The Colours of Love

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘Look, Monty.’ Theobald had paused and seemed to be weighing what he was about to say. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this, but do I take it you and Esther are still legally married? What I mean is: I haven’t heard anything about a divorce, and the last time we met, your mother seemed to suggest that any papers would come here, for me to forward on. Not that I could have done, of course, because like I said, I don’t know where—’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to date.’ Monty cut short his father-in-law, his voice terse. It had been a bone of contention with his mother that he was dragging his heels, as she’d put it, but the thought of explaining the whole sorry mess to a solicitor had been beyond him, in the early days. He’d used the excuse of the war to keep his mother at bay, promising her he would see to things in due course, but then he had been shot down and she had refrained from nagging him after that.

  His heart began to pound as he remembered the impact of the first bang; crazy, but he couldn’t believe he had been hit. He had dodged so many near-misses that his fellow airmen had started to call him ‘Miss-’em Monty’, and he’d dared to believe he would get through the war without a scratch. Two more bangs had followed in quick succession, and as if by magic a frightening hole had suddenly appeared in his starboard wing. Unbelief had changed to terror in the next instant, when the gas tank behind the engine blew up and the cockpit became engulfed in flames.

  He had heard that your whole life passed before you, when death was imminent, but it hadn’t been like that with him. Screaming, he’d thrown his head back to keep it away from the searing heat, as his burning right hand had groped for the release pin securing the restraining Sutton harness. That was all he had thought of: to get out of what had become his coffin.

  And then suddenly he had done it, and he was out into the wonderfully cool sky, tumbling downwards as blissful fresh air flowed across his face. His training kicked in and he followed the instructions his brain was giving him – the lump of red meat at the end of his right arm searching for the chromium ring on the ripcord. Through the agony his mutilated, raw fingers grasped the life-giving ring and pulled, and with a jerk the silken canopy billowed out above him, mercifully undamaged by the flames. He had never seen anything quite so beautiful as that shining material.

  He came back to the present, to his father-in-law saying, ‘Don’t get me wrong, Monty, but it might be better to leave things as they are, for the time being. If you’re up for coming in with me, that is. Being related through marriage oils the wheels businesswise, you know?’

  Oh, he knew all right. Monty looked into Theobald’s flabby red face, one part of his mind thinking: he’s drinking too much and it shows; and the other part processing the fact that it was only really the Grant name that Theobald was interested in. Had the man ever genuinely cared for someone in his whole life? He doubted it. He was a truly obnoxious individual.

  ‘Well?’ Theobald tried and failed to keep the note of irritation out of his voice. ‘What do you say about taking up a position within the business? There’s plenty who’d jump at it, you know, especially with the way things are going to be once the war’s over. If folk think they’ve had it tough the last few years, it’ll get worse before it gets better. It was the same after the Great War.’

  He would be selling his soul, if he took up Theobald’s offer; Monty had known that before he came, but he wasn’t a strong-willed individual, like his mother had been. He took after his father – he knew that now. And the thought of being poor terrified him. His mother might have turned up her nose at ‘new money’ and commercialism, but it was the future. To ignore that was virtual suicide. And Theobald had his thumb in so many pies that even if a couple of them turned bad, it wouldn’t matter. He looked down at his hands; he would never fly again, but bent and scarred as they were, they’d serve him in civilian life. But that was the rub. He didn’t have the faintest idea what he wanted to do or how to get started. He’d never really had to think about things like that.

  Monty took a deep breath. ‘If you think I can be of any use, I’d be pleased to join you, Theobald. But I’ve another operation ahead of me before that would be possible, and a full medical examination before they discharge me.’

  ‘Understood, understood.’ Theobald smiled, patting his protruding stomach as he said, ‘Try one of these sandwiches, lad. Our own ham and, if I say it myself, there’s none better. Harley might be too soft with the POWs, but he’s a damned good manager in every other respect. Not that I’d ever tell him that, of course. He’d get the idea he might be due a rise, and you don’t lead with your chin, do you. His class will take advantage of any sign of softness, take it from me.’ Stuffing a sandwich into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. ‘So you’re happy to leave things be, regarding Esther, for the time being?’

  Just hearing her name brought a pain equal to the agony Monty had endured from the burns. If only she had been reasonable, and agreed to the child being taken away and cared for somewhere, they could still be together. And they could have adopted children – he’d have had no problem with that. If she’d loved him as much as she said she did, she wouldn’t have put the child before him, Monty thought bitterly, something he had told himself many times in the past. At no point in these reflections did he think of the child as his. She was Esther’s – evidence of a secret that needed to be hidden at all costs. Indeed, over the last months the tiny bundle in Esther’s arms that he had glimpsed briefly, the alien creature with the dark skin and black hair that bore no likeness whatsoever to him, had taken on the image of a monstrosity, in his imagination.

  Realizing that his father-in-law was waiting for an answer, Monty nodded.

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Theobald settled himself more comfortably in his chair after pouring them both a generous glass of brandy. ‘Let’s drink to the future, lad? What do you say?’

