The Color of Secrets (32 page)

The following Saturday Louisa was on her way to Wolverhampton. Only Gina and Eddie knew where she was going. Her mother and the children thought she was off to Shrewsbury to pick up a part for the tractor. Gina had made her pack an overnight bag.

“Why?” Louisa had protested. “She’s either going to be there or she’s not.” She had no intention of spending the night in Wolverhampton. She hadn’t wanted to go there at all. There were too many bad memories. But trying to contact her mother’s friend by phone had proved fruitless.

“What if she’s out?” Gina had argued. “What if some relative opens the door and tells you to come back later?” She had scribbled her mother’s phone number on the back of the Wolverhampton map. “If you get stuck, give her a ring.”

Now that she was on her way, Louisa wondered if she was doing the right thing. Ever since Eddie had given her that tantalizing glimpse of what had really happened between her mother and the American soldier, she had been desperate to find out more. The resentment and anger she had felt toward the man all these years had been swept away.
He wanted me
, she murmured. Just saying those few words felt like a betrayal of Eddie. She should have said something back when he gave her his blessing; spelled out what she felt inside—that no matter what happened, he would always be her father—but she was too distracted to give him that reassurance.

The idea of trying to find her real father filled her with a mixture of excitement and dread. He was almost certain to have married and had another family. What if he didn’t want to be found? She wasn’t sure she could handle that.

It had been difficult, trying to explain things to Tom, but his reaction had surprised her. Instead of asking awkward questions, he’d jumped out of his chair with excitement. “Does he live near Disneyland?” he’d yelled. “Can we go and visit him?” She’d had to admit that she didn’t know where he lived at the moment but was going to try to find out. He had accepted this without a word, but getting him to promise not to say anything to his grandma had been tricky.

Louisa knew that if she did manage to trace her real father, she was going to have to tell Eva. But there was no point upsetting her unnecessarily. She would worry about that if and when she managed to track down Cathy Garner. So she had given Tom an excuse that was as near the truth as she could make it: that Nan and his real granddad had been friends once but had had an argument, and Nan would be upset if she knew they were trying to get back in touch with him.

Even as she’d said the words, she had wondered how it had really ended. She decided something pretty awful must have happened for her mother to want to blot him out of her memory as if he had never existed. But what? She felt a flash of anger. What could be terrible enough to make a woman want her child to think she was the product of a meaningless sexual encounter?

Her head was buzzing with questions when, just after eleven o’clock in the morning, she drove into Wolverhampton. It looked very different from the way she remembered it. Huge new roads had been constructed around the town center in the years since she had left. She pulled into a pub parking lot to consult her map. The address Eddie had given her was on the other side of town from where they had lived. She set off slowly along the wide new highway, following signs that led north. Her heart was thudding in her chest, a combination of the anxiety she felt about what might lie ahead and fear of getting lost on the scarily unfamiliar road system. She was glad she didn’t have to drive through the town itself: past the cinema where she and Ray had met, and the cafés and pubs where they had done their courting.

Twenty minutes later she stopped again. She had just passed the enormous Goodyear tire factory, which Eddie had told her to look out for. She was only a couple of streets away from the one she was looking for, and soon she was cruising past a row of houses searching for number thirty-six. Her mother must have walked along this street dozens of times. She tried to picture her. She would have been several years younger than Louisa was now. She wondered if her mother had come here when she was pregnant. What Cathy Garner’s reaction had been when she found out her friend was going to have a black man’s baby. Louisa would never forget how it had felt to confess to her father that she was carrying an illegitimate baby. How much worse must it have been for her mother?

She caught sight of the number she was looking for and pulled up sharply. The house was much smarter than its neighbors. The windows and doors looked freshly painted, and the brickwork had been sandblasted to remove the grime that dulled the walls of the houses on either side. There were rosebushes in the tiny front garden, and the delicate lilac flowers of a wisteria framed the front door. Louisa sat for a moment, perspiration beading her forehead, trying to pluck up the courage to go and ring the bell.

She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror, gave herself a silent warning about not building up her hopes too much. There was every chance that Cathy Garner had disappeared without a trace. Directory Enquiries had said there was no Catherine Garner listed in the Wolverhampton phone book. When she had persisted, asking if there was a number listed for that address, the woman had told her that there was, but it was withheld from the public directory. She had refused to tell Louisa the name of the current occupant.

