting the chain. “Got a couple of days before I’m going to need it, so
. . .
”

“Oh, I get it!” Jimmy snorted. “Boy, is she gonna be impressed when you come rolling up on that!”

“Think I’m stupid or what?” Bill stood up, giving him a shove. “I’m not going to let her see it, am I? But how the hell else am I supposed to get to Wolverhampton and back on a Saturday night?”

“Well, you got imagination. I’ll give you that!”

“How about you?” Bill shot his friend a knowing glance. “I thought you might want to be hitching a ride on the handlebars
. . .
?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Jimmy smirked back. “My girl’s daddy, he’s some big-shot factory owner. She reckons on taking one of his cars, so she can meet me in Bridgnorth.”

“No kidding?” Bill let out a low whistle.

“Can I help it if women find me irresistible?” Jimmy batted his eyelashes.

“Come on, lover boy.” Bill grinned. “Stop bragging and help me fix this little beauty.”

Eva could hear snatches of familiar melodies as people went into the dance hall. There was a cold wind blowing across the marketplace, and she pulled her coat up around her neck.
He’s going to stand me up
, she thought,
and wouldn’t that just serve me right?

She glanced at a couple in uniform who were laughing as they came up the steps in front of her. The man looked a bit like Eddie. Same stocky build, same deep chuckle. It brought back memories of her wedding night. He had made her laugh as she stood awkwardly in a corner of the room, tickling her into submission when she refused to get undressed with the light on. The memory was as sharp and painful as a nettle sting. She thrust her hands into her coat pockets, digging her nails into the palms as she clenched her fists.

“Hi, honey! Am I late or are you early?”

The sight of him made her blood surge. Eva’s eyes darted left and right, unable to stop checking for hostile stares. One or two heads turned as he wrapped his arms around her. It gave her a feeling that she couldn’t quite explain: a mixture of fear and defiance that was strangely intoxicating.

“You’re out of breath,” she said. “Have you been running?”

“No, not running,” he laughed, coughing as he caught his breath. “Just don’t ask me how I got here.” He smiled as he took her arm. “I might die of embarrassment if you make me explain. Come on, let’s go eat!”

It took them a while to find the restaurant. She had picked the smallest, most out-of-the-way place she could think of.

“Well, it ain’t the Ritz,” he chuckled as he helped her off with her coat, “but what the heck—I’m hungry as a bear: let’s see what’s on the menu.”

She could tell he wasn’t impressed, although he tried to sound enthusiastic.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s not very exciting—nearly everything’s rationed, that’s the trouble.”

“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “We’ve been trained for this.”

Eva looked at him, mystified.

“Take a peek.” Arching his eyebrows, he took a slim booklet from his jacket pocket.

“
A Short Guide to Great Britain
,” she read aloud, looking at the eagle crest on the front cover. She opened it and a broad smile spread across her face. “‘The British have movies, which they call cinemas,’” she read, “‘but the great place of recreation is the pub. Stop and think before you sound off about lukewarm beer or cold boiled potatoes or the way English cigarettes taste. If you are invited to a British person’s house, never criticize the food
. . .
’”

“Oh, don’t stop.” He grinned. “You haven’t got to the best bit.”

She laughed, turning the page. “‘Don’t try to tell them America won the last war,’” she continued. “‘Never criticize the king or queen. If British civilians look dowdy and badly dressed, it is not because they do not like good clothes or know how to wear them. All clothing is rationed.’” She clapped her hand to her mouth, suddenly remembering her dress at the dance. “Oh no!” She giggled. “I’m surprised you want anything to do with me after reading this!”

She passed the booklet back to him. Something was handwritten on the back cover. She glimpsed the last four letters of his last name as he clamped his hand over it.

“What’s the matter?”

He made a face. “My name—my first name—I don’t use it.”

“What is it?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Just call me Bill, okay?” His eyes held hers. They were such a deep brown: so dark it was hard to tell where the irises ended and the pupils began. She carried on watching him as he gave the order to the waitress.

“Tell me about where you come from,” she said. “It’s in the South, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “It’s way down south, not far from the Gulf coast.”

“What did you do there? For a job, I mean?”

He shrugged. “Nothing special. I worked in a drugstore.”

“A chemist’s?”

He laughed. “No—strange name, I suppose: sells more milkshakes than drugs.”

“Did you like it?”

“Hell, no. It’s just a job.”

“So what do you like?” She studied his face. “What’s your favorite thing in the whole world?”

“Music,” he replied without a second’s hesitation.

“Do you play an instrument?”

“Well, no—not unless you count a comb and paper or a tin can you beat with a spoon
. . .
” he trailed off with a shrug. “When I was a kid, we didn’t have any real musical instruments, but we were pretty good at what you might call improvisation. Most nights we’d be out on the porch with family or neighbors, and someone would tap out a beat with their feet or sing a line of a song and, before you knew it, everyone would be up and dancing.”

