‘Oh.’
‘He’d escaped. The police came to tell Mam he’d been caught.’ She put her hand in her skirt pocket, fingering Tom’s note and the letter she’d received from Gwyneth that morning.
‘Where was he found?’
Mary thought she heard a thread of suspicion in Nelly’s voice. ‘He’d hidden at a house in Wales. A friend of his had died in prison and Tom was very upset. But it was a stupid thing to do and got him in a lot of bother.’
‘Grief affects us all in one way or another. I’m having awful bother with George. He’s drinking a lot at the moment.’
Mary thought about her mother upstairs. No doubt she’d be well into that bottle by now.
‘You were right about Frank’s mind,’ Nelly said. ‘He frightened me with his temper sometimes.’
The back door opened and Jean came in. ‘It’s quite pleasant out there today, Mary. We could sit in the yard if you want.’
‘Jean, remember Mrs Shuttleworth?’ Mary said. She frowned, warning her friend not to say anything.
Jean spoke slowly, staring at Nelly. ‘I just came round to see how you are.’ She looked at Mary pointedly.
‘I must go.’ Nelly picked up her handbag and pushing down on the table, stood up. ‘Don’t get up.’
‘Bye.’ Mary smiled.
‘Bye then.’
Jean banged the front door having seen the visitor out and came from the hall, bristling with indignation. ‘Well I never! How dare she come here?’
‘I thought it was a brave thing to do. He was still her son and someone killed him.’
‘How can you think like that? God only knows what would have happened to you if he hadn’t been stopped.’
‘I know,’ Mary said, ‘I know, but I feel sorry for her.’
‘Don’t waste your sympathy on her.’
‘Just think if you had a son like that.’
Jean placed her arms protectively over her stomach.
‘Anyway I like her,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve met her before and she’s kind-hearted. And she saw Mam take a bottle of Mr Brown’s wine from the sideboard before she went upstairs and she didn’t say a word. I could have died from shame.’
‘Have you thought what you’re going to do about Mam?’ Jean said.
‘No, not really.’
‘Well, something will have to be said before long.’
‘And I suppose that the one doing the saying will be me,’ Mary said resignedly. ‘But forget Mam for now, I’ve something to show you’.
Chapter 53
‘I’ve had a letter from Tom,’ Mary took it from her pocket. ‘It’s only a note really. Here, read it.’ Jean sat at the table and skimmed through it. ‘Well?’ Mary said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It was this bit here …’ Mary took the letter from Jean and studied it. ‘Here: I’ve had a visit from Patrick. I’ve been very low and it was difficult, but for the first time ever I feel we really understand each other. Now the War is coming to an end maybe we can put our differences to one side. What does that mean?’
Jean stared at the words and then abruptly stood up. She walked across to the door and leaning against it, looked out at the yard.
‘Jean? Patrick’s hated what Tom’s done, he’s despised him for being a CO, so why has he been to see him now? The war’s more or less over. Tom should be released in the near future, even taking into mind the pettiness of some of them in charge of him,’ Mary said quietly. ‘He must have visited Tom as soon as he came out of solitary. So why? And why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know, honest. I meant to tell you.’ Jean turned to face Mary, her arms crossed. ‘I just didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Worry me? After all the nagging I’ve done to get Patrick to go and see him, after all these years?’ Mary was incredulous. ‘You must have known I’d be glad that he finally went, especially after what Tom’s been through. Why should I be worried?’ Suddenly she knew. ‘Oh my God, it’s something to do with what happened, isn’t it?’ She said. ‘It’s about Frank, that’s why you’re not telling me.’ The kitchen started to tilt.
‘No. I don’t know.’ Suddenly Jean had her arms around her. ‘Honestly, Mary, Patrick didn’t tell me. And he won’t talk about it.’ She faltered for a moment then spoke quickly, her words running into one another. ‘But think about it.’ She shook Mary’s arm. ‘Tom was interviewed by the police. He was out same time Frank was murdered.’
‘So? He was in Wales.’ Mary forced herself to breath evenly.
