Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  Table of Contents

  Contents Also by Judith Barrow

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89 Also from Judith Barrow

  ABOUT HONNO

  Changing Patterns

  by

  Judith Barrow

  HONNO MODERN FICTION

  Also by Judith Barrow

  Pattern of Shadows

  For David

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to express my gratitude to those who helped in the publishing of Changing Patterns…

  To all the staff at Honno for their individual expertise, advice and help. To Janet Thomas for her thoughtful and empathetic editing.

  A special thanks to my dear friend and fellow author, Sharon Tregenza, for her constructive criticism and encouragement throughout.

  Lastly, as ever, for David; always by my side, always believing in me.

  Chapter 1

  16th June 1950 Llanroth, Wales

  Sometimes Mary couldn’t believe he was there. She would reach out and touch Peter just to reassure herself that after five years apart they were together again. He’d given up a lot to be with her.

  ‘You are happy?’ He slung his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

  The breeze ruffled their hair. The tide was on the turn and Mary watched the waves collide and dissolve. High above, gulls hung motionless, their cries lost in the air currents.

  ‘Mmm.’ Mary rested against him. The smell of the mown lawn on his skin mingled with the salty tang of spray blown off the sea and the faint smell of pipe tobacco. ‘You?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She turned her head to look at him, brushed a few blades of grass from his cheek. In the four months since he’d found her he’d lost the gaunt pallor, the weariness, and gained a quiet contentment.

  ‘It is good, the two of us sitting here, alone,’ he said.

  ‘Tom won’t be long though, he’ll be back from Gwyneth’s soon. He said he was only just digging her vegetable plot over for planting tomorrow.’

  ‘I do not mean Tom. He is family.’

  Mary allowed a beat to pass. ‘I know you didn’t, love. And I know what you really mean. But it’s not our problem. If people don’t like our being together that’s their lookout.’ She kissed him. His mouth was warm; the tip of his tongue traced the inside of her lips. Through the thin cotton of her dress she felt his hand cup her breast.

  Smiling she drew back. ‘Tom?’ she murmured, her voice rueful.

  They sat peacefully on the doorstep of the cottage, each savouring the other’s closeness.

  Gradually the sun disappeared behind the cliffs. The trees became shifting silhouettes and the wind slapped the surface of the sea into rolling metallic arcs and carried the spray towards the cottage. Mary licked her lips, tasted the salt.

  ‘It’s getting chilly.’ She shivered.

  Peter stood, reached down and lifted her to her feet, holding her to him. ‘Ich liebe dich, my Mary.’

  ‘And I love you.’

  A few moments passed before she forced herself to stand back and, giving him a quick kiss, take in a long breath. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’m late sorting tea out. If you put those things away, I’ll go and give that batter a whisk. I’m making Spam fritters to go with that mash from last night.’

  She stood on the top step watching him walk down the gravel path to where he’d left the lawnmower and then glanced towards the cottage next door. Although it was only just dusk the window in Gwyneth Griffith’s parlour suddenly lit up and the oblong pattern spilled across the garden. Tom emerged out of the shadows swinging a spade in his hand and turned onto the lane. Mary waved to him and he waggled the spade in acknowledgement. ‘Tom’s coming now,’ she called out to Peter. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on. He’ll want a brew before he eats.’

  The van came from nowhere, a flash of white. Mary saw it veer to the right towards Tom. Hurtling close to the side of the lane, it drove along the grass verge, smashing against the overhanging branches of the blackthorn. Caught in the headlights, her brother had no time and nowhere to go. Frozen, Mary watched as he was flung into the air. She heard the squeal of the engine and the heavy thud of his body on the bonnet of the van. The spade clattered along the tarmac. Peter threw open the gate and was running before she could move.

  ‘Tom,’ she heard him yell. Somewhere, someone was screaming. She was screaming.

  The van had gone.

  Stumbling towards the inert body of her brother, she passed one of his wellington boots. Looking up she saw the other incongruously dangling from a branch. There was a crunch under her shoe and she bent down to pick up Tom’s spectacles. One lens was shattered and it fell from the frame as she held it to her breast. She didn’t feel the glass cut into her fingers. The van’s engine faded into nothing. The only noise was the awful sound of Tom’s guttural breathing. Peter gently turned him over, cradling his head.

  Trembling Mary dropped to her knees. Tom’s eyes were closed, his face a blank mask.

  ‘Help him, Peter.’ Mary forced the words past the hard lump in her throat, all her nursing training deserting her. ‘Help him. Please…’

  Tom took a long shuddering breath.

  In the fading light Mary watched the dark pool of blood spread.

