Living in the Shadows

by Judith Barrow

  All my love, Seth. His love. The quiver in the depths of her stomach returned. He’d proved his love for her last night. She put the paper to her mouth and kissed his name, carefully sliding it back into its envelope before pushing it into her skirt-pocket again.

  In her bedroom she checked herself in the mirror. She thought he would approve of how she was dressed. She adjusted the beaded band around her forehead, pulled the peasant blouse further down her arms to show more of the red flower design she’d painted on her shoulder and flicked her blonde hair back, turning one way and then the other to admire the effect. Her long cotton skirt made a soft swishing sound as it flowed around her legs.

  The grandfather clock chimed a slow deep note. Half past nine. Richard would be on the train now. In a way she wished she’d been able to confide in him, tell him what she planned to do, despite her jealousy. There weren’t many secrets she kept from him, but Seth was one of them.

  Mum and Dad would be on their way back.

  Anxious, she hurried downstairs, almost tripping over the dog. ‘Out of the way, Gelert,’ she yelled, then bent down and hugged him quickly.

  As she pushed the photographs into her rucksack and drew the ties together a horn sounded, then there were lots of shouts. Gelert barked. He ran to the window and stood again with his front paws on the sill, looking out and growling. Seth was standing on the frame of the door of the yellow Volkswagen camper, the sides and roof festooned with painted flowers. He was banging the flat of his hand on the horn and laughing. The others were standing alongside, smiling and beckoning her. She laughed, waved back and slipped her feet into her sandals.

  Balancing the duffle-bag on the back of the settee, she loosened the tie and peered inside: a last check that she’d got everything.

  Gelert whined. Victoria hesitated, suddenly stilled by the enormity of what she was doing. A panicky feeling rose in her throat; what the hell was she doing? She dropped her duffle-bag and held on to the back of the settee. The dog took hold of one of the straps and some of her things were strewn onto the floor. ‘Leave it, Gelert.’ Her voice choked in her throat. She tussled with him to get it back, tears falling onto his head, and went into the kitchen. There she took one of his biscuits out of the tin in the cupboard and knelt alongside him, giving him the biscuit and a hug. ‘Sorry, boy,’ she whispered, ‘need to go.’

  She stood up and, looking into the kitchen mirror, blew her nose and wiped the smudged mascara from under her eyes. Idiot, she thought. This was what she wanted. She slung her bag on her shoulder and shook her skirt to make sure it flowed around her legs as she moved.

  Without a second glance, she slammed the cottage door behind her.

  The envelope holding the letter from Seth fluttered in the draught and slid under the settee.

  Chapter 5: William Howarth

  Ashford, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

  ‘There’s one more to look at before you knock off.’ Patrick Howarth threw a set of keys across to his nephew, who was drying his hands on a piece of towelling. ‘Mini on the forecourt. Wouldn’t start. Jack’s just towed it in.’

  Bloody Jack – shouldn’t even be in the garage, William Booth thought. His cousin was on leave, for God’s sake why hadn’t he just stayed away, met up with his Army pals, stopped at home? Anything but bugger about in the garage, bloody messing everything up.

  ‘I’ve finished for the day,’ he protested, pulling at the front of his overall until the press-studs popped open. ‘I told you this morning. I said I had to get done early; I’m meeting our Richard off the train.’

  ‘You’re done when I say so.’

  ‘I’ve finished all the jobs that were on the list.’ William felt the stirrings of anger. He pushed the legs of his overalls down with his feet and stepped out of them. He knew what Patrick was playing at; he didn’t like Uncle Peter just because he was German. But William didn’t understand why Patrick had carried that dislike forward to his nephew and niece.

  ‘Won’t do him any harm to wait a few minutes.’ Patrick scowled, then grinned. ‘Don’t think you’ll grumble when you see the driver. Tasty bit of stuff.’

  William hated the way his uncle eyed-up all the women customers – as though they’d fancy him, with his belly hanging over his trousers and his careful comb-over. ‘I’ll have a look at the car. But if it’s a big job it’ll have to wait ’til morning.’

