The Colours of Love (17 page)

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.’

‘I said I’ll come in a minute.’ But Esther was already standing up.

Caleb made no effort to stand himself; it would take a bit of manoeuvring, and he had no intention of floundering around in front of her.

Whether she understood this, he didn’t know, but thankfully she made no offer to help him up, merely saying, ‘It’s been nice talking to you, Caleb.’

He smiled up at her. ‘Likewise. Perhaps we can do it again sometime.’

‘I’d like that.’

They regarded each other for a moment and her face was unsmiling, but her eyes were soft.

He didn’t turn and watch her as she joined her friend and they went back into the dance, but, once the night was quiet and still again, he let out his breath in a deep sigh. Now that she had gone, he wondered at his nerve in speaking to her in the way he had. She was out of his league, big-time.

But she’d seemed to like him
, another part of his mind suggested, before he countered it with:
Don’t be so daft, man
. Esther would act that way with anyone. She was kind, courteous. No doubt she felt sorry for him too; pity would force her not to rush to get away, in case it hurt his feelings. He ground his teeth for a moment. Oh, to hell with it.

Shaking his head at himself, Caleb struggled to his feet with the aid of his crutches and stood for a moment, his face set.
No barmy ideas, lad
, he told himself grimly. By her own admission, she was a married woman with a bairn; and if her husband had any sense at all, he’d make things right, but even if he didn’t, a woman like that wouldn’t look the side he was on. Except as a friend, if he was lucky.

He decided not to go back into the hall, but made his way to the low stone wall surrounding the grounds and sat down to wait for his friends. He shouldn’t have come tonight, he’d known it was a daft idea; but he also knew he would come again.

Chapter Eleven

Theobald Wynford sat on the edge of the black satin sheets, pulling on his clothes, and when a soft hand caressed his naked back he jerked away. It was then that a voice said, ‘It doesn’t matter. It happens to everyone at some time or other. Don’t take it to heart. Do you want to try again?’

‘No, I damned well don’t.’ He reached for his shirt.

‘I still want my money.’ The voice was hard now, abrasive. ‘It’s not my fault. I did everything you wanted me to. It’s down to you that you couldn’t perform.’

Theobald swung round, his fist clenched. The middle-aged woman with the painted face scrambled back against the stack of pillows as she said, ‘Any of that, Mister, and I’ll scream to high heaven, and Dickie’ll come running. He’ll rearrange your face soon as it look at it, so I’m warning you.’

Slowly he lowered his fist. He had seen the said Dickie, and the man was built like a gorilla, with arms on him to match. Standing up, he pulled on the rest of his clothes and then tossed some money on the rumpled covers. ‘To hell with you.’

‘Aye, you an’ all.’ The prostitute’s lined face grinned at him as though their farewell had been harmonious. Her voice was congenial too as she said, ‘Come back for another try, dearie, when you want. I don’t bear no grudges.’

Theobald didn’t bother to reply. He couldn’t wait to get outside the brothel, away from the smell of cheap perfume and sweat and stale alcohol.

Once in the street outside the establishment, which was situated a stone’s throw from the old Chester-le-Street graveyard, he took a moment to compose himself. He’d been mad to go there, he told himself, but he’d been three sheets to the wind and not thinking straight. It was the first time he hadn’t been able to get it up, but he’d never been to that brothel before – it wasn’t his usual haunt. The place had been grubby and that had put him off, and as soon as he had gone in, he’d begun to wonder who might have noticed him entering its doors. Had that been the problem, or the old hag he’d got landed with, damn her? She’d been fifty if she was a day, and it was young flesh that stirred his juices these days. The younger, the better.

Swearing softly, he made his way down the street to the public house where his horse was tethered in the inn’s yard. He was untying the animal when the publican appeared at the back door of the premises. ‘Oh, it’s you. That’s all right then. Took yourself off for a stroll, did you?’ Theobald stared at the man in the deepening twilight, and such was his gaze that the publican turned away muttering, ‘I was only checking the horse wasn’t being nabbed.’

Theobald knew why the publican had come into the yard, and it had nothing to do with the horse’s welfare. The man had been trying to be clever and let him know that he knew where he’d been.

Cursing the publican and the rest of the world, Theobald hauled himself into the saddle and rode out of the yard. He’d first entered the inn just before lunch, and had drunk his way through a bottle of whisky and two bottles of wine during the afternoon. Then, his loins burning, he’d left the inn and walked unsteadily to the establishment on the corner, which had a red lamp burning in the window. Strangely, he felt stone-cold sober now, and angry. How dare that scum look at him in the way he had? But it was a warning to be more careful. Perhaps he ought to think about having the girls brought discreetly to the house?

Shortly after Harriet’s death, his mistress at the time had had the idea that Theobald should make an honest woman of her, now his wife was no more. He’d refused, for the mere idea had been preposterous. Cissy was good for one thing only, and she did that extremely well. But within the month Cissy had taken herself off and married a shopkeeper – a man Theobald suspected she’d had on the go at the same time as him. He hadn’t been too concerned. A mistress expected a degree of consideration, and he’d found that increasingly irritating. And so had begun a new era. He’d been able to indulge his predilection for younger flesh and the more depraved acts that common whores allowed, if the price was right. And he always made sure it was.

The August night was a hot one, a warm breeze rustling the ripening ears of corn in the fields on either side of the road, but Theobald was wrapped up in his thoughts and oblivious to the lovely evening.

A couple of days ago French tanks had led the Allies into Paris and, after four years of brutal Nazi occupation, the swastika was no longer flying from the Eiffel Tower. This had made little impact on Theobald, beyond how it would affect his business interests. He’d prospered during the war and had fingers in various black-market pies; he wouldn’t like to see them fall by the wayside if the war ended. Selfish to the core, he was concerned by something only if it touched him on a personal level – like his plans for Monty to join him, as his son-in-law, in the Wynford businesses. Nevertheless, he hadn’t completely given up on that.

He clicked the horse into a canter, his mind chewing on the problem of Monty, as it was often apt to. The Grant name carried weight; furthermore it opened doors to influential and powerful sections of society, and that wasn’t to be sneezed at. He had kept the lines of communication with his son-in-law open, as far as it was within his power to do so, and thus far he had heard nothing about a divorce between Monty and Esther.

The horse was now trotting up the drive towards the house, and Theobald rode the animal around the building to the stable block, where he saw to it himself. The stable boy had long since joined up. All the younger members of Theobald’s employ had either been conscripted or had joined up of their own volition; or, in the case of the housemaids and one of the kitchen maids, had hightailed it off to work in a munitions factory in Newcastle, where they could earn the sort of money they had only dreamed of before the war. The house was run by a skeleton crew these days, consisting of the older members of staff: Mrs Norton and the butler, Osborne; Fanny Kennedy, the cook; and Fanny’s twin sister, who had lost her husband in the first week of the war and had joined the household as general dogsbody. Under Neil Harley’s expert management, the farm was still fully productive, and the number of outside workers remained pretty much what it had always been, thanks to a party of Italian POWs who were marched to the farm each morning by two soldiers from the nearby camp. Most of them were from farming stock themselves and did their work with a mixture of enthusiasm and happy-go-lucky carelessness, distinctive in their dark-blue overalls with large green patches sewn onto them.