Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  But still she saw that Ellen nudged Ted, tipping her head towards her daughter. He hitched William further up onto his shoulder. ‘Linda, come away,’ he called above the babble of noise. ‘You’ll get burned.’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake.’ Jean pulled a face. ‘Stop mithering.’

  She exchanged glances with Mary, who frowned at her and shook her head. ‘Leave Ellen alone,’ she whispered. ‘It’s taken me and Ted ages to persuade her to come out.’

  Jean sucked in her breath, irritated, and turned away. To her mind Ellen was making the most of all the fuss, so much so that Mary barely had any time for her best friend these days.

  Patrick’s arm found its way around her waist. This time she didn’t move away.

  Linda ran towards the group, her face rosy in the light of the bonfire, the green balaclava pushed back from her forehead. ‘I’m hot,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, well, keep that on, and your scarf,’ Ellen said, ‘it’s bitter tonight.’

  ‘Linda, come on,’ Jacqueline shouted. ‘Guy Fawkes is going to fall.’

  ‘Watch where you stand, stay where we can see you.’ Ellen held on to Linda’s coat. ‘There’s sparks flying and there’ll be more in a minute.’

  When Linda managed to pull herself free from her mother’s grasp she ran towards her cousin, shoving the balaclava off her head. They wrapped their arms around each other and, peeking surreptitiously at the adults, moved around the back of the bonfire out of sight, where they went closer to watch the stuffed figure, slumped in an old school chair, sink into the flames to loud applause.

  ‘His hat will be last,’ Linda confidently predicted.

  ‘How do you know?’ Jacqueline squinted up through the heat. The Guy’s head was an old pillow case. Someone had drawn a face on it and a big smile. Jacqueline couldn’t see herself looking that happy if she’d been shoved on a fire. The hat was black and squashy and had fallen over one of the pretend eyes.

  ‘Because it’s an old one of Granny Booth’s and I heard Mummy tell Auntie Mary that Granny’s hat was made of stone.’ She rested her head against Jacqueline’s and together they stared into the fire.

  ‘Well, she was wrong,’ Jacqueline said, as the hat was engulfed in a blaze. ‘See? Its trousers and jacket are still there and the hat’s gone.’ She gave Linda a playful push. ‘Come on, let’s buy a potato.’ Clutching their pennies, they raced to where a large, sweating, red-faced woman was standing behind a table. She wore a checked turban that was knotted at the front and had slipped low on her forehead. Nearby a man was knocking potatoes out of the red embers of the fire where it had already died down. He had a very long iron poker and held his hand in front of his face, but Jacqueline could see that he’d still managed to singe the front of his hair. They waited at the end of the queue watching the woman carefully wrap newspaper around each of the blackened potatoes piled up in an old tin bucket.

  ‘Yummy!’ Jacqueline said.

  By the time they returned to where the adults stood, Jacqueline’s face was smeared with black soot and newspaper print. ‘Timmy Powell let a Rip-Rap off behind Mr Turnbull and he jumped a mile and then chased Timmy off the Rec.’ She laughed. ‘You should have seen it, Mum.’

  ‘You were wrong, Mummy,’ Linda said, ‘the hat got burned first.’

  ‘What do you mean, love?’ Mary looked from Linda to Ellen.

  ‘The Guy Fawkes,’ Linda said, impatiently hopping from one foot to the other, her wellingtons making small squeaking sounds. ‘It had one of Grandma Booth’s hats on and Mummy told you it was a stone one.’ She stood still, crossed her arms, her face stubborn. ‘I heard her: “a hat of stone”.’

  Mary’s face cleared. She smiled. ‘I think she means a heart of stone,’ she said in a low voice to Ellen and Jean.

  Patrick let out a laugh and hugged Jean who exchanged smiles with him; it felt good to share the amusement.

  Ellen put her fingers to her mouth. She looked apologetically at Ted. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘Oh, give over.’ He grinned. ‘I think you’re spot on. Never one for sentiment, my mother. As we both know,’ he added in answer to her expression of faked astonishment.

  Jacqueline spit on her hands and rubbed them together.

