Pattern of Shadows

by Judith Barrow

  Downstairs, Patrick was already up and smoking his first cigarette of the day, his feet propped against the hearth where the fire gave out little heat and, in a large pan, a slab of belly pork congealed in water on top of the range. On the sideboard the wireless crackled and hissed as the valves warmed. Patrick was waiting for the War Report and he didn’t speak as Mary entered the kitchen fastening the belt of her uniform. She perched on the edge of a chair and hastily slipped each foot into her black stockings. ‘I’m off in a minute, Mam. Ellen’s not feeling so good, so I told her I’d call in the factory and let them know. She might go in later.’ She wouldn’t, but Mary realised that Patrick was listening.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ he said.

  ‘Women’s problems.’ She knew he’d lived too long with his sisters to be embarrassed by mention of the ‘monthlies’, never even noticing the buckets of soaking rags that appeared on a regular basis in the scullery, and she saw him immediately lose interest. Bending forward, he took a last long drag on the thin paper that held a few strands of lit tobacco before flinging it on top of the smouldering coals and standing up.

  Winifred appeared at the door between kitchen and scullery and stood drying her hands on a piece of towelling, watching her daughter clipping her stockings through the suspenders. ‘You’ve got a ladder in the right one,’ she observed.

  ‘Drat. I’ll sew it in my break.’ Mary twisted the stocking so the flaw was on the inside of her leg. ‘Can you see it now?’ Holding onto her skirt, she strained to look at it.

  ‘No, I think you’ll get away with it.’

  ‘Anyone would think you were trying to impress a bloke.’ Patrick scowled at her, combing his hair into two carefully arranged waves. ‘You’re only going to work at the bloody Jerry hospital … or are you trying to impress your bosses, the Jerry doctors?’

  ‘Oh shut up Patrick, I’m sick of your sniping. I’ve told you before, it’s the job of the Commandant to bring in German doctors for the POWs, we have no choice who we work with.’ She took the cup of tea Winifred was holding out to her, ‘Thanks Mam.’

  The throat-clearing from upstairs was a warning that their father was getting up. ‘I’m off out: strike meeting.’ Patrick fastened his jacket. ‘Back at teatime.’ He wrapped his scarf around his neck and reached past his mother for his cap. ‘Don’t forget, it’s my night for a bath, Mam, so I’ll need hot water when I get home. Bring the bath in before then, will you? Warm it up a bit.’ He slammed the back door behind him.

  Winifred retreated into the scullery.

  Fastening her cape, Mary watched her mother washing carrots and potatoes in the bowl in the sink. ‘Our Patrick’s gone worse. You should have told him to see to his own bath, Mam. Selfish pig.’

  ‘Not worth having a row about it. He’s in a funny mood these days,’ her mother said. ‘He was most put out his friend had left last night but, like I told him, what was the man supposed to do? Stand there like a fool until Patrick decided to come out of his room. He asked if you’d gone at the same time. I knew what he meant and told him not to talk daft. I said, “Married to her job, is our Mary.”’

  Mary scowled. One day she’d do something that would surprise everybody. She didn’t know what, something completely mad: get a job on the other side of the country, marry a doctor, just run away. Anything to escape. She heaved a loud sigh. Chance would be a fine thing. She knew she was trapped, she’d never leave her mother to cope with everything on her own, but she was so fed up with them thinking she was. She pursed her lips. ‘Married to her job.’ Her mother, oblivious to Mary’s frustration, was still talking. ‘“She’s got no time for tomfoolery,” I said to him. “More sense than to get mixed up with anyone, let alone the likes of one of her brother’s friends. Leave your sisters be,” I said. Though I must say, I don’t know what he’d have done if he’d seen Ellen last night. Are you going to tell me what happened or not?’

  Adjusting her cap Mary said, ‘I’ll leave her to tell you, when she finally gets up.’

  ‘Can you nip in the corner shop and see if we can have some bread on tick, on your way home? Patrick’s just had the last.’

  ‘No, Mam, but I’ll buy some. Will later be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve enough porridge for your Dad’s breakfast.’

