‘No, you’re wrong, Pa, our Mary won’t lose her temper. She’s a right saint, aren’t you, our kid?’
Mary didn’t miss the sarcasm, but she didn’t look at her brother. Instead she stared at her father until he flushed and, pushing Patrick to one side, grabbed at a chair and fell on to it, the legs screeching on the floor as he dragged it up to the table. He shoved his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall on to the seat of the chair behind him. ‘Where’s your mother? Why’s my tea not on the table? She knows I’m on duty tonight.’
‘Mam’s not feeling too well.’
‘What’s up with her then?’
Mary didn’t answer but she made sure he saw the contempt in her eyes before she turned away. Taking one of the plates from the range she scooped some stew onto it and slapped it on the table in front of him. He crouched low over his food, almost throwing it into his mouth. Mary watched in disgust.
‘What about mine?’ Patrick demanded.
‘I’ll get it.’ Jean fussed over the food. ‘Is that enough?’ She showed the plate to Patrick. ‘More? I can put more on.’
‘No, thanks. That’s fine.’ He sounded suddenly sober. ‘Thanks Jean.’ Taking off his coat, he sat down at the table studying Jean and when he smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, Mary saw her blush but hold his gaze. Self-conscious for once, Patrick was the first to look away. Taking a quick look at Mary, he said, ‘Off out again tonight?’
‘No. We were going to go to the pictures but we changed our mind, didn’t we Jean?’
‘What? Oh, yes, we can go tomorrow.’ Jean smiled tentatively at Patrick, who grinned back, then bent his head over his meal.
‘Any more?’ Bill demanded.
Silently Mary took his plate and refilled it.
After he’d eaten Bill shoved himself away from the table and lurched across the kitchen. Collapsing into her mother’s rocking chair he was asleep in seconds.
Mary cleared away the crockery, leaving the other two talking and then went upstairs to check on her mother. She was asleep, the slant of light from the landing falling across her face, which was partly hidden by her hand holding the damp cloth to the bruise on her cheek. Mary crossed the room and smoothed Winifred’s hair from her forehead. For a few seconds she stayed by the bed and then left, quietly closing the door. She opened her own bedroom door with more force, clicking the latch down with a snap. ‘Are you awake, Ellen? Come on now, get up, I need to talk to you and Patrick. Come on, you’ve slept enough. I covered for you today at the factory but I’ll not do it again tomorrow. If you’re still feeling ill it’s your own fault.’ Ellen made a melodramatic snore. Mary pursed her lips. ‘And you can stop pretending you’re still asleep. You’re pushing your luck.’ She turned on her heel, leaving the door open, the glow of the small bulb filtering into the bedroom.
Downstairs, Jean was getting ready to leave. Patrick, his hair carefully combed back into style, was winding his white scarf around his neck. As he set his cap to one side of his head and adjusted the peak over one eye, he spoke with studied nonchalance. ‘No bother at all. I’m off out to The Crown so I might as well walk with you.’
‘Are you going out again, Patrick? We need to talk.’ Mary nodded towards Bill who was slouched in the chair, snores bubbling from dropped jaw.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m meeting a few of the lads.’
Mary knew it was no use arguing in front of Jean; it would only make things worse. This was something she’d have to sort out without him, as usual. She whipped the tablecloth off the table and followed them to the door to shake it out in the yard. ‘Turn the light off. We don’t want the warden after us.’ She spoke tersely but smiled at Jean, who, bright pink with suppressed happiness, gave her a little wave before going through the door that Patrick held open for her. Her brother left without looking back, pulling the gate behind him. Folding the tablecloth Mary heard her friend speaking in an unusually timid voice.
‘I think you are really brave; standing up for your rights. I wouldn’t want to go underground. It’s so dangerous and your work is just as much for the war effort as joining up, just as much …’
Mary closed the door.
The fire suddenly shunted in the grate. Mary stared into the flames, thinking about Jean and her brother. Her friend wouldn’t let this opportunity pass her by; she’d waited a long time to be noticed by Patrick.
Behind her, Bill snorted, wriggled in his chair and smacked his lips together. She turned to look at him. All her life he’d watched her, criticising, waiting for her to fail, comparing her with Ellen. When he found out she wanted to be a nurse he’d been furious and the paltry wages she had brought home during her training had often been used to start a row.
