The Color of Secrets

by Lindsay Jayne Ashford

  “Fat chance! We barely survive on Ray’s wages as it is.”

  “What if you were to get a part-time job—now that Tom’s at school, I mean?”

  Louisa shrugged. “I’d love to, but Ray won’t let me. I could do afternoons at the Odeon and still be back in time to collect Tom, but Ray says he won’t have any wife of his going out to work.” She gave a wry smile. “As if he had a whole harem!”

  Gina frowned. “Andy’s the same. He couldn’t wait for me to get pregnant. I think he was more pleased about me finishing at the office than about becoming a father. He’s so jealous. He was always accusing me of fancying someone or other.”

  “It must have been difficult, with you both working at the same place, though,” Louisa said. “I sometimes think that’s the real reason Ray doesn’t want me to go back.”

  Gina looked at her. “Do you trust him, Lou?”

  Louisa frowned. “Yes, I think so.” It had often crossed her mind that Ray might look elsewhere for the pleasures she rationed out to him, but in her heart she couldn’t imagine him being unfaithful. He was always telling her how much he loved her, even though she rarely said it back. “Do you trust Andy?”

  “Oh, yes,” Gina replied, a big grin spreading across her face. “He wouldn’t have the energy to chase after anyone else!”

  “I’m really glad you’re so happy,” Louisa said, trying to conceal the wistfulness she felt inside. What Gina and Andy had was how it was supposed to be: just like in the films. But there were other ways of being happy, she reminded herself. She looked over at Tom, who had stuck apple twigs through the band of his sun hat to make antlers and was crawling around the tree on all fours.

  “He’s a lovely lad,” Gina said. “Ray must be really proud of him.”

  Louisa gave her a Mona Lisa smile. Yes, he was a wonderful child. Good-natured, well behaved, and, although she would never say it out loud, very good-looking. Where did he get it from? Were his looks inherited from that mysterious grandfather? Did his sweet nature come from Ray or from her aunt Rhiannon? She wished she knew.

  A few weeks later Louisa and Tom were having tea at her parents’ house when Eva made a surprise announcement.

  “I had a letter this morning from your uncle Trefor,” she said, a look of triumph on her face. “He says his wife’s left him. Apparently she’s taken the daughter and gone back to Italy.”

  Louisa swallowed hard, the cake she had been eating sticking to the roof of her mouth. The very mention of his name made her insides churn.

  “I don’t know how she stuck by him for so many years—it’s a wonder she married him in the first place,” Eva went on. “Anyway, he’s had the cheek to ask if he can come to stay with us for Christmas! He says it’s lonely on the farm and he needs a break.”

  “Well, I think we should bury the hatchet, love,” Eddie said, reaching across the table for the teapot. “After all, where would we be now if it hadn’t been for that money?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t his money, was it?” Eva snapped. “It was Aunt Rhiannon’s. Hers to do what she liked with.”

  “All the same, it must have been a blow to him.” Eddie topped up Louisa’s cup before filling his own. “I think he behaved quite well over it—compared to what he was like over the farm, I mean.”

  Eva frowned. “Trust you to see the good side.”

  “Have some pity,” Eddie said. “How would you like to spend Christmas on your own?”

  “Well, it’s no more than he deserves!” Eva glanced at Louisa, who avoided her gaze, staring at the tablecloth. “I suppose it’s not very Christian, is it, refusing to have him?” Eva paused, waiting for a response. When none came, she said, “It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you to have one extra on Boxing Day, would it, Lou?”

  “Me?” She reached unsteadily for the milk jug, playing for time, racking her brain for some excuse.

  “He wouldn’t have to stay the night,” Eva said. “I know you haven’t got room. He could go back home after lunch.”

  For a moment Louisa thought she was going to throw up. The very thought of that evil bastard sleeping in her house! But how could she refuse to entertain him? If she said no, she would have to explain why she found the idea so abhorrent. It was no use pretending she and Ray had made other plans. Every year of their marriage had followed the same pattern: Christmas with his parents, Boxing Day with hers. A few hours, her mother had said. And everybody else would be there. They could talk to him while she hid in the kitchen. She would only have to spend about half an hour with him while they ate. Perhaps she needn’t even do that. She could pretend to be ill. Get everything ready, then take to her bed.

