Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  She was worried about Jacqueline. She’d hardly answered Linda’s chatter all the way to school. She knew her daughter was upset, both about the quarrel and that they were staying with her Granny Winterbottom. She’d almost had to drag Jacqueline to Moss Terrace. But Patrick wouldn’t leave and Jean couldn’t be around him so she had no choice. She’d try to explain everything to Jacqueline after school.

  Relieved there were no other mothers about to ask awkward questions, she leaned against the low wall that surrounded the small building. The stone was cold against her legs but not as cold as she felt inside. She couldn’t remember the last time she was as unhappy as this.

  The Headmistress, holding the large brass bell by its wooden handle, frowned at the restless children, inspecting them. A scuffle broke out between two boys hitting one another with their school caps, promptly brought to a halt by a quick cuff from one of the teachers who paced up and down the lines.

  ‘Mrs Howarth?’ The Headmistress was waving at her. What now? Jean saw all the children turn round to look. ‘We have the nit nurse coming this afternoon. We haven’t had Jacqueline’s permission form back. Do you have it with you?’

  ‘No but it’s fine.’ Jacqueline would be mortified, she thought, seeing the others giggling. She was glad to see Linda’s arm slip around her daughter’s waist.

  Unwilling to move, to carry on with the pretence of a normal day, she stood for a long time staring up at the tiny bell tower on the school roof that hadn’t held a bell since the early days of the war. When she was small, that bell announced the beginning and end of the school day.

  Soon she heard the singing in assembly. It was an old familiar hymn, ‘I’ll be a sunbeam for Him’, and she listened until the last notes of the piano died away. Jacqueline’s favourite. Perhaps she should have kept her home after all. It wasn’t the first argument she’d heard since she was little but it was the worst. And if she didn’t know if things would ever be the same again between her and Patrick, how must their daughter be feeling?

  She walked slowly along the short lane from the school, past the old air raid shelter, now bricked up, and onto Huddersfield Road, reluctant to go back to her mother’s. At the entrance to Skirm Park she walked in. At the first bench she sat down. The fragrance of the low spreading red rose bushes wafted around her. She bent down and picked up a couple of fallen petals, crushed them in her hand and lifted them to her nose. Patrick had bought a red rose as a surprise to give to her on the first night of their honeymoon. She remembered being horrified at the thought of the price. Months afterwards he confessed he’d done a deal on the black market.

  Yet, despite that, it was those gestures which endeared him to her. However angry she was with him he always managed to charm her round somehow. But not this time. Yesterday had been the final straw.

  She brushed her palms together, ridding them of the last of the crushed rose petals, and rubbed the red stain from her skin.

  What would happen next Jean didn’t know. She tried to forget the gloating expression on her mother’s face when they’d walked through the door with suitcases. Elsie Winterbottom had left Jean in no doubt that she’d never expected her marriage to last. And, for once Jean bitterly agreed with her. Marrying Patrick had been the worst mistake of her life.

  Chapter 43

  Ellen braced herself to go back into the house. Things had gone too far. Ted would have to tell his mother to go, whatever else happened. Her nerves wouldn’t take any more. He had to find her somewhere else to live. Anything as long as it meant Hannah left Henshaw Street.

  With her thumb on the latch Ellen listened at the door. There were no sounds. With a bit of luck her mother-in-law had gone to her bedroom.

  She ran her hands over the front of her pinny, pulling the frills straight. Tucking her blond hair behind her ears she lifted her chin, pushed the door open and went in, crossing her arms.

  Hannah was lying on the floor, her eyes open and blank. It seemed to Ellen they were fixed on her. Other than letting her arms drop, Ellen didn’t move. The sudden whooshing sound in her ears blocked out all but one thought. She’d killed Ted’s mother.

  Just as quickly, the noise went and she heard the dripping of the scullery tap, simmering water murmuring in the Ascot above the sink, the clock softly ticking, a bluebottle that droned and patted on the window.

