Pattern of Shadows (7 page)

Ellen, nervously biting the skin at the side of her thumb, gave a small cry of objection.

‘Oh I don’t blame you Ellen. With half a chance I’d keep some of my wages … if I ever got to go out on the town.’ Mary said, keeping her eyes fixed on the man whose hand was only inches from her face. ‘I’m fed up with being taken for granted, fed up with watching everything that goes on in this house and having to keep quiet about it. I’m sick to the back teeth of it all. Every day I’m cleaning up the results of this bloody war, all the vile things men do to each other. I see the brutality every time we have new patients and I will not – will not carry on living with it home. Look at Mam, just look at her face. You’re a bully, Dad and it’s got to stop!’ Mary spat the words out. Something else needed saying. ‘And another thing, next time I go to visit Tom, I’m taking Mam with me and there’s nothing you can do about it’ She was so close to her father she could see the thread veins on his nose and cheeks and smell the stale beer on his breath. She looked down and saw his fists, clenching, unclenching, then she lifted her eyes to his in silent challenge. Bill’s lips
narrowed. His breathing, shallow intakes through flared nostrils, quickened as a low growl began deep in his throat. Turning from her, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and reeled across the kitchen, pushing past Winifred and crashing out of the house. Mary leant against the table. When she looked up, she saw her mother and sister staring at her. Grabbing the chair, she fell on to the seat.

All three women listened as Bill’s footsteps halted and then they sighed with relief at the sound of the gate scraping. Moments later they heard a hoarse deep yell. ‘Bitch!’ It echoed along the alleyway.

‘Where would you go? Her mother’s voice was small, scared.

‘I don’t know. Jean has a spare room. I could ask her.’ Mary spoke wearily, ‘I can’t carry on with all this, Mam. Wondering what I’ll find every time I come home; him and Patrick, the jibes about Tom, never knowing when he’s going to hit you again.’

‘That won’t stop with just you leaving,’ Ellen told her, moving towards the fireplace and pulling her dressing gown belt tighter. ‘He’s always clouted Mam, you know that.’

‘Then you should grow up and help her to stand up to him,’ Mary said. ‘Or at least try to talk to him.’

Ellen glared at her.

‘But you won’t leave tonight?’ Winifred said.

‘No, Mam, not tonight. But if
you
think I’m sleeping in that pigsty,’ she glared at Ellen, ‘you’ve another think coming. You can go and change those sheets, before I go up. I’m tired and I’m on earlies again in the morning.’

Ellen left the kitchen, muttering.

Winifred moved closer to Mary and held her hands.
‘You won’t really leave, will you?’

Mary stroked her mother’s fingers; the skin was rough beneath her own. ‘Mam, do you honestly think I’d leave you in the lurch like that? But I had to make him think I would, he knows my wages are too good to lose. I just hope I haven’t made things worse. You’ll have to sleep in with us tonight.’

Holding on to the table, Winifred lowered herself into the chair next to Mary. ‘No, love, I’ll be all right. Remember, he’s on duty all night at the church tower. He took his stuff down there this morning, so he could have a jar at dinnertime, and tomorrow he’s down at the power station for range practice. Anyway, he won’t touch me again for a while; he’ll be feeling bad about it by the time he gets back home. I know him. I just hope Stan Green doesn’t give him any more ale on the slate.’

‘Don’t worry, if he’s on duty later, he won’t be drinking any more. He’s got his reputation to keep up,’ Mary reminded her tartly. ‘That’s one thing you can be sure of.’

‘His Home Guarding is the only thing he feels he does well these days.’

‘You’re not starting to feel sorry for him?’ Mary couldn’t believe it.

Winifred gave in to the misery she’d denied all day and cried. She plucked at the hem of her skirt in a futile attempt to lift it and cover her face. Mary wrapped her arms around the shaking figure, feeling the hot wetness on her neck.

Two streets away, outside The Crown, Bill rubbed roughly at his face with his hand, then wiped the damp palm on the front of his jacket.

Despite Mary’s angry words to her father she hadn’t been able to persuade her mother to come with her to visit Tom in Wormwood Scrubs; she’d been too frightened of her husband.

‘What can he do, Mam?’ Mary was exasperated. ‘I told him I’d take you next time I went. He’ll blame me not you.’