‘Not all the time. Apparently he was trying to get to see you and Mam, but he saw some policemen on the railway station at Bradlow. He was that close to Ashford. He said he thought they were looking for him so he hid on the train and didn’t get off. But Mary, he has no alibi.’
Mary looked at her in dismay. She knew it was the truth. She had read and re-read Tom’s note and felt he was trying to tell her something. She forced herself to stay calm. ‘He said that to Patrick?’
‘Yes.’
‘So Patrick told you that much at least,’ Mary said slowly. ‘Has he been interviewed as well?’
‘Well, yes but only as a matter of course.’ Jean said. ‘Loads of the men round here have been seen by the police.’
‘And where was he when it happened?’
‘He was with me. He’d been on nightshift.’
Mary stared at her. ‘He would have been coming home at the same time as me, then. I didn’t see him. Surely I would have seen him?’
‘What are you trying to say?’ Jean stood up, her hand cradling her stomach.
‘I’m not saying anything. I’m just trying to understand what it all means, why Patrick went to see Tom.’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Jean shrugged. ‘But I do know Patrick was with me that morning.’
‘Why are you being so defensive?’
‘I’m not. I’m just saying he was with me and I’d say that to anyone.’
‘Anyone? Even me?’ Mary frowned. ‘Jean, he’s my brother. These are my brothers we’re talking about. I’d do anything for them. Even lie. So … are you lying for Patrick now?’
Jean flushed. ‘No,’ she snapped, ‘I’m not.’
‘I’ll tell you what I think, shall I?’ Mary clasped her hands tightly, resting them on the table. ‘I think one of them killed Frank.’ She lifted her head and held Jean’s gaze. ‘I’m not sure which one. Patrick has a temper. Tom worries about the people he loves and he can be very protective, too much so, sometimes. I’d told him about Frank. If he’d been brooding about what Frank was doing …’ Mary’s voice cracked. ‘But if I’m wrong, you have to tell me.’
Her hand shook as she reached out to her friend. Jean held on to it and sat down again.
‘Frank was badly beaten before he died,’ Mary continued. ‘The police said they knew I couldn’t have inflicted that amount of injury. So, was it Patrick? Did he do it? They’d fought before. You did tell Patrick about him following me, didn’t you?’ Jean nodded reluctantly. ‘And you know he’s always had a short temper, it’s been worse since they made him go in the mines.’
‘He’s not been as bad since we got married,’ Jean protested.
‘I know, love, but he’s still the brother I’ve always known and if something doesn’t suit, he still reacts with his fists.’ Mary squeezed her friend’s fingers. ‘So, please, if you know something, you must tell me.’
‘I don’t, I swear. Patrick says he doesn’t want to talk about what happened.’ Jean’s voice trembled. ‘He just says Shuttleworth’s dead and he’s glad.’ She shrugged in a helpless gesture. ‘But there is something …’
‘What?’
Jean jerked around in her chair as the toilet was flushed next door and, seconds later, a door banged.
‘Oh hell, I’d forgotten Mrs Jagger was on the prowl. She collared me about the celebration party they’re holding on our street. She wants to go. Apparently she fallen out with a couple of your neighbours and won’
t come to the one they’re holding here. Peace on earth, eh? Except for her.’ Jean put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh God, do you think she heard us talking?’
‘No,’ Mary said, first with uncertainty, then more firmly. ‘No. But just check she’s not still in the yard.’
Jean stood up. When she came back into the kitchen she shook her head. ‘She’s gone.’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘That morning Patrick was late home. He had marks all over his hands.’ Jean sat down carefully and spoke in a whisper. ‘First he said he must have done it in work … and then that he admitted he’d been in a fight. We had a row; our first proper set to. Things were difficult between us for a couple of weeks. Then he disappeared for over a day. I was frantic. When he got back he said he’d been to see Tom. He says it’s nothing to do with me. There were things they had to sort out, stuff they’d never talked about before.’ She looked at Mary, pleading. ‘It could have been anything, couldn’t it? Perhaps he sorted out how he feels about Tom; perhaps he’s tried to understand why Tom feels as he does about the war?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Doubt it.’
