‘I can’t. I can’t leave Mother.’
‘Then move back in with her.’ The solution came with a sense of relief that shamed Mary. ‘You have to. You can’t stay with him.’
Jean shrugged her away and turned back to the window. ‘It’s not that easy. Jacqueline…’
‘Is frightened.’
‘I’ll make it right with her. Tell her she was mistaken.’
Mary gave a cry of derision. ‘Mistaken?’
‘It was only the once. He was upset about Tom.’
‘He thumped you because of Tom? I don’t believe that. He hated Tom.’
‘He didn’t. You should have seen him, Mary, he was heartbroken.’
‘Huh!’
‘He was.’ Jean spun around to face her. ‘I should have left him alone.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I should have left him alone but I didn’t. I wanted to comfort him. I tried to hold him.’
‘So he hit you.’ Mary dragged out the words.
‘It was the first time.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Jean flushed. ‘Then don’t, but it’s true.’ She looked out of the corner of her eyes at Mary. ‘Please don’t tell the others.’
‘Ellen already knows, I’ve told her.’ Mary folded her arms, angry her friend wanted to cover up what Patrick had done.
‘How could you? You know what she’s like about me.’
‘She has a right to know, he’s her brother too.’
‘She’ll tell all and sundry,’ Jean muttered, leaning on the windowsill.
‘She won’t … and if she did, it’s not you who should be ashamed. It’s him.’
‘I pushed him into it. I should have left him alone,’ Jean said again.
‘Leave him, Jean. You have to.’
‘No!’
‘Then you’re a bloody fool.’
Chapter 20
Hard rain splattered on the window. Mary drew the curtains against the night. ‘Everything’s okay then?’ she said.
Sprawled on the sofa, holding a cushion to her, Ellen glanced up at Mary. ‘Yeah, I’m going back with Ted on Wednesday. He’s promised to tell Hannah to leave me alone. I’ll be all right.’
‘Let’s hope she does then. And the other thing? What did he say about that?’ Mary perched on the arm of the sofa. ‘You did tell him what you thought was going on between him and that girl?’
‘Yeah, of course. He’s promised not to have Doreen in the shop ever again.’
‘So it was true?’ Mary looked incredulous. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it.’
‘Course it wasn’t true. I was being daft.’
Ellen wanted to tell Mary about Patrick but Ted had made her promise. ‘For the time being, we’ll keep out of it, wait to see what happens,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t say anything to Mary, she has enough on her plate.’
‘He’s going to give the job to Evelyn Stott,’ Ellen told Mary.
‘Who?’
‘Evelyn Stott. You know, lives in those old back-to-back houses on Church Road, due for demolition. Her granddad was that champion clog fighter in Bradlow, went round all the pubs. Remember, he once challenged Dad in the Crown. Little man with long straggly grey hair, big red nose, bow-legged…’
‘I remember!’ Mary exclaimed. ‘The one our Mam always said—’
‘Couldn’t stop a pig in a ginnel,’ Ellen laughed. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Our Mam … all her sayings.’
Ellen rubbed her hands over her face. She felt odd, strangely emotional. Through the laughter she could feel the quiver of impending tears. ‘She could be a right scream … until Dad came in the house.’ She suddenly calmed. ‘I do know what he was like you know, I wasn’t that daft. It was just that he…’
‘Let you get away with murder.’
‘Until Linda.’ Ellen would never forget her fear when their father found out she was pregnant.
‘Don’t.’ Mary pulled her closer, their heads together. ‘He didn’t remember … at the end, he didn’t remember. You were still his little girl.’ She rocked Ellen. ‘And, you know, our Mam, she loved him. I heard her once, at the end … just before he died. I heard her tell him she loved him. I didn’t understand it at the time. I only ever knew him as a nasty old beggar.’
‘Hmmm. Which reminds me.’ Ellen snuggled closer, her arm across Mary’s waist. ‘Did you have a word with Jean about Patrick?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’ Ellen said. ‘Did you get anywhere with her?’