Winifred shrunk into her chair, the glass of stout in her hand. ‘He’d wait ’til you’re out and then I’d cop it.’ She was so adamant that, in the end, Mary gave up.

‘I’ve been on the go since five this morning.’ The small woman in front of Mary in the queue stepped through the small opening in the large prison doors.

‘Have you come far?’ Mary followed her through the small door.

‘From Wales.’ She moved next to Mary, talking loudly over the clamour of movement along the drab passages. ‘You visiting your hubby? ‘

‘Brother…’

‘Ah. My son, Iori, he says I don’t need to visit every month, but I do. Well you have to really, don’t you. You have to make sure they’re all right.’ Her eyes were anxious. ‘Well, I do, anyway.’

Surely there couldn’t be two men here with that name? ‘Iori?’ Mary asked. ‘You’re Iori’s mother?’

‘I am.’ The women’s forehead creased. ‘Do you know him?’

‘He’s in the same cell as my brother. Tom? He wrote and told us.’

‘Tom? Oh, I met Tom last month.’ She touched her chest. ‘I’m Gwyneth.’

‘Mary.’

‘Well, well, there we are then,
cariad
. Nice to meet you, I’m sure.’

The prison officer at the front held up his hand and shouted, ‘Stop.’

Immediately a barrage of complaints began and children cried out, frightened by the sudden crush of people pressing forward.

A plump girl in front of them hitched her screaming toddler higher on her hip and reached forward to grab another child who was trying to escape. There was an immediate pungent odour of stale sweat.

Gwyneth wrinkled her nose. ‘You get all sorts in here. Always best to keep yourself to yourself, I think.’

There was a sudden commotion at the end of the corridor. Two prisoners were fighting, yelling obscenities. Immediately surrounded by warders, they were dragged away. Soon the hollow tread of shoes on the iron rungs echoed above the waiting crowd.

‘Visitors for Matthews and McClaren?’

Hands were held up.

‘No visiting today. Back to the main doors.’

An old couple struggled through the crowd, followed by a youth angrily elbowing anyone who got in his way. He pushed the old woman and she stumbled. Someone grabbed the boy’s sleeve. He yanked it out of their grasp and shoved his way past. The man gently put his arm around his wife and led her through the queue of people
who stood to one side for them.

‘You’d think the warders could at least be civil,’ Mary said.

‘They don’t care. They’re not human.’ Gwyneth’s words were lost in the mêlée as the warder signalled for them to move forward again.

Pulling at the knot of her headscarf, Gwyneth took it off and puffed up her hair where it had been flattened. ‘How’s that?’

Mary smiled. ‘Lovely.’

They walked together into the room crammed with eight long tables. Mary blinked in the harsh artificial light; after the gloom of the passages it always hurt her eyes.

Tom was waving to her. Mary watched as he tapped the arm of the man sitting next to him and pointed towards her. Gwyneth was already weaving her way through the tables, holding her basket over her head at arm’s length. Mary followed. The noise of chairs scraping on the concrete floor and shouted conversations increased to an almost unbearable level.

Sitting down, Mary immediately saw the likeness between mother and son, the slight build, the same dark hair, his flopping to one side of his forehead, identical brown eyes, except that he had a yellowing bruise around the left one. When they smiled at her, it was a mirror image, but the mother’s lips trembled a little.

‘Well,’ Gwyneth Griffiths said. She looked from Tom and Iori to Mary. ‘Well, isn’t this nice, then?’

Then she began to cry.

‘She cried all the way through the visit,’ Mary said, stripping the sheet off the mattress and dropping it into the linen basket. ‘It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful. Tom says she does it every time.’

‘Poor woman.’ Jean was only half listening. ‘Talking of time,’ she said, glancing at the ward clock on the wall, ‘it’s nearly time for my break. Where is everybody?’ She looked around the ward. There were no other nurses and the beds on the other side of the room were still unmade; some, empty, had the sheets thrown back. ‘There’re still another fifteen to do.’ At the end of the ward two patients were perched on the end on one bed talking to its occupant, others were wandering around with wash bags and towels. ‘It’s chaos in here this morning. If Matron comes in she’ll go spare.’

