‘When’re you going to stop being stupid?’ he said. ‘It’s daft when you’ve got a bloody good home of your own.’
Jean pulled her lips into a tight line. ‘I prefer it here at the moment, thank you. And I don’t take kindly to being called stupid. I’m not in the wrong. Remember?’
Patrick ran his fingers through his thinning hair, the two carefully arranged waves instantly in disarray. Impatiently he brushed the strands from his eyes. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Jean. I’ve said it a hundred times.’
‘You could say it a thousand times and the situation will still be the same.’ Jean wouldn’t look at him. She arranged the pleats on Jacqueline’s kilt and started to press each one slowly. ‘You had an affair.’ She pushed the point of the iron into the waistband, trying to keep her voice calm, wishing she could say to her husband she forgave him, she just wanted all this to go away. But she knew she had to be strong. She stressed her next words. ‘Another affair, Patrick. That is one thing I have been stupid about. Turning a blind eye to all your shenanigans. I should have left you the first time.’ The kilt blurred. Jean lifted her glasses with her forefinger and flicked the tears away. Some fell onto the material, the tiny patch of tartan became a brighter red and green and she dabbed at it with the edge of a tea towel off the pile of ironing. When she spoke her words were too loud but she couldn’t do anything about that. ‘I didn’t. But this time it’s different. This time there’s going to be a baby.’ She didn’t trust herself to say any more.
Patrick’s fingers twitched on the brim of his trilby he held to his chest. ‘Please, Jean. You know I love you.’
She moved her head in denial, noticing the way his face darkened with anger.
The bright sunlight angled across the linoleum through the opened backdoor. ‘It’s dried this lot already.’ Jean’s mother peered over the top of the pile of washing. ‘That backyard’s a suntrap. You wouldn’t think it’s nearly November and—’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her features set. ‘Get out of my house.’
Patrick’s fury found a different target. ‘I think you’ll find it’s Jean’s house. Her father put it in her name when he left. Remember?’ Patrick pushed his face at her, his brown eyes narrowing. ‘Jean, my wife? Therefore my house too. You’re just the tenant we let stay here.’
‘Patrick!’ Jean protested. She’d seen the fear in her mother’s face and, realised, for the first time, she was the stronger of the two women. She took the clothes from her. ‘It’s all right Mother, go into the front room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a minute.’
Seeing Jean had the upper hand, Elsie Winterbottom tossed her head. The metal curlers under her hairnet rattled. Giving him one last glare she went out, leaving the door ajar.
Through the crack they could see her lingering in the hallway. ‘You didn’t complain when you were getting all that stuff for nowt, did you?’ Patrick shouted. ‘I was the bee’s knees then, eh? Kow-towing all that time just so you could get stuff from me … must have bloody killed you, you old crow.’
Jean picked up the iron again. ‘You really are spoiling for a fight, aren’t you? If you think that’s going to make things better you’ve another think coming.’
‘Bloody old bat.’ Patrick sprawled on the kitchen chair. He stretched his leg and pushed the door shut with his foot. ‘I just wanted to know if you were going to the bonfire on the old Rec on Sam Booth Street?’
‘I am,’ Jean said. ‘I’m taking Jacqueline and we’re going with Mary, Ted, Ellen and the kids and a few others off the street.’
‘What’s Mary doing here without her Nazi boyfriend anyway?’
‘You’ve not seen her yet?’
‘No.’
‘Think she might want to talk to you.’
‘Well, I don’t want to talk to her.’
Jean shrugged. ‘It’s a free country, suit yourself.’
He ignored what she’d said about Mary. ‘Thought I might tag along to the bonfire. That okay?’
‘It’s a free country,’ Jean said again.
‘With you? Thought I might tag along with you?’
‘After that little episode with Mother?’ Jean scoffed.
‘She’s a fucking stupid old bitch.’ He just couldn’t help himself.
‘There’s no need for language like that.’
‘And I still don’t see why you had to come here.’