Jean felt her sleeve and produced a handkerchief. ‘Well I don’t know. I will tell you one thing, though.’ She blew her nose fiercely. ‘I’d not let him go to prison for killing scum like Shuttleworth. I’d lie through my teeth. I don’t care about the consequences.’ She leant forward across the table, her tone defiant. ‘This baby has a father and I want him with me. He promised he didn’t do it and I believe him … I have to … and so do you.’
‘I’m not sure.’ Mary folded Tom’s letter, pressing it down on the table and sharpening the creases with her knuckles. ‘But I do know we haven’t heard the last of it.’
Mary couldn’t get her breath. Frank was holding her down. She could smell his sourness; feel the harsh rasp of his rough chin on her as he pressed his head against her neck. He grasped her wrists with one hand and she felt him inside her, his weight crushing her. She fought back, the nightmare of the rape all too real.
She woke drenched in sweat, her heart racing. She sensed her cries were lingering in the room although the sound had gone.
She listened to hear if she had woken her mother. Nothing. Winifred must still be sleeping off the excesses of the street party that had gone on until the early hours. A bonfire had been built on the site of the bombed house at the far end of Greenacre Street and the screeching of fireworks drilled into her brain worse than any noises of sirens or bombing had done over the last six years. Mary had pressed her hands over her ears in an attempt to shut it out but she still heard people cheering and singing. At one point she thought that if she heard Auld Lang Syne one more time she’d scream. The thought had brought back a faded memory of Ellen saying something similar once about the girls where she worked and Workers’ Playtime, but she couldn’t be bothered pursuing the recollection. Instead she’d wrapped a pillow round her head to shut out the banging of dustbin lids and blown whistles that started each time the singing stopped. And at one point someone had even climbed up the lamppost outside her window and banged on the pane, shouting for her to come outside. She’d thrown the pillow then and screamed at them to go away. People outside were celebrating freedom and she was trapped in her own hell.
Mary pushed the covers away, her arms and legs entangled in the sheet and her mind a jumble of images: Frank, the sluggish canal, rain sliding off the leaves above her, the glowering early morning sky. The horrific scenes had been a regular occurrence in the nights that followed the rape. Now they’d returned and it could only be because of her talk with Jean today. But this time there was a difference, this time there was the addition of an image of her brothers beating Frank repeatedly until he was a bloody mess lying on the canal path.
But then the face of the battered body became Peter’s.
Mary laid back clutching her arms tight across her chest and taking shallow breaths in an effort to control the pain that had started under her ribs. Her eyes stretched wide, staring upwards at the faint fingers of dawn light that played across the ceiling. Cold sweat trickled between her breasts and although the air was soft and warm on her skin she couldn’t stop shaking. Tears stung, she blinked rapidly and the image disappeared. ‘Peter,’ she whispered.
Chapter 54
When Mary next struggled to consciousness it was to the clatter of clogs on the pavement followed by the urgent thwack of wood on glass as the ‘knocker-upper’ made his way from house to house, hoarsely calling to wake those men who were on early shift in the mine.
She listened to the twang of bedsprings through the thin wall and her mother’s stumbling descent down the stairs. ‘Oh Mam,’ she whispered. Jean was right: there had to be a way to stop her drinking; they couldn’t carry on like this
The water pipes rattled as Winifred banged the kettle against the tap in the scullery and Mary listened to the tank gurgling in the loft above her for what seemed the hundredth time in the last six weeks.
Six weeks! It had been six weeks since she was raped by Frank, six weeks since his death. And the police were no nearer to finding out who’d killed him. Every time Mary thought about it her stomach churned. Did she want them to find out: what would the truth be? She just wanted all the worry to go away.
The doctor had said she could go back to work on light duties in a fortnight, but how could she leave her mother like this, drinking day and night? Mary flung the sheet off her and lay with her hands by her sides. But she needed to get back to work, back to Peter; to see the look in his eyes when he first saw her again, to know that he didn’t blame her for the rape and that he wouldn’t turn away from her.
