Pattern of Shadows (9 page)

In the pause that followed, each man picked up their mugs of tea and slurped. Bill banged his down on the
table. Tea slopped out and both men watched the thin brown liquid spread over the oilcloth, turning the blue checks into a mucky green.

When her father spoke again, it was almost as if he was talking to himself. ‘The mustard gas got me, bloody gas masks were neither use nor ornament. My skin came up in great sodding blisters.’ Mary squeezed her hands tightly together. ‘Burns your eyes, you know … Christ, that hurts. In the end it did my lungs in. I’ve been a useless bastard ever since.’

For the first time in her life she wanted to go and put her arms around her father, but when he looked up at her there was something, almost a warning in his eyes that stopped her.

On the range, the kettle, almost empty, spluttered – a hollow boiling. Without moving they all stared towards the noise.

‘That’ll burn through,’ Bill said, but he didn’t get up. He blew his nose loudly and shoved the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket.

Mary moved quickly and grabbed the handle. It was hot and as she shifted it to the side of the plate a bubble of air burst out of the spout and sprayed boiling water. She jumped, flapping her hands.

‘Are you OK?’ Frank leapt up. ‘Here, stick them under the tap.’ Grasping her arm, he ushered her into the scullery.

‘I’m fine. Honestly, it’s fine.’

‘Stop your damn fussing, man. You heard what she said. She’s OK. She’s a nurse, she knows what to do.’ Bill pushed himself off his chair. ‘Anyhow, I’m off to The Crown, see if I can get in by the back door. Are you
coming or what? Our Patrick might be there.’

‘No, thanks, I said I’d wait here. He’s supposed to be off the line by five.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Bill slapped his cap on to his head and grabbed his jacket off the hook. He was pushing his arms into the sleeves and winding his scarf around his neck as he left; it was as though he couldn’t wait to get out of the house.

Mary was the first to break away. Turning the water off, she picked up the towel and, carefully drying her hands, walked into the kitchen. ‘I haven’t seen you at the camp for a few days.’

Frank followed. ‘No. I had leave owed so I took it – my knee was a bit crock.’

‘I’m sorry. That was our fault.’

He put his arm over her shoulder. ‘It was worth it.’

Mary tensed, told herself not to be stupid, yet she was aware at the same time that she was on her own in the house with a man she hardly knew; not a situation she’d been in before. Frank moved the pad of his thumb on her skin just above the neck of her jumper. It was too much, too familiar. She moved away.

On the mantelpiece the mechanics inside the clock softly whirred as the spring tightened, then the hammer struck against the metal band, six muffled beats. ‘Oh heavens, is that the time?’ Mary walked over to the fireplace and picking up the clock, wiped it with the towel. ‘I wonder when Mam and Ellen will be back. And Patrick!’ She replaced the clock and walked to the other side of the table from Frank, forcing herself not to touch the part of her neck he’d stoked, reluctantly acknowledging the stirrings of an unfamiliar excitement.
She held on to the back of the kitchen chair, her face burning.

Frank smiled, watching her. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, shall I? I haven’t seen Patrick all week. I just needed an excuse to see you.’

He was lying. He’d talked to her brother a couple of days before in The Crown. And if it was true what Patrick had said about her never having had a boyfriend as far as he knew, she was probably still a virgin. The thought excited Frank.

Mary was stuck for words. God she was hopeless; for someone who gave orders and could run a hospital ward with her eyes shut, she was bloody useless in this sort of situation. ‘I’ve never heard Dad talk to anyone about his time in the war before,’ she said eventually. ‘You were honoured.’

Frank shrugged. ‘I like your dad. I think he’s easy to get on with.’

The words hung between them, the angry figure of her father on the night she stood up to him an unwelcome image for Mary.

‘I will have another brew, if that’s all right with you,’ Frank said.

‘Right.’ Mary hurried to the scullery, relieved to be doing something that broke the tension between them. ‘Build the fire up a bit, will you? Use the wood in the bucket, there. Mam’ll probably be frozen when she gets in.’

They sat drinking the tea on opposite sides of the table. Frank’s other arm stretched out across the surface, so that his fingers almost touched her hand.

‘So it’s just you and your mother at home?’ Mary said.

