‘God I’m frozen,’ Mary said, resting Ellen’s suitcase on the porter’s trolley and stamping her feet on the platform. ‘We’ve been here nearly an hour.’
‘I couldn’t stand it in the house any longer. I was terrified Dad would come home and catch us.’ Ellen chewed the skin at the side of her thumbnail and looked up at the large station clock. ‘It should be here in ten minutes, anyway.’
‘We could have gone into the waiting room.’ Mary jigged up and down and banged her gloved hands together. ‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘I can’t remember the last time I was warm.’ Ellen glanced towards the steamed-up window of the little building that was crammed with people. ‘But I’m not going in there to be skenned at.’
‘Nobody would be looking at you, why would they? Anyway you’re muffled up to the eyebrows; nobody could tell.’
‘Huh!’ Ellen puffed out a small cloud of white air, nodding towards the suitcase. ‘Somebody would have something to say.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’ll miss you, Mary. I am sorry about … everything, you know.’
‘I know, love. And there really is no need to go yet,’ Mary said. ‘You’re only four months, you’re hardly showing.’ An unwelcome thought rose up: look what had happened to Jean at this stage of her pregnancy. Please God, don’t let me wish that on Ellen, Mary thought.
‘Showing enough.’
‘Are you sure the home will take you in this early?’
‘Yes, I checked.’
All at once a shrill whistle accompanied an increasing regular pound of metal on rails.
‘Mary!’ The expression of panic on Ellen’s face reflected on her sister’s.
‘You’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
They spoke together and gave a strained laugh.
‘You do know you can come home if you don’t like the place?’
‘Give my love to Mam, promise not to tell Dad, tell Tom I’ll write. Was he very cross with me?’
‘I’ll tell Mam … I promise … course he wasn’t,’
There was no more time; the wheels grated, screeched to a halt. The waiting room door was flung back and people pushed past the two girls standing together, arms around one another.
‘Come home.’ Mary pushed a strand of Ellen’s hair behind her ear. Her cheek was icy cold.
‘I can’t.’ Tears poured down her face. ‘I can’t.’
‘If you change your mind about keeping the … it …’
‘I won’t.’
‘Write!’
‘Write, too!’
Then Ellen was gone. Mary watched the train struggle away from the platform. Steam covered her feet.
Thinking about it now Mary could almost taste the acrid smell of smoke left behind by the train.
It wasn’t that far from Moss Terrace but by the time she turned into the alley Mary was frozen and breathless and her scarf was stuck to her mouth. Jean was right, she would be taking the responsibility for everything, but she had no choice. She’d promised Ellen it would be all right, but she knew that the consequences of her sister’s actions would, as usual, affect them all.
She paused for a moment, looking along the terrace. The blackout curtains had been removed with a collective sigh of relief and the cloak of darkness driven away by flickering fires and forty-watt bulbs.
It also meant there were less shadows for Frank to hide in.
Next door’s bedroom light lit up the back gate which hung drunkenly on one hinge. Mary stepped cautiously over the splintered wood and looked around the yard. Although the corners were crusted white, the flags were slushy with melted sleet and in the centre the sunken grid was overflowing. As though her feet weren’t wet enough, she thought. There didn’t seem to be anything else wrong but, unusually for this time of night, the house was in darkness.
Her father and mother were sitting at the table. The fire was out and the room felt as cold as outside.
‘Mam? What is it? Is it Tom, Ellen?’ Mary switched the light on. She could see her mother had been crying. ‘What’s wrong?’
Bill shoved his chair back and it crashed to the floor. ‘What’s wrong? What’s bloody wrong?’ he yelled, ‘I’ll show you what’s soddin’ wrong.’ He leapt at her, fist raised, and knocked her to the floor. He stood over her. ‘Don’t get up,’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t get up or by God I’ll kill you; you and that slut of a sister of yours if I ever get my hands on her.’
‘That’s enough.’ Winifred pushed him. He grabbed her, his fingers round her throat and forced her backwards until she was pressed against the sideboard.
