Pattern of Shadows (21 page)

Mary leant forward on the bed, sliding the envelope backwards and forwards between her fingers and staring at the window. Through the ice-patterned panes the light was a bright pearly grey. She could hear the hooves of the milkman’s horse slipping and scraping on the road and the laughter of children sliding down the footpath but her thoughts were on the letter she’d just read. She read the cramped handwriting again.

My dear Mary

I guessed from what you were saying that Mam’s drinking a bit.

That’s quite an understatement, Tom, she thought.

I know it’s hard but you’ll have to let her grieve in her own way. Just accept it for now and keep an eye on her. I know her and Dad rowed a lot but she must be really missing him – they had been married a long time. And, in an odd sort of way, I’ll miss him too. I’ve spent years resenting him but when you told me what he’d said, that he finally understood how I felt – well it meant so much.

Mary’s lips formed a wry smile. She could imagine the fury on her father’s face if he knew what she’d done. She
reached down and absently rubbed her toes; her chilblains were worse than ever this year.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Ellen. When you first told me about the baby I presumed the American was the father. It was a shock when you said it was Shuttleworth. I think you’re right not to tell anyone else in the family, although I have to admit it makes me sick to my stomach after all he’s done.

And me, the bastard.

If Dad had his stroke the night Shuttleworth told him about your ‘friend’ then, as far as I’m concerned he caused it. For that and what it’s done to Mam, he will pay one day.

It must be hard for Ellen to hear about Patrick and Jean starting a family. Iori and I have talked a lot about her baby and we’ve a suggestion. Do you think it would make her change her mind about keeping the baby if we all offered to help? Sooner or later I’ll be coming home and Iori’s said he’ll give Ashford a try. We’re both bound to get jobs so we can help in that way as well. It doesn’t matter that Ellen’s not married. I know what it’s like to be ostracized and I’ve learned not to care and she mustn’t either.

Easier said than done, Tom.

As long as the baby’s loved by all of us that’s all that matters. And it will be, won’t it?

Mary closed her eyes. Of course the baby would be loved, the circumstances of its birth wouldn’t be the baby’s fault, he couldn’t think they’d blame it for that. Was he asking because the baby was Frank’s or because he thought she was still angry at Ellen? Either way he should know her better than that. She’d told him she’d made her
peace with Ellen months ago. And she couldn’t care less about Frank. Although there was no sign of him getting a transfer, as far as she could tell, he wasn’t following her anymore, so she didn’t care. At least that was what she kept telling herself.

To be honest we’d both have preferred to go to Llamroth to start a new life but I’ve told Iori you’ll make him welcome
…

But would anyone else? Tom had been detested for his beliefs for years now, how much worse would it get, how would people react if they saw him with Iori? If it was obvious to her they were too close, it wouldn’t be long before others saw it too. People could be so cruel. Tom and Iori would be hounded at the very least; at the worst they would be prosecuted. How would Mam cope with that? Or Patrick?

God she was so tired of having to worry about everybody else in the family.

I doubt either Iori or I will ever get married, Mary, so I think between us all we could help Ellen to make it work.

Because, of course, I’ll never get married either, will I? The thought was an automatic acerbic reaction to Tom’s words, but Mary knew what he wrote was a reality. The muscle in her jawline quivered as she clenched her teeth. She had to face it; there could never be any future between her and Peter. Her eyes were hot with angry tears. She hated this bloody war!

Mary had said the same thing to Peter the last time they’d been alone together, the week before her father had his stroke. For once careless, she’d hurried along the dimly lit corridors and down the stone steps to the boiler house in
the hospital basement where he waited for her.

‘But then we would not have met,
mien Liebling
.’ Peter held both her hands in his against his chest. ‘We would not be here now.’

‘I know. I should not ask you to meet me here. I’m putting you in such danger, Peter.’

‘Doing this we are both in danger, sweetheart,’

‘Shall I go then?’

‘No.’

They stood still, each savouring the closeness of the other in the light that escaped from around the doors of the large furnace at the other end of the room.

‘I love you.’ Mary lifted her face to his. ‘I can’t bear it, Peter, it’s so unfair.’

‘And I love you,
ich liebe Sie
Mary.’ He released her hands and pulled her to him, slowly touching each part of her face with his mouth until his lips were over hers. They were still for a moment and then they kissed.

