Pattern of Shadows (30 page)

When Mary went into work the following day Peter and some of the patients had already been taken. ‘They came about two o’clock this morning,’ the Night Sister said crossly, not noticing the shock on Mary’s face, ‘without a minute’s warning. It was very disruptive to the ward. They took Eiserbeck, Becker, Jankowick and Doctor Pensch.’ She pointed at each bed as she listed the names. ‘It took ages for the patients to settle down after that. I’m sure they could have done it in a better way. And of course, Doctor Schormann has gone with them.’ She raised her arms from her side in a gesture of exasperation. ‘The only good thing is that the two new doctors are due to arrive today sometime. Except that we’ll have to start all over again showing them how we run things.’

‘Did you see Doctor Schormann before he left, Olive?’ Mary’s mouth was dry.

‘What? Oh no, no I didn’t. He didn’t come into the ward, thank goodness. There were enough men trampling all over the place.’

‘Well, how do you know he’s gone?’

‘It’s in the notes. They went in a lorry.’ She picked up a grey cardigan and shoved her arms into the sleeves. ‘All that trouble we go to keeping everything sterile and they cart them away in a blasted lorry.’ The sound of her voice grew faint and came back as she left the main ward to go into the staff room and returned. She was fastening her
cape. ‘Tell you one thing though, Mary. I’ll miss Doctor Schormann. I thought he was a right arrogant so-and-so when he first got here but he was quite a gent really’. She pushed the ward doors open with her backside. ‘Yes, I’ll miss having him around the ward, though I suppose I shouldn’t say it. After all he was the enemy, wasn’t he?’ Her voice faded away. ‘See you tomorrow. Ta ta.’

‘Sister Howarth? Mary? I have something for you.’

Mary halted on the last step outside the hospital. The POW behind the fence beckoned to her. She glanced at the lookout and then towards the side gate. There was no sentry at either. Looking to her left she saw the rest of the nurses walking through the barrier to the bus stop on Shaw Road. And there was no one near the entrance of the hospital. She bent down, pretending to tie her shoelace. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am one of Peter’s friends, Kurt Trept.’

‘Peter has gone.’

‘Yes. I have the note for you.’

‘From Peter?’

‘Yes. Here, take it.’

‘The guards?’

‘
Die Wachmannschaft ist sehr faul
… how you say it … lazy.’

‘What?’

‘Come. No guards.’ Kurt jerked his head backwards a few times. ‘See?’

Mary stood up and looked behind him. There was a
group of guards standing and talking by the local baker’s van, which came to the camp each day. They were eating. She moved quickly. Kurt thrust the paper through the fencing.

‘Thank you,’ Mary said, ‘thank you.’ She crumpled the note in her fist and held it inside her cape. Once out of the camp, she ran along Shaw Road until she reached the turn off for Skirm Park. There she made her way to the lake.

The benches were full. Mary sat on the grass near the water’s edge, away from everyone. She tucked her cape underneath her and drew up her knees. Spreading out the piece of paper she smoothed her finger along each fold. The words were scribbled on the back of the index page of a book. She read the words slowly, memorizing each syllable, the image of Peter writing them in her mind.

Mein Liebling, my Mary

I am being sent away. I have no choice. Our destiny is not ours to decide. I will love you until the day I die. I will never forget you.

I beg you - never forget me.

I love you

Ich liebe dich

Auf Wiedersehen

Always yours, Peter

Mary ran the tips of her fingers over his name. She took no notice of the tears dropping on to the paper. She put her forehead on her knees and rocked backwards and forwards. She knew he’d had no choice. But the war was over; he must believe there would be a time when all the madness was forgotten. Yet his words were so final. He knew it was over between them, he would not be coming back. He had chosen his marriage, not her.

‘Nurse?’ Mary felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nurse, is there something wrong? Is there anything I can do?’

She looked up, hiding the note under her cape. The old man held his cap to his chest. ‘Bad news is it? Your young man?’

Mary nodded. The wretchedness stopped any words.

‘I’m sure his country is proud of him.’ The man patted her again and hobbled away. ‘I’ll leave you with your memories, my dear.’

Mary stared after him. If only he knew. But she refused to feel ashamed. What she and Peter had was nothing to do with the war; they were just a man and a woman in love at the wrong time.

