But what about Jacqueline? How would she tell her? She adored her uncle. He’d always made a fuss of her whenever they’d visited Wales. Would she even understand? The last one of the family to die was Patrick’s mother and Jacqueline hadn’t really known Winifred.
She made herself wait until seven o’clock before she went downstairs. Patrick was sitting in the kitchen staring at the empty grate and drinking whisky.
‘What happened to Tom?’
He shrugged. ‘Hit and run.’
‘Who rang?’
‘That bloody Kraut.’
‘Do they know who … ?’
‘Oh yeah,’ his tone was sarcastic, ‘that’s why it’s called a hit and run.’ He emptied the glass and slammed it down on the arm of the chair. ‘Course they don’t bloody know.’
‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Glancing at the almost empty bottle of whisky, Jean bit back a remark about his drinking. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t know how to tell Jacqueline.’
He whipped round to look at her. ‘Jacqueline? Why should you tell her?’
‘He was her uncle.’
‘Huh!’ Patrick shrugged. ‘She doesn’t need to know – not yet anyway.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Get us a brew?’
‘She will need to know, Patrick.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we should go.’
‘Go where?’ This time he didn’t turn his head.
‘You know where. To see your Mary.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because your brother’s dead. Because she’s your sister. Because she’s my best friend. Because she needs us.’
‘She’s got that Kraut.’
‘And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter about Tom or Mary, or even your daughter…’ Jean kept her voice even. ‘I’m going. And I’m taking Jacqueline. You can please yourself.’
Chapter 4
Ellen sat on the chair by the side of the piano while the musicians packed their instruments and shuffled off the stage, untying their black dickie bows and undoing the top button of their shirts. Harry, the drummer, winked and grinned at her as he passed, his round face red and glistening with sweat.
‘See you in a bit. Going out for a bit of fresh air.’
Oh yeah, Ellen thought. She glanced down at the dance floor. The chubby girl who’d been eyeing him all night from the edge of the stage had disappeared. ‘Don’t forget I’ll need a lift home,’ she whispered, ‘and don’t have me hanging around outside on my own.’
High up on the ceiling the large crystal ball slowly turned round scattering small snowflake impressions over the crowd. The clock on the wall was wreathed in swirling blue cigarette smoke; the air reeked with the stench of nicotine and sweat. Ellen practised her breathing exercise, relaxing her throat ready to sing, and wished she hadn’t. She checked the time: eleven thirty. Another fifteen minutes and the club would close and the crowd ushered out.
Her palms were damp and she surreptitiously ran her hands down the side of her dress, leaving smudged marks. It was ruined anyway. The stupid saxophonist had spilt some beer on it coming back on stage after the interval. Besides, it was so tight it rubbed under her arms and around her waist whenever she moved. All she could think about was getting home and out of the bloody thing.
She stood and adjusted the microphone out of habit; it was set perfectly for her. She cleared her throat and switched it on, smiling at the depleted crowd of dancers. The chairs at the back of the Palais were full of boys and girls smooching but there were still some left on the dance floor.
‘I’d love to get you on a slow boat to China…’
The crowd began to move, a disjointed mass of huddled couples and girls swinging one another around.
Over by the bar a man jumped up on top of the counter.
Ellen faltered.
‘Some idiot wants a fight,’ the pianist called over his shoulder, ‘keep going.’
‘All by myself, alone.’
‘Come on,’ the man yelled, tearing off his shirt. ‘You want a fight? Well here I am. I’m ready.’
Ellen watched as he started jumping around on top of the bar and jabbing at the air like a boxer. There was raucous laughter and then someone grabbed his legs and he somersaulted out of sight onto the floor, amid cheers.
She raised her voice. ‘Get you and keep you in my arms evermore…’
At the back of the room another scuffle broke out. Ellen could see Eddie, the bouncer usually at the door to the foyer, coming towards the stage, struggling to keep hold of a smaller man who was determinedly fighting him off.
‘Leave all your lovelies weeping on the…’ Her voice trailed away. She dropped her arms to her side, fear tightening her throat. ‘Ted?’