  Acid bile rose in Ellen’s mouth and she swallowed. Skirting around the body on tiptoe as though the movement would bring life back into the shapeless mound sprawled in front of the armchair, she ran upstairs. In the children’s room William was still asleep. Ellen leant over him watching the way his breath quivered his lower lip and lifted his chest under his pyjamas. She felt her own body taking in air to match the same rhythmic movement and it calmed her. He murmured but didn’t wake when she lifted him and held him close, his skin warmly damp against her neck. The nearness comforted her. Creeping downstairs she avoided looking at the body, moving swiftly out of the kitchen and through the yard, leaving the back door and gate open. Her need to be with Ted became more urgent with each step.

  Skidding on the cobbles in her slippers she ran to the top of the alleyway. She stopped and looked along Greenacre Street. The quivering that took over her whole body was unexpected. Her back to the end house wall, she slid to the ground with William in her lap.

  And then she acknowledged the emotion that flooded through her.

  It was relief.

  Chapter 44

  ‘I’m sorry Mary, I didn’t know who else to turn to.’

  ‘No, I understand Ted, you were right to call me. I’ll get the earliest train I can tomorrow.’ Mary slowly replaced the receiver. She put her hand to her throat as though to press away the lump that seemed to be choking her.

  ‘What is it?’ Gwyneth was still slightly breathless from running to fetch Mary to her telephone. She stood by Mary’s side, her brow furrowed with anxiety.

  ‘It’s Ellen. She’s had some sort of breakdown. And Ted’s mother’s had a heart attack. She’s dead. Ted wants me to go up there to help with the children while he sorts everything out.’ She moved her head in bewilderment. ‘Ellen telephoned me last week to tell me Jean had left Patrick. I was worried but I was glad at the same time. I’d said to leave him when she was here.’ Gwyneth nodded. ‘I told Ellen they just had to get on with it.’ Mary’s hand moved to her mouth. ‘I asked her how she was managing with Ted’s mother and she said it was hard so I said she should tell Ted again. Oh Gwyneth, I was so angry, because when they were here, all they seemed to be bothered about was how losing Tom affected them. They both thought I should go back to Ashford, but only because it was best for them. And now this has happened.’

  Gwyneth took Mary’s hand between hers. ‘Ellen has cried wolf so often, cariad, how were you to know?’

  ‘I should have.’ Mary bent down to kiss Gwyneth. ‘Thanks for trying to make me feel better, love, but Ellen’s my little sister and I should have seen some of this coming. She’s always relied on me and now I’ve let her down. I need to tell Peter what’s happening. I’ll see you before I go in the morning.’

  ‘No.’ Peter followed her across the room as she opened the wardrobe door and shook two dresses off their hangers, throwing them into the suitcase on the bed. ‘No Mary, you cannot go.’

  She lifted a jumper and cardigan from the shelf in the wardrobe. ‘Why not?’ She folded the woollens and the dresses without looking at him.

  ‘Your work. They may yet need you.’

  ‘They don’t. I’ve been sacked.’ Her words were clipped. The devastation of losing her job so suddenly, her vocation, a calling she’d worked so hard for all her adult life, was still raw.

  ‘You think it my fault?’ he said. ‘That is why you are going.’ It was a flat statement.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Startled, she stopped what she was doing and stared at him, clutching a jumper to her chest.

  ‘I feel it is as though you blame me.’

  ‘No.’ She sho
ok her head. ‘Of course I don’t. We’ve talked about this, Peter.’

  He wasn’t listening. He moved restlessly around the room. ‘Yes.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, that is what you think.’

  ‘No, that’s not true. Honestly, love, it was my choice. I would probably have left eventually, once we were married anyway.’ She smiled. ‘You know, when we started a family?’ It didn’t help with the memory of her humiliation in front of the Board, or the loss of her self-respect, but it was something to hold onto.

  He didn’t return her smile. What was wrong with him? Standing still he crossed his arms. ‘The wedding?’

