Pattern of Shadows (23 page)

‘Let’s just hope they get this inquiry over and done with soon,’ Jean shouted over the noise of the wind rattling the tin roof on the coal shed in her backyard. ‘Now get home and have something to eat. You’re looking dreadful these days. All pale and thin. Positively scraggy, in fact. So go … eat. I don’t want my child to have a scraggy auntie.’

Mary laughed. ‘You’re only saying that because you’re getting fat.’

Her smile faded as soon as she walked away. Jean’s words had brought an instant image of Ellen, now almost eight months pregnant. Her weekly letters home were full
of chitchat about the regimental routine of the home and how she and the other girls enjoyed breaking the rules, but Mary sensed her misery beneath the jokes. She wished Ellen would let her visit her but she wouldn’t. She often wondered if Ellen thought she would try to persuade her to keep her baby.

She hurried along the alleyway, for once relieved to be home. It had been a difficult day but at least Peter’s fever had broken and he had slept most of the time, much to the chagrin of the official waiting to speak to him.

She reached over the top of the gate and unlocked it hoping Mam had lit the fire; mostly she didn’t and by the time Mary got home it was usually too late in the day to make it worth bothering. She was glad to see the flicker of flames through the kitchen window tonight. She pushed the lavatory door open.

When she came out the kitchen light was on. She could see her mother standing in front of the fireplace with three men, looking anxiously towards the back door. Mary hurried across the yard.

‘She’s here now.’ Her mother pleated her apron between her finger and thumb, looking at Mary. ‘I was just saying you’d be in any minute from the hospital.’

‘Detective Yeats, Miss, Bradlow CID.’ The man held out his hand. Mary shook it and stepped back, forcing a smile on her face. ‘We have a few questions we need to ask.’

Mary’s heart missed a beat.

‘It’s Tom … he’s escaped,’ her mother said. ‘They were at some hospital …’

‘He was having problems, Miss. Apparently he’d been involved in an incident?’

‘He was beaten up.’ Mary was terse. ‘What kind of problems? What happened?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t have any details other than he’s escaped and we were contacted by the authorities.’

Winifred sat down with a thud into her armchair. There was a chink as her foot knocked over a glass.

Mary moved swiftly. Bending over Winifred she put her arms around her, pressing her cheek to the side of her mother’s head. ‘Please sit down,’ she said to the men, looking up at them. ‘I need to get some water for my mother. She’s not been well.’

In the scullery she heaved dryly over the sink. Without lifting her head she reached sideways and pulled the piece of towelling off its hook. She wiped the cold sweat from her face, waiting for her stomach to settle, the relief of realising they hadn’t come about Peter for a moment overwhelming her fear for her brother. However she justified what they felt for each other, she knew the shame she would bring to the family would destroy her mother. She picked up a mug from the draining board, filled it with water and carried it through to the kitchen. The men stood up as she came through the door and didn’t sit until she perched on the arm of her mother’s chair.

‘We haven’t heard from Tom for a month.’ Mary saw no reason to mention Iori’s death. Winifred sipped the water, said nothing. ‘And the last time I saw him was in January when I went to the prison after my father died.’

Winifred gave a small sob. Mary put a hand on her arm. ‘He certainly hasn’t been here.’

The detective stared intently at her. It wasn’t until one of the others coughed that he breathed in deeply, letting the air out in a long sigh. ‘Right-oh Miss. I think that’ll
be all for now.’ He looked at them both. ‘But it’ll be in his best interest if you inform us when … if … Mr Howarth turns up. Better all round he gives himself up.’ Tipping his hat at Winifred, he glared at the other men until they did the same. ‘We’ll leave you for now, Mrs Howarth.’

‘I’ll show you out.’ Mary closed the front door behind them. Her mother was crying.

Mary stroked her hair. ‘I’ll make a brew.’

‘I’ll have some of that potato wine that Mr Brown gave to us when your father died. It’s in the sideboard. I’ll have a drop of that.’