  ‘Jacqueline,’ Jean protested.

  ‘Cleaning them.’

  ‘Looks as if you’re having a good time.’ Patrick studied her with a grin.

  ‘Smashing! I’ve just had a tater.’

  ‘I can see that. Didn’t you want one, Linda?’

  ‘It was messy. I didn’t want it on my hands.’ She looked towards Ellen for approval.

  Ellen smiled. ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Anyway, Jacqueline said it was raw in the middle.’

  ‘Didn’t matter,’ Jacqueline said, wiping her mouth across her coat sleeve, ‘it was good.’

  ‘Here, I have something for you.’ Patrick took a white packet from his overcoat pocket. He tore the top open and took out a thin metal rod. ‘Sparklers. That okay with you, love?’ he asked Jean.

  ‘As long as they’re careful,’ Jean said, surprised but pleased he’d asked in front of everyone.

  The two girls laughed, excited. ‘Let’s light them now.’

  ‘Put your gloves on,’ Ellen said. ‘Hold it well away from you.’

  Patrick moved behind both girls and held their arms straight. ‘Right.’ He nodded at Ted.

  Ted struck a match and held it to the grey end of Jacqueline’s sparkler.

  ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘Give it a chance,’ Jean said, ‘your dad wouldn’t buy duff ones.’

  Patrick frowned, glanced up at her as if unsure whether she was being sarcastic, but she smiled at him and he visibly relaxed and grinned back.

  Suddenly there was a shower of tiny sparks lighting up the darkness around them.

  ‘Light yours from mine,’ Jacqueline urged Linda, ‘light yours from mine.’

  Patrick helped Linda to hold the sticks together.

  ‘Now we’ll write our names,’ Jacqueline laughed.

  Holding hands they waved the burning metal rods, spelling out their names in golden lines against the blackness.

  As the last flashes fizzled out, Ellen shivered. ‘I think I’d like to go home now.’

  ‘Me too,’ Jean said. The front of her body was hot but, despite the thick woollen trousers, the back of her legs were frozen. Besides she was conscious that Mary and Ellen had been watching her and Patrick all night and she was sick of it. They’d had their say about him, it was up to her what she did now. For Jacqueline’s sake, she told herself, feeling a thrill of anticipation when his hand brushed hers again.

  ‘Okay,’ Ted said. ‘Are you ready?’ he said to Linda.

  ‘Aw, no,’ Linda protested, ‘there’ll be more fireworks in a minute.’ Her bottom lip jutted out and she swung around so her back was to them.

  ‘Don’t be awkward, love.’ Ted put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Your Mum’s cold and we can’t leave you here.’

  ‘I’m going anyway,’ Jean said. ‘Jacqueline?’

  ‘I’ll come with you? See you back safely?’ Patrick said. ‘Here give me those.’

  Jacqueline went with him to drop the burned-out sparklers in the bin nearby. When they came back he said, ‘Jacqueline wants to stay on for a bit as well.’

  ‘Please Mum?’ Jacqueline put her arm across Linda’s shoulder. ‘And Dad says I can sleep at Linda’s tonight?’

  ‘You asked,’ Patrick said hastily when his daughter looked from him to Jean. ‘You know I said only if your mum says yes.’

  ‘Well…’ Jean dithered, the warmth of Patrick’s fingers stroking the back of her neck completely unsettling her.

  She shot a swift look at Mary to see if she’d noticed, but it was obvious she hadn’t when Mary said, ‘I’ll stay with them. They’ll be fine.’

  ‘Can Jacqueline sleep at our house, Mummy?’ Linda looked anxiously at Ellen. ‘It’s been ages.’

  ‘If that�
�s all right with Auntie Mary? She’s in the room next to yours. I don’t want you keeping her awake all night with your giggling.’

  Mary smiled at the girls. ‘Or your snoring.’

  They laughed.

  ‘If you’re sure?’ Jean said.

  ‘I am. You get back.’ Mary glared at Patrick. ‘To your mother’s.’

  The fireworks in the distance were like coloured stars, flickering, sharp bursts of colour that rose and died in the sky. Far away dogs howled against the bangs and crashes. The faint light glowed intermittently on Peter’s face. He’d counted four bonfires along the coastline. It seemed as though almost every village had their own.

