Changing Patterns

by Judith Barrow

  ‘Here’s as good as anywhere,’ he said when Ted, glancing at Peter’s tense expression, protested. ‘The road gets crappy further up.’

  Neither of the other two men missed the malicious glitter in Patrick’s eyes.

  Peter forced himself to look towards the old mill; the long rows of broken windows flashed, disparate shapes in the high glare of the sun. His eyes wandered along each storey of the building. The place still looked as intimidating as before. He shivered, thankful he would never have to set foot in the place ever again.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Ted nudged him. They ran, the old, ridged concrete crunching under their boots, the wooden platform hollow.

  The sound of their footsteps brought the ticket inspector to the entrance of the station. ‘What the heck? What’s going on?’

  None of them stopped to explain. Jumping down onto the line, they crossed over to the sidings, pushing through the brambles and weeds tangled around the couplings and wheels of the wagons.

  ‘Here, you can’t do that.’ The man waved his copy of the Bradlow Gazette at them as each of them chose a wagon and hoisted themselves up the side. ‘I’ll call the coppers.’

  Ted stopped for a moment. ‘We’re looking for my daughter. She’s missing,’ he shouted, ready to leap into the next wagon. ‘Have you seen anyone hanging around here with a little girl?’

  ‘No, mate, I haven’t.’ The ticket inspector folded the newspaper and pushed it into his pocket. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go round the buildings and check while you’re doing that. Forget the cops. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen you.’ He adjusted the peak of his cap and squinted, looking up and down the railway lines. ‘Watch out though, there’s a train due in twenty minutes.’ He disappeared into the waiting room.

  ‘Anything?’ Ted shouted to Peter who’d just emerged from the last truck in the line.

  ‘No.’ For a few seconds when he’d climbed into the wagon, Peter thought his heart would stop. A pile of clothes were bundled in one corner. But when he reached down to move them, he saw they were damp and mildewed and obviously untouched for a while. ‘Vagabund … a tramp … he must have slept here,’ he muttered, not knowing if he was thankful or disheartened. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Nah.’

  As they climbed back onto the platform the ticket inspector appeared at one of the doors. ‘Sorry. No sign of anybody being in that shouldn’t.’

  ‘Thanks anyway.’ Ted stood, arms dangling by his side, shoulders drooping. ‘Best get back to the house then.’

  They walked slowly back to the car.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I should not have raised your hopes. It was only an idea.’

  ‘Stupid idea,’ Patrick scoffed.

  ‘We had to try,’ Ted said. ‘Anything’s better than doing nothing.’ Slumping against the car, both arms on the roof, the sobs erupted.

  The two other men stared at each other. Peter knew the turmoil on Patrick’s face, the uncertainty, must be reflected in his own. He stepped forward and rested a hand on Ted’s back. Ted turned and held onto him, desperate tears shaking his whole body.

  The last time Peter had held a man in his arms was when he was leaving the farm and he’d hugged his brother. The contact had been brief, cursory, both men relieved when it finished. This time he tightened his grip, wanting to put strength into Ted.

  Patrick turned away, unwilling to show his own misery. He blinked rapidly.

  Eventually Ted’s sobs subsided. Peter let his arms drop to his sides.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  Peter lifted his shoulders, careful not to show his embarrassment. ‘It is fine,’ he said.

  Patrick was staring at the old mill. ‘What about the camp?’ he said and then contradicted himself. ‘Stupid idea, the mill’s closed up tight as a duck’s arse.’ He spoke rapidly, covering up his wretchedness. ‘Those gates must be ten foot high. And with all that fucking barbed wired on top … daft idea.’

  ‘They mended all the fences last year,’ Ted said. ‘Linda wouldn’t have been able to get in there.’

  A train rattled past on the line with a whoop of its whistle, leaving behind a thick trail of grey smoke. In the long silence that followed they stood dejected. ‘Unless,’ Peter said, ‘someone has taken her in there.’

  Ted cried out in despair.