  ‘It bloody won’t.’

  It bloody will, William thought. He turned away from Patrick. In all the five years he’d worked at his uncle’s garage he’d kept his temper. But one of these days the man would be sorry. Jobs were two-a-penny and garages were crying out for good mechanics. And William knew that he was good at his job. ‘I said I’ll have a look.’

  His uncle was right, though. The girl standing by the red Mini with the Union Jack roof was really pretty. Not as lovely as his Susan, but pretty. Her black hair streamed over a white short-sleeved crocheted top. A pink jacket, casually wrapped around her shoulders, matched the shortest skirt William had ever seen. How the hell does she get in and out of that car without showing all she’s got, he thought.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What happened, then?’ He dipped his head towards the car.

  ‘It just sort of stuttered and then stopped. I’m sorry,’ she added, ‘I heard you say you were finishing. But I’m desperate. I promised my … my stepfather I wouldn’t be late tonight. My mother’s in hospital … she’s … in hospital,’ she repeated. ‘I’m supposed to be visiting her.’

  ‘No problem. Let’s have a look.’ He sat in the driver’s seat with one leg out of the car and turned the key. Seconds later he was cursing Jack. No petrol. The dozy bugger must have known what was wrong with the blasted vehicle. He was evidently out to make a bit of extra cash before he went off to Northern Ireland. William felt a twinge of guilt for the irritation. He and Jack had never got on but according to what was in the news it was a bad situation he was being sent into.

  The self-reproach rapidly disappeared; Jack was all for going over there. Apparently it was what he’d signed up for – to ‘sort out the bastards’, he’d heard Jack say on more than one occasion. ‘Wilson has the right idea, sending in the Army.’

  There was no point in arguing with him. He’d always been arrogant. Just like his dad.

  And it wasn’t this girl’s fault that William felt so aggravated. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘You’ve run out of petrol.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t been driving long and my … stepfather usually takes it to the garage for me.’ She moved from one foot to the other, wobbling on her knee-high silver boots.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you back on the road.’ He took the handbrake off and, pushing the car nearer the pumps, unscrewed the petrol cap.

  Even though he was watching the gauge he could sense the girl’s tension. ‘It’s full now,’ he said, putting the nozzle back into place. ‘That’s three pounds ten.’

  ‘Keep the change.’ She pushed four one-pound notes in his hand.

  ‘No, I didn’t do anything.’ He jerked his head towards the garage. ‘I suppose they’ve already charged you for towing in?’

  ‘Yes. But it was my own fault. Please, take it.’ She moved quickly, folding herself into the car and closing the door. ‘Thanks again.’

  William sucked on his lower lip, watching her pull out too fast into the traffic. He frowned, then shrugged.

  Putting the money in the till in the corner of the garage he took out a ten-shilling note. He’d earned it. And it was better in his pocket than his greedy uncle’s.

  ‘I’ve gone.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder towards Patrick, shoving his arms into his leather jacket and then jamming his crash helmet on.

  Jack was standing astride the Triumph Trophy.

  ‘Get off,’ William snapped.

  ‘Make me.’ Jack grinned.

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to do that.’ William folded his arms. ‘Now get o
ff my fucking bike.’

  Slowly, still sniggering, his cousin swung his leg over the seat of the bike, deliberately kicking it.

  Gritting his teeth, William caught hold of the handlebars to stop it falling. He lifted the stand with his foot and rocked the bike on its wheels before opening the throttle and kick starting the engine.

  With a bit of luck he might just get to the station before the train arrived.

  Chapter 6: Richard Schormann

  Bradlow, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

  Richard Schormann swung the door of the carriage open and stepped down onto the platform at Bradlow. The damp air held the acrid taste of diesel. The draught, scattering dropped tickets and litter, snaked around his ankles. He shivered and glanced around. No sign of his cousin.