She climbed out of the Land Rover and took a deep breath. The scent of the roses filled her nostrils. She could hear the sound of children laughing and shouting farther up the street, and somewhere a dog was barking. As she stood there, tense and nervous, all the sounds, smells, and colors around her seemed to intensify. The sun came out from behind a cloud, giving the brickwork of number thirty-six a warm glow. She pushed open the little garden gate and walked purposefully up the path.

The bell sounded inside the house as she rang it, a melodic series of notes that triggered no other sounds that she could detect. She held her breath. Then she rang again. This time she heard something. The sound of heavy footsteps hurrying downstairs. Then she saw a blur of colors through the frosted glass panel of the door. Suddenly a tall, blond man with a tanned face was standing in front of her.

“I’m
. . .
er
. . .
looking for a Mrs. Garner,” Louisa stammered. “Mrs. Cathy Garner. Does she live here?”

“No, she doesn’t.” The man eyed her curiously. “She hasn’t lived here for a long time. What do you want her for?”

“Oh, I’m
. . .
” Louisa faltered, crushed by his words. “She and my mother were friends during the war. I’m trying to trace a relative, and I thought she might be able to help me.” She searched his face, thinking how foolish she must sound. “Have you any idea where she’s gone?”

“What was your mother’s name?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

“Eva.” Louisa blinked as a ray of sunlight reflected off the door into her eyes. “Eva Melrose.”

“Oh,” he said, a flicker of recognition transforming his face. “You’re not
. . .
” He was staring at her hard. “Are you Louisa?”

She gazed back at him, perplexed. “How
. . .
how do you know who I am? Who are you?”

He smiled, holding out his hand to her. “I’m Michael Garner. Cathy’s son.”

Chapter 35

Louisa followed Michael Garner into the house. She didn’t often meet men who towered over her, but he did.
He must be at least six foot four
, she thought. His short blond hair gave way to a muscular golden-brown neck. The color of his skin was emphasized by the white T-shirt he wore with his jeans. One sleeve of the T-shirt was fraying at the edge, and there was a smear of something like paint across the fabric covering his left shoulder blade. She wondered how old he was. He looked midthirties. How had he recognized her? She was sure she had never seen him before.

“Take a seat,” he said, leading her into the living room. The furniture was very modern, quite unlike anything they had at the farmhouse. A brown corduroy sofa with a cane frame stood behind a large, glass-topped coffee table. By the French windows was a huge wicker armchair with a circular back and brown and orange cushions. A wall unit in pale wood held a vast record collection and half a dozen silver-framed photos. The largest was a black-and-white wedding photo, showing a pretty, round-faced woman in a plain satin dress gazing into the eyes of a much longer-haired Michael. Beside it was a color picture of a smiling teenage girl.

“Have you come all the way from Wales?” Michael asked.

Louisa nodded, her brow furrowed. How did he know where she lived?

“Have you eaten? I was just about to make myself some soup and toast—would you like some?”

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude if you’re having lunch. I could come back later
. . .
” Louisa felt a sudden, unaccountable shyness. It was his eyes. They were the same blue as his jeans and crinkled at the edges when he smiled. There was something disarming about them, and she looked away.

“No, it’s no trouble.” He grinned, shrugging. “To be honest I’m glad of an excuse to stop—I’ve been wallpapering the bathroom all morning, and I hate decorating!” He disappeared around the door. “Is minestrone alright?” he called from the kitchen.

“Yes—lovely,” she called back. While she waited, she studied the photographs on the shelf. On closer inspection she saw that they were all of the same three people: Michael, his wife, and the girl—their daughter, presumably. She wondered where his wife was, what she would say if she came back to find a strange woman eating lunch with her husband.

They ate in the kitchen, which had a large table laid with raffia mats and a pottery vase filled with roses from the garden. He told her that Monica, his wife, was away at a Girl Guide camp with their daughter, whose name was Heather.

“Monica’s an Akela,” he said. “Daft title, isn’t it? But she’s always been very keen on the Guides. Couldn’t wait for Heather to be old enough to join. Do you have kids, Louisa?”

She nodded. “Yes, two. A boy and a girl. Tom’s ten and Rhiannon’s four.”

“That’s nice,” he said, and she thought she caught a wistful look in his eye, but it lasted only a split second. “I came to visit you in Wales, once,” he said, “but you wouldn’t remember: you were only a baby.”

“Oh.” She rested her spoon against the side of her bowl. “I was wondering how you recognized me.”

