Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  Ellen sucked hard on the cigarette before answering. ‘Okay,’ she said, with a deep sigh and gulping a few times. ‘However much I hate her, I have to say it’s not just his bloody mother.’ Her eyes filled. ‘Ted’s having an affair. He’s messing about with the girl he took on in the shop.’

  ‘From next door? The couple who moved in after Mrs Jagger died?’

  ‘The same.’ Ellen was crying again. ‘And I’m not going back home and I don’t want him here, not until I’ve decided what to do about it.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘Do you believe this of Ted?’ Peter made quick regular jabs at the damp soil with the hoe, clipping out small weeds. ‘Has she spoken of it again since yesterday?’

  ‘No.’ Perched on the low stone wall that surrounded the back garden Mary heaved a long sigh. ‘It seems far-fetched from what I know of him.’

  ‘You said he knows he was not Ellen’s first or even second choice?’ Peter spoke thoughtfully, careful not to say Frank Shuttleworth’s name in case it upset Mary. In case it brought too many things out into the open. ‘Do you think he is, how do you say it, playing Ellen at her own game?’

  ‘It’s so long ago, Peter. Why would Ted wait until now to have an affair? And anyway he worships her.’ Could Patrick have been mischief making? He had made trouble between Ted and Ellen before. But why would he?

  ‘And Ellen thinks it is the neighbour?’

  ‘Mmm, a girl called Doreen Whittaker. She moved next door after the old lady who lived there died. Her husband’s in the Territorial Army or something. So, if there is anything going on, it’s a fairly recent thing.’

  ‘Has Ellen the evidence? There is something she has seen?’

  ‘No … I don’t know. She won’t talk about it now.’

  Peter leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand on top of the handle of the hoe and studied Mary. He thrust the hoe into the ground and went to sit beside her. Taking her hand in his, they sat without speaking, watching the skylarks swoop and dive above the fields beyond the garden.

  The leaves of the apple trees fluttered, shooting flashes of late afternoon sunlight across their faces. The first new stems of beetroot and the long straight leaves of onions were sturdy in the ground. In the greenhouse healthy tomato plants were creeping up the staked canes. To Mary it seemed wrong that the garden still flourished without Tom, but she couldn’t say anything to Peter. She knew he thought it was what she wanted. And perhaps it was.

  She could hear the gramophone through Gwyneth’s open windows: ‘… for parting is not goodbye/ We’ll be together again.’ Mary listened until the song ended.

  ‘Gwyneth’s in one of her melancholy moods again,’ she said.

  Peter glanced at her, puzzled.

  ‘Frank Sinatra,’ she explained, gesturing towards next door. ‘When she feels sad she always plays his records.’

  ‘Ah.’ Peter bowed his head. ‘And you, meine Geliebte, how do you feel? You look pale.’

  ‘Tired,’ Mary admitted, ‘upset by the inquest, dreading the funeral, worried about Ellen.’ And aware, yet again, how he’d avoided mentioning Frank Shuttleworth.

  ‘Ah, yes, Ellen.’ Peter chafed his palms together, rubbing dried grains of soil from his fingers.

  Mary heard the pensiveness in his voice. She guessed that Peter wanted her sister to go home and leave them to grieve on their own. But would he be that selfish?

  ‘I’m sorry, Liebling.’

  Had her thoughts about him shown on her face? ‘No.’ Mary turned her face to his. ‘Hush.’ He was only thinking of her, she reminded herself. Just as not talking about Frank was his way of not upsetting her, she was sure of that.

  He brushed his lips over her forehead, across her cheek until his mouth met hers. ‘Ich liebe dich,’ he whispered.

  She locked her fingers together at the back of his neck. ‘I love you too, Peter. I always will.’ Was this the right time to tell him about Tom and what he’d done? But his next words took her by surprise.

  ‘So? We will marry. Ja?’

  It was what she’d been wanting, waiting for. She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘oh yes, we will marry.’

  It wouldn’t be easy. There would be opposition, even hatred from some. But being together was what she’d dreamed of during the war. She refused to acknowledge the apprehension that trickled down her spine.

  She would wait for the right time to tell Peter that she’d realised it was Tom who’d killed Frank.

