Changing Patterns (2 page)

‘Oh yes.’ Hannah pursed her mouth. Without her false teeth in, her top lip covered her nostrils when she sniffed. She didn’t take her eyes off the younger woman. ‘Natural’s best, I always think. Then there’s no nasty shock for the man in the marriage.’

No wonder Mr Booth had a heart attack when Ted was a kid then, Ellen thought, slowly pressing face powder on her forehead and studying her reflection in the mirror before closing it with a snap. She waited a moment before saying, ‘I’ve been asked to do a stint at the Astoria in Manchester next Friday as well.’

Hannah frowned. ‘What about Ted? Does he know?’

‘He won’t mind.’ He never minded what she did as long as she was happy. At least that’s what he said. Had he said it more often lately? Was that because he was working late more regularly? With her from next door. Ellen stopped that train of thought.

‘You going on the bus looking like that?’

‘No, I’m getting a lift from one of the band. Harry. He lives locally. He’ll bring me home as well.’ Put that in your pipe and smoke it, as Mam used to say, she thought. ‘Tell Ted, will you? Tell him I’ll see him about one o’clock.’ They’d have an hour then before he got up to go to the bakery. Time enough to show him what he’d been missing these last couple of weeks. She smiled to herself.

‘Right, I’m off.’ She pushed her feet into her silver peep-toed shoes and shrugged on her coat, adjusting the fake pearl earring that caught in the collar. She lifted one leg and then the other, looking over her shoulder, checking her seams were straight.

Just for mischief she said, ‘Wish me luck.’ She wouldn’t admit it but she was nervous. This was only the second time she’d sung at the Embassy Club in Bradlow and the last time it felt as though she was battling against the noise of the chatter around the bar; as though she was invisible.

As she walked down the hall she heard Hannah mutter, ‘Dressed up like a tart…’

Ellen slammed the front door and looked towards Shaw Road. A man walked by and wolf-whistled under his breath. She pulled her coat tighter and glared at him.

A black Ford Prefect pulled up at the end of the street. Harry. Ellen waved as the driver sounded his horn.

Avoiding the cracks in the pavement she teetered towards the car on her high heels. ‘I’m entitled to a life,’ she muttered, ‘miserable old cow.’

‘What the fuck?’ Patrick lurched onto his back and lifted his head off the pillow. Downstairs the telephone shrilled out again. ‘What time is it?’

Jean pulled on the cord of the Lazy Betty and squinted at the alarm clock in the brightness of the light thrown out over the bed. ‘Twenty past twelve.’

Patrick sat up, buttoning his pyjama jacket and reaching for his dressing gown.

‘Who will it be?’ Jean said. It felt as though the pulse in her neck was choking her. Her first thought was of her mother. That was quickly rejected; her mother didn’t have a telephone.

‘How do I know?’ He sat on the edge of the bed, half turned away, half facing her. ‘I’m not a fucking clairvoyant.’

Jean lay back. Outside the night was still. The room held the quietness within its walls. She couldn’t even hear the normal hushed movements of her daughter deep in sleep in the next room. She got up and tiptoed across the landing. Jacqueline, undisturbed by the telephone, hadn’t moved. Jean stroked back the lock of hair that fell across her daughter’s face and gently tugged the covers higher.

The telephone rang again. She stopped at the top of the stairs, her hand clasping her throat, but couldn’t make out Patrick’s words. She went back to bed.

Eventually he slipped under the sheets, barely disturbing the eiderdown, and turned his back to her.

‘Who was it?’ Jean waited.

He didn’t answer.

She touched his shoulder, her skin prickling. ‘Patrick?’

When the sobs came, they were jagged; an explosion of grief. All she could do was to hold him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. Finally, when he turned, his face was white, his features rigid.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Patrick threw an arm across his face, covering his eyes against the light. His lips moved stiffly. ‘Tom’s dead.’ Slow tears trailed down the sides of his face.

Jean gasped. ‘What? How?’

‘Not now,’ he said.

‘How?’

‘No.’

