Changing Patterns (29 page)

She stretched her neck from side to side to try to release the tension. Closing the back door she pulled her pinny over her head. Looking in the mirror she tidied her hair. She couldn’t be bothered with lipstick and face powder.

At the parlour door she listened to the chatter and laughter, the clinking of cutlery and dishes. She took in a long breath, fixed a smile on her face and went in.

The last thing she felt like doing was pretending to enjoy a family day.

‘Good scram that, our kid.’ Patrick tipped his chair back on two legs. ‘If I say so myself. Can’t beat a good bird.’

Jean sighed with impatience.

‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Mary said, starting to pile the plates together.

‘Ask your dad to play his harmonica.’ Jacqueline gave Linda a nudge. ‘Go on, ask him,’ she urged.

‘Okay.’ Linda went to sit on Ted’s knees. Arms around his neck she burrowed her face into his shoulder and whispered to him.

He nodded and went through to the kitchen, returning seconds later holding the harmonica and waving a trail of Izal toilet paper and two combs.

Sitting on the sofa, the two girls next to him, he helped them to wrap the Izal around the combs. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘
The Grand Old Duke of York.
’ The girls put their lips to their makeshift instruments and hummed. The comb and paper made a rasping sound.

‘Makes your lips tingle,’ Linda giggled.

Mary forced a smile. Feeling sudden loneliness amongst her family was unbearable. ‘I’ll clear up,’ she said.

‘I’ll help.’ Jean moved her chair back. ‘Ted, you and Patrick have some of that rum he brought with him.’

They didn’t need telling twice. Ted put the harmonica in his trouser pocket and went to get two glasses from the sideboard. ‘Come on, then kids,’ he said to appease their protests at the ending of the music, ‘who wants a game of Ludo?’

‘Are we having a cup of tea?’ Peeved at being left out Elsie Winterbottom followed the women into the kitchen. She belched loudly. ‘That Christmas pudding has given me indigestion.’

‘I thought it was tasty, Mother.’ Jean put the large dishes of leftover food on the kitchen table and covered them with plates. ‘I thought you did too. You had two helpings. And you got the sixpence.’

‘Which she bloody pocketed,’ Ellen whispered to Mary. She raised her voice. ‘I’ll make a brew.’

‘I’ll make soup with the leftovers later.’ Mary ran hot water from the Ascot heater into the sink, ready to tackle the mountain of dirty pots on the draining board.

‘That new?’ Jean asked.

‘The Ascot?’ Mary lathered up the bubbles. ‘Yes, Ted put it in last week. The other one was on its last legs and this is bigger, holds more water so we’re not having to wait for it to heat up all of a piece.’

The window clouded over with the steam, melting the snow that had settled in the corners of the frame. The top panes were still clear and showed a few flakes swirling against the greyness of the late afternoon sky. ‘It’s started up again,’ Jean said, ‘I’m going to ask Patrick to take Mother home.’

‘Right.’ Mary listened to the children’s laughter coming from the front room. Any other time it would have made her believe they had a happy carefree childhood. But how many times did she and the others laugh when they were kids, though their house was filled with trouble and anger? Lots, she supposed. Nothing is ever like it seems, she thought, never.

All of a sudden, she knew what she had to do.

The logs in the fire shifted, sending a spark of flames up the chimney and changing the pattern of the shadows on the back wall of the parlour. For once the five adults were comfortable in one another’s company. The two men dozed after the half bottle of rum, Ted with his arm around Ellen on the sofa, Patrick slumped in one of the armchairs, his hand on Jean’s shoulder as she sat on the floor between his knees. Nobody spoke, nothing contentious had been brought up in the conversation, and general chatter had gradually drifted away.

The children had been in bed for the last hour, worn out by all the day’s activities.

Mary held her lower lip between her teeth, sucked on it for a moment. She straightened up in her chair, aware of being the one solitary figure in the room. ‘I’ve got something I need to tell you all.’ Her voice was too loud – the men jumped. Jean and Ellen turned quickly to look at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

As one they shook their heads, their eyes fixed on her.