“Mum took me on the train. I must have been about nine or ten. We met up with your mother in Aberystwyth
. . .
” He paused, glancing down at the table. “You were there
. . .
and your brother.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “I’m so sorry about what happened to him. He was a great little kid—it must have been awful for your family.”

“Yes, it was.” Louisa nodded. “I don’t really remember him, which is sad. It affected my mother really badly
. . .
” She hesitated, biting her lip. “That’s partly why I’ve come here. Mum never talks about the past. She won’t talk about my real father at all.” She looked away, a blush rising to her cheeks. She suddenly felt naked under his gaze, realizing he might know more about her than she knew herself.

Michael pushed his bowl aside. “Mum told me something about what happened to your mother. I remember asking her about you when I was—I don’t know—thirteen or fourteen. She was writing Christmas cards, and she crossed your mum’s name off the list. I asked her why, and she told me she and your mum used to be very close friends, but so many sad things had happened to your mum when she was younger, she probably didn’t want to be reminded of them by getting cards from people she knew back then.”

He rested his elbow on the table and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I asked her what the bad things were, and she gave me what I think was a pretty honest account. She was always very straight with me as a kid.” He paused, glancing into her eyes for a second, as if weighing his words. “She told me about your real father being a black GI.” The words were spoken evenly. Louisa detected no hint of prejudice. “She told me how hard it was for him and your mum to be together,” he went on. “Evidently he was a great dancer. She said they met at one of the forces’ balls they used to have at the Civic Hall—and some white bloke flattened him just for dancing with her.”

Louisa leaned forward, her soup forgotten. “What else did she tell you? Did she say where he came from? What happened to him after the war?”

Michael shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can tell you much else—but I’m sure she could.”

A flash of confusion crossed Louisa’s face. She had assumed Cathy was dead. Michael saw her expression and gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I should’ve told you earlier—Mum moved to the Cotswolds. She married a man she met on holiday there. He owns a hotel, so she let me have this place.”

“Could I
. . .
I mean, would it be possible to talk to her on the phone?” Louisa’s heart was beating so hard, she felt as if her ribs would burst.

“I think we can do better than that.” He laughed. “Grab your coat—I’ll run you down there!”

Before they left, Louisa asked if she could use the bathroom. She smiled when she saw the state it was in. Two walls covered in paper, and the others bare plaster. She had protested when he offered to drive her to Cathy’s, but he had waved away her objections, saying there’d still be plenty of time to finish the decorating before his wife and daughter got back.

Coming out of the bathroom, Louisa couldn’t help noticing the bedrooms. Their doors were wide open. The walls of the first were completely covered with posters of the Osmonds:
Heather’s room
, she thought, smiling. Next to it was a larger room with a double bed, the covers rumpled and a pair of jeans lying in a heap on the floor. The dressing table was bare, apart from a comb and a bottle of aftershave. Two guitars were propped on stands beside it. The remaining room had a single bed and was fussily decorated in pinks and lilacs. She assumed this was the guest room, but then she noticed a pink lacy nightdress draped across a chair by the single bed. On the floor beside it were matching satin slippers. Scent bottles and makeup cluttered the dressing table, along with half a dozen bottles of tablets.
Odd
, Louisa thought. It looked very much lived-in, but by whom?

Michael didn’t talk about his family as they drove past the factories and canals, heading southwest. He wanted to know all about her life: what it was like to live on a farm, and how she had come to the decision to start searching for her father.

Soon they were driving through a rural landscape whose contours were less rugged and dramatic than Wales but no less beautiful. The journey had passed quickly. She felt she had talked far too much about herself. She wanted to know more about him. Tentatively she admitted glimpsing the guitars in the bedroom.

He told her about his double life as an engineer at Goodyear’s by day and a bass player with a local band by night. “We’re not quite in the same league as Slade.” He grinned. “But it’s a good laugh—keeps me in beer money!”

“What kind of music do you play?” She glanced at his hand as he changed gear. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Oh, you know, Stones, Jimi Hendrix, all kinds, really.”

“Who’s your favorite?”

He laughed. “That’s a tough one. From the past, it’d have to be Jimi. At the moment, I’d say T. Rex. Have you heard ‘Twentieth Century Boy’?”

She nodded. “I keep meaning to buy it—we can’t pick up the radio at the farm because it’s so remote. The only time I get to hear it is when I’m driving.”

“What about your husband?” he asked. “What kind of thing is he into?”

