Pattern of Shadows (2 page)

‘Come on Ellen, you know you could make things easier for Mam.’

‘If you want to have a row with him, go ahead,’ Ellen said. ‘Just don’t get me involved. Anyway I’m off to the Palais tonight. You never know, I might meet someone … anyone … who’ll take me away from this bloody miserable house.’

What about me? Mary thought again. Who’s going to take me away from this bloody miserable house? ‘You be careful, our Ellen.’

‘I’m just having a good time while I can.’

When didn’t she? She’d been allowed to do what she wanted all her life. All the family had spoiled her …
except for Patrick, Mary corrected herself, he only looked out for himself. She could hear him still shouting.

Ellen patted the tip of her finger on her thigh to test if the colouring had dried. ‘Can I borrow some of your perfume, that lily of the valley one?’

‘It’s in with my undies.’

Ellen stood up, crushed what was left of the cigarette in the saucer on top of the tallboy and opened a drawer. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears and at her throat and put the bottle back. Choosing a blue dress with a small white Peter Pan collar she took it off the hanger. ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm, to have a bit of fun sometimes.’ Her voice became peevish.

‘What’s up with you tonight?’ Mary sat on the edge of the bed and unclipped the suspenders from her dark regulation stockings.

Ellen wouldn’t return her gaze. Waiting for her to say something, it struck Mary how thin her sister had become. Her underskirt, made from a small piece of parachute that Winifred had miraculously produced, moulded every rib and revealed the sharpness of her hips. ‘Are you okay? You’ve lost loads of weight. Are you eating properly?’ she said. ‘I only ever seem to see you with a cigarette in your mouth these days.’

‘Stop fussing, you’re off duty now.’ Ellen stepped into the dress and pulled it up carefully over her legs. ‘And never mind me; you should get out more.’

‘If you must know, I’m meeting Jean tonight. We’re going to see Clarke Gable and Vivien Leigh in a film at the Roxy.’

‘What an exciting life you have.’ Ellen pushed her arms through the short sleeves of the dress and turned one way
then the other to see herself in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You do know, don’t you, that Jean’s only your friend so she can get closer to Patrick? She’s been sweet on him for ages.’

‘Don’t be nasty.’

‘Sorry.’ Ellen sat down heavily next to her. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I’m not sleeping properly. And the bloody air raids. I never know whether to go to the shelter in Skirm or chance it under the stairs, putting up with those two –’ she dipped her head towards the floor ‘– needling one another. And I keep wondering when it’ll be our house, our street that gets it.’

There was a long silence. Downstairs their father started ranting again. Oh God, Mary thought, no more. She stopped unrolling her stocking and covered her sister’s fingers with her own.

‘It frightens me too, Ellen. It’s hard not to worry but you’ll make yourself ill. We just have to get on with our jobs.’

‘That’s just it. Whatever else is happening, you’re satisfied with what you do. Ever since we were little you’ve wanted to be a nurse,’ Ellen said.

‘You were always a good little patient.’ Mary smiled.

Ellen pushed her lower lip out. ‘While me, I can’t wait to get out of that bloody factory every day.’ She pleated the material of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Honestly, it’s driving me mad in there. It’s so boring, sitting at the same bench, day after day, making the same part day after day and listening to the same nattering, day after bloody day. You should hear them, Mary.’ She smoothed out the creases and buttoned the bodice of the dress with her free hand. ‘They only talk about rationing, clothes coupons, their kids’ ailments and the latest
letter from their husbands. I’m eighteen, I’ve nothing in common with any of them; there’s no one under thirty and they’re all married. And they’re so bloody cheerful. It only takes one and before you know it they’re all singing along to the bloody BBC. Bloody unbelievable!’ Stopping for breath she stood up, tugged at the skirt of her dress and pulled the narrow belt tightly around her waist. She saw Mary trying not to smile. ‘It’s not funny.’ She was indignant, yet couldn’t resist grinning. ‘If I was with Edna and the others on the next floor it wouldn’t be so bad, but there …
Music While You Work.
I ask you.’

Mary laughed, quickly covering her mouth so she wouldn’t be heard downstairs and, before long, Ellen joined in. She flopped back down on the bed and tucked her head into her sister’s neck. Arms around each other’s waist, they giggled.