Well, that had all changed since her promotion; now he needed her money. She turned away from him and went upstairs. In the bedroom she took off her uniform and removed her girdle sighing with relief, then she slipped on an old skirt and jumper.
Ellen pulled the eiderdown further over her head. ‘Turn the light off.’
Mary had been trying not to think about Frank, but her sister’s moan brought back the humiliation she’d felt. ‘Don’t you even dare to whinge.’ She sat on the bed, pulling on a pair of ankle socks and rubbing the chilblain that had started itching during the day. ‘Just get up and get downstairs. It’s about time you stopped being so damn selfish and noticed what’s going on around you.’ Standing, she jerked the covers off Ellen, who drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Get up.’
Downstairs the fire was struggling, a solitary column of smoke drifted up towards the range chimney. Mary settled on her knees and took the poker out of the coal bucket and rattled it through the bars of on the grate. She could hear Winifred and Ellen talking on the landing.
‘What? What?’ Bill awoke with a startled jump. Mary took no notice, she felt calmer than she had done for months. As she dropped the poker back into the bucket, a few unburned clinkers dropped into the ash can and she pulled it out with the thick cloth that was kept especially for the purpose. Aware that her father was watching her, and knowing that he could hear the two women making their way down the stairs, she took her time, rehearsing the words that should have been spoken a long time ago. With the tongs she picked up the hot pieces of coal and threw them back into the dwindling flames. Pushing the can into place, she stood, folding the cloth over the rail of the oven. Then, arms folded, she waited for her mother and sister.
Winifred was the first to step from the bottom stair. Although her clothes were crumpled, her hair was back in place and a light dusting of powder concealed the shiny swelling on her face. She held the curtain back for Ellen, who stumbled into the kitchen, blinking in the light, still dishevelled in pyjamas and dressing gown.
‘We can’t go on like this.’ Mary’s words startled all three.
‘What you talking about?’ Thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers, legs outstretched, Bill squinted up at her, his face reddening.
‘You know what I mean. Look at Mam’s face.’
‘Mary!’
‘No, Mam, enough’s enough. It’s got to stop.’
‘Just watch your mouth, girl.’ Bill jumped up from the chair and raised his fist.
‘Just try it, Dad, and I’ll walk out. I’ll leave, and I’ll take my wages with me. And then where will you be? Your pension won’t keep food on the table; you drink half of it away. Mam prays for the times The Crown runs out of beer. How long our Patrick’ll be on strike, goodness only knows, so there’s no money coming from that direction and don’t think I don’t know that Ellen keeps a good share of what she earns, so she can gad about. That’d have to change, if I left.’
Ellen, nervously biting the skin at the side of her thumb, gave a small cry of objection.
‘Oh I don’t blame you Ellen. With half a chance I’d keep some of my wages … if I ever got to go out on the town.’ Mary said, keeping her eyes fixed on the man whose hand was
only inches from her face. ‘I’m fed up with being taken for granted, fed up with watching everything that goes on in this house and having to keep quiet about it. I’m sick to the back teeth of it all. Every day I’m cleaning up the results of this bloody war, all the vile things men do to each other. I see the brutality every time we have new patients and I will not – will not carry on living with it home. Look at Mam, just look at her face. You’re a bully, Dad and it’s got to stop!’ Mary spat the words out. Something else needed saying. ‘And another thing, next time I go to visit Tom, I’m taking Mam with me and there’s nothing you can do about it’ She was so close to her father she could see the thread veins on his nose and cheeks and smell the stale beer on his breath. She looked down and saw his fists, clenching, unclenching, then she lifted her eyes to his in silent challenge. Bill’s lips narrowed. His breathing, shallow intakes through flared nostrils, quickened as a low growl began deep in his throat. Turning from her, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and reeled across the kitchen, pushing past Winifred and crashing out of the house. Mary leant against the table. When she looked up, she saw her mother and sister staring at her. Grabbing the chair, she fell on to the seat.
