Changing Patterns (17 page)

Outside it began to rain again, slow, tentative drops.

Jean turned her head towards the window, as though listening to the uneven splatters on the panes. ‘I’m fine, love. I slipped.’

‘I wouldn’t normally marry a couple where one of them is divorced.’ The minister lent forwards, his eyes closed, moving his head slowly up and down as though going over his decision again. ‘But, I’ve prayed long and hard about this and I’ve decided I will. Pressing his hands together as though in prayer, he clasped them between his knees and smiled. ‘The good Lord is merciful and I feel it would be His wish to sanctify this marriage.’

His eyes snapped open and Mary gave a small start. The little man really was quite odd. But Tom had liked him and that was good enough for her. And she was grateful; it was important to both her and Peter that they were married here, where Tom had worshipped. It would feel as if he was with them on the day. For a moment the sadness overwhelmed her and she fixed her eyes on Mr Willingham’s spats. There was a small black scuff on the left one.

‘So, the service?’

‘Will be simple.’ Mary squeezed Peter’s hand. ‘There’ll only be a few people.’

‘Being so near to Christmas we must make preparations now. And make sure that I can fit it in with my other commitments.’

‘It would have been Tom’s birthday. I just wanted it to be a special memory for him.’

‘I understand perfectly, Mary. Your brother was a staunch member of this church, and, speaking personally, a good friend. I am more than happy to marry the two of you on that date. It is a fitting tribute to a man of exceptional qualities, a man whose tolerance and understanding spread in so many different ways.’

His words brought hot tears; she struggled to hold them back. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll contact the Registrar, make sure the date is in his diary. We’ll need him to be there to legalise the proceeding,’ he explained, answering her look of enquiry. ‘We’re a Nonconformist church, we’re not yet solemnised for marriages.’ He leaned back in the pew. ‘Nice chap – new to the area. Now, if we could go over a few details?’

An hour later Mary knelt in between the two graves, sharing chrysanthemums between each of the metal vases inserted in front of the identical headstones. The curled petals of the bronzed flowers tightly overlapped, trapping, here and there, drops of water that held tiny light reflections.

‘There,’ she said again, tracing the words chiselled on both graves with her fingers. ‘
Hedd perffaith hedd.
’ Mary read it out as Gwyneth had taught her. She looked up at Peter. ‘It means “peace perfect peace”,’ she said. ‘Gwyneth wanted it on Iori’s headstone and she asked if I minded having it on Tom’s grave.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘I didn’t, don’t. It makes me feel they’re together in their faith.’

Peter held out his hand and helped her to her feet. ‘Walk?’

‘Yes, please.’ Mary patted the headstones, feeling for the first time a form of peace, of acceptance of Tom’s death. ‘You don’t mind waiting until December to be married?’

‘No, I think it is right for us. I believe Tom would like for us to be married on that day. He would have been my best man. And to have the
Brautlied
sung by Ellen will be wonderful.’

‘It’s a lovely suggestion, Peter.’

At the lychgate they turned to look back at the church. The diamonds of stained glass in the two large windows on either side of the arched door gleamed in a kaleidoscope of colours in the evening light. The yew trees at the corners of the small churchyard cast their long branched shadows across the paths and the irregular rows of headstones, some upright, some tilting.

‘It is good, peaceful here,’ Peter said.

‘Yes.’ Mary clasped his hand. It felt symbolic to be standing under the engraved wooden porch, as though they were being blessed. ‘Let’s walk back along the beach.’

They waited to let a couple pass by outside the entrance to the churchyard.

‘Good afternoon.’ Mary smiled at them.

‘
Guten Tag
,’ Peter said automatically. He dipped his head in greeting.

The woman glanced at them, looked away and then back at Mary. ‘Dirty bitch!’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Aren’t our boys good enough for you?’ The man tugged at her, urging her forward. She reluctantly yielded, still glaring at them. ‘Bloody Nazi.’

