Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t feel he had the right to judge Ellen but he couldn’t help the resentment. If it wasn’t for her he and Mary wouldn’t have quarrelled. Instantly he was fiercely ashamed of himself. If he’d told the truth as soon as he arrived in Llamroth they might have had a chance of happiness. As it was he’d been ein Feigling – a coward. It wasn’t Ellen’s fault. It wasn’t anybody else’s fault but his own.

  Gwyneth was watching him. ‘Mary’s grieving,’ she said eventually, ‘that’s what it is. She and Tom were very close. They looked after one another and it’s only a few months since he went … and in such a horrible way.’ Her voice choked. ‘No,’ she said as Peter stopped walking. ‘I’m all right, keep going.’ She gave a small cough before saying, ‘She’s grieving for him. It’s all part of life. So she’s gone away from where it happened, just for the time being.’ She gave his arm a little shake. ‘But not for too long, see. Now, I know there’s something you’ve not told me … and that’s fine. But I also know how much you mean to one another. So, when you think the time is right, will you go after her?’

  Peter thought for a moment. He couldn’t tell her the truth; what he’d done, how he’d hidden behind the lies, how he’d ruined Mary’s life by coming back to find her. He shook his head. ‘She does not want me to go there. I must wait for her here.’

  Other than making a small noise of exasperation, Gwyneth was quiet as they walked along the road. In the gathering darkness Peter heard the sea moving sluggishly between tides, a damp film of mist glistened in the gas street lights, hovering above the beach. His pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, ashamed to show that tears threatened. His skin was cold and clammy.

  ‘Oh!’ Gwyneth gave a shudder. ‘Someone’s just walked over my grave.’

  ‘What is it?’ Peter was concerned. She looked frightened for a moment.

  She gave him a small smile. ‘Just a shiver,’ she said, still looking at him pensively. They’d reached the cottages. Peter walked with her to her front door.

  ‘Come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you, no.’ He gestured to his clothes and boots. ‘I have had a long day working with Alun and Alwyn in their garden. They are putting a new shed there,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’ Gwyneth studied him.

  ‘I have.’ He hadn’t. But all he wanted was to go into the cottage next door. All he wanted was to lie down on the bed; the bed where he and Mary had slept and made love. To wrap himself in the covers and sleep, to escape the misery that walked alongside him all the time.

  Chapter 64

  The air carried a fine drizzle that landed bead-like on Jean’s raincoat as she hurried towards Skirm Park. The two girls were swinging on the new gates at the entrance oblivious to the rain.

  ‘Get down, you two,’ she said, brusquely, ‘you’ll be wet and filthy before we start.’

  She was so tired. The baby had cried for most of the night. She’d heard Patrick walking about in the spare room with him. Once, Jacqueline had gone in to them. Jean forced herself to stay in bed. She’d lain on her back, listening, arms by her side, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.

  ‘Go on, get down.’

  Linda jumped onto the ground and, tucking her doll under her arm, held her hands out. Making an impatient noise Jean pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped the grime off her niece’s fingers. ‘There, all clean.’ She smiled at Linda and gave her a quick hug before raising her voice in annoyance. ‘Jacqueline, get down. I won’t tell you again.’

  Jacqueline leapt from the gate and raced towards the lake, wiping her hands on her dress before holding out her arms and twirling around, faster and faster, then she stood with her eyes closed until she began to topple over.

  ‘Jacqueline, stop it, if you fall over you’ll get grass stains all over your dress.’ Her daughter laughed, staggering towards them and crossing her eyes.

  Linda giggled.

  ‘If the wind changes you’ll stay like that,’ Jean warned, but forced a laugh. She didn’t want her daughter to see how tired and upset she was.

  ‘Look up at the trees, our Linda,’ Jacqueline shouted. ‘Remember when it snowed and you said it looked like that crotchy thingy mat your Mum has on her sideboard?’

  ‘Crocheted,’ Jean corrected. ‘Crocheted.’ She rummaged in her handbag for her cigarettes and matches and then changed her mind. She only smoked to annoy Patrick because he hated seeing it. He wasn’t here now, so there was no point.