For Mary, even her fear of everything she could lose couldn’t stop the intense craving to have this man’s body against hers. She pressed herself against him, her eyes closed, moving slowly with the rhythm of his hands on her.

‘You are sure?’ Peter drew away from her, spoke softly.

‘Sure,’ she murmured, unbuttoning first the white apron bib and then the bodice of her uniform.

He freed her breasts and flicked his tongue around her nipples. She ground her hips against his, pulling at his shirt, and ran her palms over the smoothness of his skin, realising how strong, how muscular he must have been in his former life. Even now, despite the privations of camp life, his arms were strong enough to lift her off her feet
and press her against the wall. He kissed her, one arm still holding her around the waist so her breasts were crushed to his chest. He lifted the skirt of her uniform with his other hand and, hooking his thumb around the waistband of her camiknickers, tugged until they fell around her ankles.

Her lips still brushing his, she struggled with the buttons of his trouser. ‘Oh hell,’ she breathed, ‘I can’t …’ She tugged again.

Peter laughed a low hoarse sound and putting his fingers over hers helped to release the buttons. He lifted her, cradling her head against his neck.
‘Ich liebe Sie
, I love you Sister Howarth,’ he whispered as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He guided himself gently into her. For a moment she stiffened, a small gasp escaping her lips and he hesitated.

‘No,’ she moaned, tightening her thighs, ‘don’t stop … don’t stop.’

Sometimes the unwilling thought came into her mind: Had someone seen them? Was that why Frank had finally told her father? But then surely he would have reported them. It would have been the quickest way to split them up, to get rid of Peter. He would have been transported to Canada within days. And that hadn’t happened.

What did happen was that Matron insisted she take time off from the hospital at home to help the family cope with Bill’s illness and subsequent death. And when she was in work, now, Peter was always on a different shift.

She pressed her fingers to her eyelids The only time she felt alive was when she was near him but she had barely seen him for two months. Coincidence or contrivance:
the question swirled constantly in her mind. At night she dreamt that someone was biding their time, waiting to denounce them. But as yet no one had.

Through the thin bedroom wall the monotony of muffled gasps and sobs had stopped for the time being and once or twice Mary thought there was a chinking noise of glass on glass. Mam had started early today. She put the letter on the bed and read the rest of it quickly while she got dressed.

I’ll have to close now. One of the blokes on our landing’s being released today and he’s promised to get this out for me. One day that’ll be us. I can’t wait to get away from this god-forsaken hole.

As always, you are in my thoughts and prayers.

Be strong Mary, we are all depending on you.

All my love, Tom

Mary folded the paper and pushed it back into the envelope. She opened the top drawer of the tallboy and dropped Tom’s letter into it. Partly closing it, she stood still, holding on to the handle and biting hard on her lower lip. Then she gave the drawer a final shove and it snapped shut. Oh yes Tom, she thought, I’ll be the one to look after everybody. I’ll be strong, just like everybody expects, but who’s going to be strong for me?

It was almost dark enough to draw the curtains for the night. Against the floodlights of the compound, the windowpanes were patterned with diagonal threads of
golden raindrops.

Mary surveyed the ward; except for the young soldier with both legs amputated and a couple of others too ill to move, it was empty. The other patients had been escorted outside for a roll call long before she’d come on duty. And with both doctors and the German orderlies also instructed to participate in the count, the hospital had been quiet all day. She began to load up a small trolley with bowls, solutions and bandages.

As she picked up a kidney bowl full of used dressings, a double thud of gunshots made her jump, dropping the tray with a clatter amongst the other bits and pieces. Mary’s stomach lurched. She peered through the window but could only see confusion as men, guards and prisoners, ran about. ‘That sounded like firing.’

‘It did.’ Jean hurried to stand next to Mary at the window. ‘Can you see anything?’

‘Not much. Looks like something’s happened though.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out, no doubt,’ Jean said. ‘Do you need help here?’

‘No, see to Harald, will you?’ Mary nodded towards the youth, who was moaning loudly. ‘He’s due for his next morphine.’ She pushed the trolley towards the first bed and forced herself to concentrate on the man lying in it. She unwound the dressings around his head and slowly lifted the gauze mask from his face, watching his reaction. ‘Nearly done now,’ she reassured him.

