Changing Patterns (14 page)

Peter looked around. The pitch roof of a large shed poked up from behind a trellis. ‘Hello?’

Alun appeared first, his tangled black hair flopping over his eyes, a tray of small potatoes in his arms. ‘Peter.’ He grinned and Peter gave an inner sigh of relief. At least he was welcome here. Before Tom’s funeral he’d been lulled into a false sense that he would be accepted by everyone in Llamroth. He’d learned since he was wrong.

Balancing the tray Alun shook his hand. ‘Alwyn, come here, see. We have a visitor.’

Alwyn emerged from the shed wearing a trilby with more holes in it than the one the scarecrow wore. There was a piece of coarse string fastened through the loops of his trousers. He wiped his hand on his jacket and held it out for Peter to shake but said nothing.

‘You are busy?’ Peter shoved his cap inside his overall pocket and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘It is most impressive.’

The two men looked self-conscious and shuffled their boots on the gravelled path but he could tell they were pleased. Alwyn took out a large grubby handkerchief and blew his nose, peering over it at Peter.

‘Just a visit, is it?’ Alun asked.

‘Yes. No.’ Peter faltered. ‘I was – I was hoping for some work?’

‘We can have a chat about it?’ Alun glanced at Alwyn who nodded, handkerchief still held to his face. ‘We always like to have a chat about things first, don’t we brother?’

Alwyn moved his head again.

‘Hold on a minute.’ Alun put the tray down. ‘Mr Howells?’ A burly man, in a tightly fastened dark blue suit and shirt and tie appeared at the back of Alwyn, his florid face devoid of expression. Peter smiled a greeting. The man snubbed him. Putting on his hat he glanced at Alun. ‘How much?’

‘Thruppence,’ Alun said curtly. He’d noticed the snub.

‘Bloody expensive.’

Alun bent down and picked the tray up. ‘No then?’ He tilted his head.

‘You know I need them. Visitors have ordered them for their tea tonight.’ Grumbling the man fumbled in his wallet. He dropped three coppers in Alun’s outstretched hand and took the tray of potatoes.

Alun turned back to Peter. ‘Perhaps you could cut the grass on the green in the village? It’s a job we do for the Council.’

Peter felt gratitude run through him. ‘
Ja
, good. I will do that.’

‘The Rushville?’ Alwyn offered, his voice almost a whisper.

‘The old folk’s home? Yes,’ Alun said, ‘there’s a few jobs you could do for them, like. We keep telling them we’re better on the repairing side of things but they still keep asking us. Tom used to do all that for us. So if you…?’

‘I will. Thank you.’

The man stopped before he turned the corner of the cottage. ‘Don’t send that Kraut to do any work for me. I don’t want him anywhere near my place. Don’t want my guests upset by the sight of him.’

The three men pretended not to have heard. Then Alwyn heaved a deep sigh. He walked along the path to the man and took hold of the tray. There was a short tussle before Alwyn jerked it out of the man’s hands. ‘Here’s your money back, Mr Howells.’ He pushed the coins into the man’s palm. ‘Get your tatties somewhere else.’

They waited until they heard the man’s car start up.

‘Tom was a good friend to us,’ Alwyn said. ‘He made us see how we felt about the war wasn’t wrong. Not like our family back home.’

That was a surprise. ‘I did not know. You were conscientious objectors also? Tom did not say…’ His words trailed away. Uncertain how to continue, he said, ‘It is of no concern to me but Tom told me you were his good friends.’ He flapped the paper. ‘And now, I see, you are also my good friends.’

‘Aye, well, must get on.’ Alwyn shifted sideways, embarrassed. He pushed his hair away from his forehead and giving Peter a wide grin which crinkled the skin around his dark eyes. ‘Give us a shout if you need any help, see?’

‘Aye, must get on,’ Alun said in a low voice, his face mirroring his brother’s and revealing a gap in his large teeth, into which he now fitted the empty pipe he’d been holding in his hands.

