Pattern of Shadows (16 page)

Mary looked around. Through the trees she could see children crowded into the boats on the lake, their laughter shrill as they rowed in circles on the water. She sat down on the grass and unfolded Tom’s letter. From the postmark, this one had come through the official channels and, as usual, huge blocks of words had been blacked out.

Mary held the paper up towards the sky. It was impossible to see the words through the censor’s ink.

There was a loud hollow bump followed by laughter. She looked up. Two boats had collided at the edge of the lake. An older boy was standing in one pushing the other away with his oar while the two girls in it tried to grab hold of the end of the paddle. Mary smiled, remembering her own attempts at learning to row with Tom. She began to read again.

Mary frowned. Why had that been blacked out? What had Tom said? Sometimes she thought it was only done for spite.

I am worried about Frank Shuttleworth. I’ve talked it over with Iori and he agrees with me, you need to be careful, love, we think he’s dangerous. Also I am worried about the other matter you mentioned in your last letter – your friendship with the ‘doctor’ – and I hope you don’t mind but I have told Iori about it.

She caught her breath.

The hours are long during the nights when we can’t sleep, Mary. I hope you can forgive me for
sharing
my worries with him. We talk about all sorts of things. Anyway, please be careful. You could get into trouble – you know what I mean!!!!

Iori and I spend a lot of time planning what we will do after this lot is over. It takes our minds off the brutishness
…

Someone had made a mark over the word and written ‘of the prisoners’ over the top of it.

…
we see every day in here. I’ve told him what it’s like in Ashford and he’s told me about the village, Llamroth, where he grew up. It sounds very pleasant, a lot better than Ashford – somewhere to escape to perhaps?

He wants to write a book when we get out of here; he says his ambition is to be an author. He laughs when I say there’s enough going on in here to write ten books
.
I
suppose the last line will be censored!

There was a loud yell. Mary glanced towards the lake. The boy had fallen in and was standing chest deep in water with lumps of weeds on his head and shoulders. The two girls were clutching each other, convulsed with giggles, until he grabbed the side of their boat and began to rock it. A man shouted. Mary looked over her shoulder. Alerted by their screams the Park Keeper was striding across the grass, waving his stick.

Always in my thoughts.

Your loving brother, Tom

‘So this is where you’re hiding. I’ve been looking for you.’ Frank pushed her shoe with the toe of his boot.

Mary folded the letter quickly and shoved it in her pocket. She leant backwards, one hand on the grass and shading her eyes with her other hand as she looked up at him. Outlined against the bright sky she couldn’t see his face, but his voice was slurred and she knew he’d been drinking.

‘What you got there? Love letter?’

‘No. Go away.’ Mary pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her skirt around her legs. ‘How many ways do you need telling? We’re finished.’

He crouched down and overbalanced, falling against her. ‘Not until I say.’

She shoved him away. ‘Get off. I’m not arguing with you, Frank.’ As she stood up he grasped her ankle. ‘Let go.’

Frank rolled onto his front and struggled to his feet. ‘Why, Mary. What did I do wrong?’

‘You mean besides your moods, your temper?’

‘You know what I’ve been through, I told you.’

‘You’re a bully, Frank, I doubt it was the war that did that, I think that’s something you’ve always been.’

‘It’s that bloody doctor, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not discussing my work with you.’

Frank lurched towards her. ‘Oh yes … your work! Got a soft spot for the enemy, haven’t you?’

‘How dare you!’

Frank shrugged. ‘Not just me saying it.’

‘I don’t believe you. And if anyone was, it would only be because of your vile accusations.’ An elderly couple strolled past. The woman held on to her companion, looking at Mary with inquisitiveness through
wire-rimmed
spectacles. Mary breathed deeply, trying to calm her anger. She walked slowly in the direction the couple had gone, keeping her voice reasonable. ‘Look, Frank …’

He pulled at her coat.

‘What are you doing?’ Mary struggled as he shoved his hand in her pocket and dragged out Tom’s letter.

‘Bet this is from lover boy.’ Staggering sideways onto
the grass and then back to the path to stand, feet wide apart, in front of her he rocked backwards and forwards as he unfolded it. ‘Oh no, it’s not. It’s from that soft sod of a brother of yours, the yellow-bellied bastard.’ He hiccupped and slurred over some of the words. ‘The bastard who won’t fight for his country. What’s he saying, the soft bastard? Moaning about what he has to put up with in prison? Wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t a
shirt-lifting
bastard as well – him and his Conchie mates.’