Taken by surprise and angered, Mary stared after them. With a shock she saw the empty sleeve pinned to the side of the man’s jacket.
Oh God.
In a way she understood the woman’s viciousness, but she couldn’t allow it to affect her and Peter.

‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get home.’

His eyes were blank when he looked at her.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about us, Peter. As long as we’re together, I don’t care.’

That night they sat on the low wall that separated the road from the beach. The sun was dropping behind the horizon, leaving behind streaks of pink and red. They watched in silence until there was only a domed sliver of gold resting on the dark skyline.

Peter lifted her hand to his mouth, a gesture he often did just to show he was thinking of her. ‘It will be good,’ he said.

‘It will be wonderful,’ Mary said.

Everything will work out. I’ll be fine Mam, she thought.

‘Do you remember when you first came here to live?’ Gwyneth held out her hand.

‘I do.’ Mary took hold of her fingers, noticing the freckled brown blotches on the skin, the flesh of an old woman, and the raised thin bones on the back of her hand. ‘Coming here meant everything to us.’

She’d always known that Gwyneth’s offer to rent the cottage wasn’t only altruism. She also needed someone nearby who she could talk to about her son without worrying he’d be judged; who knew him as well, or better, than she did. That had been Tom. It hadn’t made any difference to Mary. She was still grateful. Iori was buried in the graveyard in Llamroth so Tom had felt close to him. In an odd way it had saved her brother’s sanity.

And Mam’s. From the moment they arrived in Wales she stopped drinking, even at that first Christmas, even on the anniversary of her husband’s death.

‘And me, it meant everything to me.’ There was a small smile on Gwyneth’s lips. ‘Ever since last week, after you told me you and Peter were getting married, I’ve had this thought in my head.’ She crossed to the Welsh dresser and tugged at the copper handles of one of the drawers. ‘And yesterday I decided to do something about it.’

The black metal box she pulled out looked heavy and Mary half-rose to take it from her. ‘Here, let me.’

‘No, I can manage.’ Gwyneth carried the box the table and unlocked it. ‘Put the lamp on, will you,
cariad
, I can’t see what I’m doing in this light.’

‘I’ll pull the curtains back a bit as well.’ Mary dragged the heavy blue velvet drapes as far as she could.

‘I want to talk to you about the cottage.’ Gwyneth rifled through some papers, peering myopically at first one and then another. Eventually she gave a small cry of triumph, flapping a sheath of yellowed pages in the air. ‘These are the deeds to your cottage. I’ve seen my solicitor and I have to take these to him.’ She smiled broadly, showing the gap in her upper gum where two teeth had fallen out. ‘And I want you to come with me.’ She sat in her chair, the documents held loosely in her hands. ‘Because I want to give you the cottage. It will be my wedding present to you.’

Mary watched the second finger on the face of the Welsh slate mantle clock turn a full circle before finally answering. She spoke steadily. ‘You’ve always been so kind to Tom and me but this…’ She held out her hands, palms upwards. ‘This is too much.’

‘I thought Iori would live there one day. During the war when he and Tom were in prison I hoped that they would come to live there.’ Gwyneth glanced around, her gaze finally settling back on Mary. ‘Tom and you coming to live in the cottage was the next best thing. The last few years have been better than I ever thought they could be after I lost Iori. I’m not getting any younger and I want you to have next door. It was
cartref mam a
’
nhad – 
my mother and father’s place, and I want to know it’ll be looked after when I’m gone.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then say yes,
cariad.
’

‘If you’re sure?’

Gwyneth waited, watching Mary steadily. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I still think it’s too much.’ Mary hugged her. ‘But yes, Gwyneth, thank you, yes.’

‘Always thought she’d be famous, did that one.’ Hannah Booth tipped her head towards Ellen, who was sitting at the kitchen table determinedly reading an article on Tyrone Power playing the leading role in
Mister Roberts
at the London Coliseum.

