The Colours of Love

by Rita Bradshaw

  After sorting herself out in the bathroom, she brought a thick towel into the bedroom and folded it, to sit on in the chair. The pains were still far apart and she saw no point in calling her mother and Rose yet. They would both be rising shortly – time enough then to tell them that her labour had begun.

  At eight o’clock Rose gently opened the door and poked her head round, to see if Esther was sleeping, knowing that she had bad nights and sometimes slept in. She didn’t notice the towel at first, but once Esther told her the situation, Rose ran for Harriet, who immediately insisted on Dr Martin being sent for, despite Esther’s objections.

  The good doctor, now stooped and white-haired, had come out of semi-retirement when his son, who’d taken over the practice from him, had gone into the army as a medical officer at the outbreak of war. He confirmed Esther’s prognosis. The baby was still a long way from being born and the contractions could continue for some time. He would call back that evening, unless he was summoned in the meantime, but would send the midwife attached to the practice later that morning. And, with that, Harriet and Rose had to be content, in spite of all their fluttering anxiety. Esther, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber now that the time had come.

  The day progressed slowly. The snowstorm continued, the midwife arrived and was soon comfortably ensconced with Esther, and the baby made it clear it was in no hurry to leave its warm, comfortable place inside its mother. Because her waters had broken, the midwife insisted that Esther stay in bed, because of the risk of infection. Esther didn’t mind too much. She chatted with the midwife, who had six children of her own, the youngest of whom was a young man of eighteen; and the woman regaled her with the escapades of her family, and what they were all doing in the war. One in particular, a girl of twenty-one who had made the most of the changes to women’s status brought about by the war, as the incursions into pub life and the grudging acceptance of this by men had taken place, was a constant worry to her poor mother.

  The girl, Cathleen, was apparently having the time of her life and, as she earned good money in a munitions factory, saw nothing wrong in spending most of it with her friends and having a knees-up every night in the local pub.

  ‘Now, I’m broad-minded,’ the midwife said with a censorious sniff, ‘but it isn’t as if she and her friends have soft drinks, or just the one beer or short. There’s music, and it’s gay and lively, and all the military men get in there, and they’re after one thing. Her da and me went to visit her last weekend, and do you know what she said to me, when I said we hadn’t brought her up to behave like that? Prudish, she called me. Me! She said women are doing just as much in this war as the men, and why should people like me turn up their noses and act all Victorian because she walks into a pub in trousers and orders a beer or a whisky?’

  The midwife took a breath, self-righteous anger mottling her face. ‘But the thing is, Mrs Wynford-Grant, everyone knows there’s a certain type who goes into pubs to pick up men. Get what they can, sort of thing. And sometimes they get more than they’d bargained for, when they go with the Yanks. Disease-ridden, half of them GIs are – everyone knows that. I said that to our Cathleen, and she said I was talking like we were still in the Dark Ages, and’ – here the midwife’s voice rose an octave – ‘she said she’d been out with a GI or two and they were perfect gentlemen. I ask you. And then she said what did I think our Edward and Herbert and Wilbur were doing – all sailors, my lads are – if not making the most of their time ashore wherever they might be?’

  The midwife sank back in her chair, clearly exhausted by her tale. Weakly she added, ‘I mean, men have always sown their wild oats, haven’t they? Nowt wrong with that. But nice girls behave themselves.’

  Esther found all her sympathies were with the wayward Cathleen, but didn’t think it prudent to say so. ‘I’m sure Cathleen is a good girl, Mrs Shaw. At heart.’

  ‘We’re a respectable family. Her da’ll kill her, if she gets into trouble.’ The midwife stared at her with mournful eyes. ‘Such a bonny little lass she was, and as good as gold, before she started all this feminism stuff. I blame Hitler. Who’d have thought, before the war, that my Cathleen would be dancing the jitterbug, or whatever it’s called, with GIs – and goodness knows what else besides. It’s not right, and some of them’ – here Mrs Shaw’s voice lowered to a whisper – ‘are, you know, not like us.’

  ‘Not like us?’

