Pattern of Shadows

by Judith Barrow

  The broken wood scraped on the flags as Mary pulled the gate behind her. The alleyway was quiet and dark. Mary trod carefully on the cobbles. Counting the number of yard gates, she felt her way to the end of the crumbling brick wall until it finished. Turning on to Shaw Road, and feeling for the continuation of the last terraced house, her outstretched hands touched a solid softness. Mary jumped and gave a small scream. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Frank, Patrick’s mate.’ A red point of light glowed briefly in the blackness, lit up the man’s face. ‘We met earlier.’ The pungent smell of cigarette smoke drifted towards her.

  ‘What are you’re doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you.’

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Why?’ She stood still, remembering the mocking glint in his eyes.

  ‘Thought I’d ask you out.’

  Mary could tell he was smiling. She’d been right … conceited individual. ‘Well, you wasted your time.’ She drew herself up. ‘Now if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said for the second time.

  Mary hesitated. He sounded almost genuine. ‘If you’re a pal of Patrick, how come I’ve never seen you before?’

  ‘We only met a couple of months ago in The Crown.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Oh.’ She stared in his direction for a moment, there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. ‘Well, I have to go. Goodnight.’ Mary turned away and crossed the road. She wished there was a bit more light. She wasn’t normally nervous but there again, neither was she used to strange men waiting on street corners for her.

  Frank flicked his cigarette into the gutter and followed. ‘I’ll walk with you a bit, make sure you get where you’re going. Okay?’ He raised his voice.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Honest, no bother. You do know I’m one of the civvy guards at the Granville?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. Why should I?’ Mary wasn’t about to tell him that she already knew. ‘I haven’t seen you there.’ At least that was the truth.

  ‘I came just before Christmas, transferred from a camp down south.’ He caught up with her. ‘I’m usually in one of the towers at the front and I’ve seen you go past to the hospital. Sometimes see you coming down Shaw Road with Patrick before he turns off for the mines. I thought he was your boyfriend at first.’ When Mary stayed silent he said, ‘So now you know I’m a respectable bloke how about coming for a drink with me? They serve a good ale in The Crown. Can I tempt you?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you then.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Well, looks as if we’re going the same way anyhow.’ Mary didn’t answer.

  ‘Look, I am sorry, honest. Scaring you like that,’ he said, ‘stupid thing to do.’

  He might mean the apology but she still didn’t like the idea that he’d been watching her coming and going from work. She sniffed.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘I just don’t like the idea of anyone spying on me.’

  ‘It’s not spying,’ he protested, ‘just admiring a pretty girl.’

  ‘Oh, please.’ She quickened her pace but then became aware he was limping. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ His breathing was laboured. ‘Did my knee in … I was invalided out of the Army.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mary felt obliged to slow down but when they passed The Crown at the top of Newroyd Street and he didn’t leave her, she said, ‘Aren’t you going to the pub?’

  ‘Later.’

  They walked in awkward silence, Mary wondered where he was going. When he next took out his packet of cigarettes, he offered one to her.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said, ‘not something I ever fancied.’ She watched him as he stopped to strike the match. When he glanced up at her and caught her looking at him, he smiled. Not the mocking smirk, she thought, just a nice straightforward smile. She smiled back. ‘Look, I’ll have to hurry,’ she said, ‘my friend will think I’ve left her in the lurch.’

  ‘Ah, her,’ Frank said, ‘so I’m not muscling in on another bloke’s territory?’

  Mary didn’t know what to say. She had never learned how to flirt and she had no intention on starting now with a friend of her brother’s, especially one who appeared to be so confident. She walked on.