She wiped her face with her cape and stared around. Some of these people she’d lived amongst all her life. She recognised a few and one or two waved as they caught her eye, yet she felt isolated. She was strangely calm, as though part of her was locked away. It had happened, now she had to live with it. The man she loved, the only man she’d ever loved, was gone. It was over. She folded the paper exactly along the same folds and put it in her uniform pocket. Wiping her fingers over her face, she pushed herself to her feet. Keeping her head lowered so she didn’t have to speak to anyone, she walked quickly along the paths and out on to Greenacre Street. She had a meal to prepare in readiness for Tom’s arrival tomorrow afternoon.

Tom didn’t speak when he stepped off the train. The suit he’d worn going into prison was now baggy and creased: his shirtcollar, grimed and frayed, gaped tie-less, and his hair was lank. He hung on to Mary so tightly and for so long that she became conscious of the stares of the other passengers.

‘Come on, love,’ she said, ‘let’s get you home.’ He held her hand, refusing to get on the bus. They stood for a while as she tried to persuade him. In the end they walked home.

Halfway there she realised he was limping. She looked down at his feet. ‘Tom, these aren’t your shoes, surely?’ She knelt down. ‘They’re too small.’ He looked at her, his eyes blank. ‘You can’t walk in these. The next bus to come along we’re catching.’ But he hobbled past all the stops and it took them over an hour to get to the house.

Mary had seen cases of shock when she worked at her first hospital. She was fuming; how could they have sent him home like this and why hadn’t they been told he was ill? Because of what he is, she thought bitterly, because he’s a Conscientious Objector. How long would he be judged by a label?

Her mother didn’t help, sitting there, staring at her eldest son. Mary took the potato pie out of the range oven and put it on the tea towel on the table. It was obvious Winifred didn’t know how to talk to her eldest son. At least, for once, she hadn’t a drink in her hand. Not that Tom would have noticed. He sat on their father’s chair, his feet in a bowl of water, his trousers rolled to his knees, gazing into the empty fireplace with his hands folded in his lap.

‘I’ll get a towel and dry your feet in a minute.’ Mary
directed her next words at her mother. ‘There must be some of Dad’s socks upstairs, those wool ones? They’ll stretch to fit Tom.’

Winifred went upstairs. ‘I’ll get some Germolene and plasters, as well’.

Cutting through the pastry of the pie, Mary glanced at Tom. ‘I’ve got two day’s leave from the hospital.’

Matron was icily distant when, at the end of her shift, Mary reminded her that she wouldn’t be in work because of Tom’s homecoming. ‘Try to be more professional when you return, Sister,’ she’d said, pulling her spectacles down the bridge of her nose and looking over the top of them at Mary. ‘Your work recently has been less than satisfactory and your attitude unfortunate, despite the leeway you have been shown. I will expect a great improvement.’

Mary spooned the mix of carrots, turnips and potatoes on to three plates. ‘Meat and potato pie without meat I’m afraid.’ She forced a laugh. ‘I thought we could have a walk to Skirm afterwards, see the old haunts?’ There was no reaction from Tom. ‘Well, perhaps not.’ Winifred came back into the kitchen and kneeling down, took his feet out of the bowl and dried them. She made disapproving noises at the sight of the blisters.

‘I’ll do that, Mam.’

Winifred shook her head. She worked in silence on the lesions and then carefully pulled the socks on. When she’d finished Tom stroked her hair, his face expressionless.

She reached forward and touched his cheek, tears welling. ‘Help us up, our Mary.’ She held on to Mary, her knees cracking as she stood.

‘Sit down, let’s eat,’ Mary said.

Tom sat at the table staring at his plate and the knife
and fork in his hands. He looked at Mary. Without saying anything Mary opened the table drawer for a spoon. He gave her a small smile and started to eat with it.

Encouraged she said, ‘Patrick and Jean will be round later with baby Jacqueline. She’s gorgeous, Tom, just wait until you see her. And Ellen, she’ll be here too, sometime.’

‘And Arthur.’ Winifred waved her fork at Tom. ‘You remember Mr Brown, don’t you? Did Mary tell you me and him are getting wed?’

Tom stopped eating, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

Mary swallowed. ‘I haven’t Mam. I thought it better if we waited until Tom had settled in.’

