“I think it must have been a lot easier for him when we were living here,” Louisa said, glancing toward the farm. “We were hidden away from the big bad world. No one in these villages had ever seen a black person. I suppose I blended in pretty well. Of course, it all changed when we moved to Wolverhampton.” She related the incident of the woman in the corner shop who had refused to sell her chocolate.
Gina clicked her tongue. “We used to get abuse sometimes for being Italian—but nothing as bad as that.”
“Do you remember Beverley Samuel? The way the teachers treated her?”
Gina nodded.
“So do you see why I didn’t want anyone to know?”
Gina nodded, a wry smile on her face. “I suppose it also explains your weird dress sense!”
“I know.” She shrugged. “It’s mad isn’t it? In this heat too!” She tugged at the neck of her sweater. “But I’ve always done it—ever since that bloody woman called me a nigger. The clothes, the makeup . . . all these years I’ve been trying to fool people into thinking I’m white. And now this little one’s come along and blown my cover!” She traced the outline of Rhiannon’s splayed fingers.
“She’s beautiful, Lou.”
A surge of desolation rose inside her. She swallowed once, twice, unable to reply.
“Can you imagine what poor Ray would have said if he’d lived to see her?” Gina went on. “He’d never have believed she was his.”
Louisa shook her head, fighting down tears.
“That’s one thing I don’t understand.” Gina leaned toward her, stroking Rhiannon’s mahogany skin. “I mean, Tom—he’s like you: sort of Italian-looking . . .” Her eyes searched Louisa’s.
“You’re wondering how he and I can be like that and Rhiannon so dark?”
Gina nodded. She listened in fascination as Louisa repeated the warning Eva had given her when she was pregnant with Tom.
“God, Lou, you must have been terrified when you gave birth to him—what would you have told Ray?”
“I was in such a state over what Trefor had done, I was just living one day at a time.” She blinked as the images jostled for space in her head. “I used to have terrible nightmares,” she murmured. “First I’d dream the baby looked like Trefor, and the next thing I’d dream it had black skin but no face.”
“I don’t know how you stayed sane.”
“Looking back, I don’t know either. It was like some sort of survival instinct kicked in. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to let anyone take Tom away from me.”
“Is that what your mum and dad wanted?”
“Dad did suggest that at first. It’s the only time he’s ever made me angry. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d asked my mother to give me up—when he first got back from the war, I mean.”
“Well, whatever happened then, it’s obvious he dotes on you now—and he absolutely idolizes Tom.” Gina searched her face. “Have they said anything about Rhiannon? Made any comments about her color?”
“Not really.” Louisa frowned. “Dad cried when he saw her, but it was because he was happy, that’s all. Mum was a bit quiet. There were tears in her eyes too. I don’t know what she was thinking. I didn’t want to ask. I’ve always been so afraid of upsetting her.”
“What about Tom? What are you going to say if he starts asking questions?”
Louisa thought for a moment. She couldn’t help remembering the day she had first started quizzing her own mother, asking about the color of David’s hair in the photo on the mantelpiece. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I suppose I just don’t want to think about it.”
“Don’t you think this is the ideal opportunity to make a fresh start?” Gina said. “Stop pretending and just be yourself? Why don’t you take off that hat and sweater and let yourself get a bit of sun?”
“Oh no—I couldn’t do that!” She pulled her sleeves down over her wrists. “Tom’s just started at a new school—imagine how much harder it’ll be if the other kids find out his mother’s black!”
“So what are you going to do?” Gina demanded. “Hide Rhiannon away like some guilty secret?”
“No, of course not!” Louisa’s face flushed. “It’d be pretty difficult in a small community like this—and the midwife knows already.” Rhiannon whimpered in her sleep, and Louisa stroked her wispy black hair. “No, I’m not going to hide her away—but I’m not going to be parading her outside the school gates either. I’ll explain things to Tom when he’s older. I think six is a bit young, don’t you?”
Gina nodded. “You know what people are going to think, though, don’t you? That Tom and Rhiannon have different fathers: that it’s you who’s had an affair with a black man.”
