Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  With a short burst from the whistle the train chugged away. As the sound grew muffled, others became more distinct: the signal clanged down, bouncing to a noisy stop; under the eaves of the wooden roof sparrows gave the occasional murmur, too lethargic to move; the porter shouted to someone inside the ticket office and a man replied with a laugh. The warm air carried a faint acrid smell of the funnel’s smoke, growing less with each passing moment.

  Peter squeezed Mary’s hand. ‘It is better you leave her to her own problems. You have much to do here.’

  ‘I know.’ He was right. There was nothing she could do. She could only hope Jean came to her senses and moved back in with her mother. She glanced up at the sky, almost translucent against the brilliance of the sun, and heaved a long sigh. Jean could be bossy and awkward but Patrick was a right chip of the old block, his father’s son right enough. She might ask Ellen to keep an eye on Jacqueline.

  She let her arm drop to her side, aware she’d been waving long after her niece would be able to see her.

  Peter held her face between his palms, and kissed her forehead and then her lips. ‘She and little Jacqueline will be fine. You must not worry.’ He gave her one last quick kiss on the tip of her nose. Mary savoured the feeling of being cherished.

  They climbed the steps to the bridge over the single track, their weight causing reverberations on the metal plates. An old memory returned to Mary, the sound of shuffling footsteps on the iron stairs from one landing to the next at Tom’s prison. She closed her eyes for a second and stopped, holding on to the railing with one hand.

  ‘Mary? What is it?’

  ‘Sorry, Peter, I was thinking about Tom.’ How can happiness and misery go so hand in hand? she thought. ‘Take no notice of me.’ She tried to laugh. The sound emerged as a sob. ‘I feel so,’ she spread her fingers, ‘so mixed up.’ It wasn’t only the physical loss of Tom. She’d lost the need to protect him, and it left her bewildered. Ingrained in her since his release from prison, it was a role reversal she’d grown used to, repaying him for the way he’d safeguarded her from her father’s temper all through her childhood. It was also the great sadness she felt that her brother and Peter had lost the chance to nurture the friendship they’d started to build.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, liebling.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, threading her arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  They walked through the crowded waiting room to get to the main entrance of the station. The dusty, stale odour was overpowering and Mary held her breath until they were outside.

  Strolling along the flagged pavement they stayed on the side of the road shaded by the three-storey stone buildings. Mary looked around, trying to see the town through Peter’s eyes. This was only the third time he’d been to Pont yr Hafan. He’d been in no hurry to stray further than the village, and now he was saying nothing. The ground floors contained a variety of shops. The upper floors, some with windows blanked out with whitewash, others with grubby net curtains, seemed to be either flats or storerooms.

  ‘It’s a bit dingy, this place, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s taking a while to recover from the war. But there are a few good shops, a Utility Furniture place, two second-hand clothes shops that sell really good stuff.’ She smiled, fingering the lapel of his jacket. ‘We could look for something for you if you wanted?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Some other time then. Tom especially liked the ironmongers. He used to say there was nothing you couldn’t get from there, or have ordered.’ She pointed towards the end of the street. ‘And there’s a Woolworths on the High Street.’

  She stopped outside a large window where blue and white checked curtains were held back by large blue bows. ‘I thought we might splash out a bit, go in here for a cup of tea? We haven’t done that before.’ She waited, hoping she hadn’t sprung this on him too suddenly. ‘We can talk, like you said, make plans?’ It wasn’t fair to spoil Peter’s mood. He’d been so good about everything.

  Peter peered through the window. They could both see two or three small round tables from where they stood, and the outline of a few people. He pressed his lips together, ran a hand over his short blond hair and then pulled back his shoulders. ‘That would be good,’ he said finally. He held the door open for Mary and followed her into the café.

  The middle-aged couple at the first table glanced up at them before resuming their conversation. An old man, wiping crumbs from his chin with a thin paper serviette, watched with no great interest. Mary led the way past a group of young women, giggling and chattering over frothy pink milkshakes, to a table in the alcove by the window.