  He pulled his jacket tighter around him and folded his arms, tucking his hands under his armpits.

  He’d never felt so alone.

  Chapter 51

  ‘Mother will wonder where I am,’ Jean murmured.

  Patrick turned the key and pushed the door with his foot, his arms around her. ‘I’ll take you back there afterwards, if you insist.’ He traced the shape of her ear with his tongue. ‘It’ll be just like when we were courting.’ His warm breath rippled on her skin.

  Barely waiting until Jean closed the front door, he put both hands flat on the wall on either side of her and covered her face with kisses, finally finding her mouth. The smell of the bonfire lingered between them when he pressed against her, unbuttoning and sliding her coat from her shoulders. He held his hand over her breast, gently squeezed until she felt her nipple hardening under his touch. When his kisses became more urgent, she curved her back, returning the pressure with her own mouth, pushing off his jacket and holding him closer to her. With a small whimper she let him raise her skirt to her waist and quickly helped him to pull her roll-on down over her hips and thighs, self-consciously aware for a moment that he would feel the indented marks left by it on her buttocks.

  He didn’t hesitate. Wrapping his arm around the back of her waist he lifted her, unbuckling his trousers at the same time. She felt the rush of moist heat inside her, the coldness of the wall on her lower back, the rough coarseness of hair on the insides of her thighs and the one sudden ecstatic thrill as he entered her. Kissing him, searching for his lips with her own and finding them, she flicked her tongue rhythmically between them, feeling the urgent response in him and matching his movements.

  For once he waited; only shuddering against her after the quivering warmth exploded within her and she tightened around him.

  Afterwards, breathless, she was embarrassed. They’d never done anything like that before and, for a second, she let herself wonder who else he’d made love to like that. But, without a word, he picked her up and carried her upstairs. Laying her on the bed he made love to her again, this time slowly, tenderly.

  When she woke, he was already awake. Propped up on one elbow he grinned down at her. ‘So?’ he said. ‘We okay now?’ He put his hand on her shoulder and pulled her to face him.

  She pressed her lips together, irritated by his self-assurance. She wanted so badly to say yes, to forget every affair, forget every quarrel. She’d done it before. But this time was different; this time she needed to forget the fear and pain of his fist. And this time there would be a baby, a child, always there, in the background. Once the gossips got hold of that juicy little titbit she’d never be able to hold her head up again, especially around where they lived.

  ‘I don’t know, Patrick, I don’t know.’

  Chapter 52

  Stepping onto the pavement on Shaw Street, Mary shivered. A bank of cloud covered the weak winter sun letting through only a silvery wash of light and, after the oppressive heat of bodies squashed together in the bus, the chilly wind seemed to go right through her.

  She was glad of the fresh air though. On the way back from Manchester she’d started to feel nauseous. It was having to go on the top deck, she told herself, all that cigarette smoke and the rolling motion of the bus. Yet, always there, the anxiety that in the middle of the night magnified itself into panic. She’d missed one monthly and was three days overdue on the second. In the daytime, like now, she could convince herself it was all the turmoil, all the upset she’d been through. She’d begun to dread going to bed.

  ‘You all right, m’dear?’ The old woman who’d got off the bus behind her put her arm around her. Mary nodded, her lips compressed into a forced smile. The woman stank of damp and her black coat was spotted with greenish splodges. Mary watched the bus move away, a funnel of shimmering exhaust fumes distorting the air. She held her breath, not wanting to take in either smell.

  ‘Dirty bugger, that.’ The woman followed her gaze. ‘You’d think there’d be a law against it – belching all that bleeding muck out. You crossing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ They crossed the road. On the other side the woman said, ‘I’m going that way. I live on Huddersfield Road. Been to a funeral,’ she said inconsequentially. ‘Now you look after yourself, you need to take care.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Especially now.’

  Mary’s heart missed a beat. But before she could ask what the woman meant she’d hurried away, moving quickly for such an old woman, her black hat bobbing on her head. Her mother would have been around the same age now. ‘Oh Mam,’ she whispered, ‘I need you so much.’ She put a hand to her stomach.