  ‘In colour.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Esther knew the black American servicemen were something of an exotic prize as a dancing partner; Priscilla had told her so. Apparently they were segregated from the white American servicemen, but still expected to give their all for their country. She hadn’t understood this anomaly, and neither had Priscilla. But then, as Priscilla had said at the time, such onerous distinctions were made by men, and it was their sex that had started every war since the beginning of time. She, herself, had never seen a black person until the GIs had arrived, and it appeared that she wasn’t alone. Priscilla had confided that her latest boyfriend, a black GI, had told her – with exquisite irony – that he’d felt like ‘Livingstone in the heart of Africa’, when practically the whole village in Yorkshire had turned out to watch him post a letter. He and Priscilla had laughed about it; but now, faced with Mrs Shaw, Esther wasn’t sure it was a laughing matter. Quietly she said, ‘What does the colour of someone’s skin have to do with anything, Mrs Shaw?’

  The midwife stared at her. ‘Well, it stands to reason.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘They’re different.’

  ‘And different is . . . ’

  Mrs Shaw was bristling. ‘Different is different – that’s all I have to say on the matter.’ And then, as Esther’s face screwed up with pain, her attitude changed into one of strict professionalism. ‘This one is a strong one, is it? Just breathe, like I told you; it’ll pass. You’ve been having contractions for some little while. They’ll step up now, but all is as it should be, and you are progressing well.’

  It might be all as it should be, but it was getting more and more painful and Esther felt so tired. Her mother and Rose had remained with her for most of the day, but her mother had been persuaded to take an afternoon nap over an hour ago, and Rose had been busying herself with this and that. Now, as they entered her room, Esther had to admit she was glad to see them. The pain had suddenly become more brutal.

  Esther’s baby was born just before midnight and it was a girl. Even in the midst of her exhaustion Esther smiled as she heard the loud wailing that signified all was well. Her mother and Rose were with her, holding her hands and encouraging her on, as the midwife delivered the child with the doctor looking on. He had decided to stay when things had become drawn out, but in the event Esther hadn’t needed any assistance.

  For a few moments, tired as she was, she was unaware of the silence that had fallen over the room once the baby stopped crying. She lifted her head slightly and saw the midwife busily wrapping the baby up to hand to her, but all of them – her mother and Rose and the doctor – had strange looks on their faces, which made her suddenly afraid. ‘What’s wrong?’ Her voice was panicky. ‘I heard her cry – she’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s fine, Mrs Wynford-Grant,’ said the midwife as she brought the baby to her, but the same expression was reflected on her countenance, and her voice held a shred of something Esther couldn’t place.

  She reached eagerly for the little cocoon, her arms going instinctively around her baby as she cradled her daughter to her. Through partly closed, sleepy lids, two dark eyes stared at her and then the baby yawned widely, showing tiny pink gums. But it wasn’t this that had captured Esther’s attention, or the mass of black hair falling over the little brow. It was the colour of the baby’s skin, which was undeniably a deep brown.

  She stared back into the small, sweet face, her surprise so great that it tied her tongue for some moments. And then she murmured what they were all thinking, ‘But she’s not white . .
. ’ She raised her head to the doctor, who was standing at the foot of the bed. ‘How can she be this colour? I don’t understand.’

  Dr Martin cleared his throat twice, but still didn’t speak, because for once in his life he didn’t know what to say. He had known Esther all her life, watched her grow from a delightful, if somewhat headstrong little girl into a lovely woman, and he would have sworn she wasn’t the type of person to be unfaithful to her husband. But here was the proof, and there was no getting away from it. It was this damned war, he thought with a thread of pity. It made folk go crazy, and all the normal morals and principles had gone out of the window. But there was no doubting the fact that Esther had gone with a black GI; and what her father would say when he saw the child, he didn’t dare imagine. With this in mind, he turned to Harriet, who was standing with her hands pressed against her mouth and Rose’s arm round her. ‘I suggest you let Esther have a good night’s sleep before Theobald sees the child,’ he said softly. ‘And I’ll be back early in the morning to check on her and the baby.’