  The waitress, who was loading up a tray with used crockery, stopped to follow them. ‘What can I get for you?’ She smiled at Peter, arranging the frills on the shoulder straps of her apron.

  ‘Oh, I think a pot of tea for two,’ Mary said, seeing his reluctance to speak. ‘And some Welsh cakes I think.’

  ‘Ja … yes,’ he muttered.

  Taking a quick sideways peep at Peter the woman scribbled on her notepad. ‘Two minutes,’ she announced, picking up the tray and, carrying it above her head. Mary didn’t miss the raised eyebrows and sideways movement of her head when she manoeuvred past the couple. She saw them twist around to look at Peter and stared back at them until the woman gave a slight cough and fiddled with her necklace, turning away and tugging at her husband’s sleeve. Before long they left the café, followed by the old man who, clearing his throat, spat on the pavement in front of the window before shuffling away.

  ‘This was a mistake.’ Peter half rose.

  ‘No!’ Mary seized his hand. She smoothed the folds of her skirt, unfastened her cardigan and, taking it off, laid it across her knees. ‘No, we stay.’

  The waitress returned with the tray: brown teapot, milk jug, a plate of Welsh cakes, one cup, saucer and plate.

  ‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Mary said, placing the latter in front of Peter. ‘My cup and saucer? My plate?’ The woman flushed and turned away towards the counter. When she returned, Mary took them without speaking.

  One of the young women leaned towards them. ‘Quite right.’ She grinned. ‘Snotty cow should realise who pays her wages.’ Raising her voice she said, ‘She’ll not get a tip from us.’ The others agreed. ‘Should bloody realise the war’s been over a long time.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mary poured the tea, unable to say any more. She was trembling.

  With a lot of clatter the girls shoved their chairs back and left.

  Now, except for the glowering waitress, they were alone in the café.

  ‘Thank you,’ Peter said to Mary. ‘Thank you for not caring, for being strong for the both of us, meine Liebe.’ He leant his arms on the table, touching Mary with the tips of his fingers. ‘I always think I do not know what I would do if I lost you.’

  ‘Well that’s not going to happen, ever, so don’t worry about that.’ The balance of sadness and joy tipped towards contentment. Tom would want her to be happy; he wouldn’t want her moping around. And yet there was that small voice in her mind. She knew how ashamed he would be, knowing he had lied to her.

  ‘You are fine now?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Mary twisted the top flower-shaped button of her blouse.

  He raised his hand dismissing the words. ‘You must talk, tell me. Whatever worries you I must know. Perhaps help?’

  Mary sipped her tea. There was no point in talking about Tom’s part in Frank’s death. She needed to put it all behind in the past; just as her brother had wanted her to. But there was something she could do. So when she replaced the cup on the saucer she said, ‘I think it’s just with seeing Ellen and Jean go back to Ashford. Seeing the children, Linda especially, growing so quickly. She’s quieter than Jacqueline, more sensitive, I think, and such a lovable little girl. It set me thinking.’ She hesitated, wondering if she should carry on. But he had told her to tell him anything. She took the plunge. ‘There’s some
thing else I’ve mithered about for a long time. It’s Nelly, Frank’s mother, I feel sorry for. Sometimes, when I get letters from her, I feel bad that I’m keeping it all from her. She is Linda’s grandmother after all.’

  ‘Why is it today you are thinking of her, liebling?’

  Was there slight impatience in his tone? ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ All they seemed to be doing today was apologising to one another.

  ‘You have not. But Linda is happy, I think. What good would it be to have her to meet … diese Frau … this Nelly Shuttleworth?’

  Again Mary thought she heard underlying irritation, so unlike him. ‘Are you all right?’ A movement of his head should have reassured her but didn’t. Almost apologetically she said, ‘I don’t know really why it bothers me except I know she’d be a lovely grandmother – the only one for Linda since Mam died.’

  ‘Do you think Ellen would want that? Have you said this to her?’

  ‘No but…’ He was looking down. Mary tried to see his expression. ‘It’s just something that bothers me. Especially now I’ve found out how horrible Ted’s mother is.’ The thought of Hannah Booth saying or doing anything to hurt Linda angered Mary so much she was shocked by the depth of her hatred. ‘Still, you’re probably right. Ellen would hate Linda to be involved with Frank’s family.’ George Shuttleworth was a despicable man. He’d make Ellen’s life unbearable. ‘All hell could let loose.’

