Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  ‘Indeed.’ Mrs Warburton-Thorpe nodded. No one else said a word. Two of the men shuffled uncomfortably in their chairs.

  ‘But I assume you concede that the hospital is functioning in an excellent manner, as it has over the last four years under my care.’ Mary could hear the quiver in her voice and hoped they couldn’t.

  ‘Still, it’s most unfortunate this has happened,’ Ivor Thomas said. ‘Dare I say even thoughtless and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Unprofessional.’

  ‘In what way, Mr Thomas? Pont Y Haven has come on in leaps and bounds since I became Matron here and I pride myself that a great deal of the improvements were down to me.’

  ‘Quite so.’ This from a small woman at the other end of the table, new to the Board, who Mary only knew by sight. ‘And I think we would be the first to acknowledge that.’ Her large teeth gave her a lisp and when she smiled at Mary her lips didn’t quite stretch over them.

  Mary smiled in return before turning back to the Chairman who cleared his throat.

  ‘We have convened the Board to discuss how this publicity affects the hospital.’ With a flourish he produced a large blue handkerchief, took off his pince-nez and began to polish it vigorously. ‘You are single but living with a man, consorting with…’

  ‘Consorting!’

  ‘With, I have to say, a person, er, a person, who could bring the hospital into disrepute.’ He was sweating; the beads of perspiration bridged his nose.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have no wish to discuss this further.’

  ‘So you wish me to leave?’ Mary kept her voice courteous but questioning. If they were going to sack her, he would have to say it. Through sheer stubbornness she would make him say it.

  ‘You must appreciate our position, Miss Howarth, our reputation and that of the hospital.’

  ‘And I have brought it into disrepute how exactly?’

  ‘Well, I should think you would know how.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, this is getting us nowhere.’ The interruption came from Mrs Warburton-Thorpe. ‘Mr Chairman, we agreed with your proposal, it was seconded and passed by the Board even before Miss Howarth entered the room. We must ask Matron for her resignation.’

  As though I have much choice, Mary thought.

  ‘And wish her all success for the future.’

  ‘Will you wish me to stay until you find a replacement?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary in the … er … in the circumstances.’ The man folded his arms.

  ‘Really, Mr Chairman, I must insist my objections are minuted. As I said before, this is a drastic action for the Board to take.’ The small woman half rose in her seat.

  ‘Thank you Miss Lewis, your, ah, your opinion has indeed been minuted.’ He looked at Mrs Warburton-Thorpe who inclined her head. ‘Now, please leave this to me.’

  Miss Lewis subsided into her seat with a small murmur of protest.

  Mary placed her hands on the arms of the leather chair and half stood. ‘Will that be all, Mr Chairman?’

  Flushed with annoyance, he was trying to keep his pince-nez on his nose. He gave up and pushed it into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘It seems so, Miss Howarth, um, it seems so.’ He almost appeared at a loss then said, ‘I believe you have leave owing? Please feel free to take it as from today.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As she closed the door she heard him say, ‘Such a disappointment – quite the best Matron we ever had.’

  ‘And such a shame you didn’t feel able to tell her, Mr Chairman. Whatever I feel about her circumstances, that’s the least we could do … thank her.’ Mary recognised the clipped tones of Mrs Warburton-Thorpe and smiled; well, well, what a surprise. She lifted her chin and walked away.

  ‘Miss Howarth?’

  Mary turned. ‘Miss Lewis?’

  The small woman hurried forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’d like to say good luck, my dear.’ She blushed and said in hushed tones, ‘My fiancé, he was Jewish and we were disowned by our families. I was only seventeen but I knew he was the only one for me. He died during the ’flu epidemic after the First War.’ She spoke louder as two young nurses walked past with the heads down. ‘I wish you and your fiancé all the luck in the world.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mary had an almost overwhelming urge to cry. She turned on her heel.