Mary picked up the glass from under the chair. The bottle in the cupboard was almost empty. ‘I didn’t know we’d opened it,’ she said, tipping it up to get the last drops.

‘I have a little drink of it, every now and then,’ Winifred said defensively.

‘I didn’t mean anything, Mam.’ Mary handed her the glass. ‘I simply said I didn’t know we’d opened the bottle.’

‘We
didn’t,’ Winifred said, ‘I did. And when that one’s finished Mr Brown says I can have another.’

She avoided Mary’s eyes but turned as Patrick burst through the back door. ‘I’ve been to see Ellen,’ he said aggressively.

‘Did she know you were going?’

‘No, I didn’t need permission.’

Mary took a deep breath. ‘How is she?’ She bent over the pan of black peas she’d left simmering on the range that morning and stirred them, trying to sound calm. Poor Ellen, that’s all she needed, she thought, him turning up like a bull at a gate. ‘I hope you didn’t upset her, Patrick, she’s enough to worry about.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me the kid’s Shuttleworth’s?’

‘What?’ His mother whipped round to look Mary and then back to him. ‘I thought the father was that American she went out with? How can it be Frank Shuttleworth? I don’t understand?’

‘So you didn’t know either Mam?’ He stopped in front of her. Folding his arms he rocked on his heels. ‘Kept this one all to yourself then, our Mary. Oh no, I forgot, you told Jean, didn’t you?’

Damn you Jean, she thought, you and your big gob. ‘No, I didn’t tell you. One because I knew what you would be like and two because you didn’t need to know. And I wish I hadn’t told Jean now.’ Her mother slumped smaller into the chair. ‘I’m sorry Mam, I thought it best not to say anything; after all she’s not going to keep the baby.’

Her mother stared blankly at her.

‘Like to keep secrets, don’t you?’ Patrick said. Mary straightened up and looked at him. Fear dried her mouth. The spoon dripped water on to the hot hearth where it sizzled and evaporated. ‘I’m Jean’s husband and Ellen’s brother … and yours. I’ve a right to know everything that goes on.’

‘And you’re also a hot head.’ Mary’s words were dismissive. She tried to prevent him seeing her apprehension.

Patrick stood in front of her, glaring around the kitchen, snapping his finger and thumb together before flinging out, ‘Does Shuttleworth know?’

‘Yes, he does and I’ll tell you what I told him.’ Mary turned away from him to lift the lid off the saucepan again. ‘She’s giving it up for adoption, she wants nothing from him.’

‘I’ll swing for the bastard.’ Mary saw his face flush then blanch with rage. ‘He’ll fucking pay for this, for everything he’s done.’

She glanced quickly at him. ‘What do you mean … everything?’

‘Never you mind. He’ll be bleedin’ sorry he ever met me.’

‘Not everything’s your business, Patrick.’ Mary had her back to him. ‘This family’s had enough trouble, you’ll do nothing.’

He watched as she took a spoonful of peas and prodded them with her finger before dropping them back into the water.

‘Or what?’ He glowered at her. ‘Who put you in bloody charge, huh? I’m head of this family now Dad’s gone.’

Winifred whimpered.

He began pacing again. ‘Does Tom know?’ He saw her hesitate. ‘He does, doesn’t he?’ he shouted. ‘He knows about everything, doesn’t he?’ He wiped the spittle from his chin with the heel of his hand. ‘Bloody hell, Mam, just you and me left in the bleedin’ dark then.’ He turned and grabbed hold of the latch on the back door and opened it. The draught lifted the oilcloth on the table and billowed the stairs curtain.

‘Patrick. Just let it go … just listen.’

‘No, I’ve heard enough. I’ll bloody show you who’s boss.’ He left the door wide open.

Both women turned to look at one another. ‘You didn’t tell him about Tom,’ Winifred said. ‘You didn’t tell him about Tom being missing.’

