The Colours of Love

by Rita Bradshaw

  Love life. He gave a ‘Huh’ of a laugh in the back of his throat. He wished.

  Slumping down at the table again, he gazed morosely at the teacups, before straightening his shoulders. Enough! What the hell was the matter with him? The only way he would have Esther in his life in any capacity was if he made the effort to make it so, and he would write to her tonight. If she wrote back and said she had already made plans that didn’t include him, that would be his answer. Better he knew, one way or the other.

  He wrote the letter in five minutes, determined not to agonize over it or change anything. Sealing the envelope, he stuck a stamp on the right-hand corner and then pulled on his cap and jacket, before opening the scullery door that led into the yard.

  It was a cold night, in spite of the calendar stating that it was the first of May, with a touch of frost glinting on the flagstones and covering the top of the five-foot brick wall that separated their back yard from the ones on either side. Opening the small iron gate, Caleb walked along the cobbled lane, taking care not to slip. In spite of the last blackout restrictions having been lifted nearly two weeks ago, most of the terraced houses were in darkness, their occupants tucked up in bed.

  Once in the street beyond the back lane, he made his way briskly to the red postbox on the corner. On reaching it, he paused for a moment as he held the envelope in front of the gaping mouth. Looking up into the vast expanse of black sky alive with twinkling stars, he said out loud, ‘Be with me in this.’ And then he let the letter that carried all his hopes and dreams for the future fall into the box.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Will you please stop worrying, Esther. Of course Caleb will be pleased to see us. Why on earth wouldn’t he be?’ Priscilla ground the gears of the old farm truck that she’d persuaded Farmer Holden to lend them, after she’d used her charm to obtain some petrol from one of her old flames at the American camp. Kenny, who was sitting beside her and between the two women, winced at the noise, but with his hands still a work in progress he couldn’t drive the truck himself.

  Turning her head, Priscilla nudged him with her elbow. ‘Isn’t that right, darling? Won’t Caleb be tickled pink, us surprising him like this? We couldn’t let him celebrate the end of the war by himself.’

  ‘He won’t be by himself,’ Esther said quietly, cradling Joy to her, who had fallen asleep a few minutes before. ‘He’ll be celebrating with his family and friends, like everyone else.’

  ‘So?’ Priscilla tried to avoid a large pothole in the road they were travelling on, failed and the occupants of the truck rose a few inches in the air before settling back on the battered old seat. ‘We’re bringing enough for everyone.’ The canvas bags in the back of the truck were bulging with food that the kindly Mrs Holden had packed up for them, including a whole cooked ham, and Priscilla’s GI had slipped her a couple of bottles of whisky along with the petrol. ‘We simply couldn’t let VE Day go by without seeing Caleb, sweetie.’

  Since the collapse of the Reich and the ceasefire in the west, everyone had felt the war in Europe had to be over, but although the surrender of the German forces on Lüneburg Heath on 4 May had prompted huge headlines in the newspapers on 5 May, no announcement about VE Day had been forthcoming from the government, and the celebrations in Britain had been muted. Everyone was pleased that the Germans had given in to Monty, of course, but no one really knew what was happening on the eastern front with the Russians. All the papers were full of what was being arranged for VE Day – parades, parties, the pubs staying open all hours, and what-have-you – but what everyone wanted to know was when it was going to be, and no one in authority was saying anything. Neighbours were pooling their coupons, their egg, flour and butter rations and the rest for street parties, but the delay had taken the edge off the euphoria, and everyone was complaining that it was a strange way to end a war.