At that moment the back door was flung open. ‘Well, he’s home then I see, this prodigal son of yours, Win.’ Arthur Brown flung himself into Bill Howarth’s chair. ‘Mary.’ He waggled his head in acknowledgment of her presence.

Tom pushed his chair back and went into the hall. His socks slipped on the lino and he trailed both hands along the wall to balance himself. Looking back at them for a second, he went into the front room and closed the door.

Glaring at Arthur Brown, Mary followed. She sat on the sofa with Tom and pulled him close to her, his head on her shoulder. ‘All these changes, Tom, I know it’s hard. Let’s just take one day at a time,’ she said. ‘You’re free now and no one will ever lock you up again. Things will get better, I promise.’

It was as much a promise to herself. She couldn’t carry on with things as they were and neither could Tom. She had to do something. That night she lay in bed thinking. Eventually she got up and took a notepad out of a drawer
in the tallboy and, resting it on her knee, began to write.

Dear Gwyneth

I am sorry we missed the memorial service for Iori at your chapel but, as I explained, Tom wasn’t due to be released until today and he wouldn’t have been well enough to travel anyway. He was very fond of Iori so you know he would have been there if possible. He’s very withdrawn which is a great worry. It was good of you to write to him to tell him all about the service. I’ll give him your letter tomorrow.

There is actually another reason I wanted to write to you …

‘This is the BBC Light Programme. And now the news on Monday the twenty-seventh of September nineteen forty-five. The defence team for William Joyce, better known as Lord Haw Haw, gave notice of appeal against his sentence today
…’

‘Just get the bugger hung.’ Arthur Brown waved his glass at the radio, stretching his leg out and pushing his boot against an overhanging piece of wood smouldering in the fireplace. Mary, sitting at the table with Tom, could hear the chink of fragments of unburned coal fall into the ashcan underneath the grate. She gritted her teeth. It would be her job to rake through and pick those pieces out in the morning to use again. It was the same every day: he chucked wood on as soon as the fire died down,
not waiting for the coal to catch hold. Don’t think about it, she told herself, it’s no big deal. But it was. Arthur was wasteful and contributed nothing to the household, although she was certain he had money from various sources; she knew he dealt in the same circles as Patrick, her brother had told her. She strained to listen to the wireless through Arthur’s grousing.

‘Joyce’s lawyers believe that the trial judge was wrong to accept the prosecution’s legal arguments relating to the question of allegiance. Their dispute is that, at the time of his broadcasts, Joyce was an American citizen and, as such, had no duty of allegiance to the King; therefore he could not be found guilty of treason. Due to high treason having only one possible sentence, his appeal is only against the conviction, not the sentence itself. We await the result of the appeal. Further news …’

‘They should shoot the bugger now and have done with it,’ Arthur Brown spoke loudly over the voice of the announcer on the radio.

Winifred, rocking in her chair, frowned at him. ‘Shut up, Arthur.’

‘Well, talking to us in his posh bloody accent about how the bloody Huns were better than us. Bastard.’ Holding his glass, he pointed with one finger at Tom and Mary. ‘Bloody traitor, buggered off to Germany, didn’t he? Wouldn’t fight for his country.’

Tom put his knife and fork down, picked up his plate and took it into the scullery.

‘Actually, he’s American, not British,’ Mary said, following her brother.

‘Don’t give a monkey’s arse. He’s still a coward and a traitor.’ He took a noisy gulp of his beer and stood up.
He waited a couple of seconds to get his balance, leaning against Bill’s chair and belched loudly. ‘I’ve gone to The Crown.’ He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and squinted at it. ‘I’ll call in on my way back by eleven.’

‘I’ll probably have an early night,’ Winifred said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Please yourself.’ Putting on his cap and jacket Arthur opened the back door. ‘It’s pissing down.’

He was almost knocked over by Ellen pushing past him to get into the house. ‘Mary, Mam!’ She held a raincoat over her head, a pool of water forming around her feet.

Mary slammed the door on Arthur and pulled her further into the kitchen. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ She took Ellen’s coat and slung it over the mangle in the scullery, dragged a piece of towelling off the shelf and passed it to her.

‘That’s just it, nothing’s wrong.’ Ellen rubbed at her hair, a broad smile on her face ‘Not any more. It’s Ted, he’s alive!’