Holding the back of her head, Mary got on her knees, squeezing her eyes closed. She hung on to the armchair and hoisted herself to her feet; looking around in bewilderment. She saw the two figures struggling and launched herself across the kitchen at him. ‘Let her go.’ She clung round his neck, taking him by surprise and they swung from left to right as they staggered backwards around the kitchen, banging into the furniture. He was smaller than her but she felt the strength in his fingers as he forced her arms apart and flung her away. She tripped over the hearthrug and fell, half under the table. As he came at her again, she scuttled backwards, reached up and grabbed the back of the cutlery drawer, pushing it forward as hard as she could. It hit him in the crotch. As he doubled up, Mary scrabbled on all fours to Winifred. ‘Mam?’ They clutched one another. ‘Mam? What’s happened?’
‘He’s found out about Ellen having a baby, God only knows how.’ Winifred’s voice rasped in her throat. ‘And Frank Shuttleworth’s been telling him some tale about you and one of the German doctors.’
‘Oh my God Mam, what’s he been saying?’ Mary put her hand on her mother’s face and turned it towards hers. ‘Frank’s not right in the head, Mam. He won’t accept we’re finished and he’s been following me for months. He won’t let me alone. Whatever he’s said, he’s made it up. It’s not true.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t find out?’ Bill rolled on the rug gasping, his hands between his thighs. ‘He’s been hinting about it for fucking weeks and tonight he came right out and said it. If he hadn’t told me, I’d have found out sooner or later. I have eyes in my arse, you should know that by now. Nowt gets past me.’
The two women watched him. The clock springs whirred and the hammer struck seven times. Bill crawled towards them. In panic, Mary reached above her head and groped along the top of the sideboard. She brought the bread knife down within inches of his face. Her hand quivered, but she kept her eyes on his. ‘Don’t come any nearer,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’
He fell back on his haunches. Then without speaking he staggered to his feet and reeled across to the stairs, still holding himself with one hand. Hanging on to the curtain he turned to look at them both, but the hatred was directed only at Mary. ‘Bleedin’ sluts,’ he said. ‘You and your dirty bloody sister. Just like your mother, I should’a known …’
They listened as, step by step, he went slowly up the stairs.
Grating sobs woke Mary the following morning. Her mother, sitting up straight in the bed, stared towards the door as Mary looked in. She opened her mouth but no sound came. Mary watched as she ran her tongue over her thin dry lips.
‘Mam, what is it?’
The pinched face turned to the figure lying beside her. Bill, still seeming to be asleep, he was snoring, but as Mary approached the bed she saw that his face was distorted and slack.
‘Dad?’ She touched his cheek; his skin was cold and clammy. She knelt down by the side of the bed and held his wrist between two fingers and thumb. The pillow was wet under his head, saliva dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s a stroke, I think,’ she said slowly to the weeping woman sitting motionless at his side. ‘He’s had a stroke.’
Bill Howarth didn’t die that day or during the following week, but an expectant hush fell over the house. Patrick brought a bed downstairs for him. The days dragged in monotony and Christmas came and went unnotic
ed.
Chapter 38
January 1945
‘Come on Dad, just try some more.’ Mary tipped the mashed potatoes mixed with the precious ration of butter into the toothless mouth. Bill’s lips clamped shut at an angle and some of the food dribbled out. She scraped it up from his chin with the spoon and tried again. He turned his head away. ‘Enough? OK then. Do you want to sit up?’ One eye closed. ‘Right, hold on.’ Mary put the dish on top of the sideboard. She glanced at the clock. Her mother should be back in a minute. At least she hoped so, she only had half an hour to get ready and be at the hospital in time for her next shift. And she wanted, needed, to see Peter even if it was only a glimpse of him. For some reason, they always seemed to be on different shifts these day.
She eased her father up on the pillows, feeling the sharp boniness of his shoulder blades, and gently pulled the sheet up to his chin. ‘There!’ She tucked the bedding under the mattress on both sides. ‘Tucked up like a boat.’ Mary laughed quietly. ‘Do you remember that? That’s what you used to say every night.’ At least that was what he’d tease after he’d pulled the sheet taut on Ellen’s side. Mary took the dish into the scullery and ran cold water into it. Now, where had that come from? she chided herself. She’d never been jealous of her sister, not even the times when they were little and her father had swung Ellen onto his shoulders so she could see more of the Ashford carnival or Father Christmas’ procession. Mary remembered looking up and laughing with Ellen, never expecting that it should be her he held.