  ‘And I don’t think Ellen will want anything to eat,’ Mary said. They could hear Bill’s heavy footsteps on the landing. ‘I’ll have to go too, Mam, I’m late. I’ll see you later.’

  The radio suddenly burst into life.

  ‘Good morning to you, the nation. This is the BBC Light Programme. It’s eight o’clock on Friday, the seventh of March. Here is the News. Casualties have been announced by the Government…’

  Mary slammed the door, silencing the doleful voice.

  Chapter 5

  Washes of pale blue had finally overcome the darkness of the night sky and, although it was still cold, the light dusting of frost was already disappearing from those cobbles not in the shadows. Mary stood still for a moment, her arms tucked underneath her cape. At this time in the morning only the low murmur of radios, hushed talk and the occasional wail of a fretful baby touched the quietness. A lot of the men were away. Those still at home were either like Patrick, working down the mines, or should be, she thought dryly, or like her dad, too old or sick to join up. In which case, they were still in bed or sitting in the kitchen getting in the way of their wives.

  At the corner of Henshaw Street and Shaw Road a group of men lounged amidst a swirl of tobacco smoke, Patrick among them. Some of them, not her brother she noticed, inclined their heads at her and moved to one side so she could pass.

  When she reached Moss Terrace, Jean’s mother, a small thin woman in a black dress covered by a checked apron, was already on her knees at the front door step; the first on the street to be ‘donkey-stoning’ with her block of sandstone. Barely looking at Mary, and never breaking the rhythm of the sweeping strokes, she spoke in the high-pitched refined tone that she used outside the house. ‘She’s gone. And I don’t blame her after last night. Fine friend you turned out to be.’

  ‘Right, thanks Mrs Winterbottom.’

  Elsie Winterbottom sniffed and sloshed a cloth around in the bucket next to her, wringing it out with vicious twists before smoothing the lines of sandstone into a yellow covering over the step. Mary grinned. She knew Jean’s mother hated being burdened with what she considered a common name from a husband who had long since escaped his wife’s sharp tongue.

  ‘Jean’s been a good friend to you for a lot of years, madam. Men come and go, as my daughter and I long ago found out.’ With one final snort she lifted the bucket into the hall and striding over her work she closed the door.

  Mary stared at the gleaming brass letterbox for a second, biting her lower lip. Oh hell, Jean’s nose must be really out of joint if she’d already told her mother what had happened. She hitched her skirt above her knees and began to run, clutching her gas mask in its cardboard box, the back of her cap flapping on her neck. If she was reported to Matron for being undignified in public, she’d be in trouble, but she needed to catch Jean before they got to the camp. It would be an absolute nightmare working the shift with her friend sulking all day.

  A cream and red double-decker bus passed her, half empty, and she wondered whether she should get on it and ride to the turning point just before the camp. At least then she could wait for Jean outside the hospital. The bus stopped farther up the road but as she dithered on the edge of the kerb she had to wait for the milk cart to go by. She smiled at the milkman. The everyday sounds: the solid clump of hooves on the tarmac, the jangling of bridle and bit and the rattling of the bottles in the wooden crates brought normality.

  ‘Morning Mr Nicholls.’

  ‘How do, lass. You’re late this morning. I’ve just passed Jean. She’s a funny one, no mistake. Head in the air today and not a word out of her.’ The milkman stepped backwards out of the cart, the reins trailing out of his hands. The large c
arthorse clopped to a halt in front of Mary.

  ‘We had a falling out, last night,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, well. Nothing you can’t fix, I’m sure.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ She stroked the horse’s neck watching the bus set off again. ‘Bye, Beauty.’

  She was almost at the main gate to the hospital before she caught up with her friend. ‘Jean, we need to talk.’ Mary held her side; she had a stitch now and it was difficult to breath, let alone speak.

  ‘Nothing to say.’ Waiting for the guard to come out of the sentry box Jean stared fixedly across the road where rolls of barbed wire fenced in the group of allotments cluttered with small huts.

  ‘Some of those sheds could do with a bit of fixing; the roof looks to be coming off that one on the right,’ Mary said.

  Jean pursed her lips.

  Blast it, Mary thought, I could have a day of this. ‘Please, Jean, listen.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry about last night but it wasn’t planned, he just insisted on joining us.’ She thought ‘us’ sounded better. ‘We could go to the pictures again tonight.. I’ll pay.’

