“What’s the matter?” Eva set the basket down on the slate flagstones and ran across the room. Rhiannon looked up, her cheeks wet with tears. “Oh,” she said, glancing at the clock, “I thought you were still milking!” A tear trickled down her face.
Eva sat down beside her, taking her hand. “What’s happened? Is it Uncle Dai?” She felt a sudden stab of horror. Surely he couldn’t have died in the night?
“No, it’s not Dai,” her aunt said, blowing her nose. “It’s this,” she fished a letter from the pocket of her overalls. “It came yesterday.” She unfolded the scrap of paper and smoothed it out on the table in front of her, looking at it with an expression of utter despair. “It’s from Trefor,” she said, fresh tears welling as she looked up at Eva. “He says he’s met an Italian girl. Wants to marry her. Says he won’t be coming back.”
“What?” Eva took the letter, scanning the few paragraphs of her cousin’s untidy handwriting. “How can he do that? What about the farm?”
“He says her family has a farm out there, and they want him to help run it.” Rhiannon sniffed.
“But what about Uncle Dai? Surely if Trefor knew what had happened, he’d change his mind?”
Rhiannon shook her head. “He already knows, bach. I wrote to him the day after Dai had the stroke. He says he’s very sorry, but the girl’s parents won’t let her marry him unless he stays in Italy.”
How convenient for him, Eva thought, picturing Trefor’s smug face. “Listen, you mustn’t worry,” she said, sounding much calmer than she felt. “You’ve still got me: I’m not going anywhere.” She was looking at her aunt but seeing Bill. His face hovered between them, his eyes reproachful, accusing. Her dream of being with him in America was slipping further and further away. She turned her head away, glimpsing the fields stretching into the distance beyond the farmhouse door. There were sheep waiting to be sheared, cows that would need milking again this evening, pigs to be fed, as well as machinery to be fixed. How could she possibly leave her aunt to cope with all this alone?
From her basket Lou gave a thin wail, like a hungry kitten. Eva bit her lip as she went to pick her up. Would Bill ever see her? The thought made her panic, made her want to gather Lou in her arms and run and run until she found him.
“It’s all right,” she whispered as she held the baby to her, stroking her soft brown hair. “It’s all right.” She rocked from one foot to the other, eyes half-closed, chanting the phrase like a prayer. How she wished it was true.
Cathy picked up her overnight bag and gave her son a final wave. He was so busy with his friend’s Meccano set, he didn’t even look up when she called good-bye. She smiled as she walked down the path that divided her house from her neighbor’s. At least she wouldn’t feel so guilty about leaving him behind. He would probably have loved the idea of a train ride to Wales, and if the circumstances had been different, she would have taken him. But it was too serious a business for a child. She had thought long and hard about how to deliver the bombshell the telegram had contained. Giving Eva the news in person was the only solution, she’d decided. Her presence was unlikely to be much comfort, but she would at least be on hand to offer what support she could.
Cathy looked at her watch. It was going to take most of the day to get to the farm, but before she went to the station, she wanted to pop into Eva’s old house just in case there was a letter from Bill. It couldn’t be long before Eddie arrived back and Eva was going to have to decide what to do. If there was the slightest chance of some sort of future with Bill, she needed to be able to contact him, and fast.
As she turned the corner, a newsboy shouted the headlines across the street: “Paris liberated! Read all about it!”
She stopped and bought a paper. She had already heard about it on the wireless last night, listened to the cheering, the crowds singing the “Marseillaise.” But it would be nice to read about it on the train. Something cheerful to take her mind off what was to come.
She tucked the paper under her arm. Two minutes later she was walking past the Goodyear factory and up the narrow street toward Eva’s house. She fumbled in her pocket for the key, cursing as she dropped the newspaper onto the pavement. Eventually she got the key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. She frowned and tried again. She tried the handle, and to her amazement the door opened. Surely she hadn’t forgotten to lock it last time?