She wondered if her sister would come home when she got the letter. Tom obviously couldn’t, but Ellen? No, perhaps it would be better if she didn’t.
She went to the doorway of the scullery. Bill was agitated, jerking his head from side to side, and the strands of grey hair trailed down the side of his face, getting in his eyes. Mary opened the cutlery drawer and took out a pair of scissors. Standing at the side of the bed she smoothed his hair back into place. ‘It’s annoying you, isn’t it?’ She stroked his cheek with the back of her fingers. ‘How about we cut it?’ She bent down close to him.
Anger darkened his eyes. He pushed with one shoulder at the sheets. His arm swung in an arc and hit her hard across the side of the head. The movement prompted his body to react and a stench leaked into the air. He glared at Mary, humiliation mixed with despair.
Mary’s eyes watered with the blow, but still she said, ‘Don’t worry, it can’t be helped. I’ll clean you up.’
The back door opened and an icy blast of air swept into the kitchen. ‘I’ve posted both letters. They should get them in a few days.’ Winifred’s nose wrinkled involuntarily. Her husband’s eyes met hers and then she turned to Mary. She laid a hand on her arm and gently pulled her away from the bed. ‘I’ll see to him.’
Mary nodded. ‘I’ll go and get ready for work.’ Stepping onto the first stair she stood for a moment to watch them. Her mother held his hand close to her cheek then carefully turned his palm upwards and kissed it. He watched her, expressionless. Mary heard the whisper,. ‘I love you,’ the words sounded strange, unused; her mother’s voice that of a young woman.
Mary let the curtain slip back into place and slowly walked up the stairs. She didn’t understand; she could, did, identify with the care and compassion her mother gave to him, after all it was part of her own make-up, something innate in her so that she could do the work she loved. But had her mother forgotten everything? All the regrets, the disappointments, the humiliations and the violence she’d endured, that her children had grown up with? Or did she remember them yet was still able to utter those words.
Mary breathed in a long deep breath and let it escape through tightened lips. No, she didn’t understand that kind of love. The image of Frank’s face flashed into her mind. She couldn’t imagine she ever would.
Chapter 39
Although the fire baked the kitchen and the bed was piled high with eiderdowns taken from the other beds, Bill still shivered uncontrollably.
‘Do you want the radio on?’
Bill moved his head on the pillow. Mary watched his lips struggle to form the words. Eventually he muttered, ‘Talk.’ The effort was too much for him. He collapsed into the pillows surrounding him.
‘Talk? I would’ve thought that with all the visitors you’ve had over the last two weeks you’d had enough of hearing folk talking.’ Mary turned the sleeve of the dress she was ironing on the kitchen table. ‘OK, what shall we talk about then? Jean and Patrick having the baby, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’ She hung the dress on a wooden hanger, hooked it over the scullery door and took a pyjama jacket out of the wash basket. ‘And Ellen? We’d a lovely letter from Ellen yesterday.’ Mary kept the fixed smile on her face. Seeing the vagueness in his eyes, she put the iron down on the asbestos mat and walked over to the bed. ‘It’s all right,’ she said.
‘Ell …?’ he gasped, ‘where …?’
‘He can’t remember what’s happened.’ Her mother, dozing in her armchair, had woken up. She got up. ‘Don’t remind him,’ she whispered. She moved nearer to the bed. ‘Ellen’s gone away for a few days. Bit of a holiday.’
Bill frowned. ‘Want.’
‘She’ll be back before you know it,’ Mary said. ‘Shall I make a brew?’
‘No, I’ll do it. I need to go out to the lavvy first though.’ Winifred wrapped her shawl around her head and folded it across her chest. ‘Tempted though I am to use your father’s throne. It’s freezing out there.’ She clutched the ends of the shawl in her fists. ‘I should shift it; he’ll not be able to use it again, will he?’ She peered under the bed. ‘It’s full,’ she exclaimed. ‘He hasn’t …?’