He was still in his white overalls.
The pianist swivelled round to see what was happening. ‘Ellen?’
She took no notice of him. ‘Ted? What is it? The children?’
‘No.’ He held out his hand. Ellen looked around. The dancers were still, watching her in shared curiosity.
Bewildered, she let Ted lift her from the stage. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you here?’ She felt the sting of frightened tears.
‘Get her things,’ Ted said to the pianist. The man moved swiftly without questioning. ‘I’ll tell you outside, love.’ He covered her shoulders with her coat and kept his arm around her. ‘I’ve got the van. Come on, Ellen,’ he said when she hesitated. ‘Not here.’
‘What’s going on?’ The manager of the Palais came from his office and stood in their path as they crossed the dance floor. ‘You can’t leave yet, you haven’t finished your stint.’
‘Shift out of the way.’ Ted shouldered him aside.
Ellen registered the unusual aggression in her husband. She looked back at the manager.
‘Don’t bother coming back – you’re fired.’
Right at that moment she didn’t care. Something dreadful had happened and the sooner they were out of the place the sooner she’d find out.
‘Was it an accident? I don’t understand.’
‘I told you, love. Peter just said the driver didn’t stop. It sounds as if whoever it was panicked.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Ellen repeated.
‘Come and sit down.’
‘No, I can’t.’
Ted had almost carried Ellen into the house and now he held her close. She pushed back to look at him, bewildered. ‘What if it wasn’t an accident?’
‘It was,’ Ted insisted. ‘Why would it be anything else?’ He stroked her hair. ‘You know that’s a bad corner outside Mary’s house.’
‘Of course it’s possible it wasn’t an accident,’ Ted’s mother said. ‘You never know.’ Although it was almost one o’clock in the morning, way past the time she normally went to bed, Hannah was still up, sitting in her armchair. She pulled the cord of her maroon dressing gown tighter in a vain attempt to cover her nightdress and laced her fingers over her stomach. ‘Perhaps somebody didn’t like what … who … he was.’
‘Shut up.’ Ellen clenched her fists against Ted’s chest. One day she’d swing for this woman.
Ted spoke at the same time. ‘Yes, shut up, Mother. And go to bed, there’s no need for you to be here.’
‘Well!’ Hannah heaved herself out of the chair. ‘There was a time you’d never have spoken to me like that, Ted Booth.’
He didn’t answer her. He put his face close to Ellen’s. ‘Hush now, love. Try to calm down. We’ll speak to Mary tomorrow. Find out what happened. Peter didn’t say much when he rang the shop. He was upset and I think he had enough on his plate trying to look after Mary.’
‘She’ll be in such a state she won’t know what to do with herself. She adores Tom,’ Ellen sobbed. ‘We have to go to her. Now.’ She pulled at the lapels of his overalls to stress her words. ‘Now, Ted, right away. She’ll need us.’
Hannah stopped in her tracks at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You’ll ta
ke – the kids with you?’
‘Of course we bloody will.’ Ellen didn’t look at his mother. ‘I wouldn’t leave them with you. I wouldn’t leave a dog with you.’
‘Well, you’ve changed your tune. You’ve foisted her – them – on me often enough in the past.’
‘Mother!’ Ted roared. ‘Go, get out – go to bed.’
‘Well!’ Crimson with annoyance she jerked the curtain aside and hauled herself onto the first step.
They waited, listening to the creak of the stairs under her heavy tread before either spoke again.
‘We have to go to Mary, Ted.’ Ellen could hardly get the words out. She felt as though her chest was bursting.
‘We can’t.’
‘Tomorrow, in the morning then, as soon as it’s light.’
‘Now just a minute, love.’ Ted took her face between his hands. ‘Look at me.’
She stared at him.
‘There’s nothing we can do. It’s happened. And Mary’s got Peter to look after her. I think she’ll want to be left alone. At least for now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Her eyes widened. ‘Of course we have to go. She’s my sister. He was my brother. I want to be with her.’ She couldn’t believe what he was saying. ‘I need to be with her.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Yes.’
