‘Yes. Ellen.’
‘What does she think about all this?’ He waved his hand around. She could hear the crump of bombs in the distance.
‘She’s too busy chasing the boys and finding ways to look beautiful,’ she said. ‘No, actually, that’s not fair. She works in the munitions factory, even though she hates it. She always swore she was going on the stage, she’s a good singer and dancer. But the war’s put paid to that idea for now, it seems. She’s lovely. We get on well. That’s all, really.’
They’d all been involved in the usual school plays and the pageants and procession that the Church had organised, even Tom, although he always managed to keep in the background. But only Ellen had really enjoyed it. Mary remembered watching her practice her lines, her movements, even her smile, in the mirror so that as a child she wasn’t sure if Ellen was genuinely happy or, as Mary often remarked, just, ‘arranging her face for a performance.’ Mind, she had to admit Ellen was good; she was, as their mother often said, ‘light as a feather on her feet and with the voice of an angel.’ She’d been taken on by the Apollo Theatre in Bradlow when she was not quite fourteen. True, it was only in the chorus but, as Bill had boasted one night after he’d warded off what he called ‘the door johnnies’ and escorted her home, the producer had told him she was destined for great things. Ellen had been unbearable for weeks. Mary could smile about it now but at the time she could have cheerfully throttled her sister.
She realised Frank was still speaking. ‘Sorry, what?’ she said.
‘I asked if she was good.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes she was, but the theatre where she was closed down in ’forty-two and she had to get a job.’ She didn’t add that Bill had refused to let Ellen go to London to be in a show there. ‘Look, let’s talk about something else, all right?’
‘OK.’
The noise outside faded away and conversation between the groups resumed. Mary struggled to think of a subject. Eventually she said, ‘Tell me about you, how you finished up in Ashford.’
He pinched his earlobe between thumb and forefinger. ‘The army helped me to get into the security side of the MOD and the pay’s OK. The Granville’s a cushy number, if I’m honest, and at least I get the satisfaction of seeing some of them bastard Krauts locked up, so I can’t complain.’
For a moment Mary thought about the young German soldier in the hospital and wondered if he was still suffering. ‘It must have been a bad injury for you to be out of the army so young. I have a friend who still works at Bradlow General and she says they’re patching them up and sending them back to France as soon as possible these days.’
‘Yes, well, they couldn’t bloody patch me up enough at the time to make me useful to them, so they got rid.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’
‘No, take no notice. It’s a bit of a touchy subject. I wanted to carry on, but all they offered in the regiment was a desk job and that wasn’t me, so here I am. I brought my mother up here with me. She’d been living on her own, just outside Rhyl in North Wales, so she’s glad of the company, and I can keep an eye on her. Anyhow,’ he said with a smile, ‘I’m fine now and if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met you, now, would I?’ He put his other hand to his chest and said, in a theatrical voice, ‘The love of my life.’
Mary couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her or not. Staring down at the floor, she felt her face flush. ‘Don’t talk daft.’
Neither spoke for a few minutes. They listened to the increased noise of engines above them. She felt his right leg beginning to tremble slightly and making an impatient clicking noise through his teeth, he pushed down hard on his bad knee until the shaking stopped.
‘This place reminds me of France,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I said this place –’ he held out his hands and spread his fingers ‘– reminds me of somewhere I was in France.’
‘Oh.’ She waited. ‘Is that where … where you were hurt?’ God, what a stupid thing to ask. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t remember feeling this awkward since her first date. Her one and only proper date, she corrected herself; studying and work had prevented what her father called ‘shenanigans’. She turned her head away, knowing her cheeks were scarlet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said
‘It’s OK.’ Frank took a packet of Woodbines out of his jacket pocket, tugged the flap open and pulled out a half-smoked cigarette. Striking a match, he cupped his hands around the flame and lit it. Loudly inhaling he tipped his head back and blew a spiral of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘It was an old lace factory on the border of France and Belgium near a place called Lille.’ He slapped his hand on the gritty flags next to him. ‘We slept on the stone floor there the whole winter of ’39. It was in the middle of a bloody swamp. For some daft reason they had us laying miles of barbed wire setting up defence posts. We never did work out why.’
There was a burst of laughter from one corner of the cellar. Two young women were looking in Frank’s direction and whispering. One raised a hand and waved at him. He grinned at them and nodded. ‘Two of the regulars here,’ he explained. ‘Pair of tarts.’
The fleeting annoyance she’d felt towards the girls subsided. She’d always envied the ones who went so casually into public houses, but if Frank’s opinion was typical of what men truly thought perhaps the war hadn’t changed people’s values that much after all. She took in a quick breath; she should try talking to Ellen again. Maybe she and her friends weren’t as ‘modern’ as they thought.
Frank was speaking again. ‘First two months it never stopped raining. Then the cold weather set in.’ He jerked his chin upwards. ‘It was bloody freezing. We had two blankets each, two sodding blankets. We were supposed to wash in a mobile bath unit but nobody wanted to take their clothes off so we stayed mucky,’ he snorted, ‘and stinking … not that we cared.’ The two vertical lines etched between his eyebrows deepened.
