‘You’ll never change human nature, Miss Esther,’ Rose said one evening when the pair of them had sat gazing into the dying flames of the fire in the small grate in the sitting room of the cottage. ‘There’ll always be those who are quick to point the finger and take pleasure from imagining they’re better than you, for all sorts of reasons. Where I grew up there was even a pecking order in the street, depending on if you lived in the top end or the bottom end. Mind you, no family I can remember had a whole house to themselves; it was either the top part or the bottom part, or just a room in some cases, but it didn’t stop the folk at the top end looking down on the poor beggars at the bottom. These were the families who had nothing and were one step away from the workhouse, and I suppose them at the top and the middle took comfort in the fact that, however poor they were, they weren’t as bad as them at the lower end. The bottom end was close to the slaughterhouse and it stank, day and night, and the plaster on the walls was alive with bugs that dropped onto you at night. You could smell the bugs, even just passing the front doors when they were open. But it was more the fact that the people at the bottom end had a different look about them that I remember – a hopeless look.’
‘Which end did you live?’ Esther had asked, fascinated.
‘The top end, such as it was. We had our own yard with a tap in it, and my mother didn’t have to fetch water from a central tap in the back lane. That carried some clout, I can tell you. I remember I liked playing with one of the lassies from the bottom end, and I went into her house one day and her mother gave us both something to eat. When I told my mother, she went fair barmy. She stripped me as naked as the day I was born and boiled my clothes for an hour in the wash house, and then she combed out my hair with a steel comb, in case I’d caught nits. She was none too gentle about it, either, just to let me know not to do it again. My scalp hurt for weeks. If she could have washed out my insides, she would have. But she was a good mother in her own way, although not at all well for most of her life. Small she was, like me, and yet every year my father gave her a baby. Dreadful really.’
However hard it might be for her and Joy in the future, it would never be as bad as that, Esther thought thankfully. Although what she was going to do after the war, she didn’t yet know. Whatever it was, she and Joy would get through, although she dreaded the inevitable questions that Joy was sure to ask about her father and why he wasn’t around. What could she say? He didn’t want you because your skin is a different colour from his? Of course she couldn’t. Her little girl was the most beautiful, precious and amazing person in the whole world.
Esther glanced down at Joy now, stroking the soft, burnished curls and smiling as her daughter’s big green eyes looked up into hers. Not for the first time Esther felt a trace of wonder that she was the mother of such an exquisite little person. Monty didn’t deserve any part of her, she thought grimly, and she would fight tooth and nail to prevent him having anything to do with Joy, should that possibility ever arise, which, thankfully, was unlikely. And like a flash of lightning, suddenly and without any lead-up, she realized that any lingering feelings she might have harboured for Monty were truly dead. Even the hate that had fought with love in the first terrible weeks after she had returned to the farm, following Joy’s birth, was gone. She faintly despised him, that was all; and with the knowledge came relief.
They ate their fill, and as someone with an accordion struck up a tune on the lawn outside the hall, Farmer Holden and his wife appeared at their table. ‘We’re making a move,’ he said stolidly, ‘but you can stay for another hour if you like.’ It was a concession and the girls recognized it as such, Rose standing and saying to Nancy Holden, ‘I’ll come back with you and help you in the dairy, if these want to stay on for a bit.’
But for the fact that she could see Caleb making his way over to them, Esther would probably have gone back to the farm with the other three. There was always work to do and never enough hours in the day, added to which she’d had enough for one day of the villagers and their pointed glances and whispers. As it was, she let the farmer and his wife and Rose go and smiled at Caleb as he joined them, with a couple of his friends at his heels, one of whom was Kenny. As a group they moved out into the sunshine to find some of the young people dancing to ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ while others looked on, and several little children – glad to be out in the fresh air after the lack of space in the hall – dashing about screaming in a game of tag.