‘Because I didn’t want to be in the house with you and you wouldn’t leave.’
‘It’s my…’ Patrick stopped. ‘I want you at home. I want us to sort things out.’ He stood, took a couple of steps closer to her.
She hung Jacqueline’s kilt on a hanger, unplugged the iron and put it on the worktop to cool down, folded the ironing board and let him carry it to the cupboard under the stairs. When he turned towards her, the question in his eyes, she let him wait a full minute.
‘Go home, Patrick,’ she said. ‘Go home, there’s nothing for you here.’
Chapter 49
The house was silent when Patrick closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment staring at himself in the hall mirror, for once oblivious to his good looks, seeing only the grey pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes.
There was no getting away from the fact that he was missing Jean and his daughter. And that he’d been a fool. Like all the other times with other women, those few weeks with Doreen Whittaker were just a bit of fun. She wasn’t even a challenge with that soft lad of a husband of hers being away most of the time and her having a reputation for being easy from the minute she had moved into old Ma Jagger’s house. Being next door to Ellen’s made it all the more simple. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he said to his reflection, ‘always chancing your arm. Always thinking what the wife doesn’t know won’t hurt.’ But he had hurt her and he was sorry, because the bottom line was that he loved Jean. He was just weak when it came to other women. It had to stop.
He scowled, picturing the look of triumph on her mother’s face when he pushed past her on his way out. ‘Bloody old cow.’ How he’d kept his hands to himself he didn’t know. The spite showed in his face as he glanced again in the mirror and all at once he was uneasy. It was like he was looking at his father, the tight-lipped scowl, the narrowed eyes. He suddenly pictured his mother cowering against the sideboard in the kitchen at Henshaw Street.
He’d despised his father. The only time they’d ever got on was when they were both drunk. ‘I’m not like him,’ he mumbled. And yet here he was, alone, a man who’d hit his own wife.
The surge of self-recrimination and remorse made him turn away. Taking off his overcoat he flung it in the direction of the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Ignoring it as it fell to the floor, he stumbled into the kitchen and flung himself onto one of the chairs, running his fingers through his hair. For the first time in days he became aware of the mess: the fireplace overflowing with ashes, cigarette packets and charred newspaper, the table cluttered with dirty cups and plates, butter-smeared knives and sticky lumps of jam and crumbs. He was sick of toast.
He scraped back the chair, grabbed the ash bucket by the back door and knelt in front of the hearth, feverishly emptying the grate. Standing up, he added the crockery to the pile in the sink and turned on the tap. The water was cold; with no fire lit since yesterday, the boiler in the back of the fireplace had no chance to heat up. With an exclamation of impatience and a promise to himself that he’d wash up later, Patrick grabbed a bottle of beer from the sideboard. Lifting the top off with his teeth, he headed upstairs.
It was icily cold in the bedroom. He’d opened the window to let the smell of cigarettes out before he’d stormed out that morning, determined to bring Jean home where she belonged. Closing it, he gazed out of the window. The woman next door was in the garden, calling for her cat. Patrick watched as it appeared from under the bushes and slunk across the lawn. As she turned to go back into the house she stared up at the bedroom window.
Patrick swore. ‘N
osy bitch,’ he added and hid behind the curtain. He remembered Jean once saying the woman had yet to speak to her, but he bet she knew every bloody thing that happened for miles around. She looked that sort.
He leant against the wall holding the bottle to his mouth, wavering for a couple of seconds before taking a gulp. He didn’t know how to make things right between him and Jean. She’d left him because he was messing about with Doreen, but in his mind hitting Jean was far worse than having a bit on the side. He’d known what he’d done was horribly wrong the moment it happened. What was it his father used to say after he’d given their mother a beating? Something about cutting off his right arm before he’d do it again? Of course he always did do it again. Now he was no better. How could Jean forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself?
But he was better than his father. He wouldn’t say those words but he’d promised himself that he would never be violent to her again. And he’d never look at another woman. He’d learned his lesson.