  Then yesterday, on 7 May, a terse little broadcast from the Board of Trade declaring, ‘Until the end of May you may buy cotton bunting without coupons, as long as it is red, white or blue, and does not cost more than one shilling and threepence per square yard’ sent everyone’s hopes soaring that an announcement was imminent. As Mrs Holden had said, the writing was on the wall, because the Board of Trade wouldn’t give anything away unless it had to. And sure enough that evening, when the BBC interrupted a piano recital, it was to read out a bald statement from the Ministry of Information. The nation had thought heroic prose would be appropriate for the occasion, but that had clearly been eschewed by the Civil Service, and instead, in stilted language, a wooden voice proclaimed, ‘It is understood that, in accordance with arrangements between the three great powers, an official announcement will be broadcast by the Prime Minister at three o’clock tomorrow, Tuesday afternoon, 8 May. In view of this fact, tomorrow, Tuesday, will be treated as Victory in Europe Day, and will be regarded as a holiday. The day following, Wednesday May 9, will also be a holiday. His Majesty the King will broadcast to the people of the British Empire and Commonwealth, tomorrow, Tuesday, at 9 p.m.’

  Remembering this now, Esther recalled how Farmer Holden had reacted when he’d heard the news. Whereas his wife had been beside herself with joy that it was officially over, the farmer had glared at them all around the dinner table and said, ‘Well, I’m sick and tired and browned off with the government, I am. The way they’ve behaved – why, it’s blooming insulting to the British people. Stood up to all what we’ve stood up to, and then they’re afraid to tell us it was peace, just as if we was a lot of kids. It’s like they don’t trust us to behave ourselves. Well, they can keep their VE Day and shove it up their—’ He had stopped abruptly, aware of little Joy staring at him, thumb in mouth. ‘Stick it where the sun don’t shine,’ he had finished grumpily.

  Mrs Holden had looked round the table at the others, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter, and then they had all burst out laughing, until even the farmer had given a reluctant smile. And he couldn’t have been feeling as put out as he had tried to suggest, because when Priscilla had put forward her plan to go and see Caleb the following day, he had granted them both the day off, once the other three girls had promised they would still be around and would only go into the village once the essential farm work was done. Work rarely stopped on a farm, VE Day or no VE Day.

  And so, with Rose saying she should go, and with Vera, Lydia and Beryl encouraging the idea, Esther had found herself reluctantly agreeing to accompany Priscilla and Kenny. She hadn’t replied to Caleb’s last letter, suggesting that she might like to find somewhere to live in Monkwearmouth, for a number of reasons. For one, Mrs Holden had told her and Rose that they could stay on in the cottage when the other girls left and continue to work at the farm indefinitely, and she knew that was what Rose wanted. Rose and the farmer’s wife had become close, being roughly the same age, and whether working together in the dairy or doing the baking and cleaning and washing, the two women chattered away nineteen to the dozen and enjoyed each other’s company. Both fairly worshipped the ground Joy walked on and were the devoted grannies she would never have, family-wise. But while part of Esther was tempted to hide away from the world at the farm, another part of her knew that once the other girls had gone, her life would be terribly constricted. She would have Joy and Rose, of course, but without Priscilla and the other three, and the camaraderie and laughter that had kept her going in the worst times, her life would consist of hard work and little else. She had had her twenty-first birthday in November the year before, so she was still young. She didn’t want to be buried alive. And the villagers were so narrow-minded and judgemental; how would Joy fare at the village school, once she was old enough? Children could be crueller than their parents.

  Then again, if she did leave the farm, what work could she do? And she knew Rose would feel that she had to leave with her, even though her old nanny was so happy and settled. Moving to the town and starting from scratch would be hard, whereas she knew where she was at Yew Tree Farm, and so did Joy.

&nbs
p; But – Esther’s heart lurched and then thumped hard – the farm was so far away from Caleb and it would be inevitable that they would lose touch, and she’d had to face the fact that she didn’t want that. But neither did she want more than friendship, did she? She bit her lip, worrying it like a dog with a bone. The truth of the matter was that she didn’t know what she wanted about anything. Her mind just went round and round in circles.