Her heart was thumping. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop them shaking.

The logs shunted again, louder this time, and everyone glanced at the fire before returning to Mary. It gave her a second to calm down. ‘I thought I should tell you I’m not going back to Wales. I’m staying in Ashford.’ She didn’t miss the delight in Ellen’s eyes.

‘What are you—’ Jean started to ask.

‘Going to do?’ Mary pre-empted her. She turned to Ted. ‘If it’s okay with you I’ll stay here for the time being?’

‘Of course, you know you’re more than welcome.’ He was puzzled. ‘But what about Peter?’

‘I’ll come to him in a minute.’

‘You could go for one of the jobs I told you about,’ Jean said, immediately enthusiastic.

‘I couldn’t … I can’t. Because I’m pregnant.’

There was a stunned silence.

She hurried on. Better to get it all out into the open while she felt brave enough. ‘I’m about three months as far as I can work out. But I’m not with Peter anymore.’ She warned Jean to keep quiet with a look. ‘And that’s not something I’ll discuss just now. Which means, Ted, that for the time being I won’t be able to pay my way. I won’t be able to contribute anything to the housekeeping. I’m sorry.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’ He looked extremely upset. She knew he’d grown to like Peter. ‘You’ve done more than enough these last three months.’

‘There’s something else.’ Her stomach muscles tensed and she threw a cautioning look at Patrick. ‘But I need all of you to promise me that you won’t tell anyone else.’

‘If that’s what you want, Mary.’ Ted spoke firmly. ‘Me and Ellen promise. Don’t we, love?’

She moved her head. ‘Of course.’

‘Jean?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Mary could tell she was bursting with curiosity.

‘Patrick?’

‘It depends.’

‘Then I can’t tell you.’

‘Patrick,’ Ted said, ‘for God’s sake man.’

‘All right, all right,’ Patrick growled, ‘I’ll say nowt.’

Mary sat back. It was now or never. ‘I’ve seen the van that killed our Tom,’ she said. ‘Here in Ashford.’

‘What!’

‘Be quiet, Patrick.’ It was Ellen. ‘Go on.’

‘I went to the police.’

‘You did what? Fucking hell, Mary, why?’

‘Patrick!’ This time it was all three of them who shouted at him.

‘I thought they’d believe me,’ Mary said. Patrick gave a snort of derision but kept quiet. ‘They didn’t.’ Mary stared down at her folded hand; her knuckles were white. ‘I saw the van coming out of Newroyd Street.’ She took a deep breath. ‘As soon as I did I knew it was the one that ran our Tom down. Same colours, same markings on the side.’ Watching Patrick fling himself from his chair she still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. ‘George Shuttleworth was driving it.’

Patrick paced the rug in front of the fire. ‘Right!’

‘You’re not to do anything Patrick, you promised.’ Mary watched him, anxious.

‘I don’t understand.’ Ellen twisted her fingers together. ‘Ted?’

‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘After all these years Shuttleworth somehow found out where Mary and Tom lived. He drove down there and ran him down because he knew Tom was the one who saved Mary and killed his brother. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it Mary?’ His voice was gentle.

‘Yes … but he was wrong.’

Except for the low crackle of the fire and a sudden creak of springs through the ceiling as one of the children turned in their bed, the room was silent.

‘You all thought Tom killed Frank. I did too.’ She waited a moment. ‘But it wasn’t Tom, it was Peter.’ She kept very still, willing herself to stay calm. ‘We had a row the day you asked me to come here. He didn’t want me to come to Ashford. I didn’t understand why. Then it all came out. He said … he told me … he told me … I’m sorry, I can’t.’ The tears, held back for so long spilled over. Jean came towards her. Mary flapped a hand at her friend. ‘No.’ She stumbled from the room.

The icy air, streaming in from outside, stung her throat but still she took in great mouthfuls of it, clinging to the handle of the back door. Her whole body shook. But she’d done it; she’d told them everything. Nothing was hidden now and she felt an enormous relief. Whatever else now happened she wasn’t carrying that burden of secrets anymore.