‘Dank sei Gott,’
he muttered, his lips pressed tightly together in pain.

Dropping the soiled bandages into a bin near the sink, Mary washed and dried her hands, glancing out of the window as she walked back to her patient. Across the
compound guards were marshalling crowds of prisoners through the wooden door of the mill entrance.

Dipping the cotton wool into the solution of tannic acid, she smoothed it over the damaged features before replacing fresh gauze.

Jean came and stood beside her. ‘Sure you don’t want me to take over?’

‘Nearly done now. Did you give Harald his pain relief?’

‘Yes, he should sleep shortly.’

‘Good. We’ll have a cup of tea in a minute.’ Mary wrapped the open weave cotton bandages over the gauze. She stroked back the lock of hair that flopped over the dressings on the man’s forehead. ‘All finished.’

‘
Danke
.’

She settled the patient into a more comfortable position and straightened up. Outside the ward there were shouts, a scuffle of boots and the doors crashed open. A British orderly staggered backwards carrying one end of a stretcher, two German orderlies following. The first man called over his shoulder. ‘Two more for your ministrations, girls. Where do you want them? There’s been a right to-do out there today. We’ve taken one to the morgue. If you ask me we’re in for trouble.’

Mary hurried towards him as a second stretcher was brought in. Her tone hid the sickness in her stomach. ‘We didn’t ask you, Mr Hampson, and may I remind you there are poorly men in here. Please keep the noise down. Put the first one there.’ She gestured towards a bed. ‘The other at the end of the ward.’ She spoke quietly to Jean. ‘Nurse, please help here. Let the orderlies do the lifting,’ she warned and then looked back at the man. ‘Would you find the Commandant, say we need at least one of the doctors.’
He left. ‘Can any of you tell me what has happened?’ The German orderlies were prisoners newly allocated to the hospital; they didn’t understand her. Exasperated Mary looked for Jean. ‘All right? Can you find out if Sergeant Strausse is anywhere around yet, instead, please, we need a translator.’ As Jean left, Mary helped to move the man from the first stretcher on to the bed. She recognised him as one of the guards.

He gave her a weak grin. ‘Busted my leg, I think,’ he muttered. ‘Got soddin’ knocked over in the bloody rush to stop one of the bleeders from getting away. Pardon my French.’

‘Get him ready for the doctor, please, Nurse Blackstock,’ Mary said to the other nurse. ‘When he gets here, that is.’ She glanced at the doors as they quietly opened. Jean held on to one of them, the sergeant behind her. They both looked past her.

‘What is it?’ Mary turned. At the end of the ward, the man being lifted on to the bed was facing away from her but she saw his hand, the long slender fingers. She felt she was moving in slow motion until she was by his side. He was unconscious. Automatically she noted the blood pumping out of his shoulder, the flesh torn and open. She swallowed hard. ‘Let’s get his shirt off and see what we’re dealing with.’ She deliberately kept her voice impersonal. ‘We can all see that it’s Doctor Schormann, but for now he’s simply a patient.’

The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder. Mary gestured at the two German orderlies and they lifted him so that she could see the exit wound. ‘Get these wet clothes off him.’ Sergeant Strausse barked an order and they worked quickly.

‘We’ll have to wait until Doctor Pensch comes before we know if there is damage to the bone,’ Mary said. ‘There’s a cut on the back of his head as well.’ She saw slivers of bone and grey matter in his hair. ‘Oh God!’ She blanched.

Jean bent closer. ‘They must be remnants of the skull and brain from the dead prisoner.’ She touched Mary’s back, speaking quietly. ‘Keep calm, Mary, he’s just a patient, remember?’ She raised her voice. ‘But it’s a bad laceration. I can start to clean it up.’

‘Thanks Jean, I’m fine.’ Mary’s murmur was appreciative. She stepped away from the bed. ‘No, it’s all right, Nurse Howarth, you see to the guard,’ she said. She turned to the other nurse. ‘Get me some saline, please.’

Left alone Mary looked around before leaning over the doctor as though examining the grazes on his face. ‘I love you, Peter Schormann,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you dare die, do you hear me? Don’t you dare.’