Mary moved swiftly. In one movement she took a step, slapped him across his face and grabbed at the letter. He pushed her away and, without hesitation, retaliated, swinging his arm upwards. The back of his fist hit the side of her head and she fell. He straddled over her, treading on her cape. ‘Learned your lesson yet?’

Mary felt sick and dizzy. She tried to sit up, but he shoved her back to the ground. ‘Let me go.’ She pushed at his legs and rolled over, forcing herself to kneel up. Frank moved in front of her, watching and waiting to see what she did next.

Mary dug the toes of her shoes into the ground, willing herself to stop shaking. Then she hurled herself forward at his midriff. He dropped to the ground and rolled over, hands between his legs. She’d caught him in the groin.

She fell alongside him, lying still for an instance. Then her fingers closed around Tom’s letter and, staggering to her feet and hoping the fracas hadn’t been seen, she walked unsteadily towards the park gate without a backward glance.

‘Patrick will be furious when I tell him. You know what his temper’s like.’ Jean held up her hand, fingers spread wide. ‘Don’t even try to stop me, Mary. Frank’s gone too far this time. God only knows what he’ll do next.’

‘I wish I hadn’t told you.’ Mary rubbed her forehead. ‘It’s been two days and I haven’t seen him and he hasn’t been to the house either. I’m sure he’ll keep his distance.’

‘He will. He will when Patrick’s finished with him.’ Jean’s face was grim. From her front doorstep they watched the milk cart stop and start in front of the houses. The horse shook its head, lifting and stamping its front hoof. The bottles clattered and the wheels of the cart jerked forward.

‘Whoa, you daft beggar,’ the milkman roared. ‘Morning girls, beautiful for this time of year, eh? Morning, Mrs Winterbottom.’ The milkman passed two bottles over Mary’s head to Jean’s mother, who appeared behind them. ‘Two as usual? You feeling better, Jean?’

‘Yes thanks, Mr Nicholls.’

‘Well, this stuff will get you back on your feet, lass. Fresh this morning, no dried muck at your house, eh?’ He laughed and jumped up on the metal step at the back of the cart. ‘Go on girl. Go on, Beauty.’

They listened to the horse’s hooves growing fainter as it trotted along Shaw Road.

Mary looked over her shoulder into the hall to make sure Elsie Winterbottom had gone. ‘Don’t tell Patrick, Jean. It’ll only cause more bother.’

Jean pursed her lips. Mary knew there was no point in saying anything else. And at least they’d managed to keep
off the subject of her and Peter.

Going through the main gate the following evening for the night shift, Mary passed Frank as he went off duty. He turned his head away but not before she saw the swelling around his eyes. Now what? Not Patrick, she hoped.

Mary studied Peter’s profile. His fair hair stuck out at odd angles and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes. He looked older tonight. Or perhaps it was only that the close glow of his cigarette shadowed his features, showing the lines on his forehead and by his mouth. The doctor wasn’t wearing his white coat. His uniform hung crumpled on his frame revealing the amount of weight he’d lost.

She handed him a mug of tea, letting her fingers brush his and he smiled at her. ‘The new patient had just been admitted when I came on duty tonight,’ Mary said. ‘His temperature was very high and I was concerned about the infection in his wound. Still, perhaps it could have waited until morning, Peter. I’m sorry; I should have dealt with it myself.’

He smiled at her. ‘Do not worry, I was not sleeping. Today I was called to meet with the Commandant about two prisoners, the two pilots who were recaptured this morning.’

‘Yes, I’d heard about the escape,’ Mary said.

‘It is every man’s duty to try to escape and if recaptured it is the correct punishment under the Geneva Convention for them to have the thirty days in the cells.’ Peter nodded
as he spoke. ‘But as
Lagerführer
I must make sure they are well treated; it is my duty,
ja
?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Some of the guards do not see the importance of that. As you know I have had need to complain before to the Commandant.’ He frowned. ‘Still I am not sure, so I do not sleep well.’ His lips twisted and he took a long gulp of tea.

‘The Commandant is a fair man; he will make sure they are safe.’

‘Yes, you are right, I hope.’

They stood in easy silence in the darkness outside the main door of the hospital. Mary leant against the wall and watched the tip of his cigarette flame as he drew heavily on the nicotine laced smoke. ‘Is there something else wrong?’