Caleb gazed about him, one part of his mind finding it hard to believe that there was a war going on at all. The hell of blitzed towns and cities, the horror and misery of death and destruction had barely touched this quiet little part of England, which was still a green and pleasant land. The war seemed transient and shadowy, and nature the abiding reality.
Then he shook himself mentally. He was going soft, he thought wryly. There was a war all right; he only had to look at Kenny and the others to see proof of it. But he felt he had got back on track in this quiet little backwater of England where the old traditions still held fast, and he was grateful for that. For that, and for Esther. Especially Esther.
Such thoughts were dangerous and he checked himself quickly. Esther wasn’t his to be grateful for. He must not forget that. She was a married woman. Furthermore she thought of him as a friend, and only as a friend, and why wouldn’t she? He was a cripple. Dress it up however you liked, but that’s what he was. The first time he’d seen his stump he had felt sick, and it hadn’t helped that the constant pins and needles in the toes that were no longer there had driven him mad. It seemed crazy that the brain could know the foot wasn’t there, but the nerves ignored it. And the physiotherapy had tested his resolve to take his injury in his stride – he allowed himself a grim smile at the dark pun. Along with one or two of the doctors, whose bedside manners had left a lot to be desired.
According to one of the home’s doctors, the long-deceased war hero, Admiral Lord Nelson, after losing his right arm in the Battle of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, had continued to feel the fingers of this arm, and had believed this provided direct proof of the existence of the soul, since part of his body had continued to be felt even after its physical destruction. The good doctor had clearly meant this as encouragement, and had seemed taken aback when Caleb had replied curtly that he’d never held with the idea of clouds having silver linings. The phantom sensations, which had even included painful cramps in the early days, had often caused him to swear like a trooper, especially when he had been jerked awake in the middle of the night by involuntary movements in a limb that wasn’t there.
Touching Esther’s arm, Caleb said quietly now, ‘Can we talk alone for a moment?’
Esther looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course.’
The others had walked over to sit on the lawn in the shade of a large hawthorn tree and were talking amongst themselves, so Caleb led her over to the small wall surrounding the grounds of the village hall and they both sat on the sun-warmed stone, Joy settling at their feet and immediately becoming engrossed in picking the daisies that starred the grass.
Without any preamble Caleb said, ‘They’re sending me to Roehampton tomorrow, to the Queen Mary’s Hospital. It seems they’re the best for fitting prosthetic limbs.’
She stared at him. ‘For how long?’
He shrugged. ‘I understand, after the leg’s made to my requirements and fitted, I’ll need to learn how to use it. There’s a period of physical exercise and rehabilitation involved, and there’s still the op to remove the shrapnel in my side. Whether that’ll be done before or after, my doctor here doesn’t seem sure, or even whether I’ll come back. The thing is’ – he hesitated for a moment – ‘I wondered if you’d like to keep in touch? To write? Of course I understand if—’
‘Of course I would.’ She didn’t have to think about it. ‘Of course.’
Caleb’s heart leapt. It had taken all his courage to ask, and he hadn’t been sure if she would brush him off or agree just to be kind, which was even w
orse, but she had spoken as if she really meant it. Considering what he was feeling, his reply of ‘Good’ sounded lame, even to his own ears. He reached in his jacket pocket and handed her a piece of paper. ‘That’s the address.’
For a moment their fingers touched and Caleb felt the impact in every nerve of his body, as he had on other occasions when the slightest contact had sent his pulse racing. It was ridiculous, he told himself for the umpteenth time, as he felt his face flushing, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t had a woman before. He was no pimply schoolboy, wet behind the ears, but Esther affected him like no other woman ever had, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Reaching down to the child at their feet, he ruffled Joy’s curls, saying, ‘I shall miss her. She’s growing up so fast.’
