The Colours of Love (16 page)

‘And one of them is how to keep randy so-an’-sos like you at arm’s length . . . ’

Caleb swigged at his glass of beer, his mind only half on the banter. Two girls had just walked in the door. One of them he’d seen before, a tall, blonde piece who came regularly with some other girls; but the second was new to him. He expelled his breath in a silent whistle. She was something else too: a looker, if ever he saw one. He found he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He realized his face must have given him away when Harold leaned his way and murmured, ‘Your tongue’s hanging out, lad, but you can forget about that one. Rumour has it she was married to a pilot, but when they had a happy event, it turned out not to be quite so happy, if you get my meaning.’

Caleb’s wrinkled brow was the answer.

‘The baby wasn’t his. She’d been messing about with one of the black GIs.’

Caleb stared at his friend. He had been born deep in the heart of Sunderland’s Monkwearmouth near the docks, and one of the things that had made him want to get out of the grids of terraced streets and back alleys was the knowledge that you couldn’t blow your nose without the whole neighbourhood knowing about it. Everyone knew everyone else’s business, and what they didn’t know, they would make up – always to the detriment of the unfortunate target of gossip. The streets were like one big family, but a dysfunctional family. One that could be as cruel as it could be kind; as unforgiving with its own as with any stranger who attempted to penetrate the unspoken codes and morals. He’d hated the narrow-mindedness, the poverty, the dirt and the blind acceptance of most people that they couldn’t change their lot. When he had joined the army a couple of years before war had been declared, his girlfriend of the time had called him an upstart, when he’d made the mistake of telling her why. And maybe he
was
an upstart. One thing was for sure: he’d discovered that, regardless of geography, people were the same the whole world over. And gossip spread quicker in this village than a dose of salts.

Quietly he said, ‘When you say rumour?’

‘Well, she’s got a kid that’s not white. Everyone knows that.’

‘I didn’t.’

Harold could have said that might be because Caleb rarely left the grounds of the home and was probably one of the most unsociable so-an’-sos he’d ever come across, but he didn’t. He was a pal, and everyone got through what the war had thrown at them in their own way. Instead, he took a swig of his beer, before shrugging. ‘It’s common knowledge – take my word for it. Don’t see, myself, what the women see in these GIs.’

‘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 mentally 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 . . .