‘No, love. When it’s the funeral.’
How could he be so cold, so practical? Ellen pushed him away, took a few steps backward until she walked into the table. She gripped the edges. ‘I can’t stay here. I can’t carry on as though nothing’s happened. We have to go.’
‘I can’t leave the shop just like that.’
‘Why not? You’ve got Archie. You’ve said he bakes as good as you.’ Her voice was shrill.
‘I can’t.’ Ted came towards her, holding out his hand.
She knocked it away from her. ‘Why?’ she demanded again. She moved, putting the table between them. She didn’t trust herself not to hit him.
‘There’s still the shop. I can’t ask him to do both. He can’t bake and serve – wouldn’t be fair to ask him. And Doreen doesn’t know all the ropes yet.’
‘She’s been working for you for months. If she doesn’t know how to serve by now you should sack her.’
‘No. I’m sorry, Ellen, I can’t leave the shop just like that.’
‘Then shut the bloody place.’ Why he was arguing about something so important to her? So awful?
And then she knew. It wasn’t the shop he didn’t want to leave. She put the flat of her hands on the table, held her breath, swallowed. For a long moment they watched one another.
‘Then I’ll go on my own.’
Chapter 5
‘Where’ve you been for the last two days?’ Nelly Shuttleworth hoisted the two heavy baskets of shopping onto the kitchen table and rubbed at the marks that the handles had left on her arms. Breathing deeply from her walk from the bus stop, she glanced through the back door where her son was slouched in a chair in the yard.
‘Why?’ George didn’t turn round. A swirl of cigarette smoke rose above his head.
‘Because I’m asking, that’s why.’ Nelly took out a long pin from the crumpled black felt hat, pulled it off with a sigh of relief and scratched her head. ‘You go off without a word for two days and don’t expect me to ask where you’ve been?’
‘Because it’s none of your business.’
‘My house, my business. So, where’ve you been?’ She unloaded brown paper bags of sugar and tea onto the table. Twisting the ends of the tissue paper wrapped around a large loaf, she put it into the white enamel bread bin in the pantry. Resting her hands on the stone slab she tried to catch her breath. The old corset she was wearing was now too small for her; she’d have to chuck it. ‘George?’
‘For Christ’s sake, I said – business!’
‘And I asked what sort.’ Nelly spoke sharply. ‘If you’re going to bring trouble to my door I need to know.’
‘Stop fucking nagging.’ George felt around on the flags by his feet, picked up a small stone and aimed it at a ginger tom that appeared on top of the yard wall. He missed but, frightened by the clatter against the bricks, the cat sprang onto the roof of next door’s lavatory. George grunted in satisfaction.
‘Watch your mouth.’ Nelly tipped potatoes, carrots and peas from the other basket into a big ceramic bowl. ‘And there’s no need to be cruel either.’
George stood and came to lean against the doorframe. ‘If anybody asks, I was here all the time.’
‘Who’ll ask?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘Dunno. Anybody.’
‘And the truth?’
‘If you must know I was in Manchester with Harry Bradshaw.’
‘Up to no good, then.’ Nelly set her mouth in a grim line.
‘Just some old business I had to deal with.’
‘What old business?’ Why did she suddenly feel uneasy? She studied him. There was something in his eyes; a glittering excitement, a look of malicious triumph. Nelly wondered which poor sod had got on the wrong side of her son this time.
‘Nothing for you to bother your head about.’ George walked over to her, put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Nothing to bother about at all.’
Chapter 6
‘I wanted to be here. I couldn’t bear the thought of you on your own.’ Ellen spoke in shuddering breaths and clutched a sodden handkerchief. As soon as the children had gone to bed she’d burst into uncontrollable tears.
‘I’m not on my own, love, I’ve got Peter.’ Mary gave Ellen a wan smile. ‘Still you’re here now and I’m glad.’ Even as she spoke Mary wondered why she’d said it. It wasn’t true. She wanted only to be left alone to grieve.