Peter swallowed. He was a proud man. Tormented since Tom’s death that he would have to live on Mary’s earnings he didn’t know how to tell the twins what it meant to him. All he could say was, ‘Thank you, thank you to both of you.’ He shook hands with each of them.

Walking away from the house, self-respect flooded through him. It will be all right, he thought.

The guard nonchalantly slammed each carriage door he passed. He turned and walked backwards, checking there were no latecomers. Then he blew his whistle and the train juddered, a rush of steam spurting out from under the engine.

Jean slid the window down. ‘Let me know when you’ve decided on the date.’ She didn’t smile.

Mary was fully aware Jean still didn’t approve of Peter.
At least he isn’t a bully.
She instantly regretted the thought. ‘We will,’ she said. ‘And you take care. Remember what we talked about.’

Jean didn’t answer.

‘Stay in touch.’ Mary wondered for the tenth time that morning whether she should be going back with her. It was too late now.

They watched the train shunt slowly backwards on the rust-pitted iron rails; past the end of the platform and out of the station. Two hundred yards away, it connected with the main line opposite the red and cream signal box whose low line of windows flashed in the sun. Squinting, Mary could see the dark shadow of the man inside moving around, pulling on the levers. She dropped her gaze to watch the points sliding across the rails. The signalman appeared at the top of the wooden steps to lift a hand to the driver. It seemed to Mary that he also returned Jacqueline’s frantic wave. The little girl’s face was a pale blob now but Mary knew she was crying and she swallowed her own tears.

With a short burst from the whistle the train chugged away. As the sound grew muffled, others became more distinct: the signal clanged down, bouncing to a noisy stop; under the eaves of the wooden roof sparrows gave the occasional murmur, too lethargic to move; the porter shouted to someone inside the ticket office and a man replied with a laugh. The warm air carried a faint acrid smell of the funnel’s smoke, growing less with each passing moment.

Peter squeezed Mary’s hand. ‘It is better you leave her to her own problems. You have much to do here.’

‘I know.’ He was right. There was nothing she could do. She could only hope Jean came to her senses and moved back in with her mother. She glanced up at the sky, almost translucent against the brilliance of the sun, and heaved a long sigh. Jean could be bossy and awkward but Patrick was a right chip of the old block, his father’s son right enough. She might ask Ellen to keep an eye on Jacqueline.

She let her arm drop to her side, aware she’d been waving long after her niece would be able to see her.

Peter held her face between his palms, and kissed her forehead and then her lips. ‘She and little Jacqueline will be fine. You must not worry.’ He gave her one last quick kiss on the tip of her nose. Mary savoured the feeling of being cherished.

They climbed the steps to the bridge over the single track, their weight causing reverberations on the metal plates. An old memory returned to Mary, the sound of shuffling footsteps on the iron stairs from one landing to the next at Tom’s prison. She closed her eyes for a second and stopped, holding on to the railing with one hand.

‘Mary? What is it?’

‘Sorry, Peter, I was thinking about Tom.’ How can happiness and misery go so hand in hand? she thought. ‘Take no notice of me.’ She tried to laugh. The sound emerged as a sob. ‘I feel so,’ she spread her fingers, ‘so mixed up.’ It wasn’t only the physical loss of Tom. She’d lost the need to protect him, and it left her bewildered. Ingrained in her since his release from prison, it was a role reversal she’d grown used to, repaying him for the way he’d safeguarded her from her father’s temper all through her childhood. It was also the great sadness she felt that her brother and Peter had lost the chance to nurture the friendship they’d started to build.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I am sorry,
liebling
.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, threading her arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

They walked through the crowded waiting room to get to the main entrance of the station. The dusty, stale odour was overpowering and Mary held her breath until they were outside.

Strolling along the flagged pavement they stayed on the side of the road shaded by the three-storey stone buildings. Mary looked around, trying to see the town through Peter’s eyes. This was only the third time he’d been to Pont yr Hafan. He’d been in no hurry to stray further than the village, and now he was saying nothing. The ground floors contained a variety of shops. The upper floors, some with windows blanked out with whitewash, others with grubby net curtains, seemed to be either flats or storerooms.