Peter shrugged. ‘For us –’ he waved his hand in the direction of the building that loomed in front of them, the cigarette between his fingers sparking ‘– the war is over. This time next year, who knows? I read in the
Wochenpost
that de Gaulle has led an armoured unit into Paris. She is … as they put it … liberated.’

Mary peered into the darkness, nervous that he would be overheard, but saw no one. She blew on her tea and sipped. The night was punctuated by the hoarse coughs of the prisoners and the occasional shout. Further away the shunt of trains on the railway line blended with the low hum of the camp’s generators.

Peter stubbed out his cigarette before it was finished. ‘For later,’ he explained, folding it into a piece of paper. ‘The last,’ he said ruefully.

‘I can get more for you,’ Mary said, thinking of Patrick.

‘You would do that?”

‘I
will
do that.’

He moved his hand, curled his little finger around hers. She held her breath, felt the now familiar thrill in the pit of her stomach. ‘At this time of year … at the end August,’ he said quietly, ‘I think always of home. Almost all the crops will be ready to be gathered in. My father and brothers they will be happy if it has been a good year. If not …’ He lifted her hand to his face; she briefly touched his smile before pulling his arm down. Even though they were in the shadows, she was afraid they would be seen, more than afraid. ‘If not, then my father will be glad that still he has two of his sons with him and my wife to help in the house.’ He shut up, embarrassed. Pushing his sleeve up, jerked his chin in self-mockery. ‘I forget … no timepiece. How much longer have we yet?’

Mary put her mug on the nearest windowsill, took her fob watch between forefinger and thumb and lifted it from the bib of her apron, peering closely. ‘Five more minutes, then I must get back to the ward,’ she said, adding, ‘have you heard from your wife at all?’

‘No, no,’ Peter said, ‘I was allowed to send the card, you know, the one to say I am safe?’

‘I know.’

‘But I hear nothing since. As I said before I was married only the six months. I knew my wife only shortly. Sometimes … most times, the marriage … it is not feeling real. My life then, not real.’ He gesticulated towards the mill. ‘Yet all this … sometimes I wake and think all this is a nightmare.’ They were standing so closely that Mary could see his Adam’s apple move up and down in his throat as he swallowed. Then he said, ‘Except I met you.’

A lorry drove into the compound and stopped. A low light shone from the kitchen stores in the basement of the mill as a door was opened and closed. Mary felt incredibly sad. Gripping his fingers she said, ‘I know, I feel the same. But there is nothing we can do.’ She peered into the darkness. There was a low murmur of voices from the guardroom and, in the dimmed light she could see the heads of three men. That meant there was only one patrolling. She listened for the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel of the compound: nothing. She raised her face, pressing her lips to his, feeling his mouth move under hers, his body respond before she unwillingly pulled away. They didn’t speak; each heard the other’s quickened breathing.

Mary spoke first, thrilled at the risk she’d taken. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

‘Yes?’ He waited for her to continue, standing as close to her as he dared, his hand wrapped around hers.

‘I have a brother who also thinks the world’s gone mad. He refused to fight and he’s in prison because he wouldn’t answer his conscription. He isn’t a doctor though.’ The main hospital doors swung open letting a dim shaft of light across the entrance and two orderlies struggled through with dirty laundry. At the same time one of the guards sauntered past on the other side of the fence.

Mary let go of Peter’s fingers and tucked her hands under her armpits, giving the two men a small smile as they bumped the basket down the steps and across to the gate to the compound. She waited a while and then said, ‘It’s different for him; he doesn’t believe in war at all. He’s … he’s a Conscientious Objector. Because of his faith. My father hates what he stands for.’ She stopped, the memory
of her fear for Tom suddenly overwhelming.

Though some days had a hint of spring that day hadn’t been one of them. Despite a weak glimmer of sunlight a dismal greyness draped the streets, a reminder of the threat of war that hung over the country. Her final exams were coming up: between studying and working on the wards in Bradlow General, Mary was exhausted.

She’d heard the angry voice of her father as she walked down the alleyway to the house and pushing through the group of women standing by her back gate, had run across the yard and into the kitchen. ‘By God I’m glad he’s not my son … dirty yellow coward.’

