A little extra meat, sugar and sweets were made available by the government for Christmas, warmly welcomed by the populace, as it had been a difficult year, with bad weather lasting to the spring and shortages of many foods. Some nuts had come onto the market in December, but cream was still unavailable, and in their weaker moments Esther and Priscilla reminisced longingly about Mrs Holden’s creamed rice pudding. Nevertheless, the valiant Fanny did her best with butter icing, and was a dab hand at turning the much-reviled whalemeat into something edible. Fanny always finely minced the meat before cooking it, mixing it with strong flavours, and her hamburgers and goulash were delicious. Whalemeat was not rationed; most people grimly declared they knew why, but in Fanny’s hands it was tasty enough.
Knowing it would be the last Christmas before the home was up and running, Esther decided that Christmas Day would be a party for everyone who’d had a hand in preparing for the big event, as well as for friends and any relatives of Caleb who wanted to join them and the new staff they had employed. Fanny and her sister enjoyed a tipple, and had made several gallons of cider in the summer from the apples in the orchard close to the woodland, along with bottles of elderberry, blackberry and cherry wine; and these, together with the beer that Stanley and Ida’s and Clara’s husbands contributed, ensured the party went with a swing.
Fanny made a huge vat of her celebrated goulash for the grown-ups, along with hamburgers and what she called her ‘eight-minute doughnuts’ for the children. The doughnuts were fairly flat, like a fritter, as there was insufficient fat to fry a thicker mixture due to rationing, but they tasted delicious, especially the apple ones. They’d had a bumper crop of apples that summer, and Fanny had stored hundreds on brown paper in the attics of the house. This was reflected in the apple croquettes and apple sponges that also appeared on the table. It wasn’t the traditional Christmas fare, but no one minded, and as their guests were all sleeping over and no one had to turn out into the bitterly cold night, the party continued into the early hours of Boxing Day.
It was gone two o’clock in the morning when Esther and Caleb climbed into bed. The room was lit only by the glowing fire flickering in the grate, and by the light from the white world outside the windows. It had snowed thickly all day, and that afternoon their guests had helped the children create an army of snowmen and snow-women – and even some snow-dogs that stood, sentry like, on either side of the long, curving drive leading to the house.
Esther snuggled into Caleb’s side, one arm across his chest. It had been a wonderful day, and in a short time, at the beginning of January, the first of the children were due to arrive. Every place had been taken, and they could have filled the home ten times over, if they’d had the room. Their life was going to change – quite how much Caleb wasn’t yet aware of, but Esther had been keeping a special Christmas present for him for some days.
‘It’s been the best Christmas ever,’ she whispered, burying her nose in his neck and then kissing him softly.
‘Grand,’ he agreed sleepily.
‘Can you think of anything that could have made it better?’
He shifted slightly, turning to face her. ‘Not a thing. It was perfect – like you.’
‘Nothing?’ she persisted.
‘Esther, you did everyone proud. Stop worrying.’
‘I’m not worried.’ She kissed him again, this time on the lips. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact.’
‘Good.’ He pulled her closer, his body responding to hers, as it always did. She was more intoxicating than any drink or drug, he thought drowsily. He couldn’t get enough of her.
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’
There was a note of something in her voice that made him fully compos mentis. ‘What is it?’ He couldn’t see her clearly in the soft shadows, but her eyes, bright and glittering, smiled at him.
‘You’re going to be a father,’ she whispered. ‘I’m expecting our baby.’
Epilogue
1976
It was Esther and Caleb’s thirtieth wedding anniversary, and they were celebrating with a family get-together at home. After lunch, the grown-ups had sat and chatted while the children played, but now the long January twilight was deepening and Esther had got up to draw the curtains and shut out the frozen white world outside the sitting-room windows.
She stood for a moment, looking out into the grounds where the last of the home’s children had just been rounded up and taken indoors for their tea. So many little ones had passed through its doors since it had opened, and the face of each child – even those who’d gone out into the world years ago – was etched on her mind. Of course, many of them came back at regular intervals for a chat and a cup of tea, some bringing their own children to meet Esther and Caleb and the rest of the staff. Esther often felt as though she wasn’t just the mother of four children, but of hundreds, and each one was special. They came with their own particular problems, and from diverse backgrounds and circumstances, and some were harder to reach than others, but once they walked over Blessings’ threshold they were loved and cherished no matter what had gone before.