‘You are daft. Why don’t you ask for a transfer? They’re so short of workers they won’t care which section you’re on as long as you’re there.’ Mary squeezed her. ‘Ask for a transfer. Tomorrow,’ she added firmly. ‘Here.’ She lifted her pillow and picked up a small purse. ‘Put a bit of this on.’ She handed Ellen a small metal tube. ‘Not too much, mind, that’s got to last.’

Ellen carefully applied the red lipstick. ‘How’s that?’

‘Lovely. Now, get out there and knock ‘em dead. You look gorgeous.’ Ellen stood up and Mary looked without envy at her sister. She
was
beautiful: blonde hair waved to her shoulders, eyes a startling blue and a wide full-lipped mouth. She gave her a small push on the backside. ‘Go on, shoo! I’ll see you later and mind what I said. Be careful.’

Ellen gave her a quick peck on the cheek and, pulling at the padded shoulders of her dress, she took the shoes that
her sister handed to her. ‘Thanks, our Mary, I will.’

‘Don’t forget your gas mask.’

‘I won’t.’ Ellen left the bedroom, jumping down the stairs two at a time. Mary heard her shout to their mother. Then the back door crashed shut.

Mary unbuttoned the bodice of her uniform and massaged the back of her aching neck; sometimes she felt ninety-two not twenty-two. She studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. She wasn’t too bad, similar features to her sister, though not as striking, she conceded. So why had she never had a proper boyfriend? She knew the answer without really thinking about it; she’d been too busy studying, too tied up with her job. Fighting her father’s determination to push her into one of the factories, Mary had known she must succeed. And she had.

Anyway, between those two downstairs and Müller, she was better staying clear of men. The face of Patrick’s friend came into her mind. Mary put a hand to her cheek, feeling the sudden heat in her face. She leaned forward and pulled out the Kirby grips, letting her hair hang so she was enclosed in the dark curtain.

An envelope fell out of her pocket: Tom’s letter. She picked it up and, flicking her hair back, started to open it then stopped, uncertain whether she wanted to read it.

She felt the familiar guilt. Tom had looked after her since she was a baby. Running her fingers along the back of the envelope she smiled, remembering the battered old pink pram he took her around in. The other boys had laughed at him but he didn’t care. She must have been five when the carriage eventually collapsed and she’d cried, so he’d taken the wheels off and made a go-cart for her and Patrick.

But the last four years in and out of prison had changed him. He was pessimistic, more cynical these days and it made Mary sad; she hated what it had done to him. She put the letter to one side. She needed ten minutes of peace and quiet.

She heard her father’s heavy tread on the stairs and, closing the door, she flicked the light switch. Except for the dim glow from the landing filtering underneath the door, the room was in darkness. A few moments later the bed in her parents’ room gently groaned a protest and, almost immediately, the familiar crackling snores sounded through the wall.

Mary unhooked her dressing gown off the nail on the door and, putting it on, flopped onto her own bed. The wire springs twanged loudly and she froze, but there was no break in the noisy rhythmic breathing. Relieved, she tucked up her feet and wrapped her dressing gown round them. She could do without one of his rants at her. Grabbing the hem of one of the blackout curtains she tugged it back. The window, like all the others in the street, was criss-crossed with sticky tape, giving the terraced houses a strangely wounded appearance. The rain had stopped and the wind had carried the clouds away on its back. Through the smeared glass the stars were bright pinholes in the black sky over the town.

Perhaps Ellen was right, making the best of things, having a good time while she could. Maybe she should do the same. Mary chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking about Patrick’s friend again, seeing the
half-mocking
, half-inviting grin. She dragged the eiderdown over her and snuggled down. Cocooned in the feather warmth, the drowsiness made her body heavy. She curled
her arm around her pillow and drew it closer, tucking it under her neck.

Mary woke with a start and focussed on the clock on the bedside table; she’d slept for over an hour. Kneeling up, she closed the curtains. Her skin prickled as she walked on the cold lino to switch on the light and she jumped back onto the rag rug at the side of the bed.