Frank shuffled in his chair, his ruddy complexion deepening. ‘Yeah.’ He rubbed the bump on the bridge of his nose and looked across at her. ‘My father buggered off years ago so there’s just me and Ma, most of the time. We rub along all right. She takes in washing for the big houses on Manchester Road and with my bit of an army pension and wage from the camp we manage OK. We rent a little two up, two down on Barnes Street. It’s enough for us. George, that’s my brother, he’s in the National Fire Service in Manchester, comes home when he can, kips on the sofa. He … can be a bit hot headed, but can’t we all? Next time he’s home you’ll have to come and meet him and Ma.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’ He was very sure of himself. Mary wasn’t certain if it excited or annoyed her.

‘All right if I put some more coal on the fire?’

Mary nodded. ‘We’d better keep it going ’til Mam gets back, but use that wood in the bucket first, they’re bits that Dad scrounged from a bombed-out house in Atherton Street. Save on the coal.’ She picked up the two empty mugs. ‘I hope Mam and Ellen are all right. I bet she forgot to take her torch. Perhaps I should have gone round to Mrs Booth’s earlier.’

‘Do you want me to walk you round there?’

‘No, it’s too late now, they could be home anytime. I’d better clear these pots away.’

When she came back into the kitchen, Frank had put the two wooden chairs side by side in front of the fire and was sitting smoking a cigarette. He pointed towards the seat next to him. ‘Come and sit down, you look all in.’

‘I am tired,’ she admitted.

‘Do you want me to go?’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘I’ll wait with you then.’ The wood crackled in the heat of the fire as it began to burn. ‘Ted?’ he asked. ‘Where does he fit in?’

‘He’s a family friend, we all grew up together. Well, really he was more of a friend to Tom, they were nearer in age.’

He stared into the flames for a couple of minutes and then said, ‘Tell me about your brother.’

Mary hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘he’s tall, got light hair, blue eyes, just like Mam’s. He doesn’t fuss as much as Patrick about how he looks, but he’s just as handsome.’

‘Patrick told me he’s a Conscientious Objector. There doesn’t seem much love lost there.’

The anger flared immediately. ‘Patrick has a big mouth. Tom’s a lovely bloke and entitled to his own beliefs.’

Frank held his hands up. ‘Whoa, I was only saying.’

‘Yes, well,’ Mary said, ‘for some reason, Patrick’s been jealous of him for as long as I can remember. Stupid really, Tom was fourteen when he was born, but Patrick could never stand him getting any attention. He used to play up all the time.’ She smiled, trying to lighten the moment. ‘Generally being a nuisance really, typical younger brother.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Look, I know what people think about COs. I’m not expecting you to feel any different. Let’s leave it for tonight.’

‘No. I want to know.’ Frank was insistent. ‘Tell me.’

Mary’s hands, pressed palm to palm, were held tight between her knees and she hunched her back, feeling the clench of her stomach muscles. ‘Tom was always the odd one out, the only one in the family who still went to church when the rest of us lapsed years ago. I think I still
believe, but these days I find it difficult. Not Tom though.’ How many times had she tried to understand the depths of Tom’s unquestioning faith? ‘His beliefs rule his life. It would have been easier for him if they didn’t. After it all came out, we discovered he’d belonged to a group in Manchester for ages. You know, meetings, talks on pacifism and so on and distributing leaflets about how he felt about violence, how he felt it wrong to get involved with the war. When he first refused to sign up, he was given exemption, provided he continued to work in local government; he was in the Stationery Department. But he turned that down. He said he wouldn’t work for a government of a country at war.’ Mary leant back in her chair and met Frank’s stare. ‘He was sent to London to Wormwood Scrubs and he’s been there on and off ever since. They keep trying to make him do fire watching and he won’t do that either. They’ve extended his sentence loads of times. Dad won’t have his name mentioned in the house, won’t let Mam visit him, wouldn’t let him come home the times he’s been released.’

A memory of the last grubby bedsit Tom lived in flashed into her mind. It had been in a part of Bradlow she didn’t even know existed, a maze of narrow streets lined with shabby back-to-back terraced houses and filled with gangs of dirty kids and barking dogs. She’d studied the bit of paper with the address written on it before pushing her way past the two women smoking on the bottom step of a flight of stairs. The door to Tom’s room was open and for a moment she’d watched him sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, his arms sticking out of the sleeves of a jacket too small for him, his back shuddering with sobs.

‘They keep saying he has to do work that involves the war and he refuses. I think they do it for spite.’ Sparks flew from the fire on to the hearthrug and Frank reached out with his foot and stamped down on them. She couldn’t tell from his expression what he was thinking. ‘I admire what he did. I think it took a lot of courage.’

Frank leant forward, his hands clasped in front of him. Then he pressed his thumb against the first knuckle of each finger until it cracked. The noise jarred in the silence between them.