‘No, she won’t leave him. She said he’d only hit her the once … as though that was okay.’
‘Do you believe her?’
She felt Mary shrug. ‘I don’t know. I can’t get her to say anything else about him. Except she’s asked me not to tell anyone. You’re not to either.’
Ellen admitted to herself she wasn’t good at keeping secrets. She’d probably tell Ted. Avoiding having to promise she said, ‘She’s a fool.’ In more ways than one, Ellen thought, really tempted to tell Mary about Patrick’s messing about with Doreen Whittaker.
‘I’m thinking I should go back with her after … after the funeral. Make sure she’s all right.’
‘And tell him exactly what we think of him, I hope.’ Ellen pushed away the feeling that she should help Mary deal with Patrick. She sat back on the sofa pondering. If Mary was going to go back to Ashford, she was bound to find out about the affair anyway. ‘I think you should know something,’ she said, finally, ‘that Ted told me this afternoon.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth she regretted it. Mary looked immediately concerned.
And yet she sounded irritated when she spoke. ‘What now?’ Mary got up and began to pace up and down in front of the fireplace. ‘What’s happened?’
Ellen pushed the cushion to one side and shuffled to the edge of the sofa. There was no going back now, and anyway, she persuaded herself, Mary should know. Jean wasn’t only their sister-in-law; she was Mary’s best friend. ‘Don’t tell Ted I’ve told you. Promise?’
Mary nodded resignedly. More secrets, she thought, more things to worry about.
‘It’s not him having the affair, it’s Patrick.’
Chapter 21
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine, cariad.’ Gwyneth gave a finger of toast to William. ‘Better here than there, see.’ When she glanced up her eyes were blurred with tears. ‘Can’t be there today, I’m sorry.’ She lifted the hem of her apron and dabbed at her face. ‘I’ll be thinking of you though.’
Mary nodded, pensive. ‘I know, love.’ They didn’t touch. Mary thought that if they did, if they hugged, they would both give way to the enormous flood of grief that was just held at bay. ‘Ellen, Jean and me should be back by three o’clock at the latest. The men are going to the pub afterwards. They’ve laid a spread on for them.’ Gwyneth was following an old Welsh tradition, strange, she thought, that only men should go to funerals. As though only they were strong enough to stand the grief in public. Gwyneth hadn’t even gone to Iori’s, her only son’s, funeral. How must she have felt that day? Mary felt a twinge of disbelief mixed with rebellion. No one could have kept her away from the service today. Tom was her brother. No one knew him as well as she did.
She stood at the back door, watching the two little girls skipping on Gwyneth’s path. ‘You’ll come in to us then?’ she said.
‘I will.’ Gwyneth sniffed loudly and forced a false smile at William. ‘We’ll have a little play, you and me, isn’t it?’ William laughed, arching his back in his high chair. She made a small wheezing noise as she lifted him out and set him on his feet.
‘Let me.’ Mary made a hasty move.
‘I’m fine. We’re fine.’ Gwyneth straightened up. ‘Now you’d better be off.’
This time Mary bent to kiss her. Gwyneth’s cheek was powdery soft. She smelt of lavender and carbolic soap. It always reminded Mary of Mam. ‘Don’t let them run you ragged,’ she said.
Gwyneth smiled. ‘They won’t.�
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‘I’ll let myself out.’ She went to the door. ‘You two behave for Auntie Gwyneth.’
‘We will.’ Their voices subdued, the two girls stopped skipping and put their arms around each other. Linda’s face suddenly distorted and she started to cry. Jacqueline’s chin trembled as she fought against tears.
Oh no. Mary made to go to them but was stopped by Gwyneth’s hand on her arm. ‘I’ll see to them, cariad. You go.’
Mary stopped at the front door, the image of the two small girls still with her. They were upset now, but how much more were they going to be hurt when they returned to Ashford. ‘Oh Tom,’ she murmured looking up at the grey blanket of cloud above her, ‘it’s all such a mess. What am I going to do?’