  He went into the waiting-room, put his suitcase onto one of the seats and felt in his pocket for his hearing-aids. He’d been glad to take them out as soon as he lost sight of his parents, standing arm-in-arm and frantically waving, on the bridge over the railway at Pont-y-Haven. Settling down in his seat and pulling the hood of his parka as far as possible over his face he’d slept, woke, watched passing coastline, fields, the backs of dreary houses and, from under his hood, the ever-moving silent mouths of his fellow passengers.

  Now he fitted the aids around each ear and sounds came rushing back: shouts, the thud of feet as the last few passengers left the platform, the hoot of the whistle and the rumble of the train as it ground slowly along the rails and out of the station.

  Unzipping his coat, Richard checked his reflection in the window. He adjusted the neck of his black polo-neck jumper and, bending his knees slightly to get a better look, combed his fringe over his forehead.

  The door opened, letting in more noise, and Richard fastened his parka, pulling the hood over his head. Not William. A woman, carrying shopping-bags in one hand and a sleeping child in her other arm, sat down with a sigh.

  ‘Waiting for my husband,’ she smiled, as though an explanation was expected.

  Richard nodded and returned the smile. ‘Waiting for my cousin,’ he said. There was an uncomfortable moment. ‘Think I should go and look out for him.’ He pushed his way through the door

  It closed with a click behind him. The platform was empty now. Across the rails, lines of waiting passengers stared across with indifferent, blank faces. In contrast to Llamroth, the place seemed unfriendly and, for the first time, the excitement of an interview in a big city hospital waned. He was almost guaranteed a place at Pont-y-Haven where his mother had worked and where his father was so well known. Was it worth all this anxiety? To go somewhere new?

  Even as he asked himself the question he knew the answer. However much he loved his parents, their over-protectiveness had stifled him all his life. His father’s hang-ups about being German were way over the top; his position in the village as the GP had always shielded him against resentment as far as Richard could tell.

  And his father’s nationality hadn’t caused any problems for Richard. Unlike Vicky, he’d never had any trouble making friends, even though, or perhaps because, he couldn’t hear properly. Maybe kids like Stephen, his best friend then, had liked being his mouthpiece.

  Leaving the station he looked up and down the road. Nothing. The other passengers had gone. He felt the reverberation of another train arriving. When he turned back to the platform an old freight-engine clanked slowly through the station, a long line of empty trucks behind it. There was no one else around except, at the far end, a porter pushing a trolley and chatting to the station-master who walked alongside him.

  His cousin had forgotten about him, there could be no other reason William wasn’t there. Hitching his rucksack onto his shoulder Richard dithered. It was only September but already the nights were drawing in and the weather didn’t help; the sinking sun could only be glimpsed now and then through layers of grey cloud in the steadily darkening sky.

  He remembered from past visits to the north of England that there was a bus-stop along the road from the station and decided to take his chance. There had to be a bus that went to Ashford eventually and, once there, he was sure he’d remember the way to Henshaw Street. The sky had blackened even more and he glanced upwards; hopefully the rain would hold off until one came.

  But then a sudden streak of lightning silhouetted the hills in the direction of Ashford, followed, after a few seconds by a low growl of thunder.

  He heard the muffled rumble before they came into view. At first he thought it was more thunder. But then, out of the shadows of the houses just beyond the railway station came a group of motorbikes. He peered round the fur of his hood. About fifteen of them. All the riders in black leather. Rockers. They’d see him as fair game: a Mod on his own.

  His skin tingled. He felt a sudden trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck. He’d been persuaded by some friends to go to Penarth in November two years ago. They’d said it would be a laugh but he’d never been so scared. They were almost caught up in the riots. Gangs of other Mods fighting with Rockers on the beach. Kicking hell out of each other. He’d not forgotten the fear.

  Things had quietened down since but they were still enemies. His heart thudded as he slowly turned his back to the road. The Rockers were now behind him. As the last bike passed him a light came on in the upstairs window of one of the houses, throwing his shadow against the wall. There was a shout. He held his breath, his stomach roller-coasting. The motorbikes slowed, revving grew louder. They were coming back. Idling a few feet away from him.

