Pattern of Shadows (6 page)

Washes of pale blue had finally overcome the darkness of the night sky and, although it was still cold, the light dusting of frost was already disappearing from those cobbles not in the shadows. Mary stood still for a moment, her arms tucked underneath her cape. At this time in the morning only the low murmur of radios, hushed talk and the occasional wail of a fretful baby touched the quietness. A lot of the men were away. Those still at home were either like Patrick, working down the mines, or should be, she thought dryly, or like her dad, too old or sick to join up. In which case, they were still in bed or sitting in the kitchen getting in the way of their wives.

At the corner of Henshaw Street and Shaw Road a group of men lounged amidst a swirl of tobacco smoke, Patrick among them. Some of them, not her brother she noticed, inclined their heads at her and moved to one side so she could pass.

When she reached Moss Terrace, Jean’s mother, a small thin woman in a black dress covered by a checked apron, was already on her knees at the front door step; the first on the street to be ‘donkey-stoning’ with her block of sandstone. Barely looking at Mary, and never breaking the rhythm of the sweeping strokes, she spoke in the
high-pitched
refined tone that she used outside the house. ‘She’s gone. And I don’t blame her after last night. Fine friend you turned out to be.’

‘Right, thanks Mrs Winterbottom.’

Elsie Winterbottom sniffed and sloshed a cloth around in the bucket next to her, wringing it out with vicious twists before smoothing the lines of sandstone into a yellow covering over the step. Mary grinned. She knew Jean’s mother hated being burdened with what she considered a common name from a husband who had long since escaped his wife’s sharp tongue.

‘Jean’s been a good friend to you for a lot of years, madam. Men come and go, as my daughter and I long ago found out.’ With one final snort she lifted the bucket into the hall and striding over her work she closed the door.

Mary stared at the gleaming brass letterbox for a second, biting her lower lip. Oh hell, Jean’s nose must be really out of joint if she’d already told her mother what had happened. She hitched her skirt above her knees and began to run, clutching her gas mask in its cardboard box, the back of her cap flapping on her neck. If she was reported to Matron for being undignified in public, she’d be in trouble, but she needed to catch Jean before they got to the camp. It would be an absolute nightmare working the shift with her friend sulking all day.

A cream and red double-decker bus passed her, half empty, and she wondered whether she should get on it and ride to the turning point just before the camp. At least then she could wait for Jean outside the hospital. The bus stopped farther up the road but as she dithered on the edge of the kerb she had to wait for the milk cart to go by. She smiled at the milkman. The everyday sounds: the solid clump of hooves on the tarmac, the jangling of bridle and bit and the rattling of the bottles in the wooden crates brought normality.

‘Morning Mr Nicholls.’

‘How do, lass. You’re late this morning. I’ve just passed Jean. She’s a funny one, no mistake. Head in the air today and not a word out of her.’ The milkman stepped backwards out of the cart, the reins trailing out of his hands. The large carthorse clopped to a halt in front of Mary.

‘We had a falling out, last night,’ she said.

‘Aye, well. Nothing you can’t fix, I’m sure.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ She stroked the horse’s neck watching the bus set off again. ‘Bye, Beauty.’

She was almost at the main gate to the hospital before she caught up with her friend. ‘Jean, we need to talk.’ Mary held her side; she had a stitch now and it was difficult to breath, let alone speak.

‘Nothing to say.’ Waiting for the guard to come out of the sentry box Jean stared fixedly across the road where rolls of barbed wire fenced in the group of allotments cluttered with small huts.

‘Some of those sheds could do with a bit of fixing; the roof looks to be coming off that one on the right,’ Mary said.

Jean pursed her lips.

Blast it, Mary thought, I could have a day of this. ‘Please, Jean, listen.’ She put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry about last night but it wasn’t planned, he just insisted on joining us.’ She thought ‘us’ sounded better. ‘We could go to the pictures again tonight.. I’ll pay.’

Jean shook Mary’s hand away. ‘You made me look a right fool. I couldn’t believe you’d gone off with him. I waited for you round the corner.’

They’d probably passed her as they ran for the pub. No
wonder she was so ratty.

‘I’m sorry, really I am. I thought you’d left. I didn’t see you when we – I – came out. If I’d known you were waiting…’

Jean blew out her cheeks out in a loud sigh, lifting and dropping her shoulders.

‘Go on,’ Mary said, ‘let’s try again tonight, my treat, and we’ll have tea at our house first? Patrick will be home.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jean said, ‘I’ll have to see how I feel. And I’d have to go home and change first.’

Mary knew Jean wouldn’t resist the chance to see her brother.

The guard lifted the barrier and they walked under it.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen that chap from last night somewhere before though,’ Jean said.

‘Possibly.’ Mary tried to sound nonchalant, ‘Apparently he’s been a guard here since Christmas.’