Her mind was racing as she walked into the hall. What if the house had been burgled? It would be her fault for leaving it unlocked. Oh no, she thought, please, not that. Not on top of everything else . . .
“Who the hell are you?” The voice gave her such a shock, she let out a yelp of fright. She caught sight of him through the banisters and froze. A gaunt white face with huge hollow eyes staring back at her. A tramp—or a madman? No. He was in uniform. A clean, new-looking uniform. A navy uniform. “Oh . . . Oh my God,” she stammered. “Is it . . . are you . . . Eddie?”
“How do you know who I am?” The voice was different. Softer and less aggressive. He sank back onto the stairs as if Cathy’s words had winded him.
“The photo in Eva’s bedroom . . .” She hesitated, her heart thumping. The sight of him whipped up a crippling cocktail of pity and fear inside her. “I . . . er . . . we worked together on the railway. She got a job after you were sent overseas . . . didn’t she say in her letters?”
He stared at the fading flower pattern on the stair carpet, and she noticed a streak of pure white running through his close-cropped black hair. “I never got any letters.” His voice was no more than a whisper now. “Where is she? And David? Where’s my little boy?”
Cathy took a deep breath. “They’ve gone to stay with relatives,” she said. “A lot’s happened while you’ve been away.” Another breath. “Eva’s mother died, I’m afraid, in a road accident.”
“Mary? Dead?” He looked up, blinking. “So that’s why the place is in mothballs.” He nodded slowly and slipped a bony hand inside his jacket. “Don’t worry,” he said, with the flicker of a frown puckering the sallow skin of his forehead. “I know the rest.” In his hand was an envelope, ripped open. He leaned forward, passing it to her through the banisters like a prisoner reaching through the bars of a cell. “Go on, read it.”
Panic surged as she spotted the US Army stamp at the top of the envelope. It was addressed to E. Melrose. No prefix. He must have found it lying on the mat and thought it was for him. Cathy cursed herself for not finding it first. As she read Bill’s words, her insides shriveled:
My darling Eva,
We are in France, which I guess you will probably already know about from the newspapers. I can’t say much more than that, but I want you to know that I’m thinking about you and the baby. I don’t know if you’ve been getting my letters. I guess not, as I haven’t heard from you, but I know how bad the mail is now, so maybe you’ve written me and your letters have gone astray.
As I write, I’m wondering if our little boy or girl has been born yet. It’s so strange, thinking I might be a dad and not even know it. I met a guy from the Red Cross a few days ago and told him all about it. I gave him your address, and he’s going to send some forms through about getting the baby over to the States when he or she is old enough. I realize how tough this is going to be for you, but it seems the only solution for the time being. It’s really hard, not being able to talk with you about it . . .
Cathy glanced up at Eddie. There was a tear coursing down his face. She dropped the letter, almost tripping up the stairs in her clumsy attempt to put a comforting arm around his shoulders. It was like hugging a skeleton. She could feel his bones through the coarse fabric of his uniform.
“It’s all right.” He wriggled away from her as if she were contaminated. “I just want Eva. I’ve got to find her. Will you tell me where she is?” Once again he turned his big, round, pleading eyes upon her.
This took her by surprise. “But she’s had a baby, Eddie. A little girl. By another man. Surely you can’t—”
“Yes, I can,” he cut in, his voice calm and even. “It doesn’t matter. She thought I was dead. I can’t blame her for that . . .” He stared at a blue patch of sky framed by the glass pane in the front door.
“Well, that’s a very generous and compassionate thing to say,” Cathy began, “but it’s not as simple as that, is it? You’re talking about taking on someone else’s child and she’s—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he cut in. “How old is she, the baby?”
“Just a few weeks. But—”
“So I can be a father to her, can’t I?” He was nodding as if he was talking to himself rather than to Cathy. “She won’t know any different, will she?”