All three women listened as Bill’s footsteps halted and then they sighed with relief at the sound of the gate scraping. Moments later they heard a hoarse deep yell. ‘Bitch!’ It echoed along the alleyway.
‘Where would you go? Her mother’s voice was small, scared.
‘I don’t know. Jean has a spare room. I could ask her.’ Mary spoke wearily, ‘I can’t carry on with all this, Mam. Wondering what I’ll find every time I come home; him and Patrick, the jibes about Tom, never knowing when he’s going to hit you again.’
‘That won’t stop with just you leaving,’ Ellen told her, moving towards the fireplace and pulling her dressing gown belt tighter. ‘He’s always clouted Mam, you know that.’
‘Then you should grow up and help her to stand up to him,’ Mary said. ‘Or at least try to talk to him.’
Ellen glared at her.
‘But you won’t leave tonight?’ Winifred said.
‘No, Mam, not tonight. But if you think I’m sleeping in that pigsty,’ she glared at Ellen, ‘you’ve another think coming. You can go and change those sheets, before I go up. I’m tired and I’m on earlies again in the morning.’
Ellen left the kitchen, muttering.
Winifred moved closer to Mary and held her hands. ‘You won’t really leave, will you?’
Mary stroked her mother’s fingers; the skin was rough beneath her own. ‘Mam, do you honestly think I’d leave you in the lurch like that? But I had to make him think I would, he knows my wages are too good to lose. I just hope I haven’t made things worse. You’ll have to sleep in with us tonight.’
Holding on to the table, Winifred lowered herself into the chair next to Mary. ‘No, love, I’ll be all right. Remember, he’s on duty all night at the church tower. He took his stuff down there this morning, so he could have a jar at dinnertime, and tomorrow he’s down at the power station for range practice. Anyway, he won’t touch me again for a while; he’ll be feeling bad about it by the time he gets back home. I know him. I just hope Stan Green doesn’t give him any more ale on the slate.’
‘Don’t worry, if he’s on duty later, he won’t be drinking any more. He’s got his reputation to keep up,’ Mary reminded her tartly. ‘That’s one thing you can be sure of.’
‘His Home Guarding is the only thing he feels he does well these days.’
‘You’re not starting to feel sorry for him?’ Mary couldn’t believe it.
Winifred gave in to the misery she’d denied all day and cried. She plucked at the hem of her skirt in a futile attempt to lift it and cover her face. Mary wrapped her arms around the shaking figure, feeling the hot wetness on her neck.
Two streets away, outside The Crown, Bill rubbed roughly at his face with his hand, then wiped the damp palm on the front of his jacket.
Chapter 7
April 1944
Despite Mary’s angry words to her father she hadn’t been able to persuade her mother to come with her to visit Tom in Wormwood Scrubs; she’d been too frightened of her husband.
‘What can he do, Mam?’ Mary was exasperated. ‘I told him I’d take you next time I went. He’ll blame me not you.’
Winifred shrunk into her chair, the glass of stout in her hand. ‘He’d wait ’til you’re out and then I’d cop it.’ She was so adamant that, in the end, Mary gave up.
‘I’ve been on the go since five this morning.’ The small woman in front of Mary in the queue stepped through the small opening in the large prison doors.
‘Have you come far?’ Mary followed her through the small door.
‘From Wales.’ She moved next to Mary, talking loudly over the clamour of movement along the drab passages. ‘You visiting your hubby? ‘
‘Brother…’
‘Ah. My son, Iori, he says I don’t need to visit every month, but I do. Well you have to really, don’t you. You have to make sure they’re all right.’ Her eyes were anxious. ‘Well, I do, anyway.’
Surely there couldn’t be two men here with that name? ‘Iori?’ Mary asked. ‘You’re Iori’s mother?’
‘I am.’ The women’s forehead creased. ‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s in the same cell as my brother. Tom? He wrote and told us.’
‘Tom? Oh, I met Tom last month.’ She touched her chest. ‘I’m Gwyneth.’
‘Mary.’
‘Well, well, there we are then, cariad. Nice to meet you, I’m sure.’
The prison officer at the front held up his hand and shouted, ‘Stop.’
Immediately a barrage of complaints began and children cried out, frightened by the sudden crush of people pressing forward.
