The Color of Secrets (35 page)

Louisa trudged back along the muddy track and kicked off her boots, slumping into one of the kitchen chairs. She felt emotionally drained and somehow cheated. She took Bill’s photograph from her pocket. Her mother had kept him under wraps for so long—was it really surprising she had refused to open up? She stared at the smiling faces in the picture.
It was almost as if Mum was happy someone else had done her dirty work for her,
Louisa thought bitterly.

The sound of the telephone made her jump to her feet. She slid the photo back into her shirt pocket, instinctively guilty about leaving it lying around. When she heard the voice at the end of the phone, she caught her breath. It was Michael.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ve found something that might be of help,” he said. “I got hold of the newspaper report of the hanging. It didn’t mention your father, but it did mention the name of the army chaplain attached to the Quartermaster Corps. There’s a good chance he’d have information about your father.”

“Oh! Do you
. . .
would he
. . .
” Louisa stammered, too excited to get the words out. “Would he still be alive?”

“I think so. There’s a photo, and he looks quite young. His name’s Father Diarmuid Corrigan. I don’t reckon it’d be too hard to track him down. Shall I start making a few inquiries?”

“Are you sure? I mean, I should do it myself, shouldn’t I?” Her mind was reeling, wondering where to start.

“Well, it’s up to you, of course, but I really don’t mind. I’m going on a business trip to the States next month—I could put a few feelers out then, if you like.”

“Would you?” She wanted to reach down the phone and hug him.

Chapter 38

It took Michael three months to track down Father Corrigan. He had retired from the army and was running a Catholic mission in India. Michael tried contacting him by phone, only to be told the priest had gone on a fund-raising tour in America. But the week before Christmas Louisa received the call she’d been waiting for.

“I finally got him!” Michael sounded almost as excited as she was. “He remembers your father and he knows his first name: it’s Wilbur.”

“Wilbur?” It was a name she would never have guessed. In all the long nights she’d lain awake reeling off possible names like the princess in Rumpelstiltskin, that one had never occurred to her.

“I know,” Michael chuckled down the phone, “Wilbur Willis: not surprising he got called Bill, is it?”

“Did he remember anything else about him?”

“Nothing that’s going to help you much, I’m afraid. He hasn’t seen him since the Quartermaster Corps sailed into New York at the end of the war. He said some very nice things about him, though.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he said how determined he’d been that you’d be looked after, and wouldn’t grow up without a father the way he had.”

“Oh.” Louisa stared at the receiver. So he’d been brought up by a single parent. A woman on her own, like herself.

“He said he was very upset when he got a letter from your dad saying he was going to adopt you. He went to Father Corrigan for advice about what to do.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told him that because your mother was married and not a widow, there was nothing he could do. Even though he was your real father, he wouldn’t have had any legal right to claim you.”

“So he couldn’t have sent me to the States?”

“No. He wouldn’t have been allowed to.”

“I see.” Louisa’s stomach was in knots. She pulled a stool up to the phone and sank down onto it.
So that was why he didn’t put up a fight
, she thought. She wondered how he must have felt, knowing he had a daughter he was never likely to see.

“Evidently he didn’t even know your name,” Michael went on. “He showed Father Corrigan the letter your stepdad sent. All it said was that you were a girl.”

Louisa felt the sting of tears. “Isn’t that sad?” she whispered. “I didn’t know his name and he didn’t know mine.”

“What are you going to do now?” she heard Michael say.

She took a breath. “Well, I’ve got an initial now, so I can contact the American Embassy, can’t I?”

“Will you let me know how you get on?”

“Of course I will!” Did he really think she was going to cut him off after all he’d done for her? “Actually,” she said, “I’d really like to thank you properly.” She paused, suddenly shy about what she was about to suggest. “I don’t suppose you’re ever in this neck of the woods, are you? I’d like to take you out for a meal or something.” She heard him take a breath. “Your wife and daughter too, of course.”

“That might be a bit tricky.”

There was an awkward silence. Clearly she’d put him on the spot. She wondered why but didn’t dare ask. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Probably a stupid idea. Never mind.”

“No—it’s not that. I’d really like to come down. In fact one of my mates in the band has a holiday cottage not far from you. He’s always offering to let me stay there.”

“Oh? Where is it?”

“A place called Ynyslas. Just north of Aberystwyth. He says it’s very wild and beautiful. Just miles of sand dunes and salt marshes.”

“Yes, I know it.” Louisa smiled. She and Gina often took the children there in summer. Even at the height of the season you could escape from the crowds on its vast, sandy beach.

“Perhaps I’ll come down in the spring,” he said. “It’d probably just be me and Heather, though—it’s not really Monica’s scene.”

This struck Louisa as odd. She remembered Michael saying his wife liked to go camping. Why would a woman like that not want to spend time in a seaside cottage?

“That’d be great,” she said, realizing with a pang of guilt that she was really glad Monica wouldn’t be coming. When she hung up, she raced to the cupboard where she kept stationery and dashed off a letter to the American Embassy. She had written it in her head a hundred times. All she needed to add was that precious first name.