  The blood pounded in Peter’s ears. He twisted around to look at his old prison. All that was left of the look-outs were wooden platforms interwoven with ivy and pink-flowered weeds. If he didn’t know what was behind them he could almost think they looked attractive. But beyond he could see the mill with the crumbling roof and broken jagged glass in the windows and it resurrected the fear that still lurked in him, the stuff of his nightmares. Bad memories rushed through his mind: the bullying from the guards, the intimidation of the Nazis and the cruelties used to dominate the other prisoners. One would live with him forever. The time Frank Shuttleworth shot him.

  But then he remembered a summer day, leaning against the wall of the mill, eyes half closed, the rugged line of the high moors in the distance shimmering in the heat. That was the day when he’d become conscious that he loved Mary.

  And she loved Linda.

  He stared at the gates. Only a few moments ago, he thought he would never have to go in that place again. Now he knew he had to. ‘We must look,’ he said.

  Chapter 82

  Ted held the padlock in his palm. The men looked at one another and then at the iron gates. The chain fastening them was new, the thick strong links looped twice around the bars, glittered silver in the sunlight.

  Peter cleared his throat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘how will this be done?’

  ‘Well, we’re not going to break this,’ Ted said, looking hopelessly around.

  Patrick weighed up the height of the gate. ‘If I stood on your shoulders I could shimmy up.’

  ‘The barbed wire?’ Peter pointed.

  ‘Chuck my jacket over it.’

  It took him a few minutes to work out footholds, oblivious to the painful shuffling of his heavy studded boots on the other man’s back. Giving one push against Peter, he wedged his toes in the crosspieces of the gate and, when close enough, threw the jacket over the top. The heavy tweed clung to the spikes of the wire. ‘Got it,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, get a bloody move on.’ He swung himself over to the other side and dangled, one arm outstretched. ‘Come on, these bloody things are sticking in my guts.’

  Peter took a few steps back and took a run. He leapt at the gates and grabbed one of the rails. It felt as though his arm was on fire as it took his whole weight. Then he pivoted, making his body rotate until the sheer force crashed him against iron and he hung on. He wouldn’t have been able to do this a year ago and thanked fortune for the muscles he’d built up through his gardening work. Scrabbling upwards he grasped Patrick’s hand and gained enough leverage to join the other man.

  For a few seconds they were suspended, the air wheezing and whistling in their chests. Then Peter slid down the other side.

  ‘Ted?’ Patrick motioned to him. ‘Come on, man.’ He clicked his fingers impatiently.

  Ted bit his lip. ‘I don’t think I can.’ Reaching up he could just touch the first cross. Frustrated he looked around.

  A man on the allotments was leaning on his spade and staring at them. When he saw Ted a look of recognition flashed across his face and he raised a hand.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man, I can’t hang on much longer.’ Patrick tried to tuck more of the thickness of his jacket under him.

  ‘Well, get down then, but leave the jacket there.’ Ted crossed the road towards the man.

  ‘It’s Ted Booth, ain’t it?’ The man jabbed his spade into bed of soil. ‘Heard your little un is missing.’

  ‘Yeah, thought we might look in there.’ Ted gestured with his thumb towards the old mill. Peter and Patrick stood watching behind the gate.

  The man looked doubtful. ‘How’d she get in?’

 
Ted ignored the question. ‘I need help to get over the gate.’ He looked over at the greenhouse. There was an old dustbin by the door. ‘Can I use that?’

  ‘Hmm – my burning bin? I’d want it back.’

  ‘I only want to use it to climb over.’ Without waiting for the man’s permission, Ted slid down the bank and climbed over the allotment fence. Emptying ashes and bits of burnt wood out of it he heaved it onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll bring it back.’

  At the gates Patrick had once again clambered onto Peter’s back and was waiting to hoist Ted over.

  When they were all three inside the camp, Patrick said, ‘Stick together or split up?’

  ‘Together.’ A tremor ran through Peter.

  ‘Separate,’ Patrick decided. ‘Where first? Ted?’

  ‘Top floors of the mill?’

  ‘You?’ Patrick glanced at Peter.

  ‘I know the hospital buildings,’ Peter said. He would avoid going into the compound if he could.

  ‘Right, you do those and we’ll start in the mill.’