‘And you didn’t know? I find that hard to believe.’

‘Well, believe it or not, I didn’t,’ Mary said, ‘did you?’

‘Suppose not.’ Curiosity got the better of her. ‘Where did you go, anyway?’

‘The Crown.’ Mary glanced up at the main gun post and with a mixture of disappointment and relief she saw that Frank wasn’t on duty. ‘We stayed in the cellar until the air raid was over,’ she said, still trying to appease. ‘You have no idea how mucky it was down there; I had to have a top to toe wash before I went to bed.’

Jean looked mollified but still couldn’t resist saying, ‘You should have gone home with me.’

‘You’re right, I should have.’ Mary held out her arm for Jean to link. ‘Let’s forget it, huh? Water under the
bridge?’ She was getting a slightly annoyed now, but Jean was right. She should have gone home, then she wouldn’t be feeling such a fool now.

But then what about Ellen? What would have happened to her with that bloody American?

When they arrived at Henshaw Street at teatime Patrick wasn’t there.

‘I’ve brought Jean with me, Mam.’

‘I hope that’s all right, Mrs Howarth,’ Jean said.

Winifred had her back to them as she spread the maroon chenille cloth over the table and flattened it with her hands. Her voice was low but friendly enough as she spoke. ‘That’s fine. It’s good to see you, love.’ She moved the chairs away from the table and pulled out a drawer from underneath that rattled with cutlery. ‘Set the table, will you, Mary.’

‘Can I help, Mrs Howarth? Anything I can do?’

Jean took Mary’s cape and hung it on one of the pegs by the back door. The older woman hurried past her carrying the kettle. ‘No, that’s fine. Warm yourself by the fire, it’s fair freezing out there.’

‘Where is everybody, Mam?’

‘Ellen’s still in bed. She’s been up twice to the lavvy and gone back, looking like death. Patrick hasn’t come home yet. Apparently some of the men were meeting this morning, to decide on rotas for the picketing.’ She reappeared at the door with the kettle, wiping drips from the spout with the corner of her apron. Putting it on the
range she picked up a ladle and began to stir the stew. ‘Mary, can you get the plates for this? Jean, if you’re ready to eat, go and sit at the table.’ As both girls moved, she turned quickly, her slippers slithering on the linoleum and went back into the scullery. ‘Patrick said he was meeting his friend, sometime. That chap from last night? So he’s probably called in The Crown with him. I can’t remember his name…’

‘Frank,’ Mary said. Jean gave her a tight smile.

‘And I bet your father’s there too,’ Winifred continued. ‘Happen him and Patrick’ll be the best of friends when they come home. At least until the ale wears off.’

Mary followed her into the scullery. There was something wrong. For a few seconds she watched her mother sweeping the flag floor around the wash boiler. Her hair, instead of being tightly pulled back into its usual large bun, hung untidily in grey wisps around her face. Mary her voice low. ‘What is it, Mam, aren’t you feeling well?’

Her mother didn’t answer. She pushed the small pile of dust and bits of vegetable peelings onto a piece of newspaper on the floor and crushed it up, tossing it into a bucket under the sink. Straightening, she moaned softly under her breath, holding her side.

Mary put an arm around her. Seeing the ugly swelling on her mother’s cheek and the red-rimmed eyes she scowled. ‘Aw, Mam, not again. What was it this time?’

Winifred pushed her daughter away and turned on the tap to rinse her hands. ‘There was only me here and he had one of his moods on him. It’s Patrick really, as if we haven’t enough to worry about. He’ll have the police at the door, with all this trouble: picketing, striking, fighting
the government. Your father says there’s a right way and a wrong way to tackle the bosses and your brother’s going about it all wrong.’ She wiped her hands on a piece of towelling. ‘He’s furious because it’s unofficial. You know what he’s like.’

Like a bully and a bastard. Mary gritted her teeth, holding back the words. ‘Why were you holding your side?’

‘I banged into the table when…’

‘When he hit you.’

Winifred glowered defensively at Mary. ‘It’s not his fault.’

‘Of course it’s his bloody fault. You can’t keep putting up with it, Mam.’

‘What can I do? Tell the police?’ Winifred gave a short ironic laugh. ‘Sergeant Sykes is as bad. His wife often sports a black eye.’ Tears slowly welled and spilled down her cheeks. Mary took the piece of towelling that her mother was twisting round her hands, ran a corner of it under the cold-water tap and carefully dabbed the puffy cheek. Then she held it out to her.

‘Hold this to your face for a moment. I’ll get the arnica, for the swelling.’

‘No.’ Winifred was horrified. ‘Not in front of Jean. Go and eat. I’ll do it later. I think I’ll have a lie down.’ She took the cloth. ‘There’s nothing you can do about it, nothing anybody can do.’