  ‘Yeah, well, Linda said the snow on the trees looked like a piece of that and she was right.’ Linda looked smug. Jacqueline grabbed her cousin’s hand. ‘Now, all the leaves are coming out like little fans.’ She looked around. ‘Can we go on a boat?’

  ‘Not today.’ Jean walked towards the bandstand. ‘Too wet. Play on the swings.’ This whole park thing was a bad idea but she’d had to get out of the house before she went mad. The whole place was littered with the baby’s things. ‘Far too wet,’ she said again.

  ‘Slide then.’ Jacqueline dragged Linda to the playground. ‘Let’s go on the slide.’

  ‘I won’t be able to hold on to my dolly.’ Linda hung back. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too high.’ The metal sheet glittered with blobs of golden rain in the weak sun. ‘And I’d get my knickers wet,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be a mardy. Put it down. It’s not as though it’s a real baby,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Not like ours. He’s a real baby.’

  Hearing what her daughter said brought a frown to Jean’s face.

  ‘Come on.’ Jacqueline climbed the steps. ‘The wet’ll make us go faster, be more fun.’ She stopped, held out her hand. ‘Come on, I’m with you. I’ll make sure you’re okay.’ She moved to one side to let Linda pass and then grabbed the rails just in front of her so her own arms encompassed her. ‘See? You’re safe, you can’t fall back,’ she said. ‘When we get to the top, wait until I sit down and then sit on my lap. That way I’ve got you and you won’t get your knickers wet.’

  Linda clutched Jacqueline’s knees as they hurtled down the slide, both of them screaming. When they reached the bottom they were tangled together and it took a while before they could stand up. ‘Again.’ Linda laughed. ‘Again.’ She gave Jacqueline a kiss.

  ‘Yuk, what was that for, you daft brush?’

  ‘Cos,’ Linda said, ‘just cos.’

  They ran round to the steps again.

  ‘Hello, love.’ Patrick stood next to Jean who was absently watching the girls and listening to the bell ringers practise at St John’s church. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Jean shrugged, not looking at him. He must have followed them from the house. She reached inside her handbag for her cigarettes.

  Patrick unstrapped the baby and took him out of the pushchair.

  Jean looked at the child, recognising the blue knitted hat and coat. Ellen appeared to have donated most of her son’s old clothes to Patrick’s by-blow. Well, she was showing whose side she was on, no doubt about that. She blinked hard.

  ‘Can we talk?’ Patrick sat on the iron bench, his knees only inches from hers. He put his hand on her sleeve.

  Jean felt the tingle in her stomach from his nearness. They hadn’t made love since Bonfire Night and, although she wouldn’t admit it, she missed him.

  ‘Jean?’ She didn’t respond. ‘Love, look at me.’ He moved his fingers down until he was gently stroking the back of her clenched hand. ‘Love?’

  ‘Dad!’ The shriek came from Jacqueline. ‘Have you come to take us on the boats? Will you, Dad? Will you take us on the boats?’ She galloped up to him turning her pleas in her mother’s direction. ‘It stopped raining ages ago.’ She made a wide arc with her arms towards the sky. ‘Please, Mum?’

  Patrick leaned forward, only inches from her. ‘I can’t sweetheart. I’ve got Jack to see to.’

  Jack? Jean grimaced. Where the hell had he got that name from? I’d have chosen Adam, after my grandd
ad, if I’d been asked. What was she thinking? She had no interest whatsoever in the child. But she’d furtively watched her husband struggle to cope with the baby over the last month. She hadn’t even offered to help him when he’d gone to one of the stalls to check the stock or cover for someone who was absent. He’d just fastened the boy into a makeshift cot on the backseat of the car and left. To give him his due, she thought, he hadn’t moaned once about it and he’d never asked for her help. Until now. The implication was there. She sniffed, aware both Patrick and Jacqueline were looking at her. She knew they were waiting for her to offer to hold the baby while he took the girls on a boat. He knew there was little she’d refuse her daughter if it were possible.

  ‘Mum? You take him,’ Jacqueline demanded.

  Silently Jean held out her arms. Patrick passed Jack over to her. ‘He should stay asleep. He’s only just had a bottle.’

  She nodded stiffly, looking straight ahead.