  The wretchedness was overwhelming. First Mum, then Tom. And, in her mind, losing Tom was now intermingled with losing her job. Sometimes she could almost persuade herself both were waiting for her in Llamroth. Then the loss came back with an unrelenting rush. And she blamed Peter for everything. So why hadn’t she told any of the family that she’d finished with him? That she wasn’t going back to Llamroth? What was stopping her from clearing Tom’s name at least, from telling Ellen and Ted, Jean and Patrick … especially Patrick … that it was Peter who killed Frank, not Tom? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wasn’t ever going back to Wales. And she didn’t know how to break that news to Gwyneth.

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ A man knocked into her. He raised his trilby and hurried on.

  ‘My fault.’ Mary managed a small smile.

  ‘Too cold to be standing around,’ he called back to her.

  ‘You’re right.’ Pull yourself together, she thought. It’s all the worry, you’re not… She couldn’t even form the word in her mind. She pulled back her shoulders and took in a long breath. She’d be glad to get back to the house. The Saturday market was a good place for bargains but it was as though all of Ashford and Bradlow had the same idea and she’d been pushed from pillar to post. Still, it was worth it. The three skeins of parrot wool she’d bought were a bargain and more than enough for jumpers for all three children. She was sure they’d like all the random mix of colours in the wool and knitting would be a good excuse for sitting down. Running about after Ellen was hard work.

  Quickening her step, she disregarded the sensation of the heels of her shoes, hard on the pavement, jolting through her body as she wound her way past the straggle of people who seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, despite the cold.

  The tops of the trees in Skirm Park shivered with each gust of wind, flinging the last of the dead leaves around the sky. The year is almost over, she thought. So much has happened but it was as though she’d never moved away from Ashford, as though the last five years had not happened.

  The van didn’t stop at the top of Newroyd Street before turning onto Shaw Street. The noise of the brakes and the squeal of the tyres as the driver took the corner too quickly brought Mary out of her reverie. Her fingers loosened on the handle of the shopping basket and it fell to the ground, the brown packages of wool scattering.

  The van was white with an orange oblong painted on the side as though blotting something out. White and orange. The same colours as the van that killed Tom.

  It was that van.

  And the driver, turned towards her grinning, as it sped past, was George Shuttleworth.

  Chapter 53

  ‘I’m
sorry miss, we’ve investigated your allegation and the man you think you saw…’

  ‘The man I saw,’ Mary interrupted.

  ‘The man you think you saw driving the van that killed your brother has denied being in Wales on that day.’ The police sergeant rose up and down on his heels in front of the tiled fireplace, his hands behind his back as he looked at Mary over the top of his glasses. ‘And he has an alibi.’

  A plump woman sitting at a long wooden table jabbed rhythmically at the keys of a large typewriter. She stared, unwavering, at Mary as a small bell pinged and the carriage skidded back before she carried on hitting the keys.

  Mary discounted her and looked to a young police officer who was standing by a four drawer metal cabinet balancing a large pile of folders under one arm. ‘He can’t have an alibi. I told you, I saw him, I saw the van.’

  ‘You saw a van,’ the sergeant stressed.

  ‘It was his van, white with orange on the side … like the orange had been painted on to cover something up.’

  His eyebrows rose.

  ‘Like it was covering up words. Oh, that’s not important…’ Mary flushed, the anger rising quickly. ‘It was the same van. I saw the driver and I recognised him. I know it was him.’ Her voice was hard. It was impossible George Shuttleworth could get away with killing Tom. The police had to believe her. ‘He’s someone I know.’

  ‘So I understand, miss.’ The sergeant cocked his head to one side. ‘We found the report of a previous altercation between your families.’

  Oh no! Mary swallowed hard against the sickening lurch of her stomach. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realised their investigations would uncover all the stuff from before? Stupid woman, she told herself. She gripped the edge of the counter. Pull yourself together, she thought. There was nothing else to do but brazen it out. ‘Altercation, sergeant? If you’ve read the report, you will know full well what kind of altercation it was.’