  Chapter 12

  THOUGHTS STOP PRAYERS WITH YOU STOP ARRIVING THURSDAY ONE O’CLOCK TRAIN STOP LOVE JEAN

  Mary was tense waiting at the station, walking first one way towards the bridge that arched over the single line of tracks, and then the other, until she reached the end of the platform where old wagons were shunted together, their steel wheels rusted to the sidings. There she turned her face to the sun; the mix of warmth and the slight breeze felt good on her skin and for a few moments she relaxed.

  Then the signal juddered and clanged upwards and she heard a faint high-pitched shrilling. Shielding her eyes she turned, seeing only a trail of smoke at first. And then, all at once, with a great rush of noise the black barrelled engine steamed alongside the platform, followed by three carriages and the post wagon.

  She was sure Patrick wouldn’t be with Jean. Even so, Mary couldn’t help looking beyond her when she saw the familiar plump figure bustle off the first carriage and drop her suitcase onto the platform. To Mary’s relief there was no sign of her brother. She watched Jean help Jacqueline to jump from the step of the carriage and when the little girl ran towards her holding out her arms Mary lifted her and hugged her. Jean walked towards her in her usual manner, the slight waddle, worse in recent years, with feet planted outwards in what Winifred used to call her ten-to-two-feet march.

  The two women hesitated as if unsure of each other, then hugged.

  ‘Look at you, skin and bone,’ Jean said, pursing her lips, her head to one side. ‘Doesn’t suit you.’

  Mary noticed the short sleeves of her friend’s yellow dress cutting into her upper arms and the roll of flesh around her waist above the belt but said nothing. In spite of everything she was glad Jean was here. She missed her and, regardless of their split loyalties between Peter and Patrick, she realised she needed her friend now. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She had to shout above the sudden loud hiss of steam from the locomotive. She kissed the top of Jacqueline’s head. ‘Lovely to see you too, love.’ Grabbing hold of the little girl’s hand she pulled her away from the hot spray that shot out from between the coupling rods. ‘Come on, let’s find that bus.’

  It took Jean until they had settled on the single-decker before she said, ‘Patrick says sorry he can’t get away. He’s too busy. One of the women who works the stall for him in Bradford is sick so he’s having to run between there and Rochfield all week.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mary said, doubting he’d ever think of apologising for anything. Her younger brother – her only brother now she realized with shock – was such a bigot. Jean didn’t need to make excuses for him. Mary’s resentment, that even Tom’s death wouldn’t bring him to see her, was exacerbated by knowing Patrick wouldn’t come because of Peter. And Jean knew that as well.

  ‘Ellen?’

  ‘She’s struggling.’

  ‘Hmmm. I went to see Ted. He was really upset about Tom. He couldn’t come – his mother had a turn and he couldn’t leave her.’

  I’ll bet she did, Mary thought. ‘It’s a shame he couldn’t find someone to stay with her,’ she said. Holding onto the back of Jacqueline’s seat as the bus driver changed gears with a grind and stutter of the engine, she had to raise her voice above the rattle. ‘Ellen could do with him here.’ She stopped, not wanting to talk about Ellen’s problems.

  Jean wagged her head. ‘Ted’s going mad without her in the shop. He told Patrick his bread orders have gone right down – right down.’

  ‘I thought t
he girl who’s moved into Mrs Jagger’s house was helping him?’

  ‘Doreen Whittaker? Hmm, yes, well, she’s neither use nor ornament as far as I can see. And a right flighty piece if you ask me.’

  ‘Flighty? How do you mean?’ Mary tried to sound unconcerned.

  ‘What I said. She’s not been in the town much above six months and from what I hear she’s worked her way around quite a few of the local men.’

  ‘Ellen says she’s married.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to stop her. He’s in the Territorial Army and in Nottingham a lot, so they say.’

  The bus picked up speed and the noise made it impossible to talk for the next few minutes. They swayed in their seats as the vehicle swung around the bends and twists of the narrow, hedged-in road.

  When the bus stopped accelerating and quietened slightly, Jean spoke again. ‘How Ted puts up with that mother of his I’ll never know. Twice last week he didn’t open the shop because she said she was having a funny do and couldn’t be left. He says only Ellen can deal with her when she’s like that.’