‘Ted?’

Ellen nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, yes. We found out today he’s been a prisoner. He’s not dead. Mrs Booth collapsed when the telegram came. We couldn’t believe it but there was a number to telephone and the chap there said it was true. We don’t know when he’ll be home but isn’t it wonderful?’ She flung her arms around Mary and then Tom. ‘I can’t wait to see him.’

Winifred pushed herself up from her chair. ‘That’s wonderful, our Ellen. Shall I come to see his mother?’

‘Yes, Mam, she’ll be happy to see you.’ Ellen laughed. ‘Come with me when I go back.’

‘You’re really excited about Ted, aren’t you, love?’
Winifred took off her apron and draped it over the back of her chair. ‘Enough to give him a second chance?’

‘Mam,’ Mary protested, ‘give over.’

‘It’s all right, our Mary, I think Mam’s right. I’ve not been fair on him. Perhaps he’s just what I need,’ Ellen said, ‘and perhaps I’m just what he needs as well. If he’ll forgive me for that letter about Al …’

‘I’m sure you are, love. I’ll get changed,’ Winfred said. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘How is she?’ Ellen said, after her mother had gone upstairs.

‘Good days, bad days,’ Mary said. ‘I just wish Arthur Brown wasn’t here so much, he doesn’t help.’

‘He’s a swine,’ Tom said.

Ellen hugged him. ‘How are you feeling today, Tom.’

‘I’m not bad, Ellen, I’m glad about Ted.’ He looked at Mary. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

‘Right, love.’ His footsteps were heavy on the stairs.

‘He’s not right, is he?’ Ellen was suddenly subdued.

‘Better than he was but no,’ Mary said. ‘This house is doing him no good either.’ She nodded towards the chairs. ‘Sit down a minute, while you wait for Mam, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’

‘So there it is.’ Mary glanced up at the ceiling. The floorboards creaked as Winifred moved around in her bedroom. ‘I’ve not said anything yet, but I’ve been keeping in touch with Iori’s mother on and off since he died. When I saw what a state Tom was in when he got home I had the idea. And it’s best he’s not in Ashford anyway.’

‘Why is it best? Why shouldn’t he be in Ashford, it’s
his home?’

‘You know. The CO stuff.’

‘He coped with that before.’ Ellen scowled. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘No there’s not. Anyhow I think I need to get away as much as him.’

‘You’ve not said anything about this before.’

‘Be honest, Ellen, how often do you come round here for me to talk to? I’m not blaming you but you have no idea how things have changed. I thought it was bad enough when Dad was alive.’

‘Mary!’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t that bad for you; you were his favourite and you always did what you wanted anyway,’ Mary said. ‘It doesn’t feel like our home here anymore: Mam’s gone to pieces, Arthur Brown comes most days and Tom hates him. Arthur just goads him all the time. And like I said, the hospital’s different now.’ She massaged her temples. ‘The POWs aren’t the same. We’re getting prisoners returned from Canada. They’re sullen, difficult to deal with. We could at least have a laugh with the permanent ones. These are so … oh, I don’t know.’ She sighed and held the palms of her hands over her face. ‘According to Major Taylor most of them thought they were going home when they were shipped from Canada and dumped here and some of them are really nasty. Even the patients are sullen. They don’t appreciate that all we’re trying to do is make them well again.’ She put her hands flat on the table. ‘So between work and home I’ve had enough and it’s best for Tom we get away from here,’ she said firmly. ‘We’re leaving.’

‘When?’

‘When things are sorted. I’ll have to get a job first. I’ve asked Gwyneth to find out if there are any hospitals nearby that need staff and, of course, Tom will have to be kept busy.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out then!’

‘Don’t, Ellen, don’t be bitter. You sorted yourself out; give us a chance, please.’

‘What about Mam?’ There was a hint of panic in Ellen’s eyes.

‘Well, as I said, I’m hoping to persuade her to come with us.’

‘And if she won’t?’

There were sounds of Winifred coming downstairs.

Mary shrugged. ‘I’m hoping she will, I’d hate to leave her and I think it’s her only chance to get back to rights but we’ll still go. We have to.’

Mary didn’t tell Ellen, but she had no intention of leaving her mother to Arthur Brown’s mercy. Winifred would go with them if they had to drag her all the way to Wales.