  ‘That is probable.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not my place to tell Nelly.’ She put her hand over his. ‘I hate secrets but this is one best kept, I think.’

  Peter’s voice sounded strained when he spoke. ‘Yes, sometimes it is better that secrets are kept,’ he said.

  Chapter 29

  ‘I’ve said nothing of the kind.’ Hannah scratched at the bandages on her leg.

  ‘You’ve called Linda,’ Ted ground out his words, ‘my daughter, a bastard.’

  ‘Never.’ Hannah scratched harder. A small patch of brown discolouration from the infection had come through the dressings. ‘One thing I will say though, your wife does neglect our William for the other one all the time. Poor little beggar can be screaming his head off and she just ignores him, when t’other just has to click her fingers.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ Ted walked back and forth in front of Hannah. He swung round to face her, almost overbalancing on his weak ankle. ‘All this nastiness about Ellen.’ He steadied himself, rubbed his hands over his face. ‘Why Mother?’

  Hannah clamped her mouth together, pushing out her lips. The two metal rollers on her forehead quivered as she shook in indignation. ‘I’m not the one who’s lying to you. I’m not the one who’s told that many lies about herself in the past she wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked her in the face.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘And you soaked them all up. You’re a fool.’

  ‘I won’t have you talking about Ellen like that.’ Ted turned away so he didn’t have to see her. ‘Ellen has been good to you. God above, she came to live with you, to help you, when you thought I was dead.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. She just knew which side her bread was buttered. She didn’t want to be in Henshaw Street the way things were there.’ Hannah’s voice rose. ‘You’re too soft.’

  ‘I’m too soft? I’m too soft?’ The heat of his anger towards his mother, dormant for so long, boiled to the surface. ‘I’ve listened to you, “Do this, do that, go here, go there,” telling me how to live my life. And I let you. And why? Because I thought you’d had it rough being left on your own to bring me up. When I was a kid I felt guilty, thinking Dad had left because of something I’d done.’ He pushed his face towards hers. ‘But it wasn’t, was it? I’d done nothing. It was you. With your nasty tongue and spiteful ways, your incessant carping and nagging. You drove him away.’ His breathing was shallow and strained. He noticed a fleck of his spittle on her cheek but he didn’t care. ‘Just like you drove me away in the end. Why do you think I volunteered? To get away from you. Did you think I didn’t know why you kept on and on about trying for the bakery at the Co-op? You knew it was a reserved occupation and if I got in you wouldn’t have to be on your own.’ He gulped in a quick breath. ‘When I got accepted into the RAF Voluntary Reserve in Manchester and left here I felt free for the first time in my life. All because I was away from you.’

  Her jowls trembled with an anger that equalled his but she stayed silent.

  Ted flung himself onto one of the kitchen chairs but in his rage he couldn’t keep still. His knee jerked up and down under the table, knocking against the drawer and jangling the cutlery inside. When he noticed what he was doing he swung himself around and faced her. ‘This is how it’s going to be from now on,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ll leave Ellen alone and…’

  ‘Oh, will I?’ Hannah finally found her voice. She pushed the loose sleeves of her black cardigan up her forearms.

  ‘Yes, you will.’ Ted spoke harshly. ‘And if I hear you’ve said anything else about Linda you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, oh! Any more nastiness, Mother, and I’ll have to ask you … no, I’ll tell you to leave and find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Then I won’t be the only one who’ll be sorry, Ted, will I?’ his mother said. ‘I just hope you’ll be prepared to sell the shop and give me my money back.’