‘In the January we were moved to a place called Arras. That’s where a flu bug hit us. The “blitz flu” they called it. I didn’t get it but I lost two mates to it.’ He stopped and taking a deep drag on the cigarette, rested the back of his head on the wall.
Mary drew her legs towards her chest and held on to her knees. She felt the quivering of the outstretched limb again, against her buttock, aware this time that he disregarded the movement. The cigarette, held inwards towards his palm between his fingers and thumb, was close to his flesh but he seemed indifferent to the heat of the burning tobacco. His teeth, the front two slightly overlapping, were clamped on his lower lip. Then he shrugged and gave a short laugh. ‘Do you know what the worst bit was? The boredom … the waiting … the not knowing what the hell we were doing there. We were all fired up to kill the bloody Jerries and we never saw a bloody one. Not then anyway.’ He sneered. ‘Saw too many of the bastards later.’ Suddenly he swore and dropped the burning stub onto the floor. As he crushed it underfoot he flapped his hand, embarrassed. The landlord laughed but his wife called out, ‘You OK, lad?’
‘Yeah.’ Frank turned to Mary. ‘Now look what you’ve done, getting me to rabbit on.’ He said in a wry tone, ‘You should have shut me up.’
‘It was interesting.’ The trivial words hung in the air. Embarrassed she said, ‘I mean …’
Frank rolled his shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it. Nothing you can say, really.’ His voice trailed away. Suddenly he said, ‘Patrick’s angry about being in the mines, isn’t he? He told me how he tried to join up, how he drew the short straw. He should realise how lucky he is. It looks like it’s no picnic out there now. I bet your mother is relieved he’s not in the thick of it, being her only son, like.’
So Patrick hadn’t told him about Tom. Typical. But in a way she was glad her younger brother wouldn’t have told his friend what her older brother was really like. Both Patrick and her father had seen Tom’s stance as an insult to them. Bill had despised the sight of his stepson for years. Tom revealing his loathing for war, five year
s ago, gave him the perfect excuse to totally reject him. And Patrick was so terrified that anyone would think he felt the same never had a good word to say about Tom. ‘He’s not her only son. I have another brother,’ Mary now said and then stopped; she wasn’t ready to tell him about Tom. She straightened her legs and leant on the wall. The cold stone dug into her back.
Frank waited for her to start talking again but she didn’t. He wasn’t bothered; he liked a girl who kept quiet sometimes. He looked over at the two women again. One of them winked. Bloody brass. He turned towards Mary. He could smell the faint floral perfume on her skin and feel the tiny movements against his side as Mary breathed and he felt himself stir. He closed his eyes. He knew she would be worth waiting for. He’d known it the first time he’d watched her pass through the barrier at the camp back in January. In contrast to that short dumpy girl she was always with and all the other stupid, giggling nurses, she held herself aloof from all the easy banter between them and the guards. Frank liked a girl who had self-respect.
The room was filled with muted sounds until, amid groans from the others, one of the men playing cards laughed loudly and thumped on top of the barrel. With one sweep of his arm he gathered the pile of pennies towards him. There was a general shuffling and scraping as the bar stools were shifted and the men stood up. One of them stretched his arms out to the side of him and yawned irritably, raising his flat cap above his head between his thumb and forefinger and rubbing his scalp with the heel of his hand. ‘Bloody sick of all this hanging about night after night,’ he declared.
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Well, Jim, nothing we can do about it.’ The landlord sat up, his head cocked to one side. ‘Shurrup a minute, I can hear something.’ They listened. Someone was banging on the pub’s front door. Then, from above them, on the trap door, there was a loud thumping and a male voice shouted urgently, ‘Hello, is there anyone down there? Landlord? We need to use your shelter.’
Sighing, Stan struggled to his feet and, with the side of his boot, pushed the tin box he had been sitting on towards his wife.
‘Here, look after this, Betty, and watch it, I’ve counted it all.’
‘Cheeky bugger,’ she said.
They listened to him cross the floor of the bar and pull back the heavy rasp of the bolts on the door, suddenly aware of the louder drone of aeroplanes.
‘They seem pretty close tonight,’ one woman whispered and was instantly hushed. Everyone waited, glad of a diversion to the boredom, curious to see who would come down the steps.
A young couple clattered down, followed by Stan, shaking his head in disapproval. ‘Mary?’ he called to her, indicating the girl with his thumb.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, ‘Ellen.’ Her instinctive reaction to protect her sister was swamped by mortification. The man, a GI, was supporting her, his arm around her waist. She lolled against him, giggling softly. The American removed his cap and confidently greeted his silent audience. ‘Sorry folks. We’ve been dancing in Bradlow and I was walking my girl here home when the sirens went. I don’t know these parts too well, so a warden pointed us in the right direction. Anyway, we’ll just sit down over there, out of everybody’s way.’ As he guided Ellen, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘Thanks again, landlord. I’m sure grateful to you.’
Stan grunted. The man called Jim spoke loudly, ‘You should be bloody ashamed of yourself, flashing your cash and getting the lass in that state. Bloody ashamed.’ There were murmurs of agreement.
The landlord’s wife folded her arms under her sagging bosom. ‘Disgraceful,’ she said through pursed lips.