Chapter 22
The first heavy drops of rain fell onto the coffin with soft thuds. Mary watched as the beads of water shivered and spread, magnifying the grain of the waxed mahogany. Tom would have liked the sound. He didn’t mind rain, he always said it was God’s gift to the gardener – saved all the back-breaking carrying of watering cans. The corners of her mouth puckered into a half smile before she took in a shuddering breath. It felt wrong to be thinking of her brother in the past tense; it was too soon.
There was a shift of movement amongst the mourners as four burly men shuffled into position and, holding the braided gold cords, steadied themselves to lower the coffin into the ground.
‘For as much as it has pleased almighty God of his great mercy to receive unto himself the soul of our brother here departed we therefore commit his body…’
Mary stiffened. His soul. If God existed, as Tom believed, then he had lived for years with the knowledge, that guilt, that he had committed the greatest sin. He had killed another human being and now he’d died with that sin on his soul. To protect her. She stared at the minister. Had Tom confided in him? Had this man of God managed to comfort her brother or had Tom kept his torment to himself?
Peter pulled Mary closer and she rested her head against him, trying to gain some comfort from the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and the soft wool of his jacket.
‘Soon it will be over, meine Geliebte,’ he breathed.
But Mary didn’t want it to be over. It meant leaving Tom here in the cold earth and she couldn’t bear the thought of that. Through the black veil on her hat she peered out of the corner of her eye at Ellen. She stood impassive, Ted’s arm around her waist.
On the other side of him Jean shifted the weight from one foot to the other, her face hidden under the wide brim of her black sateen hat.
‘… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’
Unwilling to see the coffin slowly disappear, Mary closed her eyes. But then all she saw was Tom lying so still with his blood slowly flowing towards her. She forced her lids open. Concentrating on the brass name plate, her lips moved silently as she read his name over and over again. Thomas Howarth 1912–1950, saying it faster and faster, as though by its repetition, she could hold on to her brother.
She heard Ellen take in a gulping breath. Glancing up she watched Ted tighten his hold on her sister’s waist, supporting her. Heard her whisper, ‘I’m okay.’
What would Ellen say if she told her what Tom had done? However relieved Mary was when Frank died, it was their lovely gentle brother who’d killed him; driven to protect her in a way that went totally against what he believed. Mary whimpered, moved her head from side to side on Peter’s shoulder.
‘Hush, Liebling.’
The rain increased. People huddled together, started to raise umbrellas and the drops bounced off the taut material in a pattern of sounds. The wet air carried the scent of the spray of yellow roses, the only flowers she’d allowed to be placed on the coffin.
She turned her face upwards, the rain washing away her tears.
‘… in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ who shall change our body that it may be like his glorious body according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.’
It was what Tom had believed. She hoped for his sake that, if He actually existed, his God was merciful. She hadn’t held onto the religion she’d been taught as a child. Growing up in a household such as hers had driven that away. Perhaps if she had a faith it would help her now but she doubted it. Tom was a good man and the God he loved hadn’t saved him.
She hated Frank Shuttleworth. But the sounds of him drowning in the canal hadn’t diminished in her mind. Her conscience vied with the satisfaction that he’d got what he deserved and kept her awake at night.
She took an uneven breath. Peter tightened his hold on her. She wondered what he would say when, if, she told him. However much she loved Peter, did she trust him not to condemn Tom? Even as she thought it, she dismissed the doubt. Peter wouldn’t judge Tom.
The undertaker dropped a few grains of earth onto the coffin.
‘Mary?’
She flinched. The undertaker was holding out his hand, inviting her to take some earth. ‘I can’t.’ She backed away, stumbling awkwardly against Peter. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go now.’
As Peter led her away she looked over her shoulder at the long line of people filing past the edge of the grave. She didn’t recognise many of them. She hadn’t appreciated how many friends Tom had made over the last five years. She wished she’d known. And then she saw Tom’s two best friends, Alwyn and Alun. The twin brothers stood for a moment, black bowlers in their hands, before moving on. They had also refused to fight in the war; their beliefs were the same as Tom’s. She wondered how they would react if they knew what he had done. Even though it was to save her, would they would say there should have been another way? Surely they would believe their friendship was built on a falsehood.