  “Okay,” she murmured, through gritted teeth.

  Chapter 29

  DECEMBER 1967

  On Christmas night Louisa sat in the kitchen making a trifle. Tom and Ray were both asleep, and she had the little transistor radio on low to keep her company. The Four Tops were singing her current favorite, “Walk Away, Renée.” Normally she would have been dancing around the kitchen to it. But not tonight.

  She was dreading Trefor’s visit. Her plan to feign illness had backfired horribly. Ray had been in bed with the flu since Christmas Eve, and her mother had gone down with it too. Eddie had cooked Christmas lunch for Trefor and said he would probably have to stay and look after her mother the next day. Ray was unlikely to be much better either, which meant Louisa would probably have to entertain Trefor single-handedly.

  His face superimposed itself on the whipping cream in the bowl in front of her. She wondered what he was doing at this moment, safely ensconced at her parents’ house. She was terrified that he might say something to her dad about what had happened on his last visit to Wolverhampton.

  She had gone over and over it in her head, trying to figure out why he had decided to come and visit after all these years. She didn’t believe his lame excuse about not wanting to spend Christmas on his own. He was the kind of man who hated other people so much he would probably have welcomed it. So what was his game? She transferred all her hatred of Trefor to the cream, beating it until her elbow ached.

  It was midnight when she crept into bed beside Ray. His snoring was made worse by the infection, and she tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. She wondered if she could use Ray’s illness as a last-ditch excuse for not having Trefor over for lunch. Perhaps if she pretended they both had it? But no, she thought, then her dad would be stuck with him for a second day.

  Louisa sighed in the darkness. Four hours, maximum, he would be at the flat. Surely she could get through four measly hours? She shivered at the memory of what he had achieved in less than ten minutes last time they had met. But it would be different this time, she told herself. Even if Ray was in bed, he would still be within shouting distance. No: Trefor wasn’t going to be able to get away with anything this time.

  Grabbing her pillow, she tiptoed out of the bedroom and pushed open Tom’s door. Untucking the blankets at the foot of the bed, she climbed in, easing Tom’s legs aside with her own. He stirred slightly and curled himself up against her feet. She felt herself relax in a way she never could in the bed she shared with Ray.

  Next morning Louisa frowned at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. She scraped her hair back from her face, winding it into a bun on the back of her head. She secured the stray wisps with clips that were the same shade of brown as her hair, then finished off with a liberal dose of hairspray. Then she tucked a towel into the neck of her cream wool sweater and applied pale foundation, powder, and a touch of rouge to her cheekbones. She wanted to look plain. Plain but smart. Someone who was in control, despite what he had done to her. She zipped up the new suede boots Ray had bought her for Christmas and smoothed down her tan-colored calf-length skirt. Checking her reflection, she added a slick of pale-pink lipstick. Her hands trembled as she applied it.

  In the mirror she could see the hump in the sheets where Ray lay, still asleep. She had brought him tea two hours ago, and
he had grunted his thanks but dozed off again without even drinking it. She wondered if she should try to wake him. Ask if there was any chance of him getting up for an hour or two. No, she thought, that would be mean. This was something she was going to have to get through on her own.

  She sat waiting in the room that doubled as lounge and diner, watching Tom playing with his new toys. When the bell rang, she jumped, almost knocking a glass off the carefully laid table.

  The sight of Trefor’s face turned her stomach to ice. It was as if she had stepped back in time. He looked exactly the same. Same overcoat and scarf, same smell of sweat and whiskey as he took them off and handed them to her. She saw his eyes travel down her body as if she were an animal or a car he had just bought, his face twisted in the horrible leer that had haunted her dreams for the past six years.