  Patrick and Jacqueline ran down to Linda, who was waiting by the lakeside, thumb in her mouth and holding her doll to her face, its clay head against her cheek.

  Clutching one another, the girls stepped into the middle of the wobbling rowing boat, while Patrick paid the hire fee to the attendant sitting inside the small green ticket box. He took off his flat cap, shoving it into the pocket of his coat which he folded so that the lining was to the outside. Then he doubled it up and handed it to Jacqueline. The girls waited in excited impatience as he sat down on the seat, turned his shirtsleeves up his arms and stuck his thumbs under his braces to adjust them. ‘Right,’ he said at last, ‘let’s go.’

  Spitting on his hands and rubbing them together with a flourish, Patrick grasped the oars, delicately turning the left one in small circles to spin the boat around before heaving on them both and heading for the middle of the lake. The clunk of the oar in the stirrup and slap of water on the paddle were the only sounds as his muscles bulged and relaxed in his arms.

  Jean felt the warmth of the small body against hers. She’d opened her raincoat so the baby wouldn’t get wet against it and wrapped it around both of them. He was taking small open-mouthed breaths. She glanced across at the lake, making sure no one was watching before looking down at the little boy’s face. Barely five months old his features were as yet not fully formed but with a start she saw the shape of his eyebrows, the curve of his earlobe, both so familiar. There was no doubt she was holding her husband’s child by another woman. She registered the knowledge with an acceptance that surprised her and tried to work out why the anger against the boy, which had flared since his birth, had burned itself out. She was holding the answer in her arms. He was so small, so vulnerable. Whatever the circumstances of his conception, it wasn’t his fault.

  Yet, stubbornly, as she knew she would, when they finally climbed out of the boat and stumbled up the wooden ramp, when Patrick walked towards her, hand in hand with the girls, she set her face and held the baby out to him saying, ‘It wants changing.’

  ‘He’s called Jack,’ Jacqueline said, ‘like the beginning of my name. Call him Jack, Mum.’

  It hadn’t occurred to Jean. She looked up at Patrick. He grinned sheepishly, in the way that usually melted any animosity towards him. ‘Seemed the obvious thing.’ He moved his shoulders.

  ‘Not to me,’ Jean interrupted. ‘Not to me.’ He’d even stolen that from her. He’d chosen Jacqueline’s name and now he’d shared it with another woman’s bastard. How could he? However irrational a thought, and she knew it was, she couldn’t stop the anger. But this time it was different. This time there was a deep hurt threaded through the resentment that didn’t include the boy. In the thirty minutes she had held him close to her something had changed. What she felt about him was completely different from how she felt about Patrick. What she felt for the boy – for Jack – was a tiny flame of compassion, of a need to protect this defenceless human being, born into such turmoil.

  But she’d be damned if she’d let anyone know how she felt.

  Chapter 65

  George pushed his way through the white sheets and pillowcases propped up on washing lines strung from the outside lavatory to the house. His hands left smears of grime.

  ‘Ma?’

  Nelly was at the kitchen table ironing. The back of her neck was red and sweaty. She stiffened. ‘What do you want?’ She didn’t turn to look at him.

  ‘Well, that’s a nice way to greet your son.’ George dropped his duffle bag on the floor and slung his jacket on top of it. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed, hoping she’d notice he had a cold. When she still didn’t look at him he shrugged and glanced around. ‘Mind if I make a brew? I’m parched.’

  ‘Aye, I do.’ This time Nelly banged the iron down onto the asbestos trivet and swung round to stare at him. ‘I told you, you’re no son of mine. Get out.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Ma, look at the state of me.’

  ‘Not my problem anymore.’ Determined not to ask where he’d been, Nelly forced down the pity she felt at the sight of him. His hair needed a good cut and he was filthy. She noticed the frightening scars and the puffiness around his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Still drinking, though, I see.’ She took the iron and crossed the kitchen to put it on top of the range. Picking up a smaller, second one she spit on the flat of it. The saliva hissed and bubbled and she nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Piss off,’ he said.

  It hadn’t taken long for his temper to show, Nelly thought. ‘You bugger off, George. Now! You’ll get nothing more from me. Ever.’ A second later she felt the blow in the middle of her back. She fell against the hard back of the chair and then onto the floor. She rolled onto her back, fighting for breath, one arm covering her face as he bent over her.