Gradually Mary’s head stopped spinning and she began to focus. The yellow light from the kitchen doorframe was a slanted elongated shape on the snow in the yard. A paler blurred shape from the children’s bedroom window covered the back gate. The yard walls and lavvy roof were outlined with layers of white. Further away, over the houses on Bridge Terrace, the sky was indecipherable from the surroundings; no moon or stars tonight, just a dark covering of cloud. And all around a smothering silence.

When she heard the footsteps on the kitchen linoleum she knew it was Patrick.

‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Who?’ She didn’t turn.

‘The Kraut.’

‘You won’t.’ She blew her nose.

‘Our Tom’s dead because of him.’

‘No, Tom’s dead because George Shuttleworth believed he’d killed Frank.’ Mary glanced at Patrick’s profile. In the light from the kitchen his face glistened with tears. Impatiently, he wiped them away on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. She pretended she hadn’t seen. ‘He wanted revenge. But it was on the wrong man.’ She scrubbed the handkerchief under her nose again. ‘I’m warning you, Patrick, keep away from Peter. Whatever I feel about him, and all I feel at the moment is contempt, you leave him alone.’ Still holding onto the handle she twisted around to face Patrick. ‘You know why George Shuttleworth believed it was our Tom?’ He shook his head, refusing to look at her. ‘Because somebody told him that’s what happened.’

‘Not me,’ Patrick protested.

‘No, I didn’t think that. But who was the one who first pointed their finger at our brother? Who was convinced it was our Tom and didn’t waste any time telling us? You.’

Patrick moaned. He rolled against the doorframe, stumbling out into the yard. He crumpled against the wall, shoulders heaving with dry sobs.

Perhaps she’d been too harsh? ‘There’s nothing we can do now.’ The tears were hot on her cold cheeks. ‘And I’m carrying Peter’s baby. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him.’

Patrick gave a muffled howl. Of anger? Of despair?

‘We all share some of the blame for what’s happened.’ She touched him on the shoulder. ‘This all started years ago.’ When I first got involved with Frank Shuttleworth, she thought. She stepped into the snow, ready to take him into her arms, to comfort him. ‘Shuttleworth might leave us alone now.’

His next words stopped her moving any closer. ‘I’ll sort it, once and for all.’

‘No, Patrick.’

‘For Tom. I’ll sort it for Tom.’

‘No. Leave it alone, Patrick. George Shuttleworth is dangerous.’

‘I’m dangerous.’ He turned his tear-stained face towards her. ‘I’m fuckin’ dangerous. He’ll find that out soon enough.’

By the time George Shuttleworth staggered down Barnes Street to the shabby front door of number four, Patrick was surrounded by cigarette butts and memories, and rage.

He resisted rushing up to the man. Instead he watched, biding his time as George stood swaying, mumbling to himself and slapping his hands against first his jacket and then his trouser pockets, looking for keys.

Patrick waited.

George gave up searching and banged on the door before peering through the bay window, shouting and swearing. When there was no reply he gave up and weaved his way to the gate and turned to walk along the road.

Patrick followed him to the narrow lane at the back of the houses. Casting a glance around to make sure they were on their own he shouted, ‘Oi!’

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ George swayed and squinted at Patrick through his cigarette smoke. He took off his cap and rolled it up, smacking it against his thigh.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ Patrick said. ‘Someone told me you’d buggered off but here you are.’

‘So? I’m back. What’s it to you where I’ve been?’

Patrick shrugged. ‘Remember our Tom?’ He saw the almost imperceptible flicker of nervousness, the innate aggression falter for a second before re-establishing itself and he knew Mary was right. This was the bastard that killed Tom. ‘Tom Howarth,’ he said again, his tone soft, ‘my brother. Remember him?’

‘Huh?’

‘You deaf?’

George moved his shoulders. ‘Heard about him. Wasn’t he the conchie? The bloke too fucking scared to fight? And, from what I hear, a dirty poof?’

Patrick’s neck reddened. ‘Shut your mouth.’