The Color of Secrets (8 page)

Then another nagging voice started up. What if he was tired of her? What if he had decided life was too short to stick to just one girl? All the presents he’d given her—the nylons, the chocolate, the fruit, and the whiskey—how many girls would give their eyeteeth for those things, especially when the giver was so gorgeous?

Her fingers were on the straps of her handbag, pulling distractedly at them. There was a package inside it for him. She had felt so uneasy about his generosity and wanted to give him something in return. He had laughed when she asked if there was anything he needed, grabbing her around the waist and giving her a long, lingering kiss. “This is all I need,” he’d whispered, “nothing else.” But she had persisted, and in the end he had told her the one thing he really would like was a book.

“Well, that’s easy,” she’d replied. “What sort of thing do you like?”

He had looked away, then, and muttered something she couldn’t catch. When she’d prompted him, he said, “You choose. You’re the expert, aren’t you? Working in a library and all.” Then the penny had dropped. He’d hinted at a childhood where money was short.
Were books as unattainable as musical instruments?
If so, this was something she could remedy. Her books were among the few possessions to have survived the bombing. Stashed under her bed in wooden boxes, they had been better protected than almost anything else in the house.

It had been a difficult decision, choosing the right book for him. In the end she had gone for
Three Men in a Boat
, because it was funny and involved a journey through a very English landscape. Then, when she was wrapping it up, she had slipped in a slim volume of love poems in case he was in any doubt about the strength of her feelings.

Now the hard edges of the parcel pressed against her legs through the fabric of the bag on her lap. She felt terribly alone, sitting there with an offering so tender, so personal, when he was somewhere else.
With
someone else.

When the film ended, she stayed in her seat as everyone else got to their feet.

“Come on,” Dilys said. “He could be waiting outside—maybe they wouldn’t let him in.”

“Why wouldn’t they? We’ve been coming here every week for the past three months!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dilys shrugged. “He could have got into a fight or something—you know what it’s like when the two of you are out together. Some people take offense, don’t they?”

“But
I
wasn’t with him, was I?” Eva hissed. “Why would anyone pick a fight with him if he was on his own?”

“Don’t ask me!” Dilys grabbed Eva’s arm and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, you’re not going to solve anything by staying here, are you?”

Eva allowed herself to be pushed forward by the throng of people leaving the cinema. Outside a gust of wind blew a pile of brittle leaves against her legs. A few of them caught on her stockings. “Damn,” she said, snagging them as she pulled the leaves off. She gulped as she felt tears threaten. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come? Through blurred eyes she saw a figure running across the street.

“Eva!” He ran up to her, his face beaded with perspiration. “I’m so sorry! I couldn’t get here any sooner—it’s Jimmy,” he paused to catch his breath, “he’s been arrested!”

“What?” Eva blinked. “What’s happened?”

“You know that girl he was seeing?”

She nodded.

“She’s pregnant,” Bill gasped, “and she’s telling everyone he raped her!”

“Raped her?” Eva echoed. “But it’s not true, is it?”

“Absolutely not true.” Bill grasped her hands, panic in his eyes. “But when her folks found out she’d been seeing a black guy, they just hit the roof. Her daddy’s a powerful man, Eva. He says Jimmy’s going to hang for what he’s done.”

Chapter 9

O
CTOBER 1943

They met in the cinema again the following Saturday, but neither of them watched the film. Leaving Anton and Dilys in their seats, they crept to the back and sat on the floor with their backs against the wall, talking in whispers.

“They’ve taken Jimmy to the glasshouse,” Bill said, tugging distractedly at the lapel of his jacket.

“What?” Eva stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Some old prison miles away from here. A place called Shepton Mallet. US Army’s taken it over.” He sniffed. “Guess they’re keeping him there till they decide what to do with him.”

“What do you mean?” Eva peered at his face in the darkness.

“Well, it’s a straight choice, isn’t it?” Bill hissed. “They’ll either hang him or shoot him!” He gave a deep sigh that was almost a sob, and people on the back row turned to shush them.

“But how can they do that?” Eva whispered, taking his hand. “That girl’s lying! Can’t you tell them that?”

“God knows I’ve tried, but nobody listens.” He drew in a breath, shaking his head. “You don’t know what it’s like. We’re
nothing
in their eyes. If a white girl says it happened one way and a colored guy says another, who do you think they’re going to believe?”

Eva fell silent. The memory of the soldier who had felled Bill with a punch that first night at the Civic Hall came flooding back. If that was what they did to a black man just for
dancing
with a white girl
. . .
She reached out, pulling him to her. His head sank onto her shoulder, and she sat rocking him to and fro, his tears seeping through her woolen sweater.

Like David
, she thought. How could she possibly tell him now?

At work on Monday the trumped-up rape case was the talk of the station canteen. Although the girl’s name had never been mentioned in the newspaper reports, it was being bandied about by some of the women on the rail gang. Betty Pelham had let it drop that her sister was Philippa’s parents’ housekeeper.