  Sitting at her desk, Mary laced her fingers together on the maroon leather pad set into the desktop and looked around her office. She felt strange, as though the last two hours were unreal and now she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d emptied the drawer of all her personal things: her old copy of Bailliere’s Nurses’ Complete Medical Dictionary, a notepad and envelopes, gloves, a scarf, hairpins, pens; packed the blue vase from on top of the filing cabinet, her photographs of Tom and her mother, and the few books she liked to read whenever she had a quiet lunchtime, from the shelf under the window; straightened her blotter parallel to the edge of the writing pad, putting her pen and pencil pot neatly next to it.

  She was afraid to stand, uncertain that her legs would take her weight.

  This had been her place in the hospital for the last four years. She knew every inch of the room: the spidery cracks in the wall above the door, just visible under the cream paint; the stain on the carpet by the old green leather armchair where Bob had spilt his tea during a meeting, the subject of which she couldn’t now recall; the green velvet curtains, worn along the hem. As her gaze moved slowly around the room it was as though she was distanced, watching herself taking it all in.

  Through the panelled oak door of her office she could hear the muted sound of trolley wheels and, further away, the faint clatter of metal trays. A smell of cabbage and custard drifted in the air through the open window. It was odd to think that the everyday activities – the hustle and bustle of the wards, the coming and going of ambulances, the laughter and chatter in the staff canteen – were going on. Would carry on when she left.

  The copper fingers on the wall clock juddered with a loud clunk to half past eleven and startled her into action. Removing her lacy cap and the white plastic cuffs that covered her sleeves, she looked at her face in the mirror above the small sink as she washed her hands. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and she was very pale. Carefully applying powder and lipstick, unusual for her at work, she combed and pinned her hair back under the cap.

  The sky was densely blue, so clear for September. A skewed spark of sunlight flashed across the glass, dazzling her. She was consumed with an overwhelming urge to go home, to find Peter, to hold him.

  She stood, looped her handbag over her arm and picked up the cardboard box, balancing it against her chest. There was nothing else for her to do. Since the meeting, no one had been near her office. It was as though the whole place was holding its breath, waiting for her to leave.

  The door clicked firmly behind her. She slid the sign to ‘Out of Office’, touched the shining brass plate with her name engraved on it and wondered how soon the caretaker would be told to take it down.

  When she turned around Vivienne Allott was standing halfway along the corridor watching her.

  Mary strode towards her, following her until Vivienne was backed against the wall. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You went to the Clarion with your spiteful tales?’

  Vivienne lifted her shoulders. ‘If it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. You’re not as popular as you like to think.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Matron.’

  Mary narrowed her eyes, meeting the girl’s stare. She saw the glint of triumph. Don’t, she told herself, don’t rise to the bait. Without speaking she spun on her heels. She didn’t look at Vivienne Allott but as she passed Mary heard the soft snigger. For a moment her step faltered, the urge to scream abuse at the girl almost irresistible.

  Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she quickened her pace and walked out of the hospital.

  By the time Mary got off the bus it was mid afternoon. Sh
e sat on the wall, her back to the sea. The village, perched on the rising hill a few hundred yards away, surrounded the church where they would be married. The windows in the rows of cottages caught the low sun, the lustrous reflection thrown back towards the sea. From her vantage point Mary could see people going in and out of the post office and shop. She glanced to her left where the lane curved; to where Tom was killed.

  She had the sudden urge to be home.

  Peter wasn’t there. She sat on the front steps. The wind carried with it the smell of the sea, a fishy, pungent seaweed smell that stung her nose. A group of squabbling seagulls, losing their battle against the wind, skidded along the water nearby. She watched them riding the scummed waves, dipping and shaking their heads.

  Mary wondered if Vivienne Allott would ever realise or regret how much damage she’d caused by her vicious tongue. She doubted it. People like that never did; they just spread their poison and moved on, leaving people’s lives destroyed. Well, she wouldn’t let that happen. One way or another she and Peter had a good life in front of them. They had one another and that was how it would always be.

  She began to cry.

  However unfair it was, and however justified her anger, the shame and humiliation of being dismissed from her post and the fear of what the future held without her wages filled Mary with dread.