‘It’s a bit dingy, this place, I know,’ she said. ‘It’s taking a while to recover from the war. But there are a few good shops, a Utility Furniture place, two second-hand clothes shops that sell really good stuff.’ She smiled, fingering the lapel of his jacket. ‘We could look for something for you if you wanted?’

He shook his head.

‘Some other time then. Tom especially liked the ironmongers. He used to say there was nothing you couldn’t get from there, or have ordered.’ She pointed towards the end of the street. ‘And there’s a Woolworths on the High Street.’

She stopped outside a large window where blue and white checked curtains were held back by large blue bows. ‘I thought we might splash out a bit, go in here for a cup of tea? We haven’t done that before.’ She waited, hoping she hadn’t sprung this on him too suddenly. ‘We can talk, like you said, make plans?’ It wasn’t fair to spoil Peter’s mood. He’d been so good about everything.

Peter peered through the window. They could both see two or three small round tables from where they stood, and the outline of a few people. He pressed his lips together, ran a hand over his short blond hair and then pulled back his shoulders. ‘That would be good,’ he said finally. He held the door open for Mary and followed her into the café.

The middle-aged couple at the first table glanced up at them before resuming their conversation. An old man, wiping crumbs from his chin with a thin paper serviette, watched with no great interest. Mary led the way past a group of young women, giggling and chattering over frothy pink milkshakes, to a table in the alcove by the window.

The waitress, who was loading up a tray with used crockery, stopped to follow them. ‘What can I get for you?’ She smiled at Peter, arranging the frills on the shoulder straps of her apron.

‘Oh, I think a pot of tea for two,’ Mary said, seeing his reluctance to speak. ‘And some Welsh cakes I think.’

‘
Ja
… yes,’ he muttered.

Taking a quick sideways peep at Peter the woman scribbled on her notepad. ‘Two minutes,’ she announced, picking up the tray and, carrying it above her head. Mary didn’t miss the raised eyebrows and sideways movement of her head when she manoeuvred past the couple. She saw them twist around to look at Peter and stared back at them until the woman gave a slight cough and fiddled with her necklace, turning away and tugging at her husband’s sleeve. Before long they left the café, followed by the old man who, clearing his throat, spat on the pavement in front of the window before shuffling away.

‘This was a mistake.’ Peter half rose.

‘No!’ Mary seized his hand. She smoothed the folds of her skirt, unfastened her cardigan and, taking it off, laid it across her knees. ‘No, we stay.’

The waitress returned with the tray: brown teapot, milk jug, a plate of Welsh cakes, one cup, saucer and plate.

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ Mary said, placing the latter in front of Peter. ‘
My
cup and saucer?
My
plate?’ The woman flushed and turned away towards the counter. When she returned, Mary took them without speaking.

One of the young women leaned towards them. ‘Quite right.’ She grinned. ‘Snotty cow should realise who pays her wages.’ Raising her voice she said, ‘She’ll not get a tip from us.’ The others agreed. ‘Should bloody realise the war’s been over a long time.’

‘Thanks.’ Mary poured the tea, unable to say any more. She was trembling.

With a lot of clatter the girls shoved their chairs back and left.

Now, except for the glowering waitress, they were alone in the café.

‘Thank you,’ Peter said to Mary. ‘Thank you for not caring, for being strong for the both of us,
meine Liebe
.’ He leant his arms on the table, touching Mary with the tips of his fingers. ‘I always think I do not know what I would do if I lost you.’

‘Well that’s not going to happen, ever, so don’t worry about that.’ The balance of sadness and joy tipped towards contentment. Tom would want her to be happy; he wouldn’t want her moping around. And yet there was that small voice in her mind. She knew how ashamed he would be, knowing he had lied to her.

‘You are fine now?’

‘I’m fine.’ Mary twisted the top flower-shaped button of her blouse.

He raised his hand dismissing the words. ‘You must talk, tell me. Whatever worries you I must know. Perhaps help?’