The back door latch clicked loudly. Winifred and Ellen ushered the cold night into the kitchen. Ellen was pale, her eyelids pink and swollen. She barely glanced at Mary and Frank as she hung up her coat and took off her shoes. Her voice was hoarse when she spoke to her mother. ‘I’m going up.’

Winifred didn’t seem to hear her. She sat down in the chair Frank offered without comment and sighed, holding her hands out to the fire. ‘It’s such a shame, Mary, so unfair. Hannah Booth only had her Ted since her hubby died. Now he’s gone too. It’s just not fair.’

Ellen gave out a loud wail and ran upstairs. After a moment her mother gestured with her head towards the ceiling, her voice broken with fatigue. ‘She’s taken it bad. I thought she would settle for Ted one day, when she was ready. But coming home she tells me she’d written to him, telling him she’d met this American soldier – silly little fool – and that she’d only ever thought of poor Ted as a friend. Wishes she hadn’t now. I told her, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Can’t undo what’s done.’

‘That’s true,’ Frank said.

Winifred looked up at him and then at Mary.

‘Patrick’s friend, Mam, remember?’ Mary said. ‘He’s waiting for him.’

Winifred shook her head. ‘Our Patrick’ll still be picketing. Some of the men are going back into work tonight, so they’re going to be ready for them. He’ll not be home until morning.’

‘In that case,’ Frank said, ‘I’ll get out of your way.’

Winifred gave him a faint smile.

‘I’ll see you out.’ Mary stood up. ‘I’ll put the kettle on in a minute, Mam.’

‘I’d rather have a stout, I think, Mary. Get me a mug, will you?’

At the door Frank bent his head and whispered, ‘See you tomorrow?’ His lips brushed her cheek.

There it was again; that small thrill of excitement. ‘Probably,’ she said.

Mary carefully slid her arm from under Ellen’s shoulder and folded the eiderdown around her neck, listening to the gulps and gradual slowing of her breath. Ellen had allowed Mary to comfort her and it had taken a while for her to calm down. Mary wasn’t sure whether it was genuine grief or guilt from the way she’d told Ted about the American soldier. She had suspected she was still seeing the Yank, tonight her mother had confirmed it.

She turned onto her side and tucked her hand under her cheek. Ellen’s ability to attract and keep the attention of boys, even if she was disinterested in them, had always baffled Mary. Ted had only ever had eyes for Ellen. Poor Ted … and poor Mrs Booth. She’d go and see her tomorrow; she must be in a right state.

Ellen hiccupped and moaned in her sleep. Mary
carefully rolled onto her back staring into the darkness. Perhaps her sister hadn’t ruined things after all with Frank. He’d made it obvious today that he fancied her and that he thought it worked both ways. And it did; she did like him, she liked how he made her feel, as though she was really alive for the first time in her life. But there was also something about him she didn’t understand, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She closed her eyes but the thought wouldn’t go away.

‘I’m just not sure about him. I thought he was too full of himself that first time at the house but he was different last night.’ Mary folded the crisp white sheet under the mattress. ‘I know he’s had a rotten time, I heard him telling Dad about it, but …’ She shook the blanket and it billowed over the bed. Jean caught hold of the corners and between them they spread it out and folded it under the mattress. ‘I just don’t know what to make of him.’ Picking up a pillow she held it to her and looked across the bed at Jean. ‘I told him about Tom … about him being in prison and why.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t get a chance to say anything. Mam and Ellen got back from the Booths’ just then, so I’m not sure how he felt.’ She handed the pillow to Jean and took another off the cupboard at the side of the bed.

‘Perhaps he’ll tell you next time you see him,’ Jean said, tucking the pillow under her chin and easing the case over the end of it, her voice muffled.

‘If there is another time. He could be as bad as the rest of that lot.’ Mary looked out of the long windows towards the guardroom. The northerly wind was whipping the bare branches of the trees, so that, with each gust and splatter of rain, they rapped against the panes. ‘When they first found out about Tom being a CO, they had a field day with their snide comments.’ She wondered if Frank was on duty. She could just make out the figures of three soldiers lounging on chairs in the guardroom. Frank wasn’t one of them. ‘Everybody has an opinion about COs and it’s usually unrepeatable.’ As she watched she saw Frank stride towards the small brick building, head bent against the weather. One of the other soldiers left and Frank reappeared just inside the doorway, smoking. Mary watched him gazing towards the hospital, his eyes following the span of the wards above hers and then along the length of the building until he came to the window where she was standing. He saw her and nodded. Mary lifted her hand and moved away from the window.