A plump girl in front of them hitched her screaming toddler higher on her hip and reached forward to grab another child who was trying to escape. There was an immediate pungent odour of stale sweat.
Gwyneth wrinkled her nose. ‘You get all sorts in here. Always best to keep yourself to yourself, I think.’
There was a sudden commotion at the end of the corridor. Two prisoners were fighting, yelling obscenities. Immediately surrounded by warders, they were dragged away. Soon the hollow tread of shoes on the iron rungs echoed above the waiting crowd.
‘Visitors for Matthews and McClaren?’
Hands were held up.
‘No visiting today. Back to the main doors.’
An old couple struggled through the crowd, followed by a youth angrily elbowing anyone who got in his way. He pushed the old woman and she stumbled. Someone grabbed the boy’s sleeve. He yanked it out of their grasp and shoved his way past. The man gently put his arm around his wife and led her through the queue of people who stood to one side for them.
‘You’d think the warders could at least be civil,’ Mary said.
‘They don’t care. They’re not human.’ Gwyneth’s words were lost in the mêlée as the warder signalled for them to move forward again.
Pulling at the knot of her headscarf, Gwyneth took it off and puffed up her hair where it had been flattened. ‘How’s that?’
Mary smiled. ‘Lovely.’
They walked together into the room crammed with eight long tables. Mary blinked in the harsh artificial light; after the gloom of the passages it always hurt her eyes.
Tom was waving to her. Mary watched as he tapped the arm of the man sitting next to him and pointed towards her. Gwyneth was already weaving her way through the tables, holding her basket over her head at arm’s length. Mary followed. The noise of chairs scraping on the concrete floor and shouted conversations increased to an almost unbearable level.
Sitting down, Mary immediately saw the likeness between mother and son, the slight build, the same dark hair, his flopping to one side of his forehead, identical brown eyes, except that he had a yellowing bruise around the left one. When they smiled at her, it was a mirror image, but the mo
ther’s lips trembled a little.
‘Well,’ Gwyneth Griffiths said. She looked from Tom and Iori to Mary. ‘Well, isn’t this nice, then?’
Then she began to cry.
Chapter 8
‘She cried all the way through the visit,’ Mary said, stripping the sheet off the mattress and dropping it into the linen basket. ‘It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful. Tom says she does it every time.’
‘Poor woman.’ Jean was only half listening. ‘Talking of time,’ she said, glancing at the ward clock on the wall, ‘it’s nearly time for my break. Where is everybody?’ She looked around the ward. There were no other nurses and the beds on the other side of the room were still unmade; some, empty, had the sheets thrown back. ‘There’re still another fifteen to do.’ At the end of the ward two patients were perched on the end on one bed talking to its occupant, others were wandering around with wash bags and towels. ‘It’s chaos in here this morning. If Matron comes in she’ll go spare.’
‘I know.’ Mary glanced down at her watch on the front of her uniform. ‘I had to let Hetty and Olive go on their break and Elsie and Sylvia aren’t in yet. There was a message to say Bradlow was hit again last night and they’re having trouble getting in. I thought they’d be here by now.’ She glanced towards the double doors of the ward where, through the small windows, she could see the German interpreter chatting to the sentry on the door. ‘Get Sergeant Strausse to bring the orderlies back; at least we can have the floor cleaned. And we’ll just have to move quicker. Do you mind going a bit late for your break?’
‘No, so long as I get one eventually.’
‘Good. Tell him first and then start on the other side. I’ll carry on here.’ Mary plunged the cloth into the steaming water then lifted it, dripping, from the bowl. The smell of Dettol enveloped her as she grasped each end of the material and twisted it tightly, the hot liquid scalding her hands. ‘And tell those two patients to get back to their own beds.’ She flung the cloth on to the bed, watching Jean hurrying down the long ward. It had been a fortnight since her friend and Patrick had started going out together and Mary was still not sure how she felt about it. Jean declared she was ‘over the moon’ and certainly walked around with a wide smile, but it was early days and Patrick would still be on his best behaviour. Eventually someone or something would bring out his volatile temper and Mary expected it would be her having to pick up the pieces; it was only a matter of waiting, she was sure.
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