‘And now, to repeat the special bulletin from the United States of America: the death has been reported of the President, Mr Roosevelt. He has been replaced by Mr Teddy S Trueman. Further details will be reported, as they become known. This is the BBC Light Programme and that was an extra news bulletin on this, the thirteenth of April nineteen forty-five.’

Jean switched the wireless off. ‘Funny having the BBC news read out with a local accent after all those years of a toffee-nosed one. Bit like having a friend in your living room,’ she said. ‘Still can’t figure out why they’ve changed it.’ She sat on the settee.

Mary wiped her eyes and blew her nose loudly. She
didn’t care who read the news; it was all bad anyway. She stared out of Jean’s front room window. Above the roofs of the houses across the street, the sky merged pale blue with fast moving grey clouds.

‘What’s wrong?’ Jean’s voice was cautious. ‘I doubt it was the news about the President of America. You’ve got too much on your plate to be even interested in that, so what is it?’ She poured tea into two mugs.

Mary watched the woman in the doorway of the opposite house exchange some rags for a slab of donkey stone from a man with a small cart. ‘I don’t know. Where shall I start? Everything’s wrong. Tom still missing, God knows where and in what state. Ellen in that place, Peter, Mam, her drinking … everything.’ She was still too scared to voice the question that had been hovering on her lips since she had arrived. She turned away from the window. ‘The rag and bone man’s here.’

‘Mother’s not in. Anyway, she says she’s making her stone last: doing her bit for the country.’ Jean laughed uncertainly. ‘Only doing her step every other day.’ She put the teapot down, held one mug out to Mary and picked up the other. ‘You’ve heard nothing at all about Tom?’

‘No, that detective from Bradlow keeps calling but there’s still no news. I feel sick with worry but Mam won’t talk about it. Where can he be, Jean?’

Jean shook her head. ‘I don’t know, love. I’ve tried talking to Patrick about it but he’s too obsessed with Shuttleworth.’ Jean stopped abruptly.

‘Jean. About Peter?’

It was as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Your Mam, how is she?’ Jean said.

‘Still drinking, I could kill Mr Brown and his potato
wine.’ Right at this moment she meant it: last night had been the third time in a row she’d had to help her mother to bed. She didn’t understand it. Her mother had always enjoyed a tipple but it had become a real problem since Dad died. Even the odd sort of friendship that had developed between Arthur Brown and her mother didn’t appear to stop Mam feeling lonely. It was as though her mother only remembered the young man she had first married, not the bully he’d turned into. Mary felt guilty but she thought she would scream if she had to listen to one more maudlin story about the way Bill had courted her; it just wasn’t how she remembered her father. Couldn’t really imagine it.

‘Patrick said she was worse for wear when he called round the other day. He …’ Jean stopped.

‘He?’

Jean didn’t answer. There was a difficult pause.

‘Jean.’ Mary tried again. ‘About Peter …’

‘I thought he looked more like himself yesterday. Now he’s up and about, most of the time.’ Jean tucked her chin in and blew on the surface of her tea, watching a line of tea leaves circle.

‘He’ll be discharged anytime, I think. He’s going to talk to the Commandant about when he can take up his post again.’

Mary thought about the few minutes they’d had together the previous day. When she arrived for her shift one of the orderlies had taken him to sit outside on the low wall at the side of the hospital steps for a smoke and Mary had stopped to talk with him as the rest of the nurses streamed past calling out, ‘Morning, Doctor Schormann.’ ‘Hello Doctor’.

‘You’re a right Mr Popular,’ she’d laughed.

‘Of course, I am the perfect patient.’ Peter stubbed out his cigarette. Keeping his head low, he said, ‘I have missed you. This is the first time we have been alone since that night.’

‘I know.’ The memory quickened her pulse. ‘I miss our talks; there is so much I need to say.’