  Chapter 30

  Nelly Shuttleworth licked the point of her pencil and hunched over the table, holding the edge of the paper down with her thumb. She printed out the letter she’d been composing in her head for days. It wasn’t easy; besides the physical effort of writing, she carried the burden of guilt for the way her eldest son had treated Mary. And the girl had been nothing but kind to her. In fact, Nelly thought, she’d treated her as a friend, keeping in touch all these years when she could just as easily, more easily, in fact, have refused to acknowledge any of Nelly’s notes. There wasn’t a day passed when she didn’t think of the horrible thing Frank had done to Mary. It haunted her. And, sometimes, even though she knew he would despise her for it, she went to the canal to say a little prayer for his soul.

  Nelly stared down at the note, struggling to concentrate. The noise of the paddle in the washing machine, the stew bubbling in the pan and the loud voices from George’s wireless upstairs blocked her thoughts. Planting her stained worn-down slippers firmly on the floor and holding the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she formed each word with determination. She needed Mary to know how sorry she was that, yet again, she had grief in her life.

  When she’d finished she sat back in her chair and, lifting up the hem of her skirt, she pulled back the elastic on the leg of her pink bloomers and scratched her knee, her lips moving silently as she read the letter in the pool of light from the bare bulb on the ceiling. When she’d finished she licked the pencil again and added a few more words:

  … LIKE I SAID, THERES ALWAYS SOMEONE TO PASS ON BAD NEWS AROWND HERE. GEORGE SAW THAT BLOKE, ARTHUR BROWN, IN THE CROWN LAST NIGHT AND HE TOLD HIM ABOUT YOUR TOM BEING KILLED A MONTH OR SO BACK. I WERE THAT SORRY. WHY DINT YOU WRITE TO TELL ME. I WOULD AVE GOT IN TOUCH BEFORE. IM ALWAYS THINKING ABOWT YOU PET. TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. DON’T FORGET WERE I LIVE WHEN YOU NEXT COME BACK HOME. ILL MAKE SURE YON BUGGER IS OUT.

  YOUR FRIEND, NELLY SHUTTLEWORTH

  The wireless upstairs became suddenly louder and heavy footsteps clattered on the stairs.

  ‘What’s for tea? I’m off out in ten minutes.’ Nelly’s son scowled at her. He squinted through his cigarette smoke as he stretched his neck to fasten the collar studs. ‘I told you.’ He ran a finger around his collar. ‘I’ve got a date.’ He smirked. ‘Taking Gloria Grimstead to the flicks.’

  ‘You want to watch yourself with that one. She’s got a right reputation.’

  ‘I’m not interested in her reputation, Ma.’ He shot a look at her, trying to see what was on the paper hidden under her arm. ‘What yer doing?’ He clicked his f
ingers. ‘Give us a look.’

  ‘Mind your own.’ But before Nelly could move he’d snatched the letter from her and ran his eyes over it.

  His face flushed with anger. ‘Why’re you writing to that cow?’

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own business?’

  ‘Our Frank’s dead because of her.’ George crumpled the paper and threw it towards the fireplace. ‘She had him murdered.’

  ‘He raped her.’ Nelly closed her eyes, unable to believe she’d said the words to her youngest son.

  ‘Crap. She asked for it.’

  For a big woman Nelly could move fast. The chair crashed to the floor behind her.

  With closed fist she hit the side of George’s head. ‘No woman,’ she panted, ‘asks for that.’

  Didn’t she know it? She wouldn’t have been lumbered with a useless husband if that was the case. Four months pregnant she was when she married, her reputation in tatters. Hadn’t she paid ten times over for Alec raping her, with the beatings and abuse from the day they were married? Hadn’t he left her with two black eyes and a split lip when he walked out on her and her sons? And good riddance, she thought. She glared at George. ‘Now get out.’

  He’d raised his fists in retaliation, but the look in her eyes stilled him. ‘Haven’t had me tea.’

  ‘I’ll be making no tea.’ Nelly picked up the chair and sat on it before her legs gave way under her.

  He banged the front door after him, rattling the piled-up pots on the side of the sink. He’d left his wireless switched on; the voices droned to the empty room.

  Nelly straightened her arms on the table in front of her. The muscles in her forearms bulged from the years of wringing clothes. Then she laid her head on them and dry sobs shook her whole body. She thought back to the days when her boys were little. If anyone had told her that they would turn out such cruel men she would have drowned them both at birth.