Cathy made a silent prayer. She felt as if Eva’s whole future was now in her hands. If she told Eddie about the baby’s color, he might realize how hopeless his plan was and leave Eva alone. But was that what Eva would want? What if Bill never came back from France? Would she want the chance to try again with Eddie? Her head was spinning, trying to second-guess what Eva would want her to say. What if she didn’t tell him? Gave him the address and let him find out for himself? No, she thought, that would be inhuman. Whatever had happened to Eddie while he was away, he had obviously suffered enough.
“Eddie,” she said, “why don’t you let me get you something to eat? It’s a long way away, where Eva’s gone, and you’re going to need a decent meal inside you before you go looking for her.” She smiled at him, trying not to betray her nervousness. She needed time to plan what she was going to say.
“All right,” he murmured, a distant look in his eyes.
“If you could set the table for me,” she went on, as if it was Mikey she was talking to, “I’ll be back in a moment with some food.”
She closed the front door firmly behind her and hurried back to her own house. She felt horribly tempted to stay there. He didn’t know where she lived, wouldn’t be able to find her. The feeling lasted for only a few seconds. She scurried around the kitchen, bundling food into a shopping bag. A tin of soup, some Spam, and a jar of homemade pickle. Some lettuce from the garden and a few slices cut from the hard, gray National Loaf. Tea, milk, and a bit of sugar twisted in brown paper. Not exactly a feast, but by the look of Eddie, it was probably a lot better than he’d been used to.
She concentrated hard as she set off again. She would try to stall until he’d eaten. Bad news never seemed quite so bad on a full stomach. Then she would have to help him come to terms with it. Should she offer to let him stay with her while he got back on his feet? She thought of Mikey. What would he make of having this strange, hollow-eyed man living in the house? Would he be frightened? Perhaps it would be better to leave Eddie where he was. Call in now and then to get him a meal and make sure he was okay. She wondered what he would do, whether he was fit enough for some sort of work. She hoped so, for his sake. It wouldn’t do him any good to sit around brooding about what Eva had done.
She stopped short a few yards away from his house. What if her revelation tipped him over the edge and he went off looking for revenge? She mustn’t tell him where Eva was until she’d told him about Bill. Perhaps not tell him at all if things went badly.
Eddie was sitting at the kitchen table when she let herself in. He had done exactly as he was told. Cutlery, plates, cups, and saucers were laid out neatly and the kettle set on the stove to boil. While they were eating, she steered the subject away from Eva. She asked him about his injuries, hoping that this would fill enough time for them to finish the meal.
But she was unprepared for the effect her question would have. It was as if she had opened the floodgates to a tidal wave of the most harrowing memories. Her soup went cold as she listened, openmouthed, to the horrors he had endured in Burma.
“They took us to the jungle in a truck,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Five days and nights it took to get there. Thirty-five of us, packed in like sardines. Couldn’t all sit or lie down at the same time. Then we had to walk along two rivers. Sixteen miles in the dark each night so we wouldn’t be seen. Best part of two weeks, that took. One of my pals, Stan, got sick.” He paused, staring at his plate. “I had to carry him or the Japs would’ve shot him.” He looked up and Cathy saw that his eyes had filmed over with tears. “I should have let them: probably would’ve been the kindest thing.” He sniffed. “They made us cut logs from the jungle to build a bloody railway from Bangkok to Rangoon. It was so hot we worked naked except for two bits of rag tied round our waist and between our legs.”
Eddie stirred his soup with his spoon and broke off a piece of bread, staring at the coarse gray crust. “There wasn’t much to eat. Most days it was nothing but a bowl of rice gruel with maybe a slice of onion in it.” He grunted. “One bloke found a fig tree, and we ate figs for days.
“The weight was just falling off us,” he went on, after taking a bite of bread, “but if you weren’t fit for work, you got no food at all. They could see Stan was on his knees, but they told him to dig out this great big tree stump. Four foot across, it was. No one man could shift it on his own. When he collapsed, they strung him up by his arms. Looked like Jesus on the cross.” He blinked and looked away. “Three days, they left him. Don’t know if he was still alive when they bayoneted him.”