‘We have not the chance to speak properly since then … your father, my accident.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Mary said, ‘we both know that.’ She turned her back on the compound and balanced her gas mask on the wall, close enough to touch his hand. He curled his little finger around hers.

‘Yes, but it is not that of which I want to speak.’ It was as though he was caressing her with his voice. ‘It was your first time?’

Mary blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Then I will treasure it even more,
mein Geliebter
. I have the memory locked in my heart.’

‘And me, my darling.’

‘I will go in now you have arrived.’

‘You were waiting for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Come on then.’ Mary put her other arm around his back as though helping him to his feet, her face close to his.

His hand tightened on hers. ‘Be careful who watches.’

Mary glanced up and took a quick intake of breath. Frank’s friend, Quarmby, was standing by the guardroom. ‘Ignore him. He can’t do anything. I’m just helping you back to the ward.’ But until they got inside the main doors she felt as though their every step was watched. There
was no one in the reception area.

‘It would be for the better if you let go of my hand,
ja
?’ Peter said, a mixture of anxiety and amusement in his voice.

‘Oh!’

‘You forgot something.’ Quarmby’s voice cut through their laughter. He stood in the doorway dangling Mary’s gas mask from his fingers. ‘You should be careful,’ he warned. ‘Carelessness gets you into trouble.’

His words had frightened her.

‘I said it might be a bit soon for him to start work,’ Jean was still talking. ‘Though we’d be glad of him, wouldn’t we? Being a doctor short is difficult and we’re understaffed as it is.’

Mary sat next to Jean and cut into her chatter. ‘Jean, there’s something I need to say, well, ask, really.’ She knew her friend enough to realise Jean was immediately nervous. ‘I know you told Patrick about Ellen and the baby.’ Jean started to speak. Mary shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t have told him about Frank, you promised not to.’ Jean lifted her chin, the corners of her mouth tightened. ‘But I understand; you needed to talk to him. We all have to confide in someone. I honestly don’t know what I would have done, if I hadn’t got you.’ She smiled, but it was a small worried stretching of her lips. ‘And I know you don’t like having secrets from him, but I need to know if you’ve also told him about me and Peter.’

‘No, I haven’t, Mary.’ Jean looked down into her mug again, swirled the tea around. ‘Don’t you think I know what would happen to you if that got out?’ She paused, frowned. ‘But even if Patrick knew … even if he put two
and two together and realised that Shuttleworth shot Peter on purpose because you and he are … because of how you feel about Peter.’ She spoke in short breathless bursts. ‘And even though he’s so angry about Ellen he could give Frank a good hiding … he wouldn’t report him for the shooting. I do know that, honestly. Because that would mean …’

‘That would mean it would come out about me and Peter. I’d be prosecuted.’ Mary put her hand on her friend’s arm. ‘I’d lose my job.’ Her fingers slipped off as Jean shuffled forward on the sofa, leaning towards the small table in front of them.

‘And more, Mary … and more. Your reputation as well, remember that.’ Jean picked up a plate with a cake on it. ‘Look, I don’t want to talk about it, right?’

‘But would I lose you, our friendship, if it got out?’ Mary tilted her head to one side, trying to see Jean’s face, but she kept her head down, slicing a large chunk off the cake.

‘It won’t get out, I’m sure. But if it did it’d be difficult – you have to admit that – with the way Patrick feels about the Germans. You know how bitter he is about not being able to fight.’ Jean stopped, holding the knife up and pointing in the air with it.
‘I’m
glad he couldn’t go. We might not have got together if he’d gone in the army.’ She lifted the slice of cake and slid it on a plate. ‘Not that I’d dare tell him that, of course. Here eat some of this, please, I’m sick to death of it. Mother read somewhere that carrots are as good as sugar and she found a recipe book with a picture of this mad thing in spectacles …’

‘Doctor Carrot.’ Mary gave up trying to talk to Jean about her fears and her relationship with Peter. It was
obvious she wouldn’t say any more. Mary balanced the plate on her knee. ‘There are loads of pamphlets in the corner shop about it. Ministry for Food leaflets.’