She dressed quickly in a woollen jumper and thick trousers, the warmest clothes she had. The March wind would be sure to find its way into the Roxy and there was no heating in the draughty old building. Holding her shoes, scarf and hat, she opened the door and paused, listening to her father’s laboured breathing. Then, avoiding the top creaky tread, she crept downstairs.

In the kitchen, her mother was raking dead ashes from under the grate.

‘Dad’s flat out up there now, Mam. I’m off. Are you all right?’ Her mother didn’t look up. ‘Where’s Patrick?’ Mary said.

‘He’s in his room as well. His friend’s left. Mortified I am. Quarrelling like that in front of strangers. And the language. I’m ashamed, Mary, really I am.’

‘Don’t worry about it. He looked the sort to have heard it all before.’ Mary waited, studying her mother’s stooping figure. It was almost as though she hadn’t really seen her for a long time. The woman who had always been so strong, standing before her family, protecting them from her father’s rages had now shrunk, become fragile. ‘I’ll be
back by ten.’ She paused. ‘Shall I stop in?’ Even as she asked, she regretted the impulse.

‘Get on with you. I need a bit of peace after that little lot tonight.’

Winifred pushed the poker into the coal bucket between the range and the fireplace and straightened up. Smiling, she produced a thin paperback book from behind the back of the mantelpiece clock. ‘With your Dad out of the way I can have a good read, without him moaning that I’m wasting time and finding things for me to do. And I’ve got that bottle of stout he brought me last night.’

Putting on her coat, Mary kissed the older woman’s cheek, smelling the blend of carbolic soap, lavender and beer. She gave her mother a hug. ‘Build that fire up, Mam. There’s plenty of that slack our Patrick brought home last week.’

‘Yes, well, I think that’ll be the last for a while so we’d better be careful.’ Winifred dragged her grey shawl from the back of her chair.’ If there’s only me in here, this’ll do for now.’

Mary knew there would be no arguing with her. Instead she said, ‘I had a letter off Tom this morning. If you’re still up when I get home we can read it together.’

Her mother’s shoulders stiffened but she spoke softly. ‘That would be lovely, our Mary, I’ll look forward to it.’

Mary closed the back door and peeped in at her mother. She saw her shudder from the cold flow of air that had streamed in from the night and knew she would be thinking of Tom in his cell in the prison, wondering if he was warm enough; it was a question she often voiced. Mary watched as her mother covered her head with the shawl, leaned closer to the glow of the embers in the grate
and opened her book.

The broken wood scraped on the flags as Mary pulled the gate behind her. The alleyway was quiet and dark. Mary trod carefully on the cobbles. Counting the number of yard gates, she felt her way to the end of the crumbling brick wall until it finished. Turning on to Shaw Road, and feeling for the continuation of the last terraced house, her outstretched hands touched a solid softness. Mary jumped and gave a small scream. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It’s Frank, Patrick’s mate.’ A red point of light glowed briefly in the blackness, lit up the man’s face. ‘We met earlier.’ The pungent smell of cigarette smoke drifted towards her.

‘What are you’re doing here?’

‘Waiting for you.’

‘What?’ she said. ‘Why?’ She stood still, remembering the mocking glint in his eyes.

‘Thought I’d ask you out.’

Mary could tell he was smiling. She’d been right … conceited individual. ‘Well, you wasted your time.’ She drew herself up. ‘Now if you don’t mind …’

‘Sorry,’ he said for the second time.

Mary hesitated. He sounded almost genuine. ‘If you’re a pal of Patrick, how come I’ve never seen you before?’

‘We only met a couple of months ago in The Crown.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘Oh.’ She stared in his direction for a moment, there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. ‘Well, I have to go. Goodnight.’ Mary turned away and crossed the road. She wished there was a bit more light. She wasn’t normally nervous but there again, neither was she used to strange men waiting on street corners for her.

Frank flicked his cigarette into the gutter and followed. ‘I’ll walk with you a bit, make sure you get where you’re going. Okay?’ He raised his voice.

‘No need.’

‘Honest, no bother. You do know I’m one of the civvy guards at the Granville?’

‘No, I didn’t know. Why should I?’ Mary wasn’t about to tell him that she already knew. ‘I haven’t seen you there.’ At least that was the truth.