“Not necessarily.” Louisa shrugged. “They might think Rhiannon’s adopted.” She kicked out at a clump of hay that had blown across the yard. “Anyway, they can think what they like. It’s only seven months since Tom lost his dad. Can you imagine how confused he’s going to be if his mother suddenly transforms herself into a different person? Dark skin, Afro hairstyle—and in a place like this?”
“I guess you’re right,” Gina sighed. “But it’s like a time bomb, isn’t it? Ticking away all the while, and if you’re not careful, it’s going to blow up in your face.”
Part Three
FATHER UNKNOWN
Chapter 33
APRIL 1973
The battered Land Rover bounced over the rutted farm track and onto the road that led to Aberystwyth. Louisa was at the wheel, Gina in the passenger seat, and Jonathan and Rhiannon squeezed into the back alongside the boxes of eggs destined for the market.
The radio crackled into life a mile and a half into the journey. Reception was still pretty useless at the farm, so trips like this provided a rare chance to hear the latest hits. As Louisa steered around a hairpin bend, four voices were singing along to “Crocodile Rock.”
“How come you two know the words to this?” she called over her shoulder.
“Tom teached us,” Rhiannon lisped from behind her.
“She maked up a dance to it,” Jonathan chimed in.
Louisa and Gina laughed. Rhiannon had been dancing since almost before she could walk. At four years old she had already learned how to put on records by herself. Her current favorite was Louisa’s T. Rex album. Louisa often stood hidden behind the door, just watching her. She seemed to have a natural grace, a sense of rhythm that no one had taught her.
Sometimes the sight of Rhiannon dancing made her feel wistful for the days of swishing around the cinema in her usherette’s uniform, dreaming of being Rita Moreno. But mostly it made her think about her father. Her real father. Her mother had never shown any interest in dancing, and Ray certainly wasn’t a dancer, so this must come from the mysterious American. The more she watched, the more she wondered. What was he like? Who was he? And where was he now?
When they arrived at the market, Gina set up the stall while Louisa took the children down to the beach. They always took turns running the stall, and it wasn’t difficult to keep the kids amused. They went to the beach if the weather was fine, the penny arcade if it was raining. It wouldn’t be for much longer, though, Louisa thought, as she watched Jonathan burying Rhiannon’s legs in the gritty sand. In September both children would be at school with Gina’s eldest girl, Julia. And Tom would be going to the comprehensive school in Aberystwyth.
She smiled to herself. It would be strange, to be without them for the whole day. She would be twenty-nine in six weeks’ time, but apart from a few months when Tom started school in Wolverhampton, she hadn’t really had a free day for eleven years. Her mother and father helped where they could, but Louisa didn’t like to ask too often. Her dad worked long hours on the farm, and her mother hadn’t been so mobile since developing arthritis two years ago.
Gina had offered to have all the children once in a while to give her a break. She said she felt guilty because she went to stay with her parents in Wolverhampton over the school holidays and was ab
le to do what she liked for a whole week. But Louisa hadn’t bothered taking her up on it. Where would she go, on her own? And besides, she was quite contented with her life. With two sets of children, a hundred sheep, thirty chickens, and fourteen cows there wasn’t time to be bored.
An angry yell nudged her brain back into gear. Jonathan had covered Rhiannon’s whole body in sand and was now shoveling it over her face. Before Louisa could reach them, Rhiannon had leapt up. In one swift movement she grabbed the spade from Jonathan and hurled it into the sea.
“Rhiannon!” Louisa shouted as Jonathan burst into tears. “That was naughty!”
“He throwed sand on me!” Rhiannon stood her ground, hands on her hips, staring at Jonathan defiantly.
“Well, you were both naughty,” Louisa said, trying to suppress the urge to grin at her daughter’s fighting spirit. “Come on!” She put on her no-nonsense voice. “Let’s wash you both off and get back to the stall. Do you know how many extra eggs we’ll have to sell to buy a new spade?”
“About twenty hundred!” Jonathan sniffed.