  Monty smiled sickly. His old nanny had had a saying that fitted this occasion perfectly. When he had misbehaved or been less than the perfect little boy she insisted on, she’d warn him grimly that if he wasn’t careful, he would be riding a handcart to hell. Her words suddenly seemed prophetic.

  Chapter Twelve

  Esther sat between Priscilla and Rose in the village parish church, listening to the vicar extolling the virtues of God’s harvest, as shafts of sunlight cascaded in through the stained-glass window behind him. ‘“Thou crownest the year with Thy goodness; and Thy clouds drop fatness,”’ he intoned, reading from the huge Bible in front of him. ‘“They shall drop upon the dwellings of the wilderness; and the little hills shall rejoice on every side. Thy folds shall be full of sheep; and the valleys also shall stand so thick with corn, that they shall laugh and sing.”’

  Priscilla nudged her, whispering, ‘Makes it sound so easy, doesn’t he? I bet he’s never worked from sunrise to sunset in the fields, with Farmer Holden as his taskmaster.’

  Esther smiled but didn’t comment, aware of the farmer and his wife in the next pew. Adjusting Joy – who’d fallen asleep as soon as the vicar had begun speaking – into a more comfortable position on her lap, she let her mind wander. She had enjoyed the harvest this year, possibly because everyone was saying the war was nearly over, and it would be her last autumn at Yew Tree Farm. But it wasn’t just that. There was something wonderfully reassuring and satisfying about working on the land. Under the summer sun she had watched the corn change from lemon-green to bronze and the barley bleach grey, and the fields of oats shine yellow, chequering the farm’s landscape in a patchwork of subtle tint and hue. And the poppies . . . She smiled to herself. How she had loved the poppies this year, their silky heads scarlet as they had blazed amid the corn. The scent of the trees on the still air, the sweet warming winds that had bent the tall grain like the roll of the sea or the sigh of a distant tide – it had all seemed infinitely precious somehow.

  She glanced to her left where, two rows in front on the other side of the aisle, a number of patients and staff from the convalescent home were sitti
ng. Caleb was there. Her heart jumped and then thudded, before settling into its normal rhythm. They had met a few times since that night at the village dance, although never by pre-arrangement. But she had taken to attending the monthly hop with Priscilla, and the occasional whist drive and other fundraising activities that the WI tended to put on, and which the men from the convalescent home were encouraged to go along to, if they were fit enough. Part of their rehabilitation, Caleb had told her wryly: getting back into civilized society, and so on.

  She didn’t let herself acknowledge that her change of heart, about accompanying the other girls to such events, was anything to do with Caleb, but on the odd occasion that he hadn’t been present, the day had seemed a little less bright. She liked his friendship, that was all, she told herself now. He was pleasant and easy to talk to, and kind. Very kind. One hot Sunday afternoon in August she had taken Joy to the village fete with the others, and Caleb had been there with a group of his pals. He had come over as soon as he had seen her and then made a great fuss of Joy, who had immediately taken to him. After buying them all cups of tea and a plate of cakes, Caleb had sat with little Joy on his knee, while Esther had wandered around looking at the stalls. It had been a nice afternoon.

  But now it was the last week of September, and the Harvest Festival service signified the official end of summer. Over the last three or four weeks a chilliness had stabbed the air first thing in the morning and mists had lingered in the valley, rolling across the newly ploughed earth that had broken the harvest stubble in the fields. The swallows were getting ready to migrate, screaming their last cries over the farm as they fed, to prepare themselves for their long flight.

  Again Esther’s gaze fixed on the back of Caleb’s head. Everything was going to change soon, if the newspapers could be believed. It was reported all the time now that Britain was winning the war, even though the enemy’s new and terrible weapon, the silent V-2 rockets, were bringing terror and misery to London. But German troops were on the run throughout Europe, and the Allies had broken through the main German defence of the Siegfried Line and liberated the town of Nancy, the key bastion of eastern France. The papers had been ecstatic about that, saying it was a landmark in the end of the war, because Hitler had decreed that Nancy had to be held at all costs. In the last week throughout most of the country the street lights had come on again, after five years of darkness, and railway stations were being lit again. Passengers on trains, buses and trams could sit and read during their journey, and only certain coastal areas remained in darkness. Things were looking up, as Nancy Holden had declared that very morning at breakfast, only to be told by her husband that it didn’t pay to count your chickens before they were hatched.

  Again Priscilla nudged her, this time to murmur, ‘Look at Peter Crosse, sitting there as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. When he asked me out and I said no, his language would have made a sailor blush.’

  Esther followed Priscilla’s gaze. Peter was the son of the farmer whose farm was on the opposite side of the village from the Holdens’, and something of a Jack-the-lad, by all accounts. Having been over twenty-one at the beginning of the war, he had made full use of the exemption from conscription that had applied to farm workers, who were in a reserved occupation. His elderly, doting parents had aided and abetted their only child, declaring that Peter ran the farm, now they were getting on in years. Everyone who knew the family was aware this was stretching the truth, but as Peter Crosse was six-foot-four and handy with his fists, nothing was said. To his face, at least.