Over the Christmas holidays she tried to put the letter out of her thoughts, knowing that it would probably be weeks before she received a reply. But it was difficult to keep her mind from running on, imagining the possibility of finding her father, of meeting him for the first time.

She told Eddie what had happened, and he warned her not to get too excited. He pointed out that if Bill had made a career in the army, he probably would have been sent to Korea or Vietnam. Louisa knew what he was saying. She had already told herself that Bill could be dead. But in her heart she couldn’t believe it.

Two days after posting the letter to the embassy, she went to see Rhiannon in the school Nativity play. Although she was one of the youngest children there, she’d been given a starring role. Dressed as a snowflake, she had to dance up the aisle of the chapel and sing a solo in Welsh. Louisa’s heart was pounding as she watched, wondering if her daughter would be overcome with last-minute nerves. But she needn’t have worried. There were gasps from the audience as Rhiannon glided past, graceful as a swan in her lacy white outfit. And when she opened her mouth to sing, the big voice that emerged from her little body filled the whole chapel. Louisa sat there with tears in her eyes. She had been fearful for her daughter, worried about racist comments from the other parents. But all she could hear were whispers of admiration. She found herself remembering Michael’s words about her father.
Evidently he was a great dancer. How wonderful
, she thought,
if one day he could see his granddaughter dance
.

On the fifth of January a letter arrived from the embassy informing her that all records of American servicemen sent to Britain during the 1940s had been destroyed in a fire. “Records are available only from nineteen-sixty onward,” the letter read. “There is no Wilbur Willis listed in existing US Army recruitment files whose date of birth would have enabled service during World War Two.”

Louisa stared at the letter, bewildered, all her hopes and dreams shattered in a few short lines. Her first instinct was to phone Michael. He would know what to do.

A female voice answered. Heather? Or Monica?

“Er, could I speak to Michael Garner, please?” She wondered if either of them would know who she was.

“Hold on a moment, please. I’ll just get him.” The voice was self-consciously polite.
Heather,
Louisa thought. His wife would have been sure to ask for a name.

It was a couple of minutes before Michael picked up the phone. He sounded flustered when he heard her voice and gasped in disappointment when she told him her news.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll get onto the chap in our American office. He’s the one who helped me track down Father Corrigan. He might have some ideas.”

They chatted for a few minutes, and when she put the phone down, she felt more optimistic. Michael had told her he’d booked a week at his friend’s cottage. He and his daughter were coming for Whitsun week at the end of May. She glanced at the calendar on the wall. Was it too much to hope that Michael might have found her father by then?

As the weeks rolled by, her hopes began to fade. Michael’s American colleague had drawn a blank. The only thing he could suggest was a genealogy service run by the Mormon Church in Utah.

“He said they have records of everyone in America, and you could write to them and request a list of all the Willises,” Michael said when he phoned.

“What do you think?” She tried not to sound disappointed. “It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack, wouldn’t it?”

“It is a long shot.” She heard him take a breath. “I think it’s worth a try, though. They’d be listed on a state-by-state basis, so if you get hold of the list, you’d be able to see how many W. Willises there are in the two states we know he had connections with. It might not be too horrendous. If it’s under a hundred, say, we could start sending out letters.”

“But he could be living anywhere, couldn’t he?”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry—it’s not much good. But I’ve run out of ideas.”

She wondered if he was losing patience with her.

“I’m
. . .
really looking forward to our trip to Wales.” He sounded tentative. “Do you still want to meet up?”

“Of course I do!” She bit her lip. “Listen, whatever happens—whether I find him or not—I’ll always be grateful for the way you’ve tried to help. I hope you realize that.”

“Okay,” he said. “So are you going to send off for that list?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “And if it rains when you come on holiday, you can help me go through it!”

But by the end of May the list hadn’t arrived. And it didn’t rain. Whitsun week was so hot that the first thing Michael and his daughter did when they arrived at the cottage was to run down to the sea and jump in. He laughed as he told Louisa about it. She had driven to Ynyslas the next day with Tom and Rhiannon, who were both hot and sticky and only too happy to be whisked off for a paddle by Heather.

“How old is she?” Louisa asked, as they spread blankets in a little hollow in the dunes.

“Fifteen.” Michael grinned. “Going on twenty-five!”

“She does look a lot older.” Louisa took a flask of iced coffee from her bag and offered him a cup. “What’s she planning to do when she leaves school?”

“She wants to be a doctor.”

“Wow.”

“She’s about to sit for her O-levels. I don’t know who’s more nervous: her or me!” He pulled off his shirt, and Louisa felt a familiar surge in her stomach, the same sensation as when she’d bumped into him at the stile in the woods. That was nearly a year ago. This morning, in the mirror, she’d told herself very sternly that Michael was a friend. That he could never be anything else. So why was she feeling like this?

She looked away, uncomfortable in the heat. Her long-sleeved top was creased from the journey, and her jeans felt as if they’d been toasted in front of a fire. A floppy sunhat shaded her face.