  Perhaps it was as Ellen said. Perhaps Ted didn’t want to know what problems his wife had with his mother. Mary kept quiet.

  ‘I offered to look in on her but she was having none of it. It had to be Ted or nobody with her,’ Jean said. ‘She’d do better if she didn’t eat as much. She’s enormous now – just sits all day in that corner like a great fat spider, watching everything that goes on.’ She leant forward as the bus stopped and a line of people scrambled up the steps. ‘Jacqueline, come and stand by your Auntie Mary.’

  The little girl squeezed onto Mary’s knees instead and Mary gave her a cuddle as the bus lurched forward. ‘All right, love?’ She savoured the way the little girl snuggled trustingly against her but was troubled by the sadness in her eyes. ‘You okay?’

  ‘No Uncle Tom, Auntie Mary?’ Jacqueline’s chin quivered. ‘I wish he was back from Heaven.’

  ‘Me too, sweetheart, me too.’ She kissed her. ‘Linda’s really looking forward to seeing you. She’s so bored with her little brother. She said we had to hurry up so she could have someone proper to play with.’

  Jacqueline giggled. ‘I’ve brought my John Bull printing set with me, Auntie Mary.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll love that. Did Mummy buy you that for your birthday?’

  Jacqueline nodded, her thumb tucked into the corner of her mouth.

  Jean pulled at her daughter’s hand. ‘No thumb sucking,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop her doing that.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Mary smiled at Jacqueline.

  ‘Linda missed Jacqueline’s birthday party because Ellen brought the kids down here,’ Jean said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to have another party, won’t we?’ Mary hugged her niece. ‘Two birthday parties, all thanks to Auntie Ellen. Not bad eh?’

  Jacqueline cuddled closer. ‘Smashing!’

  Mary watched the conductor making his way towards them, stopping at each passenger and leaning against the metal poles as he turned the handle of his ticket machine and dropped the fares into his leather satchel. She searched in her handbag for her purse. ‘Ellen sent a telegram to Ted to say she was staying here for a while to help me.’ Holding up a shilling she said, ‘Two and a half, please,’ and waited until the man gave her two pink tickets and a blue one and moved past them before she said, ‘but, to be honest I’m not sure she should stay. Peter and I don’t think it’s doing her any good being here. She cried all the way through the inquest and now she says she can’t go to the funeral, even though Gwyneth’s offered to have the kids.’

  ‘Some support.’ Jean’s mouth twisted. She didn’t acknowledge the mention of Peter. ‘How is Gwyneth by the way?’

  ‘She’s struggling as well. It’s brought everything that happened to Iori back. She lived for him. All she’s said is that Tom and Iori are together now. She has her faith.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Mary could tell Jean was embarrassed. Stubbornly she continued, ‘We all knew Tom loved him, Jean. We’re just not allowed to say.’

  ‘Well,’ Jean faltered. ‘Well, that’s as maybe.’ She sniffed, her mouth turned downwards. ‘That’s as maybe.’ They travelled a while in silence. When Jean next spoke she sounded defensive. ‘I did try to make Patrick come, Mary. He’s not an easy man, you know. He’s a past master of bad moods.’

  ‘You’re telling me. But you can hold your own on that score, I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of your moods many a time.’ She leant towards Jean, touching her forehead with her own, noticing at the same time a small bruise on her friend’s cheek. ‘What did you walk into this time?’ She smiled. Jean was very short-sighted but sometimes her vanity stopped her wearing her glasses.

  ‘Cupboard door.’ Jean dismissed Mary’s question with a flick of her hand. ‘Moods don’t work with Patrick, though.’

  ‘So what does?’

  Jean shrugged. ‘Not a lot. You were always the one to handle him, Mary.’

  ‘Hardly. I’ve watched you with him over the years. You’re perfectly capable of keeping a tight rein on him.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ Jean fidgeted, looked uncomfortable. After a moment she nodded towards the window. ‘I always think how lovely it is round here,’ she said, ‘but not home though, is it? Not home.’

  ‘I know what you’re getting at,’ Mary said, ‘and even with Tom – even with what’s happened, I won’t be coming back to Ashford.’ She watched Jean. From her sister-in-law’s frustrated expression it was obvious she was struggling not to argue.