That was something else to feel guilty about.
Chapter 23
‘Another?’ Ted lifted his glass.
‘No.’ Alwyn pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. ‘Early start in the morning for us, eh, Alun? We’ve a lot on at the moment, see.’
‘Indeed.’ The other man nodded.
‘But it was a fine turn-out for a fine man. Tom was a good friend to us when we came here from the Valleys. A good friend.’ Alwyn looked towards the bar where a few black-suited stragglers from the funeral were huddled together consciously not looking their way. ‘And take no notice of that lot. Live in the past, they do.’
Peter had noticed the way the four men ignored him on the way out of the churchyard. He hoped Mary hadn’t seen. One of them had deliberately shouldered him in the pub doorway, even though he’d stood to one side to let him pass.
‘It does not matter.’ He pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Mary was glad to see you today. She said you also had been good friends to Tom. She said I must say that you always will be welcome to come to the house. Thank you.’
The handshakes were firm, friendly. For a moment Peter was overcome. Apart from Tom, the two brothers were the first men he could imagine as his friends since he arrived in Britain. He coughed, cleared his throat to cover the emotion and smiled as they turned to leave.
Ted nodded at the brothers. He’d sat silently watching throughout the exchange. Once they’d gone he held up his glass again. ‘Another?’
‘I will buy this one,’ Peter said, but Ted had already slid along the faded red and gold fleur de lis patterned cushion on the bench. Using the wooden arm of the seat he pushed himself up, rocking slightly on the soles of his feet. He hadn’t reached the stage where the room floated around him, but one more pint would tip him over. He wasn’t used to drinking. Seeing the state Patrick got himself into and remembering Ellen’s father’s violent rages in drink, he’d promised himself he would never put her through that.
He looked back at Peter. The antipathy Ted nurtured towards the German who’d somehow managed to worm his way into Mary’s life had started to dissolve earlier in the day, however much Ted tried to hold on to the hatred and fear he
’d felt for his captors. At the bar he glanced over his shoulder. Peter was studying the dusty Victorian fireplace with the iron chains that hung across the collection of bottles at the end of the tap room. The thing needed a good clean as far as Ted could see, but there was no hint of distaste in Peter’s expression, just curiosity.
Even so, carefully carrying the two gill glasses across the stone flagged floor, Ted tightened his resolve not to be won over by Peter. Not yet anyway. From what he’d heard, the bloke’s time in captivity as a prisoner of the British army was nothing compared with his own horrendous experiences. Doctor at the prison hospital had been a cushy number for Mary’s boyfriend as far as Ted could see.
Not for the first time he remembered Patrick’s bitter words when they found out Peter had returned to Britain. ‘Silly cow, she couldn’t see he was buttering her up, trying to use her so he could escape.’ But the man hadn’t escaped. And anyway, he must have known it was impossible to get out of the Granville. The camp had a reputation for being the most secure in the country, with a record of not losing one prisoner. Ted assumed Patrick was mouthing off, holding on to his resentment about being forced down the mines during the war instead of being released to fight.
Still, he prided himself on not being a pushover. Even though Mary thought the chap could do no wrong, he’d make his own mind up about him.
He put the drinks on the table and sat directly opposite Peter, who waited, his face impassive as he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch.
‘So, what do you think about warships and air squadrons being involved in the North Korea shindig then?’ Ted took a sip of beer and wiped foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘Doubt it’ll be long before the troops are sent in. Suppose it doesn’t affect you?’
‘Another war. It is sad.’ Peter kept his voice neutral. He’d picked up on the resentment from Ted the minute he’d walked into the cottage at the beginning of the week and found Ellen and her husband ‘going at it hammer and tongs’, as Mary would say. The last thing he wanted was to cause more worry for her, especially today. Despite the sudden increased tension Ted’s question caused between them, he held on to that thought.
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