  Chapter 38

  ‘I need to talk to you.’ Jean’s scarf was flattened to her head by the rain.

  Cold apprehension spread along Ellen’s spine. Hell’s bells, she knows about Patrick. ‘Come on in, it’s tipping down.’ She let Jean pass and forced the front door closed. It always bloody stuck. It was on Ted’s list of ‘things to do’ that never got done. ‘Go in the front room. You’ll have to keep your coat on, it’s always a bit chilly in there, but it’ll be better than going in the kitchen.’ From the looks of things the last thing Jean needed was Hannah Booth listening in. And the last thing Ellen wanted to do was give her mother-in-law another supply of gossip.

  ‘Thanks.’ Jean struggled to undo the wet knot of her scarf and gave up, pulling it over her head. She looked around the room. ‘I don’t think I’ve been in here since before Patrick and me were married. You’ve changed the three piece suite and the wallpaper,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘It’s nice.’

  Ellen switched on the standard lamp and drew the curtains. ‘It needed doing. Ted did the hall as well. Got rid of that awful paper with the revolting cabbage roses.’

  ‘I remember.’ Twisting the scarf in her hands, Jean said again, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Ellen noticed the grate was full of dead ashes but couldn’t remember when they’d last lit a fire in it. ‘Sit down. Take the weight of your feet.’ Her mouth was dry. Both knew they were edging towards Jean’s reason for coming to the house, neither wanted to be the first to speak about it.

  ‘I know we haven’t always got on and I know I’ve been a bit of a cow in the past.’

  ‘Still are, sometimes.’ Ellen gave a burst of nervous laughter. Trust Jean to come when Ted was at the shop.

  Jean forced her mouth into a smile but said nothing.

  In the other room, Hannah coughed, a dry, hard, prolonged sound.

  ‘Mrs Booth not well?’

  ‘It’s a heavy hint. She knows you’re here and wonders why we’ve not gone into the kitchen.’

  Jean nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see.’ She sat down on the sofa, winding the scarf around her hands until it was coiled tight and dripping water onto the carpet.

  ‘That’ll be an old rag by the time you’ve finished.’ Ellen reached over and gently took it from her.

  It was as though the gesture finally broke the barrier. The tears flowed silently. ‘It’s Patrick.’ Jean hunched her shoulders under her coat, stuck her hands up the sleeves, and rocked back and forth. ‘It’s Patrick … he’s…’ She couldn’t carry on.

  ‘He’s hit you again?’

  ‘What? No…he’s…’

  There was no longer any use pretending she didn’t understand what Jean meant. ‘You’ve found out then,’ Ellen said, almost relieved to be giving voice to the words.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jean’s voice was husky.

  Ellen heard footsteps on the pavement outside. She watched the shadowy silhouettes pass the window before she spoke. She needed to be cautious. She could be jumping on the wrong bandwagon here.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk?’

  ‘It’s about something our Jacqueline saw.’ Jean lifted up her chin, steadied her voice as best she could. ‘And from what you said, I think you know what that was.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said I’d found out. So you know something.’

  Ellen bent her head, fiddled with the Kirby grips that held her French pleat together. Still looking at the floor she said, ‘What exactly did she say she saw?’

  ‘Patrick and her next door to you … kissing.’ Jean waited for the reaction. There was none. ‘How long have you known?’

  Ellen prevaricated. ‘Known?’ She met Jean’s eyes and sighed. ‘Not long.’

  ‘How long?’ Jean leant forward, narrowing the gap between them. She had the urge to grasp Ellen by the shoulders and shake her.

  ‘Since I came back home from Mary’s.’ Ellen shifted back in the chair.

  ‘How?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  Another pause. ‘Ted told me.’ Ellen smoothed the sleeves of her jumper along her arms. ‘Look, all I know is that Patrick started calling round here months ago.’ She glanced at Jean. ‘I didn’t know why at first, all I knew was he drove me mad talking politics – got Ted all worked up as well.’