  At the cinema there were no queues lined up on either side of the open doors of the large red brick building. Before the war the elaborate frontage with its swags of concrete flowers and the Corinthian columns would have been lit up by the lights through the mullioned windows and its name, The Roxy, emblazoned from the roof. Nowadays the building was in darkness and seemed to crouch down on the pavement, only faint light showing from the pay box in the foyer. Mary stood under the glass canopy that acted as a shelter for the patrons of the cinema and looked anxiously around. She could hear the opening bars of the introduction of the Pathé News. ‘She’s gone in without me, I bet.’ She could imagine Jean waiting in the queue getting more and more cross; she hated being late for anything. It began to rain again. ‘I’ll have to try to find her.’ She ran up the steps.

  A plump woman was closing the doors. ‘You’re late, love. The main film’s just starting,’ she said and bustled to the back of the ticket office, reappearing at the counter behind the glass. ‘Just the one, is it?’ She looked enquiringly behind Mary who glanced over her shoulder. Frank was standing at her shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing? You can’t come in with me.’

  ‘It’s a free country. Now I’m here I might as well stay. I’ve nothing better to do tonight, thanks to your brother.’ He reached round her and paid. ‘One and sixpence, all right?’

  Mary could picture Jean’s face. ‘Well, you can’t sit with us,’ she said, realising too late how childish she sounded.

  Picking up her ticket she ran towards the swing doors that led to the stalls. Frank followed and the woman slammed the shutters and, locking the back door of the small booth, ran after them. She stood in their way, panting. ‘Tickets please.’ She jutted out her lower lip and blew away a strand of hair that had escaped the large bun on top of her head. ‘Hurry up,’ she said, waggling her hand, ‘we’ll miss it.’

  Mary thrust the pink piece of paper at the woman, hopping from one foot to the other as she waited for her half to be given back. Then she plunged through the door into the darkness.

  The light from the large screen flickered over the rows of seating and some of the audience glanced over their shoulders in annoyance at the pair’s hasty flurried entrance. One of them was Jean. Mary shuffled her way sideways along the row whispering apologies until she reached the seat next to her friend. She pulled it down, sitting quickly before it could spring back into position.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Sorry Jean, problems at home.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming, I had to come in on my own and you know I hate doing that.’ Jean pursed her lips and looked past Mary. ‘Who’s that?’ she hissed. Frank was leaning forward and pulling off his coat. ‘Who’ve you brought with you?’

  ‘I haven’t … he’s a mate of Patrick’s. He was at the house when I got home. I tried to get rid of …’

  ‘Well, thanks a lot,’ Jean interrupted, ‘thanks a lot. You didn’t tell me I was going to be a gooseberry. Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to watch the film.’ She tightened her lips and leaned away from Mary.

  Mary glared at Frank. She turned back to her friend. ‘Sorry, Jean.’

  ‘I said I’m watching the film.’

  For a moment Mary considered walking out. She was so sick of people’s moods and tempers. She seethed with frustration for a while but gradually, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, she became increasingly aware of the warmth of Frank’s body and the masculine mix of cigarettes, Brylcreem and shaving soap.


  After a while he moved closer and whispered, ‘Enjoying it?’ She felt him touching her hand, which was rested on the smooth velvet covering of the armrest. Before she could stop him he’d threaded his fingers over hers. Mary disentangled herself and shifted away from him. ‘Do you mind?’

  He relaxed into his seat with a low laugh. Mary sucked on the inside of her lip to suppress her smile.

  Just at the moment when Clarke Gable looked into Vivien Leigh’s eyes, the familiar noise of the air raid siren drowned out the background music. To the groans of the audience the film stopped, dim lights lit the ornate decorations on either side of the screen and the manager of the cinema appeared on the stage. ‘Usual thing, ladies and gentlemen. The police advise only those who live within a five minute walk of their homes to leave. The show will go on for those who choose to remain.’

  Jean bent down hurriedly to pick up her handbag while struggling into her coat.

  ‘What are you doing Jean? You’ll never get home in time.’

  ‘I will if I run,’ Mary’s friend replied tartly. ‘Anyway, I’ve had enough. You’ve made an idiot of me tonight.’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ Mary said, ‘don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’ll thank you not to call me silly.’ She stood up and paused for a moment as she buttoned her coat, staring pointedly at Mary. Instantly there were calls from the people behind telling her to move.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Mary said.