  Wordlessly she led him up the stairs to the flat. She was not going to put on a front, wish him a “Merry Christmas.” She held her head up as she opened the door. Although their flat was small, she was proud of the way she had decorated and furnished it. She knew he would be looking the place over with the same smug sneer he had worn when he saw her parents’ old home. She turned to him, ready with a well-rehearsed put-down if he dared to make any critical remark. But he wasn’t looking at the decor. His eyes were fixed on Tom, who had wandered out into the hall at the sound of the door, a piece of Lego clutched in his hand.

  Trefor dropped to his knees in front of the child and put out a hand to stroke his soft brown curls. “Hello, bach,” he said, his voice totally different from the harsh rasp she remembered. “I’m your uncle Trefor. I’ve brought you a present.”

  He slid a brightly colored package from his jacket pocket. Louisa watched Tom’s face as he tore it open, saw his eyes widen in amazement as he gazed at the silver replica E-Type Jaguar. Her jaw tightened. It must have cost more than all his other presents put together.

  She felt a stab of fear as Tom took Trefor’s hand and led him into the lounge to play with the new car. Why? The word beat a tattoo in her head as she followed them. She had expected Trefor to show the same contempt for her child that he had shown her. Surely he couldn’t . . .

  “Not a bad-looking little kid, is he?” Trefor gave her a sly look as Tom disappeared off to the toilet.

  Louisa stared at him through narrowed eyes, saying nothing.

  “How old is he now? Five?”

  She nodded mutely, her stomach lurching.

  “You’re five, are you, Tom?” Trefor said brightly as the boy came trotting back into the room. “When are you going to be six?”

  “August the thirtieth,” Tom announced proudly. “Mum says I’m lucky ’cause my birthday’s in the holidays so I won’t have to go to school!”

  “I haven’t offered you a drink,” Louisa interrupted, rising from her seat on legs that felt like jelly. “We’ve got sherry—or would you prefer a bottle of beer?” She fought down a sudden urge to scoop Tom up and lock herself in the bathroom.

  “No, thanks.” Trefor gave her a look that made her feel like the ten-year-old she had been when she first set eyes on him. “I’ve brought my own.” He slipped a whiskey bottle from his jacket pocket and set it on the table.

  She backed into the kitchen, one eye on Tom as she pulled the roast joint from the oven. She felt like a robot, her body performing a ridiculous charade while her mind worked frantically. What was Trefor after? Had he come here with the intention of blurting it all out to Ray? Was he out to ruin her life all over again?

  When she brought the food to the table, his whiskey bottle was half-empty. She stared at it as she plunked the steaming plate of pork in front of him. She was sure he had drunk more than enough to put him over the government’s new drink-drive limit. Serve him right if the police catch him, she thought.

  She had to force herself to eat, watching Trefor wolfing his down. Her insides were in knots, waiting for what he might come out with. Wondering what she was going to say to Tom if he did. But Trefor spent the entire meal pontificating about the foot-and-mouth outbreak that was sweeping the country. He was very smug about the fact that the disease had not affected livestock in Cardiganshire, and went on and on about how well he was doing since taking over the farm from her parents.

  She let it all wash over her, praying that she had misinterpreted his questions about Tom, counting the hours and minutes until he would be gone. She glanced at her son, whose eyes were beginning to droop as he ate. He’d been up so early on Christmas morning, and now it was catching up with him. When she came back from the kitchen with the trifle, he was asleep, his head resting on the table.

  “I’ll carry him to his bed.” Trefor was already on his feet.

  “No!” Louisa didn’t want him touching Tom, but before she could put down the trifle, he had hoisted the child into his arms and was heading out into the hallway.

  “This one, is it?” he said over his shoulder, jerking his head to a door on the right. Louisa nodded, paralyzed by the feeling of nausea at the sight of her son lying limp in Trefor’s arms. She wanted to run into the bedroom, pull Tom away from him, but all she could think of was the feeling of being pinned against the wall of her parents’ kitchen, the blinding pain as her head hit the wall, and the worse pain that followed . . .

  “All tucked in!” Trefor was back in the room, a look of triumph on his face. His eyes became slits as he fixed her with a penetrating look. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she gasped. “Do you think I’d have kept him if he was?” She stared back at him like a mouse gripped by a cat.