‘No, he hasn’t. I emptied the bedpan into it.’ Mary said. ‘He’s been too twitchy for me to leave him. Sorry, I’ll take it to the lavatory now.’
‘My job, I think.’
Mary opened the back door for her and closed it as Winifred carefully carried the pot out. When she turned, Bill was still looking at her. ‘What is it Dad?’ Walking over to him she clasped his cold hand as his face contorted. ‘Take your time.’ Tears escaped and rippled over the skin on his cheeks.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they searched her face. She could tell he was frightened. But there was something else. She watched the tongue flop out of his mouth, slide along his lower lip and curl back into his mouth. ‘Sorry.’ The word, lisping, spilled out. His Adam’s apple moved under the skin on his neck. ‘Sorry.’ He raised his forefinger slightly and pointed at her. ‘Frank … no … good.’
‘Frank? No good? Well, I know that,’ she said. ‘Does that mean you believe me and not Frank?’
He moved his chin up and down. ‘Mmmm.’
Mary dropped to his knees and covered his hand with both of hers. ‘Oh Dad.’ She rested her forehead on their hands before looking up at him.
His eyelids drooped leaving a thin line of white showing. ‘To … Tom …’ he stammered.
‘Tom?’ She searched his face. ‘You want me to tell Tom you understand what he had to do.’ She waited. ‘That you’re sorry you fell out. I can write and tell him. He’ll be so …’
‘No!’ The word exploded from her father’s mouth.
It was the last thing Bill Howarth said. He died that night.
Chapter 40
January 1945
… so now you know the truth, Mary, and you’ll see why I can’t keep this baby. I have to give it up. There would be too many bad memories and every day it would remind us. I couldn’t stand it and I know you wouldn’t be able to either. I hope you can forgive me.
Ellen.
‘You were to blame for Dad’s stroke.’ Mary glared at Frank, who was on duty at the side gate.
‘Crap.’ Frank sauntered towards the fence, rifle slung casually over his shoulder.
‘He used to like you,’ she said, ‘thought you were the son he should have had; the son he thought he wanted.’
He sniggered, drawling the words
out. ‘Well, who wouldn’t?’
‘But then he found out what you were really like. He got himself into a state and he had a stroke because of you and your lies.’
‘Lies?’ Rocking up and down on his heels, a sneer distorted the lower half of his face.
‘Yes, lies.’ Mary waited a moment, studying him. How had she ever imagined herself in love with this man? ‘Lies about me.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And the lies you told about being injured at Dunkirk.’
Frank’s jaw jutted forward. ‘What?’ The word clicked against the back of his teeth.
Mary glanced towards the guardhouse at the main gate where the sentry was watching them with curiosity, only yards away. She stepped closer to the fence. ‘Remember Barry Gates? His dad drinks at The Crown. Barry came home on leave.’ She tilted her head, questioning. ‘Mam told me last night that his father came to see my dad before he died.’ Her heart was beating so hard she felt she moved with each pulse. She steadied herself as Frank came closer on the other side of the fence. ‘Barry was in your unit. He remembers you only too well,’ she said. ‘You and your temper. He also remembered the fight when you were shot in the knee when your own gun went off accidentally.’ Mary looked sideways. There were two guards at the main gate watching them now. ‘What lies did you tell the MoD to get this civilian post, Frank?’ Mary raised her voice.
Frank glanced to his right at the two men. ‘Shut it,’ he said.
‘Well, you must have said something for them to get you a job as a guard.’
‘If you don’t shut your mouth …’ He took a backward step and, gulping in air he leant against the sentry hut. ‘What d’you think you can do about it?’ He held his hand steady as he lit a cigarette.
‘Nothing. Not much anyway.’ She wasn’t going to tell him she’d spoken to Barry Gates and his father and asked them not to tell anyone. They hadn’t understood, but they’d respected Bill and agreed to let Mary deal with Frank, so she repeated, ‘I’m not going to do anything for the time being. It’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to stop following me. Leave me alone. Leave my family alone. Leave Doctor Schormann and the other men alone.’
Pattern of Shadows Page 20