The same thoughts went over and over in his head. He’d messed up badly, with the women, with Doreen Whittaker being pregnant, especially with what he’d done to Jean the night Tom was killed.
Tom. A sob as he took another gulp of beer turned into a hiccup. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood next to the bed. It was a crumpled mess. He’d meant to change the sheets. He couldn’t remember doing it in the six weeks since she’d gone, but then when she’d first left a lot of his days had passed in a drunken fog. Lately he’d made sure he worked all hours on his stalls so that by the time he got home he was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as he dropped onto the mattress.
Now he sat, piling the pillows behind him and shuffling up to the headboard. Twisting sideways he put down the beer onto the bedside table, slid open a drawer and emptied out the contents until he finally found what he was looking for.
Although the date on the letter was years ago, the paper was still crisp. Until the day of Tom’s funeral he hadn’t read it for a long time. It was the only time he’d ever written to him.
Dear Patrick,
You will probably be surprised to hear from me but there is something I need to say to you. Mary and me have been talking and I’ve realised something that hadn’t occurred to me before you tried to put the blame on me, even knowing how I feel about the war and all the killing. You know what I’m talking about. I was angry at first but I’m not now. And after I’ve written this, I’ll be able to forget it. Or at least get on with my life as best I can.
Patrick remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d read those words. He’d always been so bloody ashamed of his brother and his weird ways, the first to mock him before anybody else did. It had taken him a few minutes to cotton on that somehow Tom was cutting him out of his life.
You and I have never been close, Patrick. Perhaps it was the difference in our ages, more likely it is because we have never thought the same about life, about all sorts of things. And I know you don’t understand me any more than I understand you. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I do. I need to tell you that as my brother, I’ll always care.
Patrick sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
And I want you to know that I understood why you did what you did on that day. I would have done the same to save Mary. I would have done exactly the same.
‘But it wasn’t me.’ Since getting the letter all those years ago he’d gone over and over this in his mind. If it wasn’t either of them, then who? It had to be his brother. The one and only time he’d gone to visit him in the Scrubs he’d almost admitted it. Hadn’t he?
He should have chucked the letter away as soon as he’d got it but he’d always intended to tackle Tom, ask him what sort of sly game did he think he was playing? He didn’t get the chance. Tom never came back to Ashford and he’d vowed he sure as hell wasn’t traipsing all the way to Wales.
Between us we both know what really happened. I pray to God that the truth will never come out but if it does I hope you have the strength to face the consequences. I will never betray you but you have to live with your conscience.
Your brother, Tom
Patrick let the letter drop from his fingers. He died believing I’d killed Shuttleworth … that I’d tried to pin it on him. The thought hadn’t gone away since the night he heard his brother had been killed. If he believed in God, that Tom was in Heaven, he’d ask his forgiveness. But he didn’t. And now there was nothing he could do to make things right.
Curling up on the bed he pressed the pillow to his face. The tears were hot and painful.
Chapter 50
By the time they arrived on the Rec, Patrick was there anyway, helping some other men to hoist the Guy Fawkes onto an old wooden chair on top of the bonfire. Brushing his hands together he came towards them grinning. ‘Looks good eh? Good size bonfire this year.’ Jean noticed he barely acknowledged Mary. When he came to stand next to her she moved to the other side of the family group.
‘Smashing, Dad.’ Jacqueline leaned against him. Jean blinked hard. She knew her daughter loved it when they were all together like this. But she felt distanced from all the cheerful babble and laughter. Last year Patrick had bought a huge box of fireworks and set them off in the back garden. She’d made treacle toffee, using up a whole week’s worth of sugar ration, Linda had stayed over and the girls had a wonderful time. An unwelcome thought came into her mind. Patrick had woken her up in the middle of that night and made love to her.
She glanced up and saw him watching her with a strange expression. She felt her face grow hot and looked away, wishing she’d stayed in at Moss Terrace.