Eva smiled, trying to picture the child that he had once been. “It sounds very sociable,” she said, “not like here—it’s hardly ever warm enough to sit outside in the evenings.”

“Is that so?” He huffed out a laugh. “Well, sometimes it’s too darn hot where I come from: too hot to dance or do just about anything—even at night.” He leaned closer, his chin propped on his hand. “Anyway, how about you? What do you love best?”

David’s name sprang automatically to her lips, but she closed her mouth just in time to stop herself saying it. She laughed to cover her confusion. “Oh, I don’t know—books, films, chocolate
. . .
”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

Gone with the Wind
was what she would have replied if anyone else had been asking. But she checked herself once again. What would Bill think of a girl whose favorite film was about the spoiled white daughter of a slave owner?

The waitress saved her by plunking two steaming plates of minced beef and onions in front of them. Distracted by the unfamiliar food, Bill was easily drawn into a safer topic of conversation. They were halfway through the meal when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye that made her flinch.

“What is it?” Bill had seen her face change.

“Oh nothing—just a draft or something.”

He followed her eyes, catching sight of a pale-khaki cap disappearing around the corner of the street opposite.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, nodding his head slowly. “Is that why you brought me to this funny little place?”

Eva stared at the table. “I just didn’t want a repeat performance of last Saturday,” she said, “so I thought it’d be better to choose somewhere, you know, off the beaten track.”

“Hey,” he said, reaching across to take her hand, “I’m a big fella—I can take care of myself.” He stroked her arm, touching the spot where a ray of the setting sun had turned the white flesh pink. “But I sure appreciate your concern.” He scooped up some food on his fork, moving it slowly and deliberately toward her mouth. “Come on,” he said, “let’s finish this up and go catch a movie.” He smiled. “No lights, no trouble.”

The newsreel was showing as Bill and Eva fumbled their way to a pair of empty seats. As the screen flashed with the explosions of torpedoed U-boats, she felt his arm slide around her shoulders. She glanced at the people in the seats in front and to the sides. Lots of uniforms. But difficult to tell Britons from Americans in this artificial twilight, let alone black from white.

Her attention was drawn back to the screen, not by the images but the words. A British soldier was delivering a message to his wife and child back home. Eva felt a stab of guilt as the camera panned along a line of other men, all desperate to speak to their wives, mothers, or sweethearts.

She glanced at Bill. He was gazing at the screen, his eyes betraying no emotion.
Had he left anyone behind in New Orleans?

The signature tune of the newsreel blared out as the program ended and suddenly Bill’s lips were on her neck, setting her skin on fire. In her mind the images of homesick soldiers and U-boats whirled together and dissolved like sugar in a teacup.
This is all there is,
she thought, as their lips met in the darkness.
This is now, and now is all that matters.

By the time they looked at the screen again, it was filled with more images of fighting men.

“What did you say this is?” Bill whispered, squeezing her shoulder as they settled back into their seats.

“
For Whom the Bell Tolls
,” she said, her mouth brushing his ear. “Ingrid Bergman and Gary
. . .
” she never finished the sentence. As they clung to each other in the flickering light, she heard gunshots and explosions, the fake sounds of a distant, re-created war. And in that moment she buried Eddie in a deep recess of her mind. Now he was as unreal to her as the figures on the screen.

“Guess we’ll just have to go see it again next week,” Bill grinned as they emerged from the gloom of the cinema to the deeper darkness of the street. “Looked pretty good, the little bit I saw!” He chuckled, squeezing her waist as they walked along the pavement.

“What do you mean, next week?” she said coyly, wondering where she was going to tell her mother she was going on yet another Saturday night.

“Oh, so you’ve had enough of me already?” He wheeled her around to face him. But he was smiling. She could see his mouth and his eyes, disembodied, almost, in the blacked-out night. He looked so eager, so confident that she would not turn him down.
Was this how he acted with girls back home
, she wondered,
or had the war made him this way?

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said, reaching up to stroke the back of his head. “But it’s not always that easy to get away.” She paused. How could she explain? What reason could she give for not being free to do exactly as she liked outside working hours? For a fleeting moment she thought about telling him the truth. But that would ruin everything. He wouldn’t want her then, would he? Not if he knew she was somebody’s wife, somebody’s mother.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, the smile disappearing. She looked at him in alarm. Had he read it in her face, guessed what she was hiding? “It’s your folks, I guess,” he went on. “You’re scared of what they’ll say if they find out you’re dating a black fella.”

“No, of course it’s not that!” She almost told him then, so unbearable was it that he should think that was the reason. But she checked herself, burying her head in his jacket as his words struck home. It was the perfect excuse. It would give her time. She would tell him eventually, but not yet.