His eyes flickered with surprise when she told him she was a widow. But there were no probing questions. He seemed to accept that she didn’t want to explain how her husband had met his death at such an early age. She talked instead about living in Wolverhampton as a child, about the shock of the racism she had encountered, and the lengths she had gone to hide her color. She had never talked to anyone but Gina about this before. Why was she telling him? She paused, glancing at his profile as he scanned the road ahead. It was because he knew all about her already. She had no need to hide anything, no need to pretend she was someone she wasn’t. With this man she could be herself.

He pulled in by a picture-postcard building with stonewalls the color of honey and a stream, with its own wooden bridge, running through the grounds. “Welcome to the Boatman’s Arms.” He smiled. “Shall we go and find my mum?”

If Cathy Garner was surprised at the identity of her son’s guest, she didn’t show it. She was tiny beside Michael, her graying hair swept up in a bun. She wore a camel-colored cashmere sweater with a knee-length black skirt and black patent leather pumps. When Louisa went to shake her hand, she pulled her into a hug. “I had a feeling you might come looking for me one day,” she said. “I’m so glad you found Mikey.”

She led them both into a small sitting room overlooking the stream. In the corner was a cream damask ottoman, from which she took a leather-bound photograph album. “This is me and your mother in our railway days.” She smiled, handing Louisa the open album. “Although you’d hardly recognize us in that getup! That’s Eva, with the cap.”

Louisa stared at the black-and-white photo of women with spades ranged along a stretch of railway line. The baggy clothes and the peaked cap couldn’t conceal her mother’s stunning good looks. Her face was bright and free of the worry lines that marked it so deeply now. Long tendrils of hair had escaped from the cap, giving some hint of what it must have been like before the short, unflattering style her mother had worn for as long as Louisa could remember. It seemed almost unbelievable that she had done such hard, physical work when nowadays she found it difficult to climb the farmhouse stairs.

A tray of tea and cakes was brought into the room by a young girl in a striped apron. “Thank you, Sheila,” Cathy said. “Now, Louisa,” she went on, turning a page of the album. “This is the one you’ll want to see.”

Louisa’s mouth went dry. Dressed in a US Army uniform, with his arm around her smiling mother, was a tall, athletic-looking young man with the face of an Egyptian pharaoh. The sunlight had caught his high cheekbones and his huge dark eyes—which were just like Tom’s—twinkled with mischief.

“You’ve got his smile.” Cathy’s voice seemed to come from a hundred miles away. “As soon as I saw you, I thought: oh, yes, that’s Bill’s girl.”

Louisa blinked back the tears welling up. “I
. . .
I’ve always wondered what he looked like,” she stammered, “and now that I’ve seen him
. . .
it’s so
. . .
I’m sorry!” She fumbled for a tissue, suddenly aware of Michael’s hand on her arm.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It was bound to be a shock. Here, drink this.” He handed her a cup of tea. “Sugar?”

She shook her head. “It
is
a shock.” She sniffed. Turning to Cathy, she said, “Mum would never talk about him. For years and years I’ve tried to push him out of my mind. She told me she couldn’t remember his name
. . .
” she faltered, struggling against the tidal wave of emotion his face had unleashed. “You can imagine what I thought: I had no idea he even knew I existed, until a few days ago.”

Cathy pressed her lips together as if she was uncertain how much more to reveal. “There was a reason for your mother’s silence, you know,” she said gently. “I can still see her face, the way she looked at me after your brother’s funeral.” She looked down at her teacup, a frown wrinkling her high forehead. “She blamed herself for his death, you see. Not directly, you understand—it was the typhoid epidemic that killed him, poor little mite.” She paused for a moment, then met Louisa’s eyes with the same direct gaze as her son. “The reason she blamed herself was because if she hadn’t been to Aberystwyth to meet us that day, David would never have contracted the disease.”

Louisa frowned. “But that was just chance, surely?”

“Yes, you’re right of course, but that wasn’t the way Eva saw it. She’d come to meet Mikey and me because I was taking her a parcel that had arrived at her old house in Wolverhampton. It was from Bill.”

Louisa’s eyes widened. “He was still in touch with her after the war ended?”

“Not exactly, no. She lost track of him after he was sent to France for the D-day landings.” Cathy told her the story of Eddie’s sudden, unexpected return, of his letter to Bill and Eva’s attempt to rebuild her life after the war. “So when she got that parcel, with a little outfit he’d sent for your birthday, it set it all off again. He said he’d rejoined the army and was about to be posted abroad. She was fired up by the idea that he might be sent back to this country. That was the only way they could have been together, you see.”