Even now Mary could picture her father pacing the kitchen, his braces dangling down on either side of his trousers. His face was blood red with rage while her mother’s was grey and impassive. But Mary saw the distress in her eyes.

’Dad, the whole street’s listening outside!’

‘Well, bloody let them. You know what’s happened? What your Nancy boy of a brother has done now?’ He rolled up the sleeves of his collarless shirt, usually a precursor to one of then getting belted.

‘Dad!’

‘Only declared himself a bloody Conchie at a bloody tribunal, the soft-arse. A bloody Conscientious Objector; been all the way to Birmingham to do it and all. Now he’s going to jail. And this one here knew all about it and didn’t tell me.’ Bill jerked his head towards his wife and glared at her.

He wrenched a small crumpled packet of Woodbines from of his shirt pocket, took one out and put it between
his lips. ‘You buy more fags today?’ Winifred moved her head once. ‘Bloody useless. I’ll have to go to the pub for more, now. How will I hold my head up in there, I ask you.’

‘What bothers my father more than anything is what people would think of us, of him,’ Mary said.

‘He believes this war is right?’ Peter asked, so close she felt his breath on the side of her face.

She shivered. ‘No. Yes, I suppose so, although he hates the Government, the politicians.’ Mary hadn’t intended for the conversation to go in this direction. Peter was one of the enemy after all. But not mine, she thought, not mine. ‘In fact he hates anyone in authority. It’s just that he’s a Home Guard. He takes himself very seriously and he’s ashamed of Tom. He tried to join up himself but they said he was too old, and ill. He was gassed last time. That made him very bitter. He’s a hard man who thinks he’s always right. I just wish he would let everyone else have their own beliefs, live their own lives.’

The two orderlies returned with the empty basket. Peter moved to the other side of the steps to let them pass.

Mary watched them go back into the hospital. ‘My brother, Tom, he’s been in and out of prison for the last four years, since he refused his call-up papers. They let him out after about a year, but they put him on fire watching and he said it was war work so he went on strike. It’s happened twice since; they let him out, give him something to do that they know he’ll say is war work and will refuse to do, and then they arrest him again. The Home Office – the Government says the COs should be given other work to do, but someone’s got a grudge against
our Tom. And he’s stubborn.’ Mary’s voice was bitter. ‘They’ve tried to break his spirit: solitary confinement, bread and water, extra work until he was almost dead on his feet. But they haven’t beaten him. Yet.’ She looked at him. ‘So you see Peter, the war is a nightmare for him too.’

He nodded and touched her fingers, a fleeting contact this time. ‘I understand,’ he said, shifting on his feet and moving closer. She could smell the antiseptic soap on his hands. The door to the kitchen stores opened again, the dim glow illuminating the figure of the driver as he ran across the loading bay and jumped into his vehicle. The engine coughed into life and the lorry juddered towards the gates, it’s dipped beams lighting the way. After an exchange of words between driver and sentry, the truck edged under the barrier of the main entrance. Mary heard the scrape of gears and the chug of the engine fade away. She could think of nothing else to say.

‘I must go now,’ Peter said.

‘Yes.’ He squeezed her hand and she watched him walk away to the connecting gate between hospital grounds and compound. At least he was still doing the work he believed in. What had Tom achieved other than to say he wouldn’t fight because he wouldn’t kill, wouldn’t be a party to the killing? Was that ever enough, a gesture towards his philosophy? For the first time she doubted it; Tom might be standing up for what he believed was right but what did it achieve?

At the end of her shift, Mary took a long breath of the fresh air as she looked around and waited to be signed out by the guard at the main gate. The sun, rising above the
hills in the distance, glinted golden on the windows of the greenhouses and sheds of the allotments.

In the compound, a few of the prisoners had been let out and were grouped together Peter was leaning against the fence, eyes closed, face upturned to the sun. She coughed, hoping he would hear her. Instead a shadow came between her and the sun and, shading her eyes Mary looked up at the sentry post. Frank returned her stare and then turned and pointed his rifle down into the compound, moving slowly, deliberately. Mary followed the direction of the barrel of the weapon, instinctively knowing what he was doing. She saw him grin and held the weapon steady, still trained on Peter. Then he glanced over his shoulder and winked at her before lowering the rifle to his side.

Mary’s legs shook as she ducked under the barrier and hurried away from the camp. She was, she realized, frightened of Frank, of what he might do, what he might be capable of if pushed. She didn’t want to think about it.