  Chapter 2

  Ashford, North of England

  ‘You think all you need to do is flutter your eyelas
hes and Ted will let you do anything. Well, let me tell you, my lady, one day, you’ll come unstuck.’ Hannah Booth narrowed her eyes as she glared at her daughter-in-law and took a long noisy slurp of tea.

  Ellen chopped the onions with quick impatient cuts, willing herself not to react to the constant carping.

  ‘Leaving me to look after William and…’ Hannah wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘And the other one.’

  ‘She’s called Linda. God above, can’t you even say her name? My – our daughter is called Linda. L-i-n-d-a.’ Ellen glared at Hannah.

  There was a moment of apprehension on the older woman’s face before she spoke again, this time with triumph.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t tell him how long you were out this morning, doing the so-called shopping…’

  ‘What else do you think I was doing, Hannah?’ Ellen clenched her jaw. ‘I was in that queue outside the butcher’s over an hour.’ Her feet still tingled with pins and needles from standing so long.

  ‘And what did you bring home?’ Hannah pushed a fat forefinger at the small brown paper parcel on the kitchen table, the blood already seeping through. ‘Two ounces of lamb’s liver. Hardly enough for one.’

  ‘That one being you, of course.’

  ‘Well, why not? I need the iron, the doctor said.’ Hannah banged her mug of tea down on the table and crossed her arms across her large bosom.

  ‘Because it’s Ted’s money that bought it and it’s Ted that’ll be coming home from work hungry.’ It was an automatic response. But to be honest, the way Ellen was feeling about him these days, he could whistle for his tea. She was sick to death of him going on about how good his new shop assistant was. Anybody would think he fancied her.

  A small chill settled in her stomach. She pushed it away, aware that Hannah was still watching her.

  ‘And you’ll cook it before you go off gallivanting, will you?’

  ‘It’s work. My singing … is my work.’ Ellen ground out the words as she threw the onions into the frying pan and gave then a stir.

  Hannah snorted. ‘Work? Prancing about in front of some blokes with nothing better to do? In a frock that leaves nothing to the imagination?’

  ‘I sing in a respectable club.’

  ‘Huh!’

  Ellen turned the gas off on the cooker. She couldn’t bear to be in the same room as the woman any longer. She washed her hands, getting as much lather as she could from the hard green bar of soap; she wasn’t leaving the house stinking of onions. ‘I’m going to get ready.’ Sod the liver. They could fight over who would have it when he came home. And his mother could cook it. It would make her get up off her fat backside. ‘I’m not having this argument again, Hannah.’

  ‘You’re not leaving before Ted gets home?’ It was as much a challenge as a question.

  Ellen stopped on the first tread of the stairs, holding back the heavy green curtain. She didn’t turn around. ‘The kids are in bed if that’s what you’re worrying about.’

  ‘I’m not. I don’t mind looking out for William.’

  ‘There are two children up there.’ Ellen’s fingernails dug into her palm. ‘Are you saying you won’t look out for Linda? Should I tell Ted you said that?’ She spun around to face Hannah.

  Hannah scowled. ‘I just said…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Good.’

  When Ellen came back downstairs she wore the new black satin strapless dress her friend Edna had made for her in exchange for two summer frocks that were too big for her. She sat down carefully at the table; the dress was a little tight but looked all the better for that. There was a stony silence in the room. She defied her mother-in-law, setting out her make-up. Pulling the top off the small tube of red lipstick, she held up the thin Yardley compact and peered into the mirror.

  ‘I don’t know why you think you need all that slap.’ Hannah watched Ellen. ‘I never bothered much with tutty myself. Eddie didn’t like it. Very old-fashioned my hubby. And neither does my Ted. He says he likes a girl to be natural.’

  Ellen pressed her lips together, moving them from side to side to even out the lipstick. ‘Does he? He’s never said anything like that to me. He always says I look beautiful.’ Her glance at Hannah was defiant.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Hannah pursed her mouth. Without her false teeth in, her top lip covered her nostrils when she sniffed. She didn’t take her eyes off the younger woman. ‘Natural’s best, I always think. Then there’s no nasty shock for the man in the marriage.’

  No wonder Mr Booth had a heart attack when Ted was a kid then, Ellen thought, slowly pressing face powder on her forehead and studying her reflection in the mirror before closing it with a snap. She waited a moment before saying, ‘I’ve been asked to do a stint at the Astoria in Manchester next Friday as well.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘What about Ted? Does he know?’

  ‘He won’t mind.’ He never minded what she did as long as she was happy. At least that’s what he said. Had he said it more often lately? Was that because he was working late more regularly? With her from next door. Ellen stopped that train of thought.