‘I came just before Christmas, transferred from a camp down south.’ He caught up with her. ‘I’m usually in one of the towers at the front and I’ve seen you go past to the hospital. Sometimes see you coming down Shaw Road with Patrick before he turns off for the mines. I thought he was your boyfriend at first.’ When Mary stayed silent he said, ‘So now you know I’m a respectable bloke how about coming for a drink with me? They serve a good ale in The Crown. Can I tempt you?’

‘No thanks, I’m meeting a friend.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘None of your business.’

‘I’ll walk with you then.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Well, looks as if we’re going the same way anyhow.’ Mary didn’t answer.

‘Look, I am sorry, honest. Scaring you like that,’ he said, ‘stupid thing to do.’

He might mean the apology but she still didn’t like the idea that he’d been watching her coming and going from work. She sniffed.

‘Sorry,’ he said again.

‘I just don’t like the idea of anyone spying on me.’

‘It’s not spying,’ he protested, ‘just admiring a pretty girl.’

‘Oh, please.’ She quickened her pace but then became aware he was limping. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ His breathing was laboured. ‘Did my knee in … I was invalided out of the Army.’

‘Oh.’ Mary felt obliged to slow down but when they passed The Crown at the top of Newroyd Street and he didn’t leave her, she said, ‘Aren’t you going to the pub?’

‘Later.’

They walked in awkward silence, Mary wondered where he was going. When he next took out his packet of cigarettes, he offered one to her.

‘No thanks,’ she said, ‘not something I ever fancied.’ She watched him as he stopped to strike the match. When he glanced up at her and caught her looking at him, he smiled. Not the mocking smirk, she thought, just a nice straightforward smile. She smiled back. ‘Look, I’ll have to hurry,’ she said, ‘my friend will think I’ve left her in the lurch.’

‘Ah,
her
,’ Frank said, ‘so I’m not muscling in on another bloke’s territory?’

Mary didn’t know what to say. She had never learned how to flirt and she had no intention on starting now with a friend of her brother’s, especially one who appeared to be so confident. She walked on.

At the cinema there were no queues lined up on either side of the open doors of the large red brick building. Before the war the elaborate frontage with its swags of concrete flowers and the Corinthian columns would have been lit up by the lights through the mullioned windows and its name, The Roxy, emblazoned from the roof.
Nowadays the building was in darkness and seemed to crouch down on the pavement, only faint light showing from the pay box in the foyer. Mary stood under the glass canopy that acted as a shelter for the patrons of the cinema and looked anxiously around. She could hear the opening bars of the introduction of the Pathé News. ‘She’s gone in without me, I bet.’ She could imagine Jean waiting in the queue getting more and more cross; she hated being late for anything. It began to rain again. ‘I’ll have to try to find her.’ She ran up the steps.

A plump woman was closing the doors. ‘You’re late, love. The main film’s just starting,’ she said and bustled to the back of the ticket office, reappearing at the counter behind the glass. ‘Just the one, is it?’ She looked enquiringly behind Mary who glanced over her shoulder. Frank was standing at her shoulder.

‘What are you doing? You can’t come in with me.’

‘It’s a free country. Now I’m here I might as well stay. I’ve nothing better to do tonight, thanks to your brother.’ He reached round her and paid. ‘One and sixpence, all right?’

Mary could picture Jean’s face. ‘Well, you can’t sit with us,’ she said, realising too late how childish she sounded.

Picking up her ticket she ran towards the swing doors that led to the stalls. Frank followed and the woman slammed the shutters and, locking the back door of the small booth, ran after them. She stood in their way, panting. ‘Tickets please.’ She jutted out her lower lip and blew away a strand of hair that had escaped the large bun on top of her head. ‘Hurry up,’ she said, waggling her hand, ‘we’ll miss it.’

Mary thrust the pink piece of paper at the woman,
hopping from one foot to the other as she waited for her half to be given back. Then she plunged through the door into the darkness.

The light from the large screen flickered over the rows of seating and some of the audience glanced over their shoulders in annoyance at the pair’s hasty flurried entrance. One of them was Jean. Mary shuffled her way sideways along the row whispering apologies until she reached the seat next to her friend. She pulled it down, sitting quickly before it could spring back into position.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Sorry Jean, problems at home.’