  ‘Isn’t it a simply glorious day?’ Priscilla trilled happily, one hand reaching out momentarily from the wheel to squeeze Kenny’s arm as they exchanged a smile. Her comment had nothing to do with the weather, which hadn’t risen to the momentous occasion, but everything to do with being with the man she loved. Esther had to smile at them; they were so crazily in love. And she understood exactly what Priscilla meant. Direct opposites – Priscilla being a somewhat dizzy, bubbly and unbridled debutante, and Kenny every inch a stolid working-class man, with more rough edges than a chainsaw – but somehow their union was going from strength to strength. Priscilla had confessed to Esther that she’d never been in love before, but now she couldn’t imagine life without her Bear, as she affectionately called Kenny; and for his part, Kenny’s love for Priscilla shone out of his poor disfigured face in a way that brought a lump to the throat.

  ‘It is a lovely day,’ Esther agreed softly – as every day was, for the couple beside her. And she was glad for them.

  The farm was situated on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales between Richmond and Darlington, the small village close to the farm being one of many dotted about the landscape, but they had long since left the area and now, an hour later, were approaching countryside that was familiar to Esther. The country road Priscilla had taken wound round the outskirts of Chester-le-Street and, ridiculously, Esther felt physically sick until they had passed the town and were approaching Washington.

  The day had dawned wet and thundery, but by the time they had left the farm and picked Kenny up, a weak and watery sun kept popping out to show its face now and again from behind the clouds. The thing that had struck the three in the truck most of all was the uncanny silence as they’d travelled through hamlets and villages. They hadn’t expected to see much traffic, as motorists were only allowed two and a half gallons of petrol per month (and then only folk like special constables and wardens, and so on), and of course there were no aircraft, as there had been constantly for the last years, but it was the absence of pedestrians in the towns and villages that was strange. And then, as they reached the outskirts of Sunderland, it was Kenny who came up with the reason. ‘They’re all indoors preparing for the celebration teas this afternoon,’ he said suddenly. ‘Of course they are.’ Looking up into the sky, which was beginning to cloud over again, he sighed and murmured as much to himself as to Esther and Priscilla, ‘That earlier rain was like the heavens weeping for the dead, before rejoicing.’ And almost as though this was the signal for release, the next road they turned into was full of folk putting up bunting and flags and streamers.

  They had left the farm after helping with the milking and other jobs and then spending time getting washed and changed, so it was eleven o’clock when the old truck trundled into the warren of streets north of the River Wear. The devastation suffered by the streets, shipyards, factories and Wearside families from the Luftwaffe attacks was apparent everywhere, but as Wearside and Tyneside were a hub of shipyards and steelworks, along with the docks and other industry, everyone had known that was going to be the case. Not that it made the reality any easier to bear. Unfortunately Sunderland lay in the flight path that the Luftwaffe had used for raids on the Clydeside area too, so along with suffering independent attacks, it was where the Luftwaffe had often dropped the last of their bombs at the edge of the coast, before heading home to Germany.

  As they made their way to Bright Street, where Caleb lived, the three of them stared aghast at the craters and shells of buildings and general destruction. Caleb had written to Esther that large areas of the town had been flattened, but now she was seeing it for herself, she was overwhelmed by the enormity of what ordinary people had gone through. Not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, she offered up a silent prayer of thanks that the horror was really over at last.

  As Priscilla pulled up outside Caleb’s house, Joy stirred and opened sleepy eyes. ‘We’re here, darling,’ Esther whispered, her stomach a mass of butterflies. She was nervous. Not just of arriving unannounced like this, or of meeting Caleb’s family, but of seeing him again. Letters were one thing; someone in the flesh was completely different. He hadn’t mentioned any girls in his correspondence, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t seeing someone. What if she was here, with him?

  And then she admonished herself sharply. What if he did have a girlfriend? He was a free agent, wasn’t he? They were friends, that was all; and he had never indicated anything else. Nevertheless she bitterly regretted falling in with Priscilla’s plan as they climbed out of the truck into the terraced street. There were a number of men in shirtsleeves carrying trestle tables that they had clearly borrowed from a church hall or somewhere coming towards them, and bunting was criss-crossed across the street, along with Union Jack flags dangling from bedroom windows. Preparations for the street party were under way.