Hannah picked at her cuticles. After trying and failing to make eye contact with her daughter-in-law, she continued, ‘Just because she’s had a few jobs singing in the likes of back-street clubs she says she could have made a career of it. Caterwauling more like.’

Ellen mouthed the words along with Hannah. It was a comment she’d heard many times, one that used to hurt but not anymore. Now it made her want to scream. She forced herself to read against the background of Ted’s mother’s droning voice.

The District Nurse acted as though nobody had spoken. She’d learned months ago that this was the only thing to do. Keeping her head down, she concentrated on unwrapping the bandages from Hannah’s leg and studying the varicose ulcer on her shin.

The stench was instantly noticeable and Ellen wrinkled her nose in disgust. God, she hated the sound, sight and smell of the fat cow.

Hannah poked the nurse on the shoulder. ‘You’d think she’d know better, a wife and mother, wanting to gad about all the time.’ She flicked away a small piece of cuticle with the pad of her thumb. ‘Makes you think, huh?’

Ellen slapped her magazine on the table. ‘Enough! I’ve heard it all before, Hannah, and I don’t think Nurse Hampson wants to hear your vicious carping.’

The nurse bowed her head even lower over the wound.

Hannah smiled in satisfaction. ‘Truth hurts, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, just shut up!’ Ellen stared at the pages of
Theatre World Magazine.
The words merged together. Outside, the tin bath scraped against the wall in the wind, rain rattled on the metal. She could hear Doreen in her kitchen next door, whistling to some tune on the radio. What was it their mam used say?
A whistling woman and a crowing hen brings the devil out of his den.
Yeah, that was it. She and Ted were living with the devil, that was for sure. Ellen scowled.

The nurse swabbed the ulcer with Red Lotion, but the sweet aroma of lavender and zinc did little to block out the reek of the slowly granulating flesh around the wound.

Ellen saw Hannah wince and for a brief moment felt some sympathy, recalling the very early days when they’d lived together in harmony and she’d helped her future mother-in-law to bandage the damaged varicose veins. It was impossible to believe they’d ever got on; now she sometimes wished Hannah dead.

‘That’s me done, Mrs Booth, I’ll see you next week.’ The nurse patted Hannah’s arm. Packing her bag and closing it with one hand, she stood and fastened the buttons of her coat with the other.

‘She’ll see you out.’ Hannah carefully took her leg off the small stool and lowered it to the floor, adjusted her long black dress over her knees.

Ellen led the way along the hall and opened the front door. She watched the nurse cycle, head bent against the rain, down the street, the black nurses’ bag bouncing around in the wicker basket behind her. As she turned onto Shaw Street, Ellen saw Nurse Hampson wobble and grab hold of her hat with a shrill shriek, in danger of losing it in a sudden gust of wind. A man, hurrying down the street on the opposite side, swopped glances with Ellen and laughed before continuing on his way, taking long strides to avoid the streams of cream and yellow donkey-stone that was being washed off the door steps by the rain.

The smile faded when she closed the door and went back into the kitchen. Ted had told her he’d had a word with his mother about her constant picking. It hadn’t made much difference.

‘I’m at the end of my tether with you,’ she said, sitting back at the table. ‘This is my house and you’d better remember that before you start again with your nasty remarks in front of anybody else.’

‘Aye and it’s
my money
that paid for the shop that pays for the upkeep of
your house.
’ Hannah’s jowls shook with the force of her words. She wiped at the sweat on her forehead with a large white handkerchief. ‘I speak as I find, my lady, and you’ve never been good enough for my Ted.’

‘You didn’t say that when you were so bloody lonely stuck up in that house of yours that you begged me to come and live with you.’

‘You asked.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did.’

Ellen rose and walked to stand over Hannah. ‘You. Bloody. Asked,’ she repeated. ‘And, like I’ve said a thousand times, if I knew then what a selfish old cow you were I’d have run a mile.’