She could hear the pain in his voice. ‘Patrick?’

‘No!’

He flung the covers back. She watched him leave the room, slamming the door behind him.

Almost immediately it re-opened. ‘Mum?’ Jacqueline was wide-eyed.

‘It’s okay, love.’ Jean lifted the corner of the bedclothes. ‘Get in.’ When Jacqueline snuggled alongside her, stretching her arm across the soft width of her stomach, Jean felt the rapid beat of her daughter’s heart. ‘It’s okay,’ she repeated, ‘nothing to be scared of.’

‘Dad was shouting.’

‘Well, nothing new there then, huh?’ Jean gave her a squeeze, trying to add humour into her voice. ‘You know what he’s like. Up and down like a yo-yo when something doesn’t suit. He’s just being silly.’

‘Why is he cross?’

Jean heard the fear in Jacqueline’s voice. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, honest, love. He’ll be fine again in the morning. Everything will be all right.’

But would it?

For the rest of the night Jean stared sightlessly up at the ceiling, not knowing what would face her in the morning. Patrick’s lifelong jealousy of his older brother and the hatred he’d shown Tom for his stand as a conscientious objector hadn’t grown any less over the last five years. She’d stopped asking him to go with her to see Tom and Mary in Wales. It only set him off on one of his tirades. And Mary seemed happy enough that he stayed away.

But what about Jacqueline? How would she tell her? She adored her uncle. He’d always made a fuss of her whenever they’d visited Wales. Would she even understand? The last one of the family to die was Patrick’s mother and Jacqueline hadn’t really known Winifred.

She made herself wait until seven o’clock before she went downstairs. Patrick was sitting in the kitchen staring at the empty grate and drinking whisky.

‘What happened to Tom?’

He shrugged. ‘Hit and run.’

‘Who rang?’

‘That bloody Kraut.’

‘Do they know who
…
?’

‘Oh yeah,’ his tone was sarcastic, ‘that’s why it’s called a hit and run.’ He emptied the glass and slammed it down on the arm of the chair. ‘Course they don’t bloody know.’

‘There’s no need to be like that.’ Glancing at the almost empty bottle of whisky, Jean bit back a remark about his drinking. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t know how to tell Jacqueline.’

He whipped round to look at her. ‘Jacqueline? Why should you tell her?’

‘He was her uncle.’

‘Huh!’ Patrick shrugged. ‘She doesn’t need to know – not yet anyway.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Get us a brew?’

‘She will need to know, Patrick.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we should go.’

‘Go where?’ This time he didn’t turn his head.

‘You know where. To see your Mary.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because your brother’s dead. Because she’s your sister. Because she’s my best friend. Because she needs us.’

‘She’s got that Kraut.’

‘And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter about Tom or Mary, or even your daughter…’ Jean kept her voice even. ‘I’m going. And I’m taking Jacqueline. You can please yourself.’

Ellen sat on the chair by the side of the piano while the musicians packed their instruments and shuffled off the stage, untying their black dickie bows and undoing the top button of their shirts. Harry, the drummer, winked and grinned at her as he passed, his round face red and glistening with sweat.

‘See you in a bit. Going out for a bit of fresh air.’

Oh yeah, Ellen thought. She glanced down at the dance floor. The chubby girl who’d been eyeing him all night from the edge of the stage had disappeared. ‘Don’t forget I’ll need a lift home,’ she whispered, ‘and don’t have me hanging around outside on my own.’

High up on the ceiling the large crystal ball slowly turned round scattering small snowflake impressions over the crowd. The clock on the wall was wreathed in swirling blue cigarette smoke; the air reeked with the stench of nicotine and sweat. Ellen practised her breathing exercise, relaxing her throat ready to sing, and wished she hadn’t. She checked the time: eleven thirty. Another fifteen minutes and the club would close and the crowd ushered out.

Her palms were damp and she surreptitiously ran her hands down the side of her dress, leaving smudged marks. It was ruined anyway. The stupid saxophonist had spilt some beer on it coming back on stage after the interval. Besides, it was so tight it rubbed under her arms and around her waist whenever she moved. All she could think about was getting home and out of the bloody thing.