  ‘But . . . ’ Esther looked at each of them in turn. ‘How could Monty and I have a baby with this colour of skin?’

  ‘You couldn’t,’ the midwife said grimly, earning herself a sharp ‘Mrs Shaw, please,’ from Dr Martin.

  The baby yawned again, one tiny hand extricating itself from the blanket and plucking at Esther’s finger. A flood of love banished the puzzlement for a moment, and Esther’s heart soared as she gazed down at her daughter. She was beautiful, she thought wonderingly, so beautiful.

  ‘I sent a message to the base this morning to say the baby was on the way,’ Dr Martin said to Harriet, his meaning clear in his voice. ‘Monty could be here soon, as I understand they’ve granted him a few days’ compassionate leave?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’ Harriet had to force the words out through numb lips.

  ‘So you will see to it that he is prepared before . . . ’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes.’

  It was some minutes before the tight-lipped midwife left the room after finishing administering to her patient, but as the door closed behind her and Dr Martin, Rose said weakly, ‘Oh, Miss Esther, how could you? What will Mr Monty say?’

  ‘What?’ For a moment Esther didn’t understand.

  ‘Was it one of the GIs from the base near the village? Does he know about the baby?’

  Finally the penny dropped, and the reason for the hushed silence and the midwife’s barely concealed contempt became clear. Horrified, Esther looked at them both. ‘The baby is Monty’s. How could you think I would even look at another man? She is his; of course she is his.’

  ‘Miss Esther, she can’t be.’ Rose was near tears. ‘And what’s your father going to say?’

  Bewildered and hurt, and utterly at a loss, Esther said again, ‘She’s Monty’s baby,’ before looking at her mother. ‘I promise: she’s his. I’ve never gone with anyone else. I wouldn’t do that to Monty.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Harriet sank down at the end of the bed and, as Rose went to speak, she said softly, ‘Be quiet, Rose. Please, not another word.’

  ‘Oh, ma’am, you look ill. The shock . . . Shall I fetch your pills?’

  ‘Pills?’ Even in the midst of her distress, Esther was concerned. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Harriet waved away the enquiry with a shake of her head. ‘Esther, listen to me.’ She rose and came to sit close to Esther, putting her arm around her so that the three of them – herself, Esther and the baby, who was now fast asleep in her mother’s arms – were entwined. ‘I have something to tell you; something I probably should have told you when you were old enough to understand, but which I thought was best kept a secret, for your sake as well as mine. Your father’ – she paused – ‘my husband is a man who is capable of anything, and for all our sakes I thought . . . ’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not making any sense,’ she added, reaching out and stroking the baby’s tiny brow.

  ‘What is it?’ Esther began, just as a knock came at the bedroom door and Theobald’s voice said, ‘That old fool Martin told me to wait till morning to see my granddaughter, but I’m not having that.’ He had already opened the door, but had not entered, as he added, ‘Are you decent, Esther?’ from the landing.

  Esther saw her mother blanch, and it was this that made her call out, ‘Can you give me a minute?’ before she said urgently, ‘What is it?’ And then to Rose, as her mother’s colour changed yet again to a pasty grey, ‘Get those pills, Rose.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ In typical fashion and without waiting for permission, Theobald barged his way into the bedroom, glancing first at his wife, who appeared to be half-swooning, then at Esther, who was attempting to hold the baby and support her mother at the same time, as Rose dashed past him for the pills.

  ‘She’s not well,’ Esther said desperately.

  ‘She’s never well.’

  ‘Help her.’

  Swearing under his breath, Theobald lifted a chair close to the bed and plonked his wife in it, holding her up until Rose appeared with a small bottle of pills and a glass of water. When Harriet had swallowed the pills and Rose was assisting her mistress, Theobald straightened and bent over the bed, saying, ‘Let’s have a look at her then’, as he folded back the blanket wrapped around the baby.