  The three Land Girls who’d been assigned to the Crosse farm didn’t like him at all. One of them had confided to Priscilla earlier in the year that she’d had to slap Peter’s face on a couple of occasions, when he’d tried to take liberties. ‘Struts about the farm as though he’s the cat’s whiskers,’ the girl had complained bitterly, ‘giving his orders and playing God Almighty. And he’s got a real chip on his shoulder about the GIs. Calls them every name under the sun. I thought he was going to hit me last week, when he was sounding off about them and I said we wouldn’t be winning the war if they hadn’t come on board. I wouldn’t mind so much, if only he’d been prepared to do his bit.’

  Remembering this now, Esther whispered, ‘Be careful of him, Cilla. Don’t forget what Joyce said to you. He could be a nasty bit of work, if he’s crossed.’

  Priscilla’s chin lifted and her eyes narrowed. ‘Nasty or not, there’s no way I’d be intimidated into having a date with him.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you would. Just be wary, that’s all.’

  When one of the pious matrons from the village turned round and glared at them for talking during the vicar’s sermon, the girls tried to stifle their giggles. It was the same every Sunday. This particular lady, who had a tongue on her like a rapier for the rest of the week, seemed to have made it her life’s mission to keep the congregation under control while the vicar was giving his address. Priscilla had made them choke over their cocoa a few weeks ago, when she had solemnly declared that she was sure the lady in question was dying of unrequited love. ‘She acts like a simpering schoolgirl if the vicar talks to her,’ Priscilla had insisted. ‘Haven’t you noticed? All goo-goo eyes and fluttering lashes.’

  The others hadn’t noticed, but since Priscilla had pointed it out, they’d seen it was true. As the vicar was as lean and tall as a beanpole and his admirer was a small, fat barrel of a woman, it had made it all the funnier somehow, and Esther spent the rest of the service not daring to glance at Priscilla.

  They emerged from the church into warm, mellow sunshine and, as one, the congregation made their way to the village hall where the harvest feast awaited them. Long trestle tables groaned with food that defied the idea of rationing – for this one day it was as though the war restrictions were just a bad dream. In spite of the heavy penalties that could be meted out by the law for ignoring the restraints of rationing, in the village the local constable turned a blind eye to events such as this one, largely because his wife and daughters would have given him grief if he didn’t. A fair amount of ‘helping out’ went on at the best of times anyway – neighbours exchanging meat, dairy produce or fresh vegetables for canned foods, coffee, spirits or perhaps some extra petrol. It was customary for a large shoulder of pork wrapped in brown paper to be left on the village bobby’s doorstep every so often, along with butter or eggs or cheese. It was never talked about, it just happened. Nobody looked on the ‘arrangements’ that went on as profiteering; it was merely the age-old tradition of bartering that country folk had always indulged in, and farmers were particularly well placed in this respect. Only the week before, a cow had mysteriously injured itself and had had to be slaughtered, and a fox had apparently caused a loss of poultry. Equally mysteriously, exactly the same thing had happened the previous year, as the Harvest Festival celebrations approached.

  Bruce Stefford, the village poacher, had managed to do very nicely out of the war, Esther had overheard Farmer Holden complaining to his wife one night. One and eight-pence was the price the trapper charged for a decent-sized rabbit, and if the skin was duly returned, Bruce paid twopence back. Apparently someone came round the villages in a van each month and gave threepence each for rabbit skins, and Bruce had been boasting in the pub that he generally had a few dozen to sell on. But in spite of Farmer Holden’s annoyance – due mainly to the fact that some of the poaching took place on his land – Esther knew he wouldn’t have dreamed of complaining to the authorities. Such was village life, and that was the end of the matter.

  The two elderly spinster sisters who lived in a neat little thatched cottage at the end of the village high street, and who were stalwarts of the WI, always had a jar of honey or jam for the right price; a certain widow with seven children could be relied on for small bunches of snowdrops or primroses or lavender, and bags of field mushrooms and other seasonal niceties; and old Mr Buffry, who kept a smallholding and looked very respectable, had a pal who worked at the docks in Sc
arborough – bags of tea or sugar, or perhaps tinned biscuits or canned food, found their way to the smallholding at regular intervals, and then on to certain neighbours. It was the natural order of things, and village folk weren’t about to be told otherwise, not even by Churchill himself, war or no war.

  The atmosphere in the hall was merry as everyone tucked into the handsome spread. Farmer Holden and his wife had joined a couple of friends of their own age, and Beryl was sitting with her boyfriend – a local lad who had been invalided out of the army the year before – and his family, so this left Esther and the other three girls and Rose together.

  As always, Esther was conscious of the staring and whispers that came her way from certain folk, as she sat with Joy on her knee. Mostly she managed to ignore such rudeness these days. For the moment, Joy was oblivious to the fact that she was a different colour from the other children, but Esther knew that wouldn’t always remain so. She and Rose had discussed this on several occasions, when the other girls had gone to bed and she had lingered to have a heart-to-heart with the woman she considered a second mother, and Rose had wisely told her that she had to learn which battles to fight and which to ignore.