She curled up and buried her face in the pillow, smothering the hot rush of tears. She wouldn’t think about that. Think about what to do about her mother.
But her mind was in a whirl, her mother wasn’t the only person to be dealt with. She had to sort things out with her brothers. She lifted herself up onto her elbows. She’d go to see Tom first; she hadn’t been able to see him since Iori died, since his escape, since her … attack. His whole life had fallen apart and despite all that had happened to both of them and all the letters she’d sent, the only contact she’d had from him had been that one short note. It wasn’t like him. He was her big brother, the one who looked after her, who shared her secrets. She should have gone to see him as soon as he came out of solitary, before Patrick got to him.
Mary rested her chin in her hands, hardly breathing; why had that thought come to her? She frowned, trying to work out why she was so suspicious of Patrick, why she couldn’t believe he’d visited Tom to see if he was all right. Because it wasn’t like him, that’s why, she told herself; he’d resented Tom all his life, he wasn’t going to start caring now. So why? She sighed and gave up – it was all too much. There was so much to worry about: Peter, Mam, Tom, Patrick. And Ellen. She wondered if Tom had written to Ellen offering his help before Iori died. And if he had done, would that have changed her mind about keeping the baby? But of course that didn’t matter now. Everything was different.
The misery in the letter she’d received from Ellen was stark and desperate. The baby was due anytime in the next week, Ellen was adamant she would sign her rights to the baby away and then she wanted to come home. True to form, in her reply to Mary’s letter that told her everything that had happened, she hadn’t mentioned anything about Frank’s death or what he’s done to Mary.
Mary shrugged. Perhaps Ellen couldn’t cope with anything other than her own problems right now. Perhaps afterwards they would talk. Mary slowly sat up, an idea forming. Ellen would need something to take her mind off everything. For the first time in her life Mary put herself first. She’d written back immediately telling her sister she’d be welcomed with open arms. Now Mary realised Ellen could be the answer. Even if she couldn’t do much at first, she’d be home. Mary refused to listen to the inner voice that had always guided her, that automatically told her she was being selfish.
Her desperation to see Peter pushed everything else to one side. Ellen’s presence would solve everything. She could look after the house and their mother.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood up and wrapped her dressing gown around her. She’d go down and talk to Mam, sort everything out once and for all, try to find out properly why her mother was drinking so much, make her see that it wasn’t the answer to her misery.
Now she’d made the decision she felt better than she had for weeks.
Chapter 55
June 1945
‘I want to come back to work, Matron. I know you’re short staffed. Jean, Staff Nurse Howarth, has told me you are, especially as she’s now finished work, with the baby due in a few weeks. She said there’s been chaos in the camp.’
‘Not in my hospital, Sister,’ Matron said sharply.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. She said since Germany surrendered in Berlin and the prisoners were shown the films of those horrible concentration camp places that have been all over the news, there’s a lot of unrest in the compound and fights.’ Mary shrugged. ‘I just want to help. I want to get back to work. Please Matron.’
Matron smiled at her. ‘I appreciate what you are saying, Sister, but are you well enough? We’ve lost all the German orderlies; they’ve either been transferred to other places or given work outside the camp. The nurses, even the Ward Sisters, have to do a lot of the heavy work themselves. I doubt you’re up to that yet. You’ve lost a great deal of weight and you are looking rather flushed. Have you exerted yourself today? Did you walk here?’
‘No, I came on the bus. Honestly, Matron I’m fine.’ Mary had caught a glimpse of Peter as she’d passed the ward and her heart was still thumping. ‘I’d be an extra pair of hands. I want to get back to work. My sister comes home tomorrow. She’ll look after my mother.’ Mary hoped she didn’t sound as frantic as she felt. She had to be where Peter was. It had been so long since they’d spoken. Even a snatched conversation here or there was better than nothing; was something to hold on to. And any guilt she felt for leaving Ellen with their mother was balanced against the hope that her sister would make Mr Brown stop bringing his bottles of wine into the house every day.
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