  So that’s what it was. ‘Isn’t until December, two months away. I’ll be back long before then.’ Mary opened a drawer and rifled through, choosing nightgowns and underwear. ‘And, if I’m not, if we have to put it off until everything’s sorted, that’s what we’ll do.’ She folded her woolly dressing gown. The Henshaw Street house could be freezing in the mornings at this time of year. ‘But I will be back, don’t worry.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ She was stunned. ‘They need me, Peter.’

  ‘I need you.’ He sounded infuriated.

  ‘Peter—’ She stopped, wondering how she else could describe the catastrophe that had happened. ‘Things are in turmoil up there. We can’t just ignore it. We have a future together, you and me. I love you and I will love being your wife. But for now I have to put the others before what I want.’

  When he didn’t answer she assumed he’d come to terms with what she said. ‘Look,’ she said, continuing to pack, ‘come with me. You got on well with Ted, you could talk to him, help him.’

  ‘I cannot. My work here. I cannot take the chance that I will lose my customers.’ He caught hold of Mary’s arm so she was forced to stop and straighten up.

  ‘Yes, I see that. But you need to see what I’m saying as well.’ She gave him a quick hug before turning to look around the room, murmuring, ‘I must take some soap with me, it’s still difficult to get. So, scarves, gloves, stockings, suspender belt, spare shoes.’ She halted, fingers to her chin. ‘What else?’

  She looked up, saw him pacing the room again. She thought she knew what was really wrong. ‘I’ll never expect you to go back there if you don’t want to. I realise there are too many bad memories for you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No, it is not that,’ he said. ‘I am only thinking, why?’

  ‘Why what?’ She studied him. He was pale, agitated. ‘Peter?’ The silence stretched between them before she said again. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why do you feel you have to be the one to do this?’

  ‘Because Ellen’s my sister.’ She flipped the lid of the suitcase down. ‘And there is only me.’ Her heart clenched when she thought how frightened Linda must be. William wouldn’t understand, he was too young, but Linda would. She’d be taking everything in. ‘I told you, the children need me, Peter.’

  ‘And I told you.’ He stood still but she saw he was shaking. ‘I need you with me. They always call for you. It is not fair … to you … to me. It is not right they do this all the time. Since I came here we have had no time with just the two of us.’

  She looked at him intently, trying to make sense of what he was saying, why he was saying it. His lips were thin, pressed so tightly a white line bordered them. For the first time she saw how cold his pale blue eyes were in anger.

  She felt her own corresponding fury begin to build deep inside her. But still she reached out to him, aware of how much had happened since he first arrived in Llamroth. ‘I know it must seem unfair, love. And there’s really nothing I want more than to be here with you. But they’re my family.’ She stopped, remembering the day she’d said almost the same words to Jean. But that time she’d meant her and Peter and, all at once, she saw how it must seem to him, how insignificant he must feel. She opened her arms to him, beseeching. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He jerked away from her.

  ‘Peter!’

  ‘Nein.’ He held his hand to stop her speaking. ‘I left my family to find you, to be with you.’ He turned his back to her. ‘I thought I was your family?’ Peter raised his eyebrows, his voice haughty. ‘That is what you have told me. I believed you. Yet now you leave.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mary raised her voice against his stubbornness. ‘Now I leave. To help my family. I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t ask you to leave Germany. I was…’ She stopped. She wouldn’t lie, she hadn’t been happy, but she’d learned to live with the sadness. ‘I was okay before you came back.’

  ‘So? Now we have the truth.’ His proud upright stance was once something that had antagonised her, which she’d grown to love. Now it was as if she saw the old arrogance in the way he straightened his broad shoulders, in the emotionless gaze.

  Mary felt suddenly sickened. ‘I grew up with a bully,’ she said. ‘Two bullies actually. I thought you were different.’

  ‘I am not the bully. The war showed me what is a bully.’

  Mary thought of Frank and knew that Peter was thinking of him too. But his next words made no sense.

  ‘I saved you from a bully.’

  The room was still. They waited, watching one another.