“You should see the house,” she said, a lump of sausage on its way to her mouth. “I had a sneaky look once when they were away on holiday. It’s got three bathrooms, a billiard room, and this enormous glass aviary full of parrots and things. And you should see the cars they’ve got! Two Bentleys and a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.”

The others gaped as she stuffed the food into her mouth, agog for more juicy gossip.

“It wouldn’t be anywhere round here, then,” Eva said, her heart beating faster as she tried to sound casual. “I suppose it’s in Finchfield. Or Tettenhall.”

“No, it isn’t.” The sound of the words was distorted by Betty speaking with her mouth full, so eager was she to correct her. “It’s up on Goldthorn Hill. A big black-and-white place right at the top: Rookery House, it’s called.”

It took Eva nearly an hour to walk to the mock-Tudor pile on the hill. She set off first thing on Saturday morning, pushing David in his pram. There was a cold wind, but by the time she got to the top, she could feel the perspiration running down her temples. She stopped when she caught sight of the place. It was surrounded by a thick stone wall with a castellated top. Even standing on tiptoe, she couldn’t see over it. She followed the wall around a corner and came upon a pair of huge wrought-iron gates. She peered through and glimpsed a red-tiled veranda and a black-painted door with polished carriage lamps on either side of it.

She watched and waited for a while, but there was no sign of life. There was a whimper from the pram. David was stirring in his sleep. He’d be awake soon and hungry, probably. She wondered what to do. Suddenly she saw a flash of color behind the laurel bushes fringing the house and the end of a broom pushing leaves into a pile.

“Excuse me!” She tried not to shout, not wanting to wake David. “Hello!” She tried again. The broom disappeared and a thin old man in a tweed jacket came ambling toward her.

“What do you want?” He peered through the iron gates.

“I’m a friend of Philippa’s,” she said, trotting it out just as she had planned. She was amazed at how confident her voice sounded. “Is she in?”

“No she isn’t,” the man said, raising an eyebrow as he caught sight of the pram. “They’ve gone away.”

“Gone
. . .
” Eva’s voice faltered. She swallowed in an effort to clear her throat. “When will they be back?”

“They didn’t say.” There was a superior look on his face. “Two weeks, maybe three. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No,” she said, turning away. “No message.”

That night Eva and Bill sat in the air-raid shelter just holding each other in the dark, listening to the music coming from the dance hall.

“I thought if I could just talk to her,” Eva said, “I could maybe change her mind. Get her to tell the truth. I felt so stupid when he said she’d gone away.”

Bill sighed as he stroked her hair. “You took one hell of a risk. No telling what could have happened if her old man had been home.”

“I didn’t think about that. I just wanted to
do
something. You said they wouldn’t listen to you, so I thought
. . .
”

“I know, I know,” he whispered, “and I appreciate what you tried to do. But folks like that—rich, powerful folks—there’s no way you’re gonna change their mind. Not even if you’re the same color as they are.”

In the gloom of the shelter she touched his face, half expecting to feel tears on his skin. But she sensed he was beyond that now, as if he had resigned himself to Jimmy’s fate. He had given her so much, and now she felt she had failed him. Moving closer, she kissed him, her lips lingering on his, longing to blot out his misery.

“I’ve been reading that book you gave me,” he said when they drew apart. “It’s beautiful.”

“Really?” The beam of his torch, suspended from the ceiling, caught her puzzled face. Of all the words she might have chosen to describe
Three Men in a Boat
, “beautiful” would not have occurred to her.

“I mean the love poems, not the novel—I haven’t read that yet.”

“Oh,” she smiled. “I’m glad you liked them. Which was your favorite?”

“That’s hard to say.” He ran his finger along her jawline, cupping her chin in his hand. “The sonnets by Shakespeare—well, they’re amazing, of course, and that one about the flea—John Donne, was it?—that made me smile. But the one I like best?” He paused, pursing his lips. “Well, it’s a little bit strange: I’m not sure anyone else would choose it. It’s called ‘A Sanskrit Proverb’
—
about the crocodile. Do you remember it?”

Eva’s look of puzzlement deepened. “Yes, I do:
Love is a crocodile on the river of desire
. . .
”

“That’s the one.”

“Are you serious?” Eva reached up for the torch, batting it with her hand so that the beam fell on his face. “Why that one?”

“Because love is a risk, isn’t it? Like the guy says, life is dangerous enough, but falling in love is like swimming in a river full of crocodiles.” He leaned toward her, snapped his jaws, and chuckled as he went to kiss her.

“Is that what you really think?” She turned away, hurt that he was making light of it.

“Don’t you?” He cupped her chin in his hand again, turning her back to face him. “Don’t you think that loving somebody is dangerous?”

“Like Jimmy and Philippa, you mean?”

He shook his head. “That wasn’t love.”

“You don’t think he loved her?”

“I know so. He told me.”

A silence descended. Another question hung in the air, with an unspoken answer.

And what about you?
The words beat a tattoo inside her head as she leaned forward to kiss him. She was afraid to ask, afraid to know the answer.