  ‘Please don’t bother.’ Jean shoved past their knees and joined those jostling along the row to get to the centre aisle.

  Mary blew out a hard breath and stood up.

  ‘Why don’t you stay?’ Frank said.

  ‘Look, I have to go with her. You stay, if you’re that bothered.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’m only here because of you.’

  Mary caught up with Jean as they pushed their way through the swing doors. ‘It seems a good film though, doesn’t it?’ Why was she trying to placate her? She spoke loudly, glowering at Frank. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow, on our own.’ Jean didn’t reply. Head down, she pushed her way through the crowd.

  ‘Load of rubbish, if you ask me.’ Frank was now following them out of the building.

  ‘Nobody did.’ Mary knew she could be on the receiving end of one of Jean’s moods over the next few days.

  ‘There’s time for a pint,’ Frank said cheerfully.

  ‘You two do what you want,’ Jean said. ‘I’ve had enough, more than enough, and I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow, in work.’

  ‘Jean, wait!’

  ‘No!’ She hurried away.

  ‘God, I pity the bloke what finishes up with that one.’ Frank said.

  Mary ignored him. Buttoning her coat she ran after Jean. Frank was right behind her.

  ‘Off the street!’ The warden loomed out of the darkness. ‘Now!’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Frank shouted, ‘we’re going.’ He caught hold of Mary’s sleeve. ‘You’re not going to make it to your house,’ he said, ‘and they won’t let us back in the flicks.’

  Mary hesitated. There was no sign of Jean. ‘I should see if she’s all right.’

  ‘If we catch up with her, we’ll get her to come with us but we have to get a move on,’ he urged. ‘Look, we could make it to The Crown in two minutes. They use the cellars as a shelter. And happen we could get a drink.’ He took hold of Mary’s hand. ‘Come on, I dare you.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d acted impulsively. Had she ever? Her life seemed to have been mapped out for her for years.

  ‘Yes?’ Frank tugged on her hand. His strong fingers engulfed hers.

  She felt a tremor of excitement. ‘Oh, what the heck.’

  They turned and ran, at first awkwardly, and then in step.

  Chapter 3

  Mary heard a faint drone in the distance. The searchlights over Grass Mount cut through the sky, lighting up the barrage balloon that hung over Bradlow, the next town.

  They arrived at The Crown out of breath. Stan Green, the landlord, poked his head around the large red door, running his palm over the strands of greasy grey hair swept carefully across his head from one ear to the other. ‘Hurry up, you’re nearly too late, I were just closing up. Siren went a good ten minutes since. Warden’ll be after me. Come on, come on, get in.’

  He reached an arm around the back of Frank and pushed him into the pub, slamming the door into its frame. ‘Come on, come on, I ’aven’t got all night,’ he grumbled. But he grinned at them and took the opportunity to pat Mary on the backside as they stooped to go through the low cellar doorway. ‘Ow’s yer Dad, Mary? ’Aven’t seen him today.’

  ‘He’s at home, Mr Green. I think his chest’s bothering him a bit.’

  They clattered down the steps into the gloom of the long narrow cellar filled with about a dozen people cramped together in the thick fug of cigarette smoke. Two gas lamps, fastened to the wall on opposite sides of the room, shed greenish pools of light. Small wooden crates, stacked three deep in a corner farthest away from the steps, were joined together by the weft and weave of thick dusty cobwebs. A few large barrels were lined up around the ramp directly under the bolted trap door in the ceiling that opened up to the street above. As Mary and Frank shoved past them, the barrels bounced against each other with a soft hollow clunk. Except for a nod of the head or a quick smile aimed in their direction their presence was ignored. Holding onto her elbow, Frank guided her towards a space between five men perched on bar stools, playing cards on the top of an upturned crate, a stubby candle flickering in the middle, and an old woman squatted on a pile of sacks, crooning into a glass of Guinness. Mary stood, uncertain whether to sit on the flagged floor or the dirty crates.