“Silly!” Rhiannon glared at him. “About . . . two boxes?” She looked at Louisa, who nodded. “Granddad’ll buy them,” she announced, a triumphant look on her face. “He likes omelets!” Louisa tried not to laugh as she shepherded them back to the stall.
“You’ll never guess what,” Gina whispered as the children ducked under the awning.
“What?” Louisa gave her a puzzled grin.
“See those guys over there?”
Louisa shaded her eyes from the sunlight. A few yards away was a stall selling beads, incense, and alpaca sweaters. “The hippies?”
Gina nodded. “They’ve invited us to a party!”
Louisa’s eyebrows arched. They came from the farm down the valley. The one Anwen and Elin Lewis had occupied when she was a child. Now it was a sort of commune. No one was quite sure how many people lived there. There had been rumors at the village school of all kinds of wild goings-on; drugs, orgies, devil worship. But the men and women Louisa had seen at the market all looked pretty harmless.
“It’s next Saturday night.” Gina’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Quentin said we could stay the night if we wanted!”
“Quentin?” Louisa raised her eyes skyward.
“Yes—the one with the earring—gorgeous, isn’t he? Looks just like David Essex!”
Louisa laughed. “I take it you want to go to this party, then?”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, I suppose we could . . .” Louisa hesitated. She hadn’t been to a party in years. “What would we wear?” She glanced down at the stout boots, faded jeans, and lumberjack shirt that had become her uniform over the past four years.
“Lou! I’m sure we can find something! And anyway, you don’t have to worry.” Gina laughed. “You’d look sexy in a potato sack!”
“Are we supposed to be taking something to drink?” Louisa picked up a bottle of the elderflower wine her dad had made the previous summer. It was the only alcohol they had in the house, and pretty deadly.
“Don’t fret.” Gina grinned. “It’ll be fine! They’ll probably be too out of it to notice what we bring.”
“I hope we’re not heading off to some seedy psychedelic love-in.”
Gina shrugged, inspecting herself in the hall mirror. “Well, there might be some pot on offer, I suppose, but who cares? Let’s just enjoy ourselves for once, eh? Let our hair down a bit.”
Louisa caught her own reflection as she reached for her jacket. She looked very different from the girl who had arrived at the farm four years ago. Her hair was short now, a little pot of wax giving her sleek waves. A hairdresser in Aberystwyth had encouraged her to abandon the nightly ritual of putting it in rollers, saying the new style showed off her high cheekbones. She was still very careful about her skin, but since she had started taking Rhiannon to market with her, she had become less self-conscious. They got the odd curious look, especially when she was walking along the street hand in hand with both Jonathan and Rhiannon, but by and large people seemed to accept her. Her ability to speak Welsh helped. Although she hadn’t spoken the language for fourteen years, it had soon come back to her and the locals respected her for it.
She smoothed down the top Gina had lent her. It was a sleeveless red halter neck, and she felt naked in it. Gina had assured her she looked fine, but she wasn’t sure she was going to have the courage to take her jacket off at the party.
They parked the Land Rover where the track ended and walked across the field to Pant-yr-Allt farm. They could hear music, and when they reached the front door, it was half-open. The smell of patchouli and cannabis hung heavy in the air as they ventured in.
“Hi, people!” Quentin appeared in a doorway. He was wearing a purple kaftan over jeans, with a multicolored woven headband flattening his dark hair. “You come bearing gifts!” He staggered slightly as he took the bottle from Louisa’s hand. “But you must try some of the stuff we’ve made.” He ushered them into the kitchen, which looked very different from the way Louisa remembered it. Bunches of dried herbs hung from a wooden rack overhead, and bottles and jars in every color of the rainbow were ranged on shelves that lined three of the walls from floor to ceiling. “It’s punch,” Quentin murmured, slurring his words slightly.
Louisa glanced at Gina.
“Go on, try some!” He dipped a ladle into the enormous metal bowl, sending slices of apple and orange bobbing madly in the livid liquid. “It’s homemade wine and fruit grown in the orchard,” he went on, slopping the punch into two tall glasses. “Got a great kick to it!”