  ‘Hey, you little Mod!’

  Richard ran, his rucksack bouncing against his back. He swerved down the alleyway behind the houses, pulling over the dustbins at the back gates as he went. He heard a crash as the leading bike ran into one of them. A lid skidded alongside him, rolling unsteadily. He jumped over it. They couldn’t follow him.

  At the end of the alley he hesitated, crossed a road. There was another long rumble of thunder, followed almost immediately by a flashing sheet of lightning and more thunder. He stopped, grinned, the reprieve a surge of triumph. He’d lost them. He dived down a dark side street and then another, sweating under the weight of his parka. But then there they were again. Following slowly. Shouting and whooping. Taunting him. The beams of the headlights wavering around him.

  The outline of a cat darted in front of him, disappeared into the darkness. There was a yowl, then another.

  It started to rain: heavy slow drops at first and then faster, plastering his hair to his scalp. His rucksack slipped heavily down his arm. He let it drag along the ground, fingers clenched around one strap.

  Turning another corner he looked left, then right. At the end of the street he saw a main road: neon signs over shops, advertising boards illuminated by streetlights, people walking, crouched under umbrellas. He lengthened his stride. His throat and chest burned with the extra effort of taking in air.

  At first Richard didn’t see the red and white plastic barrier through the rain. But then he did. The street was fenced off. Roadworks. He was trapped.

  He faltered, choking on the iron taste that had risen in his throat. When he started to run again he couldn’t feel his legs. He willed himself forward, focussing on the barrier.

  At the same time he heard the Rockers open the throttle of their bikes, revving the engines as they closed in, yelling and shouting. The front wheel of the nearest caught the strap of Richard’s rucksack that trailed along the ground and momentarily threw him off balance. He staggered, wrenched at his bag but had to let it go. Now there were two motorbikes on either side of him. He could feel the heat of the engines even through his parka. They were cornering him. He felt a thump between his shoulders.

  And then he leapt over the barrier towards the main road, arms and legs flailing.

  Winded, Richard lay still, his eyes closed. He hurt.

  ‘Get in! Get in!’

  The voice was muffled. Instinctively he checked his hearing-aids. One was dislodged. He pushed it bac
k into place.

  ‘Hey, you. Get in.’

  He opened his eyes. It was a car, stopped in the road: a Mini, with the passenger door wide open. People walked around him, muttering disapproval. He rolled onto his side on the pavement. And then, with a start, he heard yelling. ‘Get the Mod. Don’t let the bastard escape! Come on, get ’im!’

  Scurrying on hands and knees, he scrambled into the car.

  An arm reached across him, slamming the door shut at the same time as the Mini set off, driving erratically into the traffic.

  ‘I saw you were in trouble way back. I thought I’d never find you in time.’

  Richard willed himself to stop shaking. He twisted his head to look at the girl. She was bent over the wheel, gripping it tightly and staring straight ahead. Her jawline was taut with concentration.

  ‘Thanks.’ He could hear the wobble in his voice. He cleared his throat. ‘Thanks,’ he said again, louder.

  ‘I’ve seen that lot before.’ Still she didn’t look at him but she raised her voice. ‘They would have half-killed you if they’d caught you. Mind you, you can really move when you run … er…?’

  ‘Richard.’ He’d heard the admiration in her voice. ‘It’s called being shit-scared,’ he said.

  She laughed, glancing across at him for the first time. ‘My name’s Karen.’

  ‘Hi… Karen.’ He inclined his head in a mock bow. ‘My saviour, isn’t it.’ He realised he was shaking. ‘I mean it. You did save me. Thanks. How did you know what was happening, though?’

  ‘I told you. I saw you being chased down Argus Street by that lot of clowns. I sounded my horn but you disappeared. I figured this was only main road you could be heading for. I had a line of cars behind me, I was driving so slowly. I just kept looking down every side-street.’ She laughed again. ‘But I certainly didn’t expect you to come leaping out like you did.’