Unconcerned, the American half-carried Ellen towards the far end of the room to where the dusty crates were stacked. She stumbled over the two young women and shrieked with laughter. ‘Whoops, mind out.’
They pushed her away angrily.
‘Just watch it, stupid cow.’
‘Clear off.’
Ellen lurched sideways and grabbed a barrel. It tilted, the contents sloshing and the two girls yelled in alarm.
The soldier reached out and steadied it. ‘Come on, honey, let’s get you sitting down.’ She fell against the wall and slid down on to the floor.
‘Just settle down, now,’ Stan said. He gave Mary another glance; he obviously thought she should do something about Ellen. When she didn’t, he shrugged and raised his voice. ‘They seem to have hit Manchester badly, again. It’ll be a rotten morning for that lot.’
Mary stared at her sister, anger vying with shame. She saw the soldier stroke her sister’s face with a forefinger, lifting her chin so he could kiss her whilst his other hand came slowly to rest over Ellen’s breast. ‘Ellen!’ Shocked into action, Mary now launched herself across the cellar. ‘You dirty beggar, that’s my sister.’ The American lifted an arm above his head as Mary lashed out at him. ‘She’s eighteen, not old enough to drink and look at her. Get your hands off her.’
‘Bloody Yanks!’ Frank, using the wall for support, struggled to his feet, but Stan was there first.
‘Now, now, Mary, enough of that.’ He held on to her arm. ‘I said enough, lass.’
‘It’s OK, Mr Green.’ Mary shook him off. ‘I’ll see to her.’
Ellen opened her eyes. ‘Mary, what are you doing here?’ She squinted upwards. ‘Al?’ Between them Mary and Frank dragged the protesting girl to her feet. Everyone watched, enjoying the drama. ‘Get off me, Mary, give over.’ She glowered at Frank, ‘Take your hands off me. Al?’
The soldier shrugged, holding out his hands in defeat. ‘Sorry, babe.’
The noise woke up the old woman and she broke wind. There were groans all around and one of the men who had been playing cards shouted at her, ‘Oi, behave Martha, the air’s bad enough in here without your help.’ Frank manoeuvred past her and they sat down next to the publican.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mary said, mortified. ‘Mam’ll go spare when she sees her.’
‘As long as she knows she didn’t get like that here, love,’ the woman said. ‘We don’t want any trouble. It’s hard enough making a living out of the business these days without the bobbies coming down on us.’
Mary glared over at the American, who tipped his cap over his eyes, folded his arms and slouched against the wall.
Frank touched her arm. ‘I’ll help you to get her home.’
She nodded. Ellen’s snores prevented more conversation. Eventually, one arm around her sister, Mary also fell asleep. When the all clear siren howled it was turned midnight.
They stumbled out of the cellar into the darkness supporting Ellen between them. ‘I’ll see you two home before I go to work,’ Frank said. ‘They’ll understand why I’m late with that lot going on tonight.’
‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that.’
The roads were quiet, blackly damp from the earlier rain. Musky smoke wafted through the air. They heard the rattle of bells and, in the distance, a dull orange glow contrasted against the dark clouds that had reappeared. A dog barked, a frantic yapping that culminated in a howl. Soon its call was picked up by another and another until the night was filled with canine distress.
‘Listen to those dogs,’ Mary said, glad to break the awkward silence between them. She stopped, the weight of her sister dragging on her arm.
‘Here, give her to me.’
‘I could murder her. I bet you wish you’d just gone for a pint on your own.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Mary relinquished the sagging figure as Frank bent down and scooped Ellen up into his arms.
‘Can you manage?’
‘Course.’
The noise from the dogs rose into a crescendo. ‘Poor things,’ Mary said.
‘Like dogs?’ Frank’s words were clipped with the pain in his knee.
‘Yes, we’ve never had one, though. Dad hates them.’
‘I had one when I was in France. Skipper, I called him.’ Stopping to hitch Ellen closer to his chest, he half-turned towards Mar
y. ‘Little black and white spaniel. Brought him back with me hidden under my blanket on the stretcher. When we landed back in Southampton they took him away. Told me they were going to put him in quarantine but I found out they’d put him down in case he carried rabies. Bastards!’
‘That’s awful!’
‘Aye, well, it was only a dog.’ They fell silent as they walked past the large shadow of the church.
Mary pointed across the road. ‘There’s a short cut just past the cemetery, through Skirm.’ They entered the local park, gateless since the early days of the war, and slowly made their way along the paths. The moon, previously hovering behind the skein of clouds, now hazily revealed itself and the stark branches of the trees were etched against the fuzzy disc of pale lemon. Mary gazed upwards. ‘Good job the moon wasn’t out when the raid was on.’
When they reached the park lake, she could hear the small rowing boats rubbing together as they swayed and the water slapping against the wooden platform where they were tied up. ‘Tom, my elder brother, used to take me on the boats all the time when I was a kid,’ she said.
Frank looked surprised. ‘He’s not at home now, though?’
‘No.’ Mary wavered. She almost told him about Tom, then didn’t. She wasn’t ashamed of her brother but she didn’t