Jean gave the pillow a good shake and dropped it on the bed before saying, ‘Give him a chance, Mary. Patrick says he’s a decent bloke.’

‘Patrick could say the moon was made of green cheese and you’d believe him. He’s only known him five minutes.’

Jean flushed. ‘That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Personally I think Patrick is a good judge of character.’

‘I know.’ Mary smiled. ‘After all he likes my friend.’

‘And, as you know I’ve liked
him
for a long time.’ Jean was oblivious to Mary’s teasing. ‘But I thought I was too old for him.’

‘You’re all of what … three years older? Quite the old maid.’

‘OK, OK.’ Jean smiled. ‘But I meant what I said, give Frank a chance.’ She looked down at the patient, who had been waiting in a chair nearby. ‘Right, Egon, ready?’ The young man stuck his thumbs up, and they helped him on to the bed.

‘Danke.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Jean patted him on the shoulder. ‘Sleep, now.’

‘The age thing doesn’t bother Patrick though, does it?’ They moved to the next bed, Jean pushing the trolley that carried the two bowls of steaming water and disinfectant and the clean sheets.

‘Doesn’t seem to. He’s not mentioned it, anyway.’

‘Good. And you’re sure about him, how you feel I mean?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be? I know you two don’t always get on…’

An understatement if there was one, Mary thought. ‘We have our differences.’

‘But he and I get on like a house on fire.’

‘You mean blazing rows?’ Mary laughed again, but when Jean pulled her lips into a tight line she said, ‘Sorry, couldn’t resist.’

‘I’m happy, Mary. Be happy for us?’

Mary lifted her hands. ‘OK.’ But she frowned, thinking back to the short conversation she’d had with her brother shortly after he’d started courting Jean.

Patrick was in front of the kitchen mirror, leaning back with his knees bent so he could see his reflection and carefully arranging the natural waves of his dark hair.

‘Out with Jean again tonight?’ Mary was mending
the umpteenth ladder in the same stocking and wishing that, just for once, she could be like Ellen and always find someone to buy new ones for her. She’d gone off gallivanting as well. It seemed Mary that she was the only one with no social life.

‘What’s it to you?’ Patrick was staring at her, his brown eyes narrowed.

‘Nothing.’ Mary moved her shoulders, breaking the thread with her teeth and putting the needle back in the case. She stopped. ‘Well, actually, if you must know, I wondered why the interest in her after all this time.’

Patrick stretched his lips back over his teeth and examined them in the mirror; they were white and even. Mary knew he thought them his best feature and often used his smile to his advantage. He rubbed his forefinger over them. ‘She makes me laugh.’

Well, that’s a first, she thought.

‘And she’s good to talk to.’

For that read good at listening. ‘Met her mother yet?’ Mary asked.

‘Her Ma?’ He straightened up and turned towards her, fastening the studs on his shirt collar. ‘Yeah, course I have. I knew who she was. I’d seen her around before. I’ve been to the house a few times.’

‘You’re honoured. She doesn’t normally let men in that house since Jean’s father left.’

‘Well, she’s no choice really, has she? What with the house belonging to Jean.’

‘Jean?’ Mary was startled. Her friend had never mentioned that.

He grinned. ‘Yeah, didn’t you know?’ He put his overcoat on. ‘Her father arranged for it to be put in her
name when she was twenty-one.’

‘Her father left years ago.’

‘Yeah, but the house was still his. Jean said he’d done it through a solicitor.’ Patrick smirked. ‘Thought she’d have told you.’

Before Mary could say anything else he was gone.

Keep out of it, Mary told herself, mind your own business.

She and Jean worked efficiently. Chucking soiled bedding into the linen basket, wiping mattresses and working with newly starched sheets, they mirrored each other’s actions until, stopping at an empty bed, Jean glanced at the other two nurses on the other side of the ward and whispered, ‘Patrick told me about Frank the other day. About him being injured at Dunkirk. In confidence, of course, he doesn’t want it bandying around. Patrick says he doesn’t want anybody to know at the camp.’

Mary raised her eyebrows.

Jean saw her expression. ‘What?’

‘He told Patrick in confidence?’

‘Yes?’

‘And Patrick told you?’

‘Patrick tells me everything. We’ve agreed not to have secrets from each other.’

‘And now you’re telling me. I don’t think Frank would be too pleased, do you?’

‘I just thought it would help you to understand him better,’ Jean huffed, ‘I only wanted to help. Sorry I spoke, I’m sure.’