  Jean shook Mary’s hand away. ‘You made me look a right fool. I couldn’t believe you’d gone off with him. I waited for you round the corner.’

  They’d probably passed her as they ran for the pub. No wonder she was so ratty.

  ‘I’m sorry, really I am. I thought you’d left. I didn’t see you when we – I – came out. If I’d known you were waiting…’

  Jean blew out her cheeks out in a loud sigh, lifting and dropping her shoulders.

  ‘Go on,’ Mary said, ‘let’s try again tonight, my treat, and we’ll have tea at our house first? Patrick will be home.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jean said, ‘I’ll have to see how I feel. And I’d have to go home and change first.’

  Mary knew Jean wouldn’t resist the chance to see her brother.

  The guard lifted the barrier and they walked under it.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that chap from last night somewhere before though,’ Jean said.

  ‘Possibly.’ Mary tried to sound nonchalant, ‘Apparently he’s been a guard here since Christmas.’

  ‘And you didn’t know? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, I didn’t,’ Mary said, ‘did you?’

  ‘Suppose not.’ Curiosity got the better of her. ‘Where did you go, anyway?’

  ‘The Crown.’ Mary glanced up at the main gun post and with a mixture of disappointment and relief she saw that Frank wasn’t on duty. ‘We stayed in the cellar until the air raid was over,’ she said, still trying to appease. ‘You have no idea how mucky it was down there; I had to have a top to toe wash before I went to bed.’

  Jean looked mollified but still couldn’t resist saying, ‘You should have gone home with me.’

  ‘You’re right, I should have.’ Mary held out her arm for Jean to link. ‘Let’s forget it, huh? Water under the bridge?’ She was getting a slightly annoyed now, but Jean was right. She should have gone home, then she wouldn’t be feeling such a fool now.

  But then what about Ellen? What would have happened to her with that bloody American?

  Chapter 6

  When they arrived at Henshaw Street at teatime Patrick wasn’t there.

  ‘I’ve brought Jean with me, Mam.’

  ‘I hope that’s all right, Mrs Howarth,’ Jean said.

  Winifred had her back to them as she spread the maroon chenille cloth over the table and flattened it with her hands. Her voice was low but friendly enough as she spoke. ‘That’s fine. It’s good to see you, love.’ She moved the chairs away from the table and pulled out a drawer from underneath that rattled with cutlery. ‘Set the table, will you, Mary.’

  ‘Can I help, Mrs Howarth? Anything I can do?’

  Jean took Mary’s cape and hung it on one of the pegs by the back door. The older woman hurried past her carrying the kettle. ‘No, that’s fine. Warm yourself by the fire, it’s fair freezing out there.’

  ‘Where is everybody, Mam?’

  ‘Ellen’s still in bed. She’s been up twice to the lavvy and gone back, looking like death. Patrick hasn’t come home yet. Apparently some of the men were meeting this morning, to decide on rotas for the picketing.’ She reappeared at the door with the kettle, wiping drips from the spout with the corner of her apron. Putting it on the range she picked up a ladle and began to stir the stew. ‘Mary, can you get the plates for this? Jean, if you’re ready to eat, go and sit at the table.’ As both girls moved, she turned quickly, her slippers slithering on the linoleum and went back into the scullery. ‘Patrick said he was meeting his friend, sometime. That chap from last night? So he’s probably called in The Crown with him. I can’t remember his name…’

  ‘Frank,’ Mary said. Jean gave her a tight smile.

  ‘And I bet your father’s there too,’ Winifred continued. ‘Happen him and Patrick’ll be the best of friends when they come home. At least until the ale wears off.’

  Mary followed her into the scullery. There was something wrong. For a few seconds she watched her mother sweeping the flag floor around the wash boiler. Her hair, instead of being tightly pulled back into its usual large bun, hung untidily in grey wisps around her face. Mary her voice low. ‘What is it, Mam, aren’t you feeling well?’

  Her mother didn’t answer. She pushed the small pile of dust and bits of vegetable peelings onto a piece of newspaper on the floor and crushed it up, tossing it into a bucket under the sink. Straightening, she moaned softly under her breath, holding her side.