  Mary held her hand up. ‘I’m glad you’re here. And this little one.’ She stroked Jacqueline’s hair as she dozed against her shoulder.

  ‘So am I.’ Jean pushed at the bridge of her glasses with her forefinger and settled further into her seat, her hand on her daughter’s knee. ‘So am I. She’s as exhausted as I am.’

  ‘How’s she been?’ Mary whispered.

  ‘Upset, not sleeping well. And she’s wet the bed twice since I told her about Tom.’ Jean hesitated, her voice quiet. ‘But that’s been going on a while now, thinking about it. Patrick and me – well, we’ve been arguing a lot lately. I’m hoping she’ll be all right when we get to your house.’

  Patrick would argue with the devil, Mary thought but instead only said, ‘It’ll help Linda being there.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Jean paused. ‘Ellen shouldn’t have come rushing down here. I’m sure it hasn’t helped you.’

  ‘I’ve got Peter.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

  Whatever opinion Jean had about Peter Mary didn’t want to hear. ‘Look, here’s our stop,’ she interrupted, gathering Jacqueline into her arms. She reached up and pressed the bell on the nearby rail, waiting for the bus to slow down before standing.

  Peter was at the gate watching for them. He took Jacqueline by one hand and the suitcase in the other, in spite of Jean’s protests. When he bent to greet her, she stiffly offered her cheek and murmured, ‘Hello,’ before walking up the path to the cottage and adding, ‘you smell of pipe tobacco. Mary said you’d taken up a pipe – revolting habit.’

  Mary and Peter exchanged wry expressions. This was going to be a difficult visit.

  Chapter 13

  ‘You have to go back to your husband, my girl, that’s what you need to do. Go back to your husband.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you, you interfering old bag?’

  ‘He needs you in the shop. Patrick says you—’

  ‘Patrick says, Patrick says – he might rule your life but what makes you think I care what he says? The only brother whose opinion I cared about was—’

  ‘Tom’s? Well, m’lady, you kept that a good secret. From what I saw, you had no more time for him than the man on the moon. You’ve only ever done what you wanted. You’ve driven Mary mad in the past and here you are again. She’s enough to cope with living with that man in there. She’ll have
the life of hell and all you can do is heap more trouble on her.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Mary flung the bedclothes off and felt around in the dark for her dressing gown.

  Peter held her arm. ‘No, Liebling, it is of no matter.’

  But it was. They’d listened to the strident voices of Jean and Ellen for the last five minutes and Mary sensed the growing tension in him.

  ‘No matter?’ The dreadful apathy that had protected her since Tom was killed was shattered by the triviality of Jean and Ellen’s squabbles. As always she was being forced to be peacemaker between them. ‘Of course it matters, Peter. They’re in our home and I won’t put up with it.’

  The door opened and a ripple of light from the landing revealed the silhouettes of the two little girls. Although Linda was a few months older her head only just reached the shoulder of her cousin. She stood, thumb in her mouth, twiddling a lock of her hair around her finger of the other hand, cheeks wet with tears; the image of Ellen as a child, Jacqueline held on to her protectively, her solid square figure a miniature of Jean as she stood, feet placed firmly on the floor, fist on hip.

  ‘Our mummies are falling out.’ The words were accusing.

  ‘I know.’ Mary fastened her dressing gown. ‘They’re very naughty.’ She picked up Linda, feeling the quivering sobs as she held her close. Her hand firmly on the flat of Jacqueline’s back, she ushered them into their room. William, still asleep, looked so tiny in what had been Tom’s bed and for a moment there was a catch in her throat. ‘Come on now, settle down. Look after your brother, Linda. Jacqueline, I’m relying on you to see to both your cousins?’

  Jacqueline nodded, her dark curls bobbing vigorously as she scrambled into bed. ‘I will.’ She stretched her plump little arms as far as she could past William and across the pillow, stroking the top of Linda’s head with her fingertips.

  Such an old-fashioned little thing, Mary thought, stopping by the door to look back at the three children, so protective of Linda, always looking out for her. In spite of her anger she smiled. The two girls had their eyes screwed tightly as if in determined sleep.