‘Yes, well, she’s got this idea we should save on sugar. I asked her, why, when we have Patrick and his
never-ending
supplies? That reminds me, there’s some biscuits for you somewhere. He brought home two more packets last night.’

‘Thanks, Jean. Mam likes sweet stuff. She’s eating precious little else.’ Mary took a bite of the cake and chewed slowly. She had no appetite and it was dry in her mouth. She wondered if Tom was eating properly, wherever he was. ‘It’s good, it’s really tasty.’

‘Until you’ve eaten it at least once every day for a week.’ Jean sat back in her chair, her hand resting on the slight swelling of her stomach. ‘Dear God, what a world to bring a child into.’

‘It’ll have two good parents.’ Mary sighed. The moment had gone. She could only hope Jean hadn’t said too much to Patrick.

They sat in silence until Jean said. ‘I haven’t heard any more about the inquest, have you?’ She concentrated on pouring more tea into their mugs.

‘No. With it being held in the police court in Bradlow, I didn’t expect to. They did say the verdict would be in this week so it should be in the
Reporter
sometime soon.’

‘I did hear they’d had experts examine Bock’s skull and they said the damage showed he was killed at close range,’ Jean said, ‘which means that Shuttleworth didn’t kill him. It had to be the guard on the ground.’

‘We both know Frank wasn’t aiming at Bock.’ Mary willed her to look up. ‘He was shooting at Peter.’

‘We’ll never be able to say that to the police.’ Jean arranged Mary’s mug so that the handle was turned towards her and carefully picked up her own. ‘They would ask why …’

‘And we can’t say, can we? It would get Peter transferred right away to another camp and me in trouble like we just said.’ They were going round in circles and getting nowhere, Mary thought, at least I’m not.

Jean’s hand shook and the tea spilled onto her skirt. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’ She jumped up and went out of the room.

In the silence, the scrape of wooden wheels sounded loud on the road, as the rag and bone man trundled away. Mary looked towards the window and then at Jean as she came back into the room, rubbing at the stain. ‘I’d better get home. See what Mam’s up to.’

‘Shuttleworth will always say it was an accident, you do know that, don’t you?’ Jean said, not looking at Mary. ‘As far as everyone else is concerned he has no reason to single Peter out.’

‘I know.’ Mary put the mugs and plate on the tray.

The front door banged. Jean stood up. ‘That’s Mother.’

‘Like I said, I’d better go anyway.’ Mary put her coat on and buttoned it.

‘Don’t forget the biscuits.’ Jean said. ‘I put them on the stand in the hall just now.’

‘Thanks. And I’ll try not to tread on the front step.’ Mary smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want your mother using up her donkey stone because of me. I’ll see you tonight, end of the street, usual time.’

But on Shaw Street Mary turned in the opposite direction of home, telling herself she needed to think. If she was right, if Jean had told Patrick everything, then
things were going to get even worse. His resentment that she had confided in Tom and even his wife about Ellen, but not him, was bad enough. If he also knew about Peter, she was in trouble, one way or the other. He wouldn’t report her, Mary knew that, but how far would his temper take him? What would he do? Mary pushed her hands into her coat pockets. She could only hope she was worrying unnecessarily. Perhaps she was completely wrong.

She turned up Newroyd Street towards Skirm. At the lake she sat on one of the benches and leaning her elbows on her knees, she put her face in the palms of her hands and wept. She told herself she was crying for her family, for Tom, for Ellen, for her mother. But she was also weeping for the hopelessness of her own life, for her and Peter. If the inquest ruled that Peter’s shooting was an accident, Frank would be cleared. And knowing him as she did, Mary knew it wouldn’t end there; he was too sure of himself. Peter was never going to be safe. And neither was she.