‘Yes, yes, she is.’ Esther didn’t know what else to say. She was shocked at how devastated she felt that Caleb was leaving. He was just a friend after all, and he had never once indicated by word or deed that he thought of her as anything else but that. She had to pull herself together. And at the back of her mind she knew that she would run a mile if he had indicated that he thought of her in a romantic fashion. She didn’t want that, not from any man – ever. She would never let herself be hurt again, and the only way to protect herself and Joy was for the two of them to be their own little unit together. So why had she felt so . . . strange? It didn’t make sense. She didn’t make sense. And it was unnerving.
Her thoughts made her voice a little wooden as she said, ‘What time do you leave tomorrow?’
‘Early morning, I think. There’s a couple of us.’ He glanced across at the group under the hawthorn tree as a gust of laughter wafted towards them. Kenny playing the fool, no doubt. Quietly he murmured, ‘Do me a favour, would you? If you see Kenny at any dos like this, have a chat with him. He might seem the life and soul of the party, but it’s a mask he’s hiding behind, half the time. His girl did the dirty on him and it hit him hard, although he’d never admit it. And some folk don’t bother to hide what they feel when they see him for the first time – you know what people can be like.’
‘Oh yes, I know all right.’
‘Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . ’
‘I know.’ She smiled at him more naturally, his chagrin restoring her equilibrium. Caleb was just Caleb, her friend, and she was getting in a dither about nothing. Softly she said, ‘I’ll look out for Kenny, and I’ll tell the others to as well; they’ll be glad to do it. We all like him, he’s a nice man.’
Equally softly Caleb murmured, ‘Thank you, lass. I appreciate it.’
Peter Crosse stood leaning against the wall of the village hall. To an onlooker it would seem that he was idly sipping from his glass of beer, his eyes half-closed against the sun. In reality he had been watching Priscilla and the group under the hawthorn tree since he had exited the hall. In recent months he’d found that Priscilla had become a thorn in his flesh, and one he couldn’t rid himself of. Tall and good-looking, he had always been used to a certain amount of success among the village girls; he clicked his fingers and mostly they tended to come running. The fact that he was the only son of a successful farmer didn’t do him any harm in the attraction stakes, either. But come the war, he’d found the Land Girls were a different proposition. The ones on his father’s farm had made it clear they didn’t appreciate his roaming hands or attempts to seduce them in the hay loft and, after their complaints, his father had warned him in no uncertain terms to leave them alone.
He ground his teeth for a moment. The memory still rankled.
On the one hand, they all thought themselves a cut above, he told himself morosely; and on the other, they went with anyone. Anyone but him. That blonde piece had made no secret of seeing one of the black GIs some months back, before she moved on to someone else. Morals of an alley cat, she had. Her friend an’ all, but she’d got caught out, hadn’t she?
His gaze moved to Esther and Caleb for a moment, and his lip lifted in a sneer as it rested on the child playing at their feet. Rumour had it that her husband had told her to sling her hook and take her by-blow with her, and he didn’t blame him. She’d been lucky to get off so lightly.
More laughter from the group under the tree brought his attention back to Priscilla. His eyes narrowed. She needed teaching a lesson, that one. Refusing him, and yet giving it to half the American air force. Damned Yankees.
One of the village girls that he had been seeing on and off for some time sidled past him, giving him the eye, but he didn’t respond and she walked off with something of a flounce to her step. A slight smile touched his lips momentarily. For a second he was tempted to follow her and take advantage of the blatant invitation in the swing of her hips. Nora was only fifteen and she’d been a virgin when he’d first had her, but gratifying as that had been, she bored him. Now the blonde, Priscilla – that was a real woman. He bet she knew plenty to keep a man panting for more.
One of his childhood pals who had been wounded and shipped home after the D-Day landings in Normandy joined him, following his gaze. ‘I heard you asked that one out and she gave you the cold shoulder. I’d give up, mate. She likes blokes in uniform, by the look of it.’
There had been an edge to his friend’s voice that Peter didn’t miss. He was well aware that his staying at home rather than joining up hadn’t gone down well in some quarters. But, like his mother said, was it worth getting your head blown off, to be one of the boys? He didn’t even have to think about that one. Without looking at the man at the side of him, he said evenly, ‘How’s the arm, Greg?’