  Mary turned away from him and stared through the window. Across the road the blackthorn hedge shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Her mind worked feverishly. She blinked rapidly trying to work out what he was saying. ‘Saved me?’ she said finally, stressing her words. ‘What do you mean, you saved me? When did you save me?’ She sensed him move closer, heard his shallow rapid breathing.

  ‘Mary.’ This time he sounded more like the Peter she knew.

  But she was angry. ‘What do you mean, you saved me?’ Her voice was harsh, because an unwelcome understanding was hovering at the back of her mind. How? How could it have been him? It was Tom. Perspiration trickled down the nape of her neck. Yet she was so cold.

  She felt the touch of his fingers on the bare skin of her arm. This time she pulled away.

  ‘What are you saying, Peter?’

  ‘I should have told you before.’ Now he was almost pleading. ‘It would have been better if I had told you the day I came back.’

  ‘Told me what?’ Mary faced him.

  ‘I did it for you.’

  Oh God, no. She saw him swallow. Forcing out the words she whispered, ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  He nodded, his face slackened.

  ‘Say it.’

  He looked away, towards the window.

  Mary grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Say it.’

  ‘It was I … I was the one … I killed Shuttleworth.’

  She moaned and pushed him away from her. He stumbled back a couple of steps but kept his gaze on her.

  She couldn’t bear to look at him. Her voice trembled. ‘You let me think it was Tom.’

  ‘Tom, he knew, Mary, I swear he knew. He did not want me to tell you. That day, the day I arrived, we spoke about it. He told me it was all in the past and that I must not mention it again.’ He tried to make her turn to him but she knocked his arm away. ‘But I had to. Only a month before he was … he died … we talked. He was reluctant but he knew I needed to speak with him about it. We were working in the war memorial garden. On part of the plaque there were the names of four brothers, four sons from the same family.’ Peter followed her around the room as she walked away from him. ‘It made me think of the devastation of the war. And then of my part in it.’ She stood still by the side of the bed. He stopped behind her. ‘I told Tom, I said that for years I had saved lives and yet I do not think of that. I think of the one life I took. And I think of another man being blamed for my action, of Tom being blamed for what I had done. And I am ashamed.’ She could barely hear him for the loud rushing noise in her ears but she felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck and it revolted her. ‘Tom said he forgave me, Mary.’

  She twisted away from him. ‘I don’t believe you.’
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  ‘He said he forgave me,’ Peter insisted. ‘I am not sorry I killed Shuttleworth. But I am sorry your brother was blamed. And I am sorry I kept the truth from you.’

  ‘I told you about the letter he sent to Gwyneth.’ She spun on her heel to face him and raised her voice. ‘You let me think it was Tom,’ she screamed at him, her eyes wild. ‘No!’ She stretched out her arm. ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t ever come near me again.’ The rage strengthened her. ‘I hate you.’

  All night she lay, silent and inflexible, by his side, knowing there was a gulf between them that had been inconceivable yesterday; one that grew with every hour that passed. She didn’t sleep. The fear of saying goodbye to him in the morning, and the awareness in her heart of hearts that she wouldn’t be coming back, kept her awake. Five years ago she had run away from Ashford to the safety of Wales. Now she would be escaping from the very place she’d felt protected, away from a man she loved yet couldn’t abide being near.

  In the morning she turned her head towards him. He was awake, watching her.

  ‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘You’ve ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you.’

  She left without speaking again.

  Peter wanted to reach out, to touch her, to take the few strides it would need to get to the gate and to kiss her. In the end his guilt and his pride wouldn’t let him.

  He should have stopped her. But he didn’t. He watched her walk away.

  Chapter 45

  Mary didn’t remember much about the journey to Ashford. Her quarrel with Peter, the reality of Frank Shuttleworth’s death, the horrifying memory of Tom flung into the air, melded into a confusion of images she couldn’t escape. She stared at the passing scenery through the window. A thick low mist covered the ground, leaving only the bare branches of trees reaching skyward like skeletal arms. As the train moved northward, the shapes above the fog changed to the oblong mills or tall black-rimmed chimney stacks.