‘I know.’ Mary glanced down at her watch on the front of her uniform. ‘I had to let Hetty and Olive go on their break and Elsie and Sylvia aren’t in yet. There was a message to say Bradlow was hit again last night and they’re having trouble getting in. I thought they’d be here by now.’ She glanced towards the double doors of the ward where, through the small windows, she could see the German interpreter chatting to the sentry on the door. ‘Get Sergeant Strausse to bring the orderlies back; at least we can have the floor cleaned. And we’ll just have to move quicker. Do you mind going a bit late for your break?’

‘No, so long as I get one eventually.’

‘Good. Tell him first and then start on the other side. I’ll carry on here.’ Mary plunged the cloth into the steaming water then lifted it, dripping, from the bowl. The smell
of Dettol enveloped her as she grasped each end of the material and twisted it tightly, the hot liquid scalding her hands. ‘And tell those two patients to get back to their own beds.’ She flung the cloth on to the bed, watching Jean hurrying down the long ward. It had been a fortnight since her friend and Patrick had started going out together and Mary was still not sure how she felt about it. Jean declared she was ‘over the moon’ and certainly walked around with a wide smile, but it was early days and Patrick would still be on his best behaviour. Eventually someone or something would bring out his volatile temper and Mary expected it would be her having to pick up the pieces; it was only a matter of waiting, she was sure.

She sighed, it was also two weeks since that night at the cinema and the debacle with Ellen and she hadn’t seen Frank since. He hadn’t even been near the house to see Patrick. So that’s that, she thought, forget him: he’d probably moved on to some other girl by now. And Ellen had been giving her the cold shoulder since then. Mary wiped the plastic mattress with broad, almost angry sweeps. With both her sister and her father ignoring her, the atmosphere in the house was awful. She didn’t care about him but she missed her sister. For days now, a cold misery had settled in Mary’s stomach and, despite her reassurances to her mother, she knew if things didn’t change, she’d have to get away, escape.

She was glad of the diversion when the ward doors opened and three men in navy dustcoats and carrying mops and buckets came in, followed by a plump
middle-aged
nurse who gazed around with a look of distaste. ‘There are no minor ops today, so I’ve been asked to help out here. I’ll start on the dressings … if that’s all right
with you?’

‘Thanks.’ Mary forced a brief smile, noting the unfriendly tone. She knew Hilda Lewis thought that she should have been given the Sister’s post on this ward. Dear God, she thought, what next?

Mary lined up the bed with the wall and straightened up, holding the middle of her back. Stretching her neck, she moved her head from side to side to ease the tension that had been building since the start of the shift, suddenly noticing the three men standing at the doorway to the ward looking in her direction.

Tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ears and adjusting her cap, she hurried towards them, smiling. She liked the Camp Commandant; although he was at the end of his army career he was fair with both prisoners and his staff, and the camp and the hospital had improved since he’d arrived a year ago. He took off his cap as he spoke. ‘Sister Howarth, I’ve just spoken with Matron. This is Doctor Schormann and Doctor Pensch who are taking over the duties of Dr Müller.’

‘Good morning, Doctors.’ She acknowledged the men standing to attention in front of her. Both had the white patch sewn onto their uniforms to declare their indifference to National Socialism, so she knew they were regarded as trustworthy, but her only concern was their attitude towards the work they had been allocated. The last thing her nurses needed was another arrogant Müller. The smaller and older of the two men gazed back at her, nervously pushing the thinning grey hair back from his forehead with his fingers. Mary thought he looked tired already as he bowed his head and clicked his heels together; his eyes were bloodshot and underscored by
dark shadows.

She turned her attention to the other doctor. She was as tall as he was, his pale blue eyes were on a level with hers, but, despite her direct gaze, he did not return it so she had the chance to study him. He was about thirty; fine blond hair cut very short, high forehead, high cheekbones and a long nose. Useful for looking down on everybody, Mary thought, her heart sinking. Damn, another Müller. He stood, confidently professional, broad shoulders held rigid with disapproval as he stared around the ward, his square chin lifted.

‘Gott in Himmel,’
he muttered to the man next to him. There was a cold arrogance in his features as he turned to Major Taylor. ‘This is a British Army hospital, yes?’

The Commander shook his head. ‘No, civilian.’ He smiled at Mary. ‘And Sister Howarth and her staff are very much valued here. If we didn’t have the hospital next to the camp there would be many problems for both our men and the prisoners.’

Mary forced a small tight smile. ‘I can assure you, Doctor, you will find all my nurses deal professionally and compassionately with the men here. We do the work we were trained for.’