‘There isn’t one star out tonight,’ Ellen said, shivering. ‘I don’t like nights like this.’
Jean looked past the growing crowd around them at the shells of the bombed-out terraced house on Sam Booth Street, still to be demolished, and then upwards. There were no stars, but here and there were faint blurs of orange and grey smoke rising into the blackness. ‘There’re a few other fires already lit,’ she said.
Mary pulled the collar of Ellen’s coat around the back of her neck. ‘You warm enough.’
‘I’m fine.’
Ted leaned towards Ellen. ‘The fire will soon warm you up.’
There was a murmur through the crowd. A huddle of men were striking matches and holding them to twisted-up newspaper. Jacqueline grabbed Linda’s hand. ‘Let’s watch.’
They moved forward.
‘Be careful,’ Ellen said, ‘no closer.’
Without acknowledging either of them, Patrick leaned past Mary and Ellen. ‘Ted, how’s the new van running?’
‘Fine.’
Ted kept his eyes on the three men moving around the fire with the burning makeshift torches, touching the pieces of cardboard at the edges.
‘What’s she do to the gallon?’
‘She?’ Jean muttered.
‘Don’t know properly yet, haven’t really had a good run in her,’ Ted said.
Jean saw him get hold of Ellen’s hand between both of his. She felt a stab of envy.
Patrick looked past Ted at Jean. She pretended she hadn’t noticed but out of the corner of her eye she watched him sidle round the back of Mary to stand next to her. Aware that he was edging closer, Jean threw him a sideways glare. When the cuff of his overcoat brushed the back of her fingers, she stuffed both hands into her pockets and gazed intently at the bonfire.
‘Really getting going now,’ Patrick whispered.
‘What?’ She didn’t look at him.
‘The fire. It’s taken hold. Flames will be leaping sky-high in a minute.’ He pushed his thumb into her coat pocket alongside her hand and stroked her palm. He didn’t take his eyes off the Guy Fawkes, now obscured by the swirling smoke. ‘It’s going to be a good night.’
Jean didn’t move. Her reaction to the sensation of his warm skin on hers threw her. She didn’t trust herself – any more than she trusted him. She didn’t want him, she told
herself, while a small voice at the back of her mind reminded her she didn’t want to lose him either.
The touch-paper smouldered, filling the milk bottle with smoke. Then, with a loud whoosh the rocket flew into the sky, splitting the darkness with a trail of golden sparks. The two Roman Candles that followed fired a series of red, green and blue flares into the air, colouring the faces of the crowd watching and there was a exhalation of delight when the Catherine Wheel began to spin, shooting out stars of white light from the post on a slab of old concrete near the entrance of the site. Above the laughter and the chatter there were cries of disappointment when the last firework died out.
‘We’ll have a break now.’ Ronald Turnbull from Atkinson Terrace had appointed himself in charge of the celebrations.
‘He’s enjoying himself.’ Ted grinned, his arm protectively around Ellen.
‘Mind,’ said Jean, ‘his wife looks none too pleased.’ She nodded towards a woman standing on her own by one of the ruined walls, all that was left of one of the bombed houses on the cleared ground.
‘Face like a lemon,’ Patrick joked. He’d taken Jean’s hand out of her pocket a while ago and was now openly holding it.
Mary raised her eyebrows at Jean.
Jean shrugged, pulled her hand away from Patrick and crossed her arms.
‘Should we ask Mrs Turnbull over?’ Mary said.
‘Oh no, please,’ Ellen said. ‘She works as the receptionist at the doctor’s, thinks she’s above everyone.’ She glanced around. ‘Where are the girls? I don’t want Linda wandering off. There’re a lot more strangers round here these days.’
‘There they are.’ Jean pointed to the two girls who were prising the used Catherine Wheel from the wooden stump. ‘They’re fine. Our Jacqueline knows how to look after herself. And she’ll keep an eye on Linda.’
Changing Patterns Page 18