‘So-so. Getting there.’
Aye, it might be, but according to his mother, who had been chatting with Greg’s mother, Greg’s mangled arm was the least of his problems. His lower stomach had taken some of the blast and, according to the doctors, he’d never function properly as a man again. Greg’s mother had sworn his own mother to secrecy, but knowing that Greg had been one of his pals, she had told Peter, to prepare him in case Greg ever wanted to talk about it in the future.
‘Good.’ Peter still didn’t glance at him. ‘Won’t be long before you’re chatting up the lassies again then. Nothing like getting your leg over to boost the old system, is there? It’s what makes life worth living.’
For a moment there was silence. Then Greg’s voice came, raw and husky, ‘Aye, too true, man.’
‘There’s more than one gagging for it round here, I tell you. Must be the country air, eh?’ Peter nudged him, smiling. ‘Now you’re back for good, you can start thinking about a wife and family in the future. Must be a relief to know your days at the front are over, and you made it.’
This time the pause was longer. ‘Aye, it is.’
‘Any girl in particular you’ve got your eye on?’
‘No, not really. Look, I’ve got to go.’
‘All right, mate.’ Peter watched him walk away and let Greg get a good few paces before he called out, ‘Any time you fancy going out in a foursome, I know two lassies who’d be up for it. You just let me know. Okay, mate?’
Greg didn’t turn round or reply, merely raising a hand in acknowledgement as he walked on, his head bowed.
Peter let out his breath in a satisfied sigh. That’d teach him. His gaze returned to Priscilla again, and his mouth tightened. Greg’s words had rankled. She’d rather sit with that bunch of cripples from the home than give him the time of day. And he’d asked her properly too, suggesting a drink and a meal. Uppity mare! But he’d settle the score, if it was the last thing he did.
It was only a minute or two later that he noticed Priscilla stand up and say something to the others, before walking across to the two sitting on the wall. Within a few moments she was making her way out of the grounds of the hall and onto the lane outside, where she proceeded to walk in the direction of the Holden farm. And she was alone.
Casually he put down his glass and sauntered across the grass, his hands in his pockets. Excitement was quickening his breath and causing a stirring in his
stomach. They always went about in twos and threes, these girls, as though they were joined at the hip. He wouldn’t get another chance like this one.
Once out in the dusty, sunlit lane he walked a little faster.
Priscilla had been a martyr to blinding headaches for years. They usually affected only one side of her head and were accompanied by nausea and visual disturbances, and when she had felt this one beginning, she’d known she only had a limited time to get back to the farm and lie down in the quiet of her room before she became incapacitated. Twenty-four hours and she would be as right as rain, but just at the moment the only thing on her mind was to get somewhere peaceful and dark and let the agony pass.
She hadn’t let on to the others that she’d got one of her headaches coming, knowing that they would insist on accompanying her home, and she didn’t want to spoil the other girls’ enjoyment of the afternoon. Heaven knew they didn’t get much free time. And so she’d said she wanted to check on the new foal that had been born that week, and which she’d helped bring into the world. It had been a thrilling experience and one she would remember all her life, she thought now, trying to picture the cute little baby and to ignore the throbbing in her head. But it was no good. Every shaft of sunlight was like an arrow through her eyes into the back of her brain.
She was oblivious to Peter’s rapid approach behind her, right until the moment he touched her on the shoulder and nearly made her jump out of her skin. She spun round, wincing as the movement brought the nausea close to the surface.
‘In a hurry, aren’t you?’ He stood still, his hands at his sides and a slight smile curling his mouth. ‘Where’s the fire, or is it just us yokels you want to get away from?’
In spite of her pain, Priscilla’s voice was at its most upper-class as she said tightly, ‘I have a headache, that’s all.’
The Colours of Love Page 16