‘You could leave. I’ll help. We could find somewhere to rent, just you, me and Ellen. Leave those two to torment each other.’

Her mother stuffed the rag into her overall pocket. Her voice was hard. ‘You’re talking rubbish, girl. Go … go on.
Don’t leave Jean on her own. That stew’s ready to eat now. Have some before they get in.’ Winifred went into the kitchen but before going up the stairs she stopped, holding the curtain so that it partly covered her face. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, Jean. If you don’t mind I won’t eat with you. I’m not really hungry.’

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Howarth. I hope you feel better soon.’

Mary could tell Jean was bursting with curiosity but she offered no explanation as her friend placed the warmed plates on the table. Mary tipped some of the saucepan’s contents onto them and the two girls ate in silence.

Eventually Mary spoke. ‘Jean?’ She hesitated. ’Look, I’m sorry about this but do you mind if we don’t go tonight.’ Jean frowned but said nothing. ‘Mam’s not feeling well and I can’t leave her. I’ll have to wait until our Patrick’s home.’ Mary saw the barely disguised pleasure light up her friend’s face. ‘You do understand?’

‘Course I do, forget about the film. We can go some other time.’ Jean stood up, peering into the mirror by the back door, straightening the collar of her dress and fluffing up her short dark curls. ‘I’ll wait with you. Now, let’s get these pots washed.’

‘No. Honest. It’s all right, I can do them.’

‘Nonsense,’ Jean said. ‘It won’t take five minutes.’

Together they tidied the kitchen in companionable silence; only the clunking of the clock and the sputtering of the flames in the grate broke the quietness. So it was easy to hear the drunken singing long before the familiar scrape of the gate on the flags; Bill’s deep bass, at odds with his slight stature, harmonising with his son’s tenor voice. The two women listened as the flush of the lavatory
was followed by a scuffling in the yard and tittering, quickly hushed. Mary switched the scullery light out and both girls moved to the other side of the table to stand facing the back door as it crashed open, rebounding on its hinges.

Arms around the other’s shoulders, the two men jostled in the doorway, each grinning, each trying to be first into the kitchen.

‘Eh up, Mary. And Jean, begod. What a sight, lad, two smiling women waiting to get us our tea. But where’s my lass, eh? Where’s my Ellen?’

The resentment and anger was a lump in Mary’s throat.

‘No, I’m wrong. That there’s a frosty face if ever I saw one.’

The sheepish grins evaporated. Bill and Patrick let go of each other’s neck and, holding onto the doorframe, elbowed their way into the room.

‘No, you’re wrong, Pa, our Mary won’t lose her temper. She’s a right saint, aren’t you, our kid?’

Mary didn’t miss the sarcasm, but she didn’t look at her brother. Instead she stared at her father until he flushed and, pushing Patrick to one side, grabbed at a chair and fell on to it, the legs screeching on the floor as he dragged it up to the table. He shoved his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall on to the seat of the chair behind him. ‘Where’s your mother? Why’s my tea not on the table? She knows I’m on duty tonight.’

‘Mam’s not feeling too well.’

‘What’s up with her then?’

Mary didn’t answer but she made sure he saw the contempt in her eyes before she turned away. Taking one of the plates from the range she scooped some stew onto
it and slapped it on the table in front of him. He crouched low over his food, almost throwing it into his mouth. Mary watched in disgust.

‘What about mine?’ Patrick demanded.

‘I’ll get it.’ Jean fussed over the food. ‘Is that enough?’ She showed the plate to Patrick. ‘More? I can put more on.’

‘No, thanks. That’s fine.’ He sounded suddenly sober. ‘Thanks Jean.’ Taking off his coat, he sat down at the table studying Jean and when he smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, Mary saw her blush but hold his gaze. Self-conscious for once, Patrick was the first to look away. Taking a quick look at Mary, he said, ‘Off out again tonight?’

‘No. We were going to go to the pictures but we changed our mind, didn’t we Jean?’

‘What? Oh, yes, we can go tomorrow.’ Jean smiled tentatively at Patrick, who grinned back, then bent his head over his meal.

‘Any more?’ Bill demanded.

Silently Mary took his plate and refilled it.

After he’d eaten Bill shoved himself away from the table and lurched across the kitchen. Collapsing into her mother’s rocking chair he was asleep in seconds.