Having Ellen and the children here meant she had to be strong. She’d realised that as soon as Ellen fell tearfully into her arms, leaving Peter to lift the children from the train. Her sister still assumed it was her right to be indulged and protected, Mary reflected with some bitterness, and that she would provide that comfort when all she wanted to do was to sleep to block out the awful images of Tom dying in the road.
Despite this, it hurt that Ted hadn’t come to Wales. He had been Tom’s best friend once. The least he could have done was brought Ellen and the children in his van, even if he had to go back to the shop. Stranger still, her sister hadn’t once mentioned her husband.
‘Where is Peter?’ Ellen wiped her eyes and hiccupped.
‘Next door. He went round to see if Gwyneth’s okay. She’s been in a right state since … since it happened. She was very fond of Tom, you know that.’ And getting Ellen’s hysterical telephone call in the middle of Saturday night hadn’t helped.
‘Did she see what happened?’
‘No.’
Ellen sighed. ‘I suppose that’s something, anyway. An old lady like that.’ She gulped.
‘Yes,’ Mary said softly, ‘it was horrible.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘No, just that the van was white with an orange oblong line along the side. It came from nowhere.’
They sat in silence. A car passed on the road outside. Listening to it Mary closed her eyes.
Ellen leant forward on the settee, crossing her arms over her waist and swaying back and forth. ‘I did love our Tom, Mary, you know that.’ It had to be the tenth time she’d said those words since she arrived. It was obvious Ellen expected some sort of reassurance. ‘I didn’t always understand him, you know, all that pacifist stuff during the war. I mean, I know he didn’t want to fight, he was so – gentle. But deliberately doing things so he kept going back into prison? Why did he do that?’
‘I’ve told you before. He believed war was wrong,’ Mary said calmly. ‘They kept trying to get him to go back to work in the Civil Service. He wouldn’t work for a Government which had taken the country to war.’
‘But it didn’t get him anywhere, did it?’ I mean, what did he achieve?’
‘Enough
now, Ellen.’ Mary went over the sideboard, took two clean handkerchiefs from a drawer and gave one to Ellen. ‘Try not to cry any more, love, you’ll make yourself ill. How about going upstairs to see what the children are doing?’
‘I can’t.’ Ellen blew her nose. ‘I don’t want them to see me like this. Will you go instead?’
When Mary came back, Ellen was moving restlessly around the room fiddling with the curtains, straightening the horse brasses on the wall, running her hand over the long white crocheted mat on the sideboard where all the photographs were.
‘They’re asleep,’ Mary said. ‘Must be yesterday’s journey on the train.’
‘It took ages and it was hard work trying to manage both of them on my own.’ Ellen picked up a portrait of Tom and their mother standing arm in arm in the garden, both in wellingtons and overcoats. ‘When was this taken?’ She waved the frame in the air. ‘I’ve forgotten.’
‘Just after we got here. March, ’46.’ Mary watched the careless gesture and half lifted her hand, afraid Ellen would drop the photograph. It was the only one she had of the two of them together. ‘Why didn’t Ted bring you?’
‘He said he would have if I’d waited until he could sort something out with the shop. I can’t see why he couldn’t just shut it for a couple of days.’
‘So you’ve fallen out.’ It wasn’t the first time they’d quarrelled and Ellen had turned up on the doorstep.
Ellen shrugged, her apparent unconcern contradicted by the tears that trailed down her cheeks.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I’ll make a brew in a minute.’ Mary took the photograph from her, wiped the glass with the sleeve of her cardigan, and carefully put it back in its place. ‘It was freezing cold the day this was taken,’ she remembered. ‘But they insisted on getting the vegetable plot ready for planting. Mam went mad at first when I got the Kodak out and took this of them.’ She touched their faces. ‘We have to remember the good times, Ellen. Tom was a good brother. You don’t have to try to understand what he did, how he thought.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll always be grateful to him. If he hadn’t written that letter and left it with you, Peter would never have found me.’
Changing Patterns Page 2