In the living room people were already dancing. Louisa recognized a few from the school and the market. She and Gina perched on the arms of a threadbare sofa, sipping their drinks.
“It’s not bad, actually, is it?” Gina said, taking a bigger swallow, which left the glass half-empty. “Not nearly as strong as your dad’s wine!”
Louisa laughed. It was nice. In fact it hardly tasted like alcohol at all: more like fruit juice. She fished a slice of apple from the glass and bit into it. “Quentin seems very friendly.” She gave Gina a sly look.
“Well, he is pretty irresistible, isn’t he—even in that kaftan!”
They had a fit of the giggles and a few minutes later Quentin was back to top up their glasses. “Told you you’d like it,” he said as Louisa finished her second glass. She smiled at him. Gina was right. He did look like David Essex. He had the same eyes.
“Will you dance with me, beautiful lady with the eggs?” He was on his feet, holding out his hand to her. She recognized the music. It was Derek and the Dominoes. “Layla.” She hadn’t danced in front of anyone but Gina and the kids since . . . well, she couldn’t really remember. She looked around, but Gina had disappeared. “Come on,” Quentin coaxed.
“Okay—why not?” she heard herself saying. Slipping off her jacket, she let Quentin lead her onto the floor.
“You’re quite a mover, aren’t you?” He brushed her ear with his lips as he spoke.
She smiled back at him. It felt good to dance. She felt relaxed. A little bit tipsy. But it was all right. These people were nice. She would have to tell the other mums at the school that they’d got them all wrong.
“Do you like this?” The record had finished and the strains of a slow number drifted across the smoky room. It was Gladys Knight and the Pips. “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” Quentin reached out to her, pulling her gently to him. She could smell the patchouli, stronger than ever, on his clothes, in his hair. The scent was exotic and alluring. She felt a sudden rush of excitement at the feel of his skin against hers.
When the song ended, he led her outside into the twilight. They sat against the wheel of an old wooden plough, and he fished something from his pocket. “This is really good stuff,” he said, lighting the spliff and taking a long drag. He passed it to her. “Have you ever tried this before, beautiful egg-lady?”
“My name’s Louisa.”
She grinned, not so drunk that she didn’t feel embarrassed by his ham-fisted flattery.
“Louisa . . .” He said her name as if trying it on for size. “Well, Louisa, I think you’re going to like this—it’ll make you feel really mellow.”
She took the spliff from his outstretched hand and stared at it. It was hard to focus. She knew she shouldn’t do this. This was a drug. A bad thing. But these people were doing it, and they were so nice, so harmless.
“It’s like a cigarette,” Quentin explained. “Just take a drag and hold it down as long as you can.”
She put it between her lips. It felt huge, awkward. She had only ever smoked one cigarette. When she had started her Saturday job at the cinema, another usherette had offered her one, and she had decided she must try it. It had made her feel so queasy she had never been tempted again.
“Go on,” Quentin urged.
She breathed in. The effect was even more alarming than the cigarette had been. Her throat and her eyes burned, and she thought she was going to be sick. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed, handing the spliff back. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”
“That’s cool,” Quentin replied, spitting on his fingers and squeezing the smoking end before replacing it in the pocket of his kaftan. “Come on.” He pulled her to her feet. “There’s something I want to show you.”
He led her back into the house and up the stairs. They passed Gina, who waved drunkenly at them before sticking her tongue back into the mouth of a man Louisa recognized as Quentin’s partner at the market stall. She almost tripped up the last step. Her glass tipped sideways, dribbling the dregs of her drink onto the worn carpet.
“It’s this way.” Quentin led her into a dimly lit bedroom. “Look,” he said, sliding his hand under her chin and tilting her head toward the ceiling. She could see an enormous wheel painted in lots of different colors, with strange symbols marked on it. “You can see it better from here.” He guided her to the bed. “If you lie on your back and look up, you can make out all the signs.”
The Color of Secrets Page 26