Mary cleared away the crockery, leaving the other two talking and then went upstairs to check on her mother. She was asleep, the slant of light from the landing falling across her face, which was partly hidden by her hand holding the damp cloth to the bruise on her cheek. Mary crossed the room and smoothed Winifred’s hair from her forehead. For a few seconds she stayed by the bed and then left, quietly closing the door. She opened her own
bedroom door with more force, clicking the latch down with a snap. ‘Are you awake, Ellen? Come on now, get up, I need to talk to you and Patrick. Come on, you’ve slept enough. I covered for you today at the factory but I’ll not do it again tomorrow. If you’re still feeling ill it’s your own fault.’ Ellen made a melodramatic snore. Mary pursed her lips. ‘And you can stop pretending you’re still asleep. You’re pushing your luck.’ She turned on her heel, leaving the door open, the glow of the small bulb filtering into the bedroom.

Downstairs, Jean was getting ready to leave. Patrick, his hair carefully combed back into style, was winding his white scarf around his neck. As he set his cap to one side of his head and adjusted the peak over one eye, he spoke with studied nonchalance. ‘No bother at all. I’m off out to The Crown so I might as well walk with you.’

‘Are you going out again, Patrick? We need to talk.’ Mary nodded towards Bill who was slouched in the chair, snores bubbling from dropped jaw.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m meeting a few of the lads.’

Mary knew it was no use arguing in front of Jean; it would only make things worse. This was something she’d have to sort out without him, as usual. She whipped the tablecloth off the table and followed them to the door to shake it out in the yard. ‘Turn the light off. We don’t want the warden after us.’ She spoke tersely but smiled at Jean, who, bright pink with suppressed happiness, gave her a little wave before going through the door that Patrick held open for her. Her brother left without looking back, pulling the gate behind him. Folding the tablecloth Mary heard her friend speaking in an unusually timid voice.

‘I think you are really brave; standing up for your
rights. I wouldn’t want to go underground. It’s so dangerous and your work is just as much for the war effort as joining up, just as much …’

Mary closed the door.

The fire suddenly shunted in the grate. Mary stared into the flames, thinking about Jean and her brother. Her friend wouldn’t let this opportunity pass her by; she’d waited a long time to be noticed by Patrick.

Behind her, Bill snorted, wriggled in his chair and smacked his lips together. She turned to look at him. All her life he’d watched her, criticising, waiting for her to fail, comparing her with Ellen. When he found out she wanted to be a nurse he’d been furious and the paltry wages she had brought home during her training had often been used to start a row.

Well, that had all changed since her promotion; now he needed her money. She turned away from him and went upstairs. In the bedroom she took off her uniform and removed her girdle sighing with relief, then she slipped on an old skirt and jumper.

Ellen pulled the eiderdown further over her head. ‘Turn the light off.’

Mary had been trying not to think about Frank, but her sister’s moan brought back the humiliation she’d felt. ‘Don’t you even dare to whinge.’ She sat on the bed, pulling on a pair of ankle socks and rubbing the chilblain that had started itching during the day. ‘Just get up and get downstairs. It’s about time you stopped being so damn selfish and noticed what’s going on around you.’ Standing, she jerked the covers off Ellen, who drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Get up.’

Downstairs the fire was struggling, a solitary column of
smoke drifted up towards the range chimney. Mary settled on her knees and took the poker out of the coal bucket and rattled it through the bars of on the grate. She could hear Winifred and Ellen talking on the landing.

‘What? What?’ Bill awoke with a startled jump. Mary took no notice, she felt calmer than she had done for months. As she dropped the poker back into the bucket, a few unburned clinkers dropped into the ash can and she pulled it out with the thick cloth that was kept especially for the purpose. Aware that her father was watching her, and knowing that he could hear the two women making their way down the stairs, she took her time, rehearsing the words that should have been spoken a long time ago. With the tongs she picked up the hot pieces of coal and threw them back into the dwindling flames. Pushing the can into place, she stood, folding the cloth over the rail of the oven. Then, arms folded, she waited for her mother and sister.

Winifred was the first to step from the bottom stair. Although her clothes were crumpled, her hair was back in place and a light dusting of powder concealed the shiny swelling on her face. She held the curtain back for Ellen, who stumbled into the kitchen, blinking in the light, still dishevelled in pyjamas and dressing gown.

‘We can’t go on like this.’ Mary’s words startled all three.

‘What you talking about?’ Thumbs tucked into the waistband of his trousers, legs outstretched, Bill squinted up at her, his face reddening.

‘You know what I mean. Look at Mam’s face.’

‘Mary!’

‘No, Mam, enough’s enough. It’s got to stop.’

‘Just watch your mouth, girl.’ Bill jumped up from the chair and raised his fist.

‘Just try it, Dad, and I’ll walk out. I’ll leave, and I’ll take my wages with me. And then where will you be? Your pension won’t keep food on the table; you drink half of it away. Mam prays for the times The Crown runs out of beer. How long our Patrick’ll be on strike, goodness only knows, so there’s no money coming from that direction and don’t think I don’t know that Ellen keeps a good share of what she earns, so she can gad about. That’d have to change, if I left.’