  ‘And?’ Jean dismissed Ellen’s last remarks with a shake of her head. ‘What’s that got to do with him and…?’ She paused, began speaking again, slowly, working it out for herself. ‘He went from here to next door, didn’t he? In the front door and out the back? Very nice. And you’re trying to tell me you didn’t know anything about it?’ She gave a derisive snort. ‘I’m not a fool, please don’t treat me like one.’

  Ellen’s protest was strident. ‘We … I didn’t know. Didn’t realise what he was doing. Neither did Ted at first but he caught them at it in the backyard once.’

  Jean flinched; the unwanted picture instantly conjured up.

  ‘He didn’t tell me though,’ Ellen added hastily. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Jean. I know you won’t believe me but I didn’t know anything about it until a few weeks ago. I only found out when Ted came for me from our Mary’s. Honest.’

  ‘Honest! You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘There’s no need for petty insults,’ Ellen retaliated. ‘After all the flack you gave me at Mary’s, do you really think it wouldn’t have come out in one of the rows we had?’ She stood, noticing for the first time how ill Jean looked. The sallowness of her skin emphasised the dark smudges under her eyes and the red swollen lids. The involuntary surge of concern for her sister-in-law was alien to Ellen.

  Jean bowed her head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m trying to help you here.’ Ellen paced from door to fireplace and back before she spoke again. ‘I’ll tell you what I know, shall I?’

  ‘Go on.’ Jean straightened her shoulders and ran her fingers across her forehead, wiping away the rain that still dripped from her hair.

  ‘Right, and this is the truth, all I know is that Patrick used us as an excuse to see her next door. I didn’t cotton on at all but, like I said, Ted found out and he told Patrick to pack it in. If he wants to play away from home, don’t involve us.’

  Jean moaned.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ellen put a hand on Jean’s shoulder. She could feel her trembling under the wet raincoat. She must be frozen. ‘I am sorry, really. Patrick can be a right bastard sometimes but this beats the lot.’

  ‘It’s not the first time, believe me,’ Jean muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Patrick had alwa
ys thought he was God’s gift but for some reason he’d also appeared to think the world of this plain, dumpy woman. And he idolised Jacqueline. Ellen couldn’t believe he’d chance losing his daughter. ‘Well, he’s a bloody idiot!’

  There was a slow heavy scuffling on the linoleum in the hall, a sound of breathless wheezing.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Ellen crossed the room and quickly opened the door. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just coming to tell you I’m off for a lie down, my leg’s killing me.’ Hannah moved her bulk from side to side, trying to peer over Ellen’s shoulder.

  I wish! Ellen thought. ‘For your afternoon rest? Like you normally do, you mean?’ The sarcasm wasn’t missed.

  ‘No need to be like that. I thought I’d see if there was anything I could do.’

  Always good at the pretence, Ellen almost said, bitterly aware that few grasped how unpleasant Ted’s mother could be. She made her skin crawl.

  Hannah leaned against the doorframe for support, her arms, tightly encased in her cardigan sleeves crossed over her large bosom. Casually, as if accidently, she nudged Ellen, trying to get her to move.

  Ellen stood her ground. ‘No, everything’s fine.’

  Hannah puckered both lips and sniffed loudly. ‘Right, then, I’ll be off.’ She pushed herself upright and made a great show of pulling her handkerchief out of her pocket and blowing her nose. ‘Bye,’ she called, trying one last time to see beyond Ellen.

  Jean didn’t answer.

  Hannah used the doorframe to balance as she turned and moved slowly towards the kitchen, her hands splayed on the wall on both sides of her. At the bottom of the stairs she gave Ellen one last venomous look before pushing aside the velvet curtain and heaving herself onto the first step.

  ‘Good riddance.’ Ellen looked back into the front room. ‘Come on, take that coat off and let’s get you into the kitchen in front of the fire now she’s gone.’

  They could hear Hannah’s slow ascent to her room, the stairs and floorboards groaning under her weight until, at last the door to what had been Patrick’s room banged closed.