In the silence that followed Cathy stared at her soup bowl, well aware that any attempt at sympathy would sound hollow. “How did you survive?” she ventured.
He drew his lips into a tight circle and let out a deep sigh. “I got what they call a tropical ulcer,” he said, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a purplish scar the size of an egg just above his elbow. “Lots of blokes got them. Only had to graze yourself on something and it’d turn into an ulcer. I was lucky. Mine wasn’t that bad. There were people round me with their flesh all eaten away so you could see the sinews and the bone underneath.” He paused and looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. No one should have to hear this stuff.”
“No,” she shook her head. “Go on—it’s all right.”
“Well, when the ulcer cleared up, they kept me in the hospital tent and made me help.” His voice wobbled and he coughed, struggling to contain his emotion. “Ninety-six amputations with a wood saw.” He looked at her with brimming eyes. “Only four men survived the shock.”
He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a pencil and a sheet of paper. As Cathy watched, he began to scribble grotesque cartoons of men. Some were being tortured, others dying of horrific injuries or disease. And all around were the smiling figures of the Japanese captors. When he looked up, Cathy saw that his face was composed, with no trace of emotion.
“It helps,” he said simply, screwing the paper into a tiny ball and tossing it into the bin.
“How did you get away?” Her words sounded loud in the quiet house.
He frowned and sucked in a breath. “We were put on a prison ship when the railway was finished—those who were left, that is.” He sat for a few seconds examining the veins on the mottled backs of his hands. “On the way to Japan we were torpedoed by an Allied sub.” He paused again. “Don’t remember much about it, really. One minute I was scrubbing the deck, next I was floating about in the ocean, clinging onto a bit of driftwood. Don’t know how long I was there: started drinking seawater and that must have sent me a bit crazy. I saw this thing like a telegraph pole sticking up out of the water. It turned out to be the sub that hit us. When it came up, a bunch of Americans climbed out. They pointed a double-barreled shotgun at me and said: ‘Who the hell are you?’” He grunted a laugh. “Bit like you, eh? I must have looked a damn sight worse then than I do now.”
He pushed his plate away and glanced at the window. “They wrapped me in this beautiful white blanket. I remember how soft it felt, like silk. Couldn’t do enough for me, those boys.” He shrugged. “And here I am.” His eyes searched Cathy’s face. “Where’s Eva?”
“Eddie, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said, her stomach lurching. “The baby,” she be
gan. “She’s . . .” Cathy paused, losing her nerve. Was a man in Eddie’s state of mind capable of handling this?
“She’s what?” Eddie frowned. “Has she got a birthmark like David? Did Eva tell you how stupid I was about that? Well, don’t worry, Cathy; I’ve grown up. My God, if I’d known then what . . .”
“No,” she interrupted, “you don’t understand. It’s not that.” She cleared her throat. “The baby’s father—the American soldier . . .” She took a breath. “He’s a colored man, Eddie. The baby’s colored.” She watched his face, expecting anger, disbelief, but he just gave a half smile and nodded slowly. “Don’t you see?” she said, floored by his reaction. “You can’t bring her up as your own, can you?”
“Of course I can.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Take a look at this.” He pulled a letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “I wrote it while you were fetching the food.” It was addressed to the US Army, Allied Headquarters, France. The flap of the envelope had not been stuck down and she slid the letter out.
Dear Mr. —,
Thank you for offering to take my wife’s baby to America via the Red Cross. That will not be necessary as I intend to adopt the little girl and give her my name. I promise you that she will want for nothing and that I will hold no blame against my wife, as she had no way of knowing that I was alive.
Yours sincerely,
Edward Melrose
Cathy stared at the sheet of paper in stunned silence.
“Do you know his surname?” Eddie took it back and produced a pen from inside his jacket. “I need to put it in the letter and on the envelope.”
“It’s . . . er . . . Willis,” she mumbled. “He’s in the Quartermaster Corps.” She watched as he filled in the blank space on the letter in slow, painstaking script and then did the same on the envelope.
The Color of Secrets Page 13