‘I just think if something’s been said in confidence, it
shouldn’t be passed around.’ Mary dropped her cloth on to the mattress and rubbed at a stubborn stain, ignoring the glower Jean was sending at her.

The ward doors swung open, an orderly pushed his way in carrying a mop and bucket and began to shift the bedside cabinets of the first two beds before slopping hot water over the floor,

‘We’d better get a move on, we’re running late,’ Mary said. They finished the bed in silence.

When Jean spoke again, her voice was cool. ‘Anyway, like I said, Patrick thinks he’s a decent chap. He wasn’t too happy when I told him about that first night at the pictures, but I think he’ll be OK about you being friendly with him now.’

‘That’s big of him.’ Mary folded her arms and leaned against the basket.

‘I think you’re spoiling for a row today.’ Jean stood with her hands on her hips.

‘No … no, I’m not.’ Mary couldn’t be bothered. Her friend had been different since she’d been going out with Patrick; influenced right away by him. ‘Let’s just get on, shall we.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s only three more, anyway.’ Jean smoothed her apron and pushed the trolley to the next bed. A minute later she burst out, ‘I can’t believe how much Mother’s taken to Patrick. He’s the first person she’s allowed in the house for ages.’

‘He …’ Mary wondered if she should tell Jean what her brother had said.

Jean misunderstood her hesitation. ‘Yes, he’s been a lot to the house. When he turned up that first night I could have died. I thought she’d have a fit, but before I could
say anything, there he was, sitting at the kitchen table unloading stuff off the black market; eggs, marmalade, biscuits.’

‘Oh, was he?’

The sarcasm was lost on Jean. ‘Well, after that he could do no wrong. You know her, anything for nothing. She says she can’t believe he’s brother to …’ Jean stopped.

Mary saw the confusion in her face. ‘The one who’s in prison? The conchie?’ She finished the sentence for her, a bitter smile twisting her lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jean mumbled. ‘She can be a right old cow, sometimes. Well, most of the time, really.’

Mary went over to the washbasin in the corner of the ward and picked up the small green bar of soap. She was angry at Jean’s mother, angry at Patrick. She couldn’t remember a time when his ability to play the black market had benefited his family. Now he was using his talent to get his feet under Jean’s table. She finished washing her hands and took a small towel off the rail under the basin. Well, who could blame him? Obviously he’d worked out a way of escaping from home. ‘Come on, we’d better hurry up. Matron will be here on her rounds before we can turn round.’

Drying her fingers she crossed the ward and looked out of the window again. The rain was heavier on the window and now the outline of the old mill was a blurred shadow. ‘We’re going to get wet, going home.’ She dropped the towel into the basket. ‘Right, let’s get this lot to the laundry room and finish our reports for Matron.’ She surveyed the room. Everything in its place. Patients back in bed, pinned down by immaculately white sheets. One or two of the men grinned at her and gave a thumbs-up sign. She smiled.
Sometimes, most of the time to tell the truth, she forgot they were the enemy.

‘Who’s on with her today?’

‘Schormann.’ Mary pulled a face. ‘Worse luck.’ She gestured to the other nurses to help Jean to move the basket. The wheels squealed in protest as they pushed it through the swing doors of the ward.

‘Sister?’

Mary turned. The German doctor was standing by the first bed, a clipboard in his hands. Oh hell, how long had he been there? She felt her face grow hot. ‘Doctor Schormann?’

He moved from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the stethoscope around his neck. ‘May I have a word?’

‘Can I help you, Doctor?’

‘I am hoping.’ His voice was low. ‘We had an unfortunate first meeting. I was rude. I offended you.’ He ran a hand over his short hair.
‘Entschuldigung Sie, bitte
. I am sorry.’

‘It really doesn’t matter, Doctor.’ Mary studied him, saw the humiliation in his eyes. They weren’t, as Jean had described them, like the eyes of a fish. They were a clear blue and framed by long blond lashes. She felt a flicker of sympathy for him.

‘It is important that we … how do you say … are in harmony,
ja
?’

‘I agree Doctor.’ At least it would make her life easier if they could work together with professional respect.

‘My name, it is Peter.’

‘I can’t.’ Mary lifted a hand to soften the words.

‘Of course.’ He clicked his heels together. His black shoes gleamed through the muddy rain marks. ‘I understand.’

‘I meant …’

His mortification was almost painful to watch. ‘I understand,’ he repeated, turning away from her.

Mary gazed thoughtfully at the ward doors gently swinging long after he’d left.