  Trefor came slowly toward her, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Then answer me this: if he’s what’s-his-name’s boy, how come the pair of you have been married nigh on six years and not managed to produce another?”

  “I . . . er . . . we can’t afford to have another child—not yet, anyway. Not that it’s any of your business!” Louisa backed away from him, jabbing her hip on one of the dining chairs.

  “I think you’re lying,” he growled, coming after her. “I want him! He’s mine!”

  Her body tensed as he grabbed her by the shoulders. His stinking breath was in her face. The bile rose up into her throat.

  “We could be good together, you and me. A proper family. You, me, and young Tom.” He pulled her to him, pressing his mouth against hers. She lashed out with both arms, making a choking, retching sound that should have been a scream. He grabbed them, pushing her backward.

  “What’s going on?” Ray appeared in the lounge doorway in his pajamas, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Trefor’s arms dropped to his sides. Louisa stared at her husband for a split second before deciding what to do. She mustn’t allow Trefor to say anything to Ray. She couldn’t tell Ray what he had been trying to do.

  “Nothing. Mince pie went down the wrong way.” She gave Ray a hundred-watt smile and put her arm around him as she led him back to the bedroom. “Trefor’s just going. I’ll make you a hot drink. What would you like?”

  In his fuddled state Ray seemed to accept what she said and allowed her to tuck him back into bed. On her way back to the lounge she unhooked Trefor’s coat and scarf, thrusting them at him as she walked into the room.

  “I think you’d better go!” She fought back tears as she stood, rigid with emotion, holding open the door.

  “Don’t worry—I’ve got what I came for!” Trefor gave her another sly look as he slid his arms into the shabby gray overcoat. “And I’ll be back!” he smirked. “I know what he looks like now—and mark my words, girl, I’ll be back for what’s mine!”

  Louisa blinked, too stunned to reply. She watched him shamble toward his car. A silver E-Type Jaguar. Apart from the mud spattering its sides, it was exactly like the present he had given her son. He revved up the engine and swerved out into the road, narrowly missing a lamppost as he sped off down the hill.

  The next few weeks took a heavy toll on Louisa. She had never been overweight, but by the end
of February she had become painfully thin. Trefor’s parting threat preyed constantly on her mind. She would be at the school gates every playtime and at lunchtime, hovering just out of sight of the children, but standing guard, just in case. It had turned bitterly cold at the end of January, but even when snow was falling and icy winds tore at her coat, still she stood at the gates. In the afternoons she arrived a good twenty minutes early, just in case.

  One afternoon she set out even earlier than usual. It was Gina’s birthday and she wanted to take her some flowers. Gina had commented on the fact that Louisa had lost weight. She had rolled her eyes at the excuse Louisa gave—that she was dieting after pigging out at Christmas. But it had been a couple of weeks since they last met and Gina gasped when Louisa took off her thick woolen coat.

  “My God, Lou! What’s happened to you? Have you been ill?”

  “No, I’m fine!” She sat down at the kitchen table, feeling slightly dizzy as the warmth of the room hit her. “I’ve just overdone the diet a bit, that’s all: don’t worry, I’ve stopped now.”

  “I should hope so! Look at you!” Gina reached across the table and squeezed the flesh of her arm. “Nothing but skin and bone! What a pair, eh? Me like the side of a house and you like Twiggy!”

  Gina had been horrified to discover she was expecting again within months of giving birth to Julia. She was seven months pregnant now and worried constantly about how she was going to cope with two babies under the age of two. Each time they met, Louisa tried to reassure her, but she found it difficult. She knew what hard work a tiny baby was and couldn’t imagine how she would manage in Gina’s situation.

  “How’s Andy?” Louisa was trying to get off the subject of her weight.

  Gina’s face fell. “Don’t ask.”

  “What’s happened? Is he giving you a hard time about the baby?”

  Gina’s lower lip seemed to tremble. But then she gave a bright smile. Too bright, Louisa thought. “No, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s nothing. Take no notice of me. It’s just that I’m a year older and I feel like a fat frump. I wish we could get dressed up and go dancing!” She huffed out a laugh. “Next year, okay? Promise?”