  Mary put an arm around her. Seeing the ugly swelling on her mother’s cheek and the red-rimmed eyes she scowled. ‘Aw, Mam, not again. What was it this time?’

  Winifred pushed her daughter away and turned on the tap to rinse her hands. ‘There was only me here and he had one of his moods on him. It’s Patrick really, as if we haven’t enough to worry about. He’ll have the police at the door, with all this trouble: picketing, striking, fighting the government. Your father says there’s a right way and a wrong way to tackle the bosses and your brother’s going about it all wrong.’ She wiped her hands on a piece of towelling. ‘He’s furious because it’s unofficial. You know what he’s like.’

  Like a bully and a bastard. Mary gritted her teeth, holding back the words. ‘Why were you holding your side?’

  ‘I banged into the table when…’

  ‘When he hit you.’

  Winifred glowered defensively at Mary. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘Of course it’s his bloody fault. You can’t keep putting up with it, Mam.’

  ‘What can I do? Tell the police?’ Winifred gave a short ironic laugh. ‘Sergeant Sykes is as bad. His wife often sports a black eye.’ Tears slowly welled and spilled down her cheeks. Mary took the piece of towelling that her mother was twisting round her hands, ran a corner of it under the cold-water tap and carefully dabbed the puffy cheek. Then she held it out to her.

  ‘Hold this to your face for a moment. I’ll get the arnica, for the swelling.’

  ‘No.’ Winifred was horrified. ‘Not in front of Jean. Go and eat. I’ll do it later. I think I’ll have a lie down.’ She took the cloth. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it, nothing anybody can do.’

  ‘You could leave. I’ll help. We could find somewhere to rent, just you, me and Ellen. Leave those two to torment each other.’

  Her mother stuffed the rag into her overall pocket. Her voice was hard. ‘You’re talking rubbish, girl. Go … go on. Don’t leave Jean on her own. That stew’s ready to eat now. Have some before they get in.’ Winifred went into the kitchen but before going up the stairs she stopped, holding the curtain so that it partly covered her face. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, Jean. If you don’t mind I won’t eat with you. I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Howarth. I hope you feel better soon.’

  Mary could tell Jean was bursting with curiosity but she offered no explanation as her
friend placed the warmed plates on the table. Mary tipped some of the saucepan’s contents onto them and the two girls ate in silence.

  Eventually Mary spoke. ‘Jean?’ She hesitated. ’Look, I’m sorry about this but do you mind if we don’t go tonight.’ Jean frowned but said nothing. ‘Mam’s not feeling well and I can’t leave her. I’ll have to wait until our Patrick’s home.’ Mary saw the barely disguised pleasure light up her friend’s face. ‘You do understand?’

  ‘Course I do, forget about the film. We can go some other time.’ Jean stood up, peering into the mirror by the back door, straightening the collar of her dress and fluffing up her short dark curls. ‘I’ll wait with you. Now, let’s get these pots washed.’

  ‘No. Honest. It’s all right, I can do them.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Jean said. ‘It won’t take five minutes.’

  Together they tidied the kitchen in companionable silence; only the clunking of the clock and the sputtering of the flames in the grate broke the quietness. So it was easy to hear the drunken singing long before the familiar scrape of the gate on the flags; Bill’s deep bass, at odds with his slight stature, harmonising with his son’s tenor voice. The two women listened as the flush of the lavatory was followed by a scuffling in the yard and tittering, quickly hushed. Mary switched the scullery light out and both girls moved to the other side of the table to stand facing the back door as it crashed open, rebounding on its hinges.

  Arms around the other’s shoulders, the two men jostled in the doorway, each grinning, each trying to be first into the kitchen.

  ‘Eh up, Mary. And Jean, begod. What a sight, lad, two smiling women waiting to get us our tea. But where’s my lass, eh? Where’s my Ellen?’

  The resentment and anger was a lump in Mary’s throat.

  ‘No, I’m wrong. That there’s a frosty face if ever I saw one.’

  The sheepish grins evaporated. Bill and Patrick let go of each other’s neck and, holding onto the doorframe, elbowed their way into the room.