  ‘I’m back,’ he said, ‘whether you like it or not.’ He grabbed the front of her apron and pulled her closer. ‘Now, sort me a bath out and then get me some grub.’

  She didn’t think what she was doing. As though by itself her arm swung in an arc, the hot iron still in her hand.

  ‘Bloody cow!’ George staggered back holding his cheek, his skin reddening.

  Taking advantage of his shock, Nelly got on all fours and, still clutching the iron in one hand, heaved on the edge of the table to pull herself upright. The pain in her back was almost unbearable but she lumbered towards him, erratically swinging the iron. ‘Out!’ she shouted, ‘Out!’

  ‘You’re mad, you stupid bitch,’ he yelled, backing away. ‘You want locking up.’

  ‘It’s not me that’ll up be locked up if you come near me again,’ Nelly panted. ‘I’m warning you for the last time.’ She gave him a shove. ‘If I see you … or even hear you’re still in Ashford I’ll go to the police. And don’t think I won’t.’

  He fell through the open back door into the yard. Throwing his bag and jacket after him, she slammed the door and bolted it.

  ‘You’ll be fuckin’ sorry you’ve done that,’ he yelled.

  Nelly covered her ears. ‘Go away,’ she mumbled, ‘leave me alone.’

  He carried on cursing and shouting. Then stopped. Nelly stayed leaning against the door for a few minutes before straightening up. She peered through the net curtains at the window. He’d gone. She was shaking. She stumbled towards the armchair by the range, sinking onto it. He’d gone. But she knew it hadn’t ended. She didn’t dare to think what he’d do next.

  Chapter 66

  ‘I should have stayed in Manchester with my mates.’ He tipped back on the chair, balancing on two legs. ‘We’ve had such a blindin’ time they begged me to stay.’ His mouth twisted. They hadn’t, not the last lot he’d dossed at; kicked him out like his sodding mother had, like they all had in the end, just because his money had gone. With no one else to sponge off, he’d had to come back to Ashford.

  He pinched his nostrils together and sniffed before spitting out into the empty fireplace.

  ‘Hey up, yer dirty bugger,’ Arthur Brown said, ‘don’t do that.’

  �
��Got a cold.’ George sniffed again.

  ‘Well, use your sodding ’anky,’ Arthur grumbled.

  George noticed an opened bottle of Arthur’s homemade potato wine on the sideboard. ‘I could do with a drink. Bloody landlord in the Crown wouldn’t serve me.’

  ‘That’s my last bottle.’ Arthur reached over and, opening one of the doors, put it in the cupboard.

  George stood up to leave. ‘You’re a miserable bastard, Brown. Always have been, always will be. A proper bloody tight-arse.’

  George hung around in Skirm Park until it was almost dark and the park-keeper kicked him out and locked the gates. There was only one place left to go.

  He sidled through alleyways and side streets in a circuitous route, resentment and anger rising as he passed the terraced houses with the lit windows and the sounds of voices, muffled by curtains.

  Once, hearing footsteps, he waited in the shadow of one of the Corinthian columns outside the Roxy. The cinema was closed, the crowds dispersed over an hour ago, and behind the mullioned windows the building was in darkness. A couple, arm in arm, hurried past, their voices loud and echoing as they walked under the glass canopy. He gave them a few minutes before moving off again, slipping past the backs of the houses to come out near the camp.

  There were no street lamps at this end of Shaw Street. The cloud-shaded half-moon gave just enough light for him to check there was no one around. He crossed the road and pushed his way through the undergrowth beside the high fence. After a few minutes he stopped. The culvert was hidden by shrubbery and rubble, but he knew exactly where it was. Tucking his jacket into his large duffle bag and pushing the two blankets he’d dragged off his bed in front of him, he worked for a few minutes clearing the entrance before crawling inside.

  The smell hit him instantly, a rank dampness; the culvert angled upwards and a thin trickle of slimy water trailed sluggishly downwards under him. He clutched the blankets to him and wiped first one hand and then the other on his jacket lapel, thinking of his mother sitting in the warmth at their house. ‘Bitch!’