  Feeling sick with nerves, she positioned herself behind Kenny, as Priscilla knocked on the front door of the house, aware of the stares from one or two of the neighbours, who had clearly heard the old truck’s rasping engine and had come to their doors to see what was what. One of the men carrying the tables called to them, saying, ‘You can’t leave that here for long. Take it round the back lane and park it there, if you’re going to be here any length of time; we need the room for the tables and chairs and what-have-you.’

  Priscilla nodded, calling back brightly, ‘Righty-ho, will do,’ in her cut-glass accent, causing the man to stop dead in his tracks, his face a picture, so that the fellow carrying the other end of the table dropped it on his foot.

  Amid cursing and muttering from the man in question, the front door opened to reveal a small, stout woman, whom Esther knew instantly was Caleb’s mother. The woman’s hair was grey and thick, her eyes brown and round, but it was in the shape of her face and the fullness of her wide mouth that the likeness to Caleb was most obvious. She stared at them, and Esther had to admire her when the woman’s gaze took in Kenny without flinching. Although Kenny’s last two operations had given him a passable nose, most people couldn’t hide their shock when they first saw his injuries. It was different when the brown eyes rested on Joy, still half-asleep in her arms. Then Caleb’s mother’s gaze narrowed and her mouth straightened. ‘Can I help you?’ she said stiffly, directly to Priscilla.

  It was Kenny who answered. ‘We’re here to see Caleb, if that’s possible? I was with him in hospital in Yorkshire. Kenny’s the name.’

  It was clear to Esther that Caleb’s mother pulled herself together with some effort, but her voice was warmer as she said to Kenny, ‘Oh aye, lad. He’s often spoken of you. Come in. He’s in the kitchen. Go on through and surprise him.’

  As she stood aside for them to pass into the house she raised a smile of sorts for Priscilla; Esther she looked straight through. Kenny had paused in the hall and now, after shutting the front door, Caleb’s mother bustled past them, saying, ‘I said go through, lad. Don’t stand on ceremony,’ and they all followed her into the kitchen.

  It was a small room, but clean and tidy. A scrubbed table with chairs beneath it, a chiffonier holding crockery and dishes, and two comfortable armchairs set at an angle to the black-leaded range, plus a long wooden settle with thick flock cushions were crammed into the limited space, barely leaving enough room to edge round them. But Esther didn’t notice any of this. Her eyes were on the tall, dark-haired man who had clearly been sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and reading the paper. For a long moment their eyes held and they were both oblivious of the others, and then the two men were laughing and shaking hands, Cal
eb’s mother was urging them all to sit down and it was general mayhem for a minute or two.

  Well, it had to happen one day, didn’t it? And she’d prepared herself for when it did. She just hadn’t expected it to be today, of all days. As she went about mashing the tea, Eliza’s head was spinning, although she gave no indication of this with her calm, controlled movements and lack of expression. And she could see what had captured her Caleb, for the girl was a beauty – the bairn an’ all, in her own way – no doubt about that.

  Walking across to the chiffonier, her eyes went to the rose-patterned tea service that had been a wedding present and which was only brought out on high days and holidays, or when the vicar paid a visit. Eliza was proud of her tea service and, after she had heard Priscilla talk, had decided to use it. Now her hand paused and instead reached for the everyday mugs that the family used. They’d have to take her as they found her, she told herself grimly. She wasn’t about to try and impress anyone.

  The milk was already on the table and, bringing the big brown teapot and mugs to the table, she said evenly, ‘There’s no sugar, I’m afraid. What we had has been used for the cakes for this afternoon’s tea, and sweets for the bairns.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me.’ Priscilla jumped up like a jack-in-the-box. ‘We brought some bits from the farm, Mrs McGuigan. I do so hope you don’t mind all of us descending on you like this, but we so wanted to see Caleb on this special day, didn’t we, darling?’ she added to Kenny, before continuing in the same breath, ‘But if you think your neighbours might object to us sharing the celebrations, then of course we won’t intrude.’

  Flustered as much by Priscilla’s voice – which she termed la-di-da – as by the way the girl had come straight to the point, Eliza said stutteringly, ‘N-n-no, of . . . of course not.’