  Frank unbuttoned his coat and threw it down. ‘We’ll be OK here.’ He brushed flakes of whitewash from her hair and she breathed in, savouring the male smell of his skin.

  Nearby the elderly landlord and his wife were having a hissed argument, ignored by the young woman sitting nearby who was resting against a stack of boxes filled with empty bottles. Mary recognised their daughter; she was Ellen’s age but already had two children. She watched as the girl heaved a sleeping little boy further onto her shoulder and began to breast-feed the baby hidden by the shawl she’d draped across herself.

  Mary glanced at Frank but he seemed oblivious to the little family in front of him. ‘So much for getting a drink, it looks as if we’re too late.’ he said.

  ‘You are that, lad,’ Stan Green called. ‘Too busy getting down ‘ere to pull any more jars.’

  ‘I wouldn’t drink anyway,’ Mary said, dragging her arms out of her coat and leaving it across her shoulders. ‘I’ve got work in the morning. I’m on earlies … with Jean.’ She frowned. ‘I hope she got home all right.’

  ‘She will have.’ Frank sat down and pulled his left leg towards him so that his foot, flat on the floor, balanced him, while his right leg was stuck stiffly out in front of him. ‘I should have been on shift tonight. Still, can’t do anything about that. We might as well make the best of things.’ He shifted and groaned.

  Mary remembered his obvious discomfort when they were running earlier. ‘Does it hurt?’ She saw the muscles around his jaw knot under his skin. ‘Sorry, if you don’t like talking about it…’

  He shrugged. ‘No problem, it was just the running set it off. Normally it doesn’t much bother me except when I stand too much. Which is a bit of a bugger, seeing the job I’m in.’ The humour didn’t reach his eyes but she could understand that, she’d seen the same kind of reaction in many of the patients she’d treated, the self-mocking, the false jokes. When he spoke again, he said, ‘Right, which of us is going first?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Life story – yours or mine?’

  Mary stiffened. ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Well, we could be here a long time, so we’ll have to talk about something. Go on.’ He nudged her. ‘Don’t be shy.’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s not that, there’s just not a lot to tell,’ Mary said. They sat in silence. She realised he wouldn’t be put off. She sighed. ‘Oh all right then, I’m a nurse, I’ve always wanted to be a nurse. I qualified at Bradlow General and I love what I do but I’m in a hospital I wouldn’t be in if it wasn’t for this awful war. Don’t get me wrong,’ she hastened to add, ‘I chose to work at the camp when it opened in ’forty-one. I don’t think there are many that have a hospital attached to them like ours, in fact I only know of two others and there are Q.A.s there, not civilian nurses, so I was lucky.’ She repeated the words that Tom had said to her when she told him she was going to the Granville, ‘Patients are patients whoever they are,’ a phrase that had helped her whenever questioned about her job over the years. ‘I’m just there to do the work I love: nursing.’ She didn’t notice the way Frank’s mouth was pulled in at the corners. ‘It’s near home and, within a year of my being there a Sister’s post became vacant. I applied and got it.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘That’s it really.’ She wasn’t prepared to tell him about all the rows she’d had from her father over her decision to work at the camp or about the fact that he ignored her if she mentioned the hospital, though she knew he was glad enough of the extra money her promotion had brought into the house.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Frank shook his head. ‘I want you to tell me about you. Have you got a chap? What do you like doing when you’re not working? Have you got a chap? Your hopes, your dreams? Or…’ He held out his hand, palm upwards and laughed. ‘Have you got a chap?’ He hadn’t spoken quietly but no one appeared to be interested in them. Still, she didn’t answer. ‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘let’s talk about something else. How about families? Tell me about your family. Patrick’s told me a bit.’ She glanced at him. ‘Just pub chat, you know. He said you have a sister?’