She stood and adjusted the microphone out of habit; it was set perfectly for her. She cleared her throat and switched it on, smiling at the depleted crowd of dancers. The chairs at the back of the Palais were full of boys and girls smooching but there were still some left on the dance floor.

‘I’d love to get you on a slow boat to China…’

The crowd began to move, a disjointed mass of huddled couples and girls swinging one another around.

Over by the bar a man jumped up on top of the counter.

Ellen faltered.

‘Some idiot wants a fight,’ the pianist called over his shoulder, ‘keep going.’

‘All by myself, alone.’

‘Come on,’ the man yelled, tearing off his shirt. ‘You want a fight? Well here I am. I’m ready.’

Ellen watched as he started jumping around on top of the bar and jabbing at the air like a boxer. There was raucous laughter and then someone grabbed his legs and he somersaulted out of sight onto the floor, amid cheers.

She raised her voice. ‘
Get you and keep you in my arms evermore…’

At the back of the room another scuffle broke out. Ellen could see Eddie, the bouncer usually at the door to the foyer, coming towards the stage, struggling to keep hold of a smaller man who was determinedly fighting him off.

‘Leave all your lovelies weeping on the…’
Her voice trailed away. She dropped her arms to her side, fear tightening her throat. ‘Ted?’

He was still in his white overalls.

The pianist swivelled round to see what was happening. ‘Ellen?’

She took no notice of him. ‘Ted? What is it? The children?’

‘No.’ He held out his hand. Ellen looked around. The dancers were still, watching her in shared curiosity.

Bewildered, she let Ted lift her from the stage. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you here?’ She felt the sting of frightened tears.

‘Get her things,’ Ted said to the pianist. The man moved swiftly without questioning. ‘I’ll tell you outside, love.’ He covered her shoulders with her coat and kept his arm around her. ‘I’ve got the van. Come on, Ellen,’ he said when she hesitated. ‘Not here.’

‘What’s going on?’ The manager of the Palais came from his office and stood in their path as they crossed the dance floor. ‘You can’t leave yet, you haven’t finished your stint.’

‘Shift out of the way.’ Ted shouldered him aside.

Ellen registered the unusual aggression in her husband. She looked back at the manager.

‘Don’t bother coming back – you’re fired.’

Right at that moment she didn’t care. Something dreadful had happened and the sooner they were out of the place the sooner she’d find out.

‘Was it an accident? I don’t understand.’

‘I told you, love. Peter just said the driver didn’t stop. It sounds as if whoever it was panicked.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Ellen repeated.

‘Come and sit down.’

‘No, I can’t.’

Ted had almost carried Ellen into the house and now he held her close. She pushed back to look at him, bewildered. ‘What if it wasn’t an accident?’

‘It was,’ Ted insisted. ‘Why would it be anything else?’ He stroked her hair. ‘You know that’s a bad corner outside Mary’s house.’

‘Of course it’s possible it wasn’t an accident,’ Ted’s mother said. ‘You never know.’ Although it was almost one o’clock in the morning, way past the time she normally went to bed, Hannah was still up, sitting in her armchair. She pulled the cord of her maroon dressing gown tighter in a vain attempt to cover her nightdress and laced her fingers over her stomach. ‘Perhaps somebody didn’t like what … who … he was.’

‘Shut up.’ Ellen clenched her fists against Ted’s chest. One day she’d swing for this woman.

Ted spoke at the same time. ‘Yes, shut up, Mother. And go to bed, there’s no need for you to be here.’

‘Well!’ Hannah heaved herself out of the chair. ‘There was a time you’d never have spoken to me like that, Ted Booth.’

He didn’t answer her. He put his face close to Ellen’s. ‘Hush now, love. Try to calm down. We’ll speak to Mary tomorrow. Find out what happened. Peter didn’t say much when he rang the shop. He was upset and I think he had enough on his plate trying to look after Mary.’