  ‘You going on the bus looking like that?’

  ‘No, I’m getting a lift from one of the band. Harry. He lives locally. He’ll bring me home as well.’ Put that in your pipe and smoke it, as Mam used to say, she thought. ‘Tell Ted, will you? Tell him I’ll see him about one o’clock.’ They’d have an hour then before he got up to go to the bakery. Time enough to show him what he’d been missing these last couple of weeks. She smiled to herself.

  ‘Right, I’m off.’ She pushed her feet into her silver peep-toed shoes and shrugged on her coat, adjusting the fake pearl earring that caught in the collar. She lifted one leg and then the other, looking over her shoulder, checking her seams were straight.

  Just for mischief she said, ‘Wish me luck.’ She wouldn’t admit it but she was nervous. This was only the second time she’d sung at the Embassy Club in Bradlow and the last time it felt as though she was battling against the noise of the chatter around the bar; as though she was invisible.

  As she walked down the hall she heard Hannah mutter, ‘Dressed up like a tart…’

  Ellen slammed the front door and looked towards Shaw Road. A man walked by and wolf-whistled under his breath. She pulled her coat tighter and glared at him.

  A black Ford Prefect pulled up at the end of the street. Harry. Ellen waved as the driver sounded his horn.

  Avoiding the cracks in the pavement she teetered towards the car on her high heels. ‘I’m entitled to a life,’ she muttered, ‘miserable old cow.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘What the fuck?’ Patrick lurched onto his back and lifted his head off the pillow. Downstairs the telephone shrilled out again. ‘What time is it?’

  Jean pulled on the cord of the Lazy Betty and squinted at the alarm clock in the brightness of the light thrown out over the bed. ‘Twenty past twelve.’

  Patrick sat up, buttoning his pyjama jacket and reaching for his dressing gown.

  ‘Who will it be?’ Jean said. It felt as though the pulse in her neck was choking her. Her first thought was of her mother. That was quickly rejected; her mother didn’t have a telephone.

  ‘How do I know?’ He sat on the edge of the bed, half turned away, half facing her. ‘I’m not a fucking clairvoyant.’

  Jean lay back. Outside the night was still. The room held the quietness within its walls. She couldn’t even hear the normal hushed movements of her daughter deep in sleep in the next room. She got up and tiptoed across the landing. Jacqueline, undisturbed by the telephone, hadn’t moved. Jean stroked back the lock of hair that fell across her daughter’s face and gently tugged the covers higher.

  The telephone rang again. She stopped at the top of the stairs, her hand clasping her throat, but couldn’t make out Patrick’s words. She went back to bed.

  Eventually he slipped under the sheets, barely disturbing the eiderdown, and turn
ed his back to her.

  ‘Who was it?’ Jean waited.

  He didn’t answer.

  She touched his shoulder, her skin prickling. ‘Patrick?’

  When the sobs came, they were jagged; an explosion of grief. All she could do was to hold him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. Finally, when he turned, his face was white, his features rigid.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  Patrick threw an arm across his face, covering his eyes against the light. His lips moved stiffly. ‘Tom’s dead.’ Slow tears trailed down the sides of his face.

  Jean gasped. ‘What? How?’

  ‘Not now,’ he said.

  ‘How?’

  ‘No.’

  She could hear the pain in his voice. ‘Patrick?’

  ‘No!’

  He flung the covers back. She watched him leave the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Almost immediately it re-opened. ‘Mum?’ Jacqueline was wide-eyed.

  ‘It’s okay, love.’ Jean lifted the corner of the bedclothes. ‘Get in.’ When Jacqueline snuggled alongside her, stretching her arm across the soft width of her stomach, Jean felt the rapid beat of her daughter’s heart. ‘It’s okay,’ she repeated, ‘nothing to be scared of.’

  ‘Dad was shouting.’

  ‘Well, nothing new there then, huh?’ Jean gave her a squeeze, trying to add humour into her voice. ‘You know what he’s like. Up and down like a yo-yo when something doesn’t suit. He’s just being silly.’

  ‘Why is he cross?’

  Jean heard the fear in Jacqueline’s voice. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, honest, love. He’ll be fine again in the morning. Everything will be all right.’

  But would it?

  For the rest of the night Jean stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, not knowing what would face her in the morning. Patrick’s lifelong jealousy of his older brother and the hatred he’d shown Tom for his stand as a conscientious objector hadn’t grown any less over the last five years. She’d stopped asking him to go with her to see Tom and Mary in Wales. It only set him off on one of his tirades. And Mary seemed happy enough that he stayed away.