The German raised his eyebrows, lifted his heels and snapped them smartly together before turning towards the Commandant. ‘If you would be good enough to tell myself and my fellow doctor what you require of us, I would be grateful.’

His dismissal of Mary was obvious and she flushed with anger. She looked over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Strausse, I will take the doctors around and explain the daily routine of my ward. I would be grateful if, as interpreter, you
would explain to them anything they do not understand.’

‘Ja
, Sister.’ The Sergeant barely concealed his smirk of amusement.

‘I’ll leave things with you then, Sister,’ the Commandant said. ‘Doctors, when you have finished here, please ring through for an escort back into camp.’

Mary led the group of men to the first bed. ‘You find us understaffed today, gentlemen. Two of my nurses have not reported for work yet. I believe the area they live in was the target of an air raid last night.’ She emphasised the words. Neither man spoke. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I think you will find this has not affected our care of the patients.’ She smiled at Dr Pensch. ‘We simply work twice as hard. This is Nurse Lewis.’ The woman looked up briefly, continuing to remove the soiled bandage from the man’s leg and clean the skin with the solution of Picric acid. ‘Did you sleep well?’ Mary said to the soldier.

‘Haben Sie gut geschlafen
?’ Sergeant Strausse said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary saw Dr Schormann look quickly at her as the man answered, ‘Well,
danke
, I slept well,’ and felt a twinge of satisfaction.

‘Sergeant Strausse –’ Mary inclined her head towards the burly Sergeant ‘– is very helpful, so that often, by the time the men leave here, they understand enough to answer “Yes or No” for themselves to routine questions.’

She left the two doctors to follow her around the ward, discussing each patient she passed and then led them into the cubby-hole that was her office. Indicating chairs on the opposite side of her desk she sat down. ‘Now, gentlemen, if we could discuss our daily routine.’ She was careful to keep her tone neutral but she was aware that only the older doctor had spoken to her so far. ‘As I said, eight a.m.
is the start of the day duty shift.’ She passed a sheet of paper to each of them. ‘The reports of the night nurses are read and discussed. At nine I check the patients with my staff nurse and one of the prisoner orderlies.’ The younger man straightened in his chair. ‘You have a question, Dr Schormann?’

The man held up his hand. ‘No, Sister. Please … continue.’

‘At nine thirty the Staff nurses and the orderlies dress the wounds, attend to the needs of the patients. At ten thirty the nurses and orderlies have their break, the German orderlies using the side room over there. ‘She indicated one side of the ward, then the other. ‘The nurses and British orderlies over there. At eleven the ward round is carried out. At least one of the doctors previously here were always present. I presume that will still be the case?’ She looked inquiringly at them.

They nodded. ‘We understand that is so,’ the older doctor said. The younger man stifled a yawn.

‘Good, thank you Dr Pensch.’ Mary smiled at him. She tapped her pen on her teeth and continued. ‘Lunchtime is twelve thirty. In the afternoon the patients are left to rest, occupy themselves with board games or if fit enough they are allowed into the camp to meet their comrades, take exercise and so on. Five o’clock the dressings are done again and sometime between seven and seven thirty the orderlies serve supper.’ She spoke quickly. ‘We have prisoner staff permanently here to clear away and wash everything and to clean the wards. After supper, if there is no one seriously ill needing peace and quiet, they have a singsong. I believe in not letting the men brood. They get better quicker if they are not depressed. Do you have
any questions?’

‘No, none, thank you Sister,’ Doctor Pensch said.

Doctor Schormann lifted a hand.
‘Nein.’

Both men stood immediately Mary got up from her chair and walked to the door. ‘The routine varies little, unless, of course, there is an emergency. Now, Dr Pensch, Dr Schormann, if you will excuse me, I will continue my duties.’

Sitting behind her desk again, Mary stared at the chair where the young doctor had been. Perhaps he was as exhausted as the older man but wouldn’t show it. She’d been doing this job long enough to have heard all the horror stories of the long journeys the prisoners endured on their way to Britain and the POW camps; about the poor conditions of the makeshift transit sites where the prisoners were interrogated. Against all the regulations, Strausse had told her only last week that one of the new patients had told him how frightening the two-day journey from France inside the landing craft had been, how, in the crowded darkness, it was like floating in a coffin. She leant her elbows on the desk and covered her eyes. God in Heaven, what was happening to the world?