‘I thought you weren’t coming, I had to come in on my own and you know I hate doing that.’ Jean pursed her lips and looked past Mary. ‘Who’s that?’ she hissed. Frank was leaning forward and pulling off his coat. ‘Who’ve you brought with you?’

‘I haven’t … he’s a mate of Patrick’s. He was at the house when I got home. I tried to get rid of …’

‘Well, thanks a lot,’ Jean interrupted, ‘thanks a lot. You didn’t tell me I was going to be a gooseberry. Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to watch the film.’ She tightened her lips and leaned away from Mary.

Mary glared at Frank. She turned back to her friend. ‘Sorry, Jean.’

‘I said I’m watching the film.’

For a moment Mary considered walking out. She was so sick of people’s moods and tempers. She seethed with frustration for a while but gradually, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, she became increasingly aware of the warmth of Frank’s body and the masculine mix of cigarettes, Brylcreem and shaving soap.

After a while he moved closer and whispered, ‘Enjoying it?’ She felt him touching her hand, which was rested on the smooth velvet covering of the armrest. Before she could stop him he’d threaded his fingers over hers. Mary disentangled herself and shifted away from him. ‘Do you mind?’

He relaxed into his seat with a low laugh. Mary sucked on the inside of her lip to suppress her smile.

Just at the moment when Clarke Gable looked into Vivien Leigh’s eyes, the familiar noise of the air raid siren drowned out the background music. To the groans of the audience the film stopped, dim lights lit the ornate decorations on either side of the screen and the manager of the cinema appeared on the stage. ‘Usual thing, ladies and gentlemen. The police advise only those who live within a five minute walk of their homes to leave. The show will go on for those who choose to remain.’

Jean bent down hurriedly to pick up her handbag while struggling into her coat.

‘What are you doing Jean? You’ll never get home in time.’

‘I will if I run,’ Mary’s friend replied tartly. ‘Anyway, I’ve had enough. You’ve made an idiot of me tonight.’

‘No I haven’t,’ Mary said, ‘don’t be silly.’

‘I’ll thank you not to call me silly.’ She stood up and paused for a moment as she buttoned her coat, staring pointedly at Mary. Instantly there were calls from the people behind telling her to move.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Mary said.

‘Please don’t bother.’ Jean shoved past their knees and joined those jostling along the row to get to the centre aisle.

Mary blew out a hard breath and stood up.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ Frank said.

‘Look, I have to go with her. You stay, if you’re that bothered.’

‘Don’t be daft. I’m only here because of you.’

Mary caught up with Jean as they pushed their way through the swing doors. ‘It seems a good film though, doesn’t it?’ Why was she trying to placate her? She spoke loudly, glowering at Frank. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow, on our own.’ Jean didn’t reply. Head down, she pushed her way through the crowd.

‘Load of rubbish, if you ask me.’ Frank was now following them out of the building.

‘Nobody did.’ Mary knew she could be on the receiving end of one of Jean’s moods over the next few days.

‘There’s time for a pint,’ Frank said cheerfully.

‘You two do what you want,’ Jean said. ‘I’ve had enough, more than enough, and I’m going home. I’ll see you tomorrow, in work.’

‘Jean, wait!’

‘No!’ She hurried away.

‘God, I pity the bloke what finishes up with that one.’ Frank said.

Mary ignored him. Buttoning her coat she ran after Jean. Frank was right behind her.

‘Off the street!’ The warden loomed out of the darkness. ‘Now!’

‘OK, OK,’ Frank shouted, ‘we’re going.’ He caught hold of Mary’s sleeve. ‘You’re not going to make it to your house,’ he said, ‘and they won’t let us back in the flicks.’

Mary hesitated. There was no sign of Jean. ‘I should see if she’s all right.’

‘If we catch up with her, we’ll get her to come with us but we have to get a move on,’ he urged. ‘Look, we could make it to The Crown in two minutes. They use the cellars as a shelter. And happen we could get a drink.’ He took hold of Mary’s hand. ‘Come on, I dare you.’

‘I don’t know …’ Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d acted impulsively. Had she ever? Her life seemed to have been mapped out for her for years.