Esther turned, looking over the room where her family were assembled. Caleb was sitting in his armchair close to the fire with Joy’s youngest child on his lap. He was pretending to understand her gabbled baby talk, nodding and making the odd comment much to the little girl’s delight. At two years old, Christina was the image of her mother, although her skin was as fair as her father’s. Joy had married Prudence’s oldest lad, Arnie, twelve years ago, and they’d had three children, all girls, and each one was quite spectacularly beautiful like their mother.
For a moment, Esther felt a stab of the old sadness that Monty had never attempted to get in touch with Joy through the years, or to see his grandchildren. Joy didn’t know, but Esther had written to Monty when each of Joy’s little girls were born, telling him of their arrival and their names, but he had never responded by so much as a card or a little note. His loss, as Caleb always said when the two of them were alone, and she agreed with that, but nevertheless she found it hard to understand.
Monty had settled in London after the divorce, and had apparently risen to the upper echelons of the Civil Service, although she had no idea what he did. He had never married again, and Esther found it even more strange, in view of this, that he was content to lead such an insular life and have no contact with his only child. But perhaps it was for the best; Caleb certainly thought so, and as Joy adored Caleb and looked on him completely as her father, she hadn’t missed out, which was all that mattered.
Esther and Caleb had three children of their own: two boys and a girl. Cyril, the eldest, had married a local girl and had five-year-old twin boys who were as dark-skinned and dark-eyed as their handsome father. Desmond, their second child, was as different from his brother as chalk is from cheese, having the palest of skin, which burned if the sun so much as looked at him, and eyes as blue as cornflowers. He’d married Sarai, a lovely gentle Indian girl he had met at university, and they had a little boy called Thomas. Sophie, the baby of the family at twenty-one, had recently got engaged at Christmas to a Chinese lad, whose parents had a restaurant in the town. At the engagement party, Joy had jokingly remarked that their family resembled the United Nations, and Esther had replied fervently that she did hope so.
Esther’s gaze wandered over each one of her precious family, taking in the different shades of colour in their skin and hair and eyes. Each of her children was a strong-minded, determined and resilient individual, and they all liked nothing more than a family get-together like this one. Everyone laughed and chatted and teased each other, along with having the odd argument, but that was family. She was so blessed, she told herself, her heart full to bursting. She watched as Chan murmured something in Sophie’s ear, which caused her daughter to smile and reach up and stroke his face, and the gesture seemed to encapsulate the feeling in the room.
Esther’s eyes moved to the mantelpiece. There, framed and in pride of p
lace, stood her mother’s letter. It was her most treasured possession. So softly that her words were merely the faintest of breaths, she murmured, ‘The colours of love are here in this room, precious one.’
They were in the blue of Caleb’s eyes; in the white, honey, brown and ebony shades of the skin of her children and their partners and her grandchildren; in the silver-blonde of little Christina’s hair and the tight black curls of the twins. And – most of all – in the fragile, yellowing paper of her mother’s letter, its charcoal smudged in places with the salt of Ruth’s tears as she had written to the baby girl she had loved, and lost, so many years ago.
‘Love has won, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘Love has won.’
The Colours of Love
Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she still lives today. At the age of sixteen she met her husband – whom she considers her soulmate – and they have two daughters and a son, and six grandchildren. Much to her delight, Rita’s first novel was accepted for publication and she has gone on to write many more successful novels since then, including the number one bestseller Dancing in the Moonlight.
As a committed Christian and passionate animal-lover her life is full, but she loves walking her dogs, reading, eating out and visiting the cinema and theatre, as well as being involved in her local church and animal welfare.
BY RITA BRADSHAW
Alone Beneath the Heaven
Reach for Tomorrow
Ragamuffin Angel
The Stony Path
The Urchin’s Song
Candles in the Storm
The Most Precious Thing
Always I’ll Remember
The Rainbow Years
Skylarks at Sunset
Above the Harvest Moon
Eve and Her Sisters
Gilding the Lily
Born to Trouble
Forever Yours
Break of Dawn
Dancing in the Moonlight
Beyond the Veil of Tears
The Colours of Love
First published 2015 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2015 by Pan Books
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ISBN 978-1-4472-7156-7
Copyright © Rita Bradshaw 2015
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