  For a moment he remained perfectly still, frozen in a somewhat ludicrous stance. The only sound in the room was his wife’s laboured breathing as she struggled to draw air into her lungs, and Rose murmuring, ‘It’s all right, ma’am, it’s all right.’ Theobald’s eyes were riveted on the bundle in Esther’s arms, which she had drawn protectively closer, but he didn’t move or speak. Red colour stained his face and neck until his countenance had a purple tinge, and then he slowly straightened and seemed to swell as he gazed down at Esther.

  It was clear to everyone that if it had been in Theobald’s power to strike her dead, he would have done so. His rage was a tangible thing, and deadly. If there had been a knife to hand, he would have used it.

  When he spoke, the words came up from the depths of him in a throaty growl. ‘You whore!’

  When his arm swung out, his hand bunched into a fist, Rose sprang up and hung onto him as she shouted, ‘No, Mr Wynford, no.’ And she continued to hang onto him as he tried to shake her off, spitting obscenities. Esther had bent over her daughter, shielding her with her own body, and it was into this mayhem that Monty walked.

  For a moment he stood in the doorway to the bedroom, unable to take in the scene in front of him. When Osborne had answered the door to his knock, the butler had informed him that the rest of the staff were in bed, but the master and Mrs Wynford and Rose were with Esther and the little one, and all was well. Dr Martin had suggested that the master leave seeing the baby until morning, Osborne had added, as Miss Esther was exhausted, but the master hadn’t been able to wait.

  Monty had taken the stairs two at a time, his heart thumping with excitement, but as he’d reached the landing he had heard Rose shout.

  Monty rarely raised his voice, for he had been brought up by a nanny who considered it the height of bad manners, but now he positively bellowed, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ as he leapt across the room and manhandled his father-in-law away from the bed. ‘Have you gone mad? She’s just had a baby – she doesn’t need this.’

  ‘Oh, she’s had a baby all right.’ Theobald seemed to have lost his senses. He was shaking with anger. ‘But whose? That’s the question.’

  ‘Whose? Mine, of course.’ Monty was still holding his father-in-law, who seemed to have had some kind of brainstorm. He could feel the man’s fury through his fingers, which were gripping Theobald’s upper arms.

  ‘Yours?’ Theobald gave a bark of a laugh. ‘Look at it. Look at it and tell me if you think it’s yours.’

  ‘Monty . . . ’ Harriet’s voice was a thin thread, and as he glanced her way he was horrified at her condition. She looked as though she was dying. ‘It’s not
Esther’s fault.’

  ‘Esther’s fault?’ His wife’s words seemed to reignite Theobald’s rage. ‘Damned right it’s not her fault. I blame you as much as her. From when she was born you’ve given in to her every whim and fancy, and spoiled her rotten. Many a time I’ve wanted to give her a good hiding, but no, you said – she’s a girl, and you don’t take a belt to a girl. But what’s the result? That!’ He shook off Monty’s hands and wiped the sweat from his brow, his face murderous. ‘A bastard. We’re going to be a laughing stock, you know that, don’t you? They’ll all be at it, gossiping behind their hands and enjoying every minute. Oh yes, I know what our fine, dear friends will do.’

  He stopped, gasping for breath, and as he did so Monty slowly approached the bed, where Esther was still bent protectively over the baby. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he murmured, unable to make head or tail of what was going on.

  Esther raised her head, tears running down her face. ‘Nothing is wrong with her, and she is your daughter. I swear it.’

  Monty looked down at the little bundle as Esther showed the child to him, his eyes widening; and Theobald, seeing his son-in-law’s expression, growled, ‘You see? Now do you see?’

  ‘Monty!’ Again Harriet attempted to speak, her voice a little stronger now. ‘Esther is telling the truth: the baby is your daughter. It is me who has lived a lie for years; Esther’s done nothing wrong.’ She took a gasping breath, her eyes beseeching Esther now as she said, ‘You are my daughter, my darling, in every way except through blood. Someone . . . someone else gave birth to you.’

  ‘You lying—’

  As Theobald snarled at his wife, Monty cut off the other man’s voice with an upraised hand as he said ferociously, ‘Shut up!’ and such was the tone that Theobald fell silent. ‘Tell me,’ said Monty to the woman he had always privately thought didn’t have the gumption to say boo to a goose.