  Peter watched Ted and Patrick as they ran across the crumbling concrete of the large yard and up the ramp where lorries used to load up those prisoners sent to work on farms. Two large doors hung crookedly on their hinges. He heard the echoing voices of both men as they shouted for Linda, saw their pale silhouettes against the dark of the windows on each landing.

  Peter walked towards the narrow entrance where the guardroom used to be. With the toe of his shoe he traced the outline of the foundations. There was an ashen taste in his mouth. This was no good, recollections did him no good.

  He whirled around to face the building that had been the hospital. He crossed the path and ran up the steps to the entrance. The doors were stiff but, with a little persuasion, gave way, scraping years of rubble with them. His footsteps were a hollow click on the floor. He took the stairs two at a time, stopping on each floor to shout Linda’s name, until he reached the top.

  Walking through the long wards he stared at the disarranged iron bedsteads, some missing springs, some head rails, and the moulding mattresses piled up in corners, now the homes of mice. Or rats, he thought seeing the large lumps of stuffing pulled out and arranged into nests and the size of the droppings everywhere. His mouth made an involuntary repulsed shape as he moved the mattresses with his foot.

  He only touched what he had to, the door handles, rotting blankets, cupboards large enough to hold a little girl. At each of those he instinctively held his breath, letting the air out in relief when he found nothing.

  And then he was in the ward where he’d worked with Mary. ‘Mein Gott,’ he whispered, ‘Gott in Himmel.’ Flies lay thick on the windowsills, bluebottles buzzed around his head. He flapped at them, cursing. Disturbed dust motes floated around him, shimmering in the gleam of yellow sunshine that forced its way through the grimed windows and lay in slanted rectangles on the floor. He heard water and crossed to the back of the ward to the small wash hand basin. A long green stain from beneath the tap to the plughole gave evidence to the years of wasted water. Peter tried to tighten it but it wouldn’t budge and he left it to drip.

  Finally he stood in the entrance again, marking off in his mind where he had been, making sure he’d missed nowhere. Two steps and he was outside, gratefully taking in the clean air. A train passed through the station without stopping, the thick smoke curling as it rose. He looked across at the mill. Ted was disappearing through the door to the officers’ quarters. Patrick was nowhere to be seen.

  There was still the boiler house to check. He felt his way along the dark corridors, the walls rough under his fingertips. Always dimly lit, now it was pitch black. When he came to the stone steps there was a slight glimmer of light from the air vents near the ceiling. He shouted, ‘Linda?’ The name bounced off the walls.

  A whistling flutter of wings made him stoop quickly as two pigeons brushed past his head and flew along the corridor. For a moment he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. Steadying himself he made his way down the steps until he was standing outside the heavy door. Running his hands over the surface he found a bolt. It was rough with rust but moved quite easily when he tugged it. The door still didn’t open. As he dropped his hand away his knuckles hit a large key. It took both hands to grasp and turn in the lock. A scraping of metal on metal.

  Standing in the doorway, he let his eyes get used to the gloom. Here, in this dismal place, he and Mary had first made love, desperate in their need for each other. They’d taken such chances to be together in those days, jeopardised so much, especially Mary. He remembered casting aside the terror of discovery, overwhelmed by his love for a woman he thought could never be truly his. He knew how lucky he was to have found her again.

  He shivered. At least then this room had been warm. The furnace, which covered most of the far wall, was always lit. Now it was cold, rusty and disintegrated. The wall was damp when he placed his hand against it. Grit crunched under his shoes, but became tacky as he took a couple of strides and stopped.

  He bent down and felt the ground. It was sticky. He lifted his fingers to his nose. Blood. Still fresh. His skin tingled with fear. ‘Oh mein Gott, kein.’ He squatted down, peered into the darkness and then shuffled forward holding one hand in front of him and one on the ground, brushing aside the years of dirt and grime until his fingers touched something. Stunned, he held the air in his lungs as he moved trembling fingers over a small foot. ‘Linda,’ he breathed.

  There she was; a small bundle of clothes, seemingly thrown into a crumpled heap. His heart stopped, silence all around him. ‘Linda?’ His hands hovered. And then his years of training came back with a rush. He held the pad of his thumb to the cold frail wrist and waited. It was there, the pulse. Relief flooded through him. He didn’t try to stop the sob that burst out.

  At his touch she stirred, moaned, began to cry.

  ‘It is all right, meine Kleine.’ He spoke softly. ‘Du bist jetzt in Sicherheit. You are safe now.’ Hooking his arms under her he rose, almost stumbling in his haste, out through the door, running along the corridors, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness.

  Outside the air was clean and fresh, the sky a brilliant blue as they emerged into the sunlight. Peter shrugged off the years of fear. ‘She is here,’ he shouted, ‘she is here!’

  They didn’t see George Shuttleworth watching them from the behind the wall of the bridge over the canal path. They didn’t see him turn and stumble down the steps. As they passed by they didn’t see him hiding under the bridge.

  And, late that night, no one saw him catch the last bus into Manchester.

  Chapter 83

  ‘How is she? Is she okay?’ Mary’s eyes were sore with crying but relief had dissolved the hard lump that had been in her throat.

  ‘She is well … she will be well,’ Peter said. ‘The hospital has told Ted she is dehydrated. It must be so. She was in that place for two days.’

  ‘Alone.’ Mary’s voice wavered. ‘She will have been so frightened.’

  ‘She is safe now.’ Peter didn’t tell Mary he’d found the little girl in the basement. Somehow, however awful the place, it held a precious memory of the first time they made love. He wouldn’t destroy that. ‘There is some shock,’ he added. ‘But they have done the X-rays on her head and on her ankle. Sadly, poor little girl, the ankle is broken but there is no problem through the bump on her head.’

  ‘Was there…?’ Mary faltered. ‘Was anything else, was anything else done to her?’

  The unspoken question hung between them.

  ‘No,’ Peter said. ‘Ted said there was nothing else.’ Although every instinct in him wanted to enfold Mary in his arms Peter carefully kept his distance. He would wait until she was ready, until she forgave him. If she ever did. The unwelcome thought forced itself into his brain. And then he couldn’t stand being so close to her yet not touching. He got up and walked to the window resting his head against the window pane and looking out onto the street. �
��The worst is over, Liebling.’

  Is it? Mary wondered. She kept her eyes on his back. He’d grown thinner in the months they’d been apart. The weight of unsaid words separated them. Neither of them had mentioned the previous night when she’d turned from him. Now, from the stiff set of his shoulders she knew he was waiting for her to say what she wanted. But the turmoil in her froze any decision. Whatever Peter needed, whatever she needed from him, would have to wait. She was exhausted and too weak to face up to what could be; that everything they had between them had now gone, destroyed by a dreadful secret. And she knew if she started to cry again she might not be able to stop. Because, now she was safe, it wouldn’t be for Linda. It would be for what she and Peter had lost. She wrapped her arms over the mound that held her … their baby.

  There was so much pain between them.

  Chapter 84

  ‘Can you tell us what the man looked like, Linda?’ Detective Hardcastle sat on the chair by the bed and leaned back, crossing his legs.

  Linda didn’t want to think about the nasty man. It made all the horrible feelings come back. She slid further down under the covers, shook her head and winced – the large bump on her head hurt. Her ankle, raised on a hard pillow, was bound in brown calico. ‘My foot’s hot,’ she whispered to her mother.

  ‘Nurse?’ Ellen looked up at the young woman next to her.

  ‘It’s a simple sprain but the ankle requires support so it needs the bandage on and must be kept still and raised up for now.’ The nurse smiled sympathetically at Linda.

  Her daughter looked so tiny. Ellen see-sawed between relief that she’d been found and rage at the person who’d done this to her. She clung on to Linda’s hand. She never wanted to let her out of her sight again. This was how she felt the first time she’d brought her home, she remembered; the journey on the train with Mary by their side, as always, she acknowledged. Mary. Always there when needed.

  How many chances in life were possible? Ellen realised that, for the last two days, she’d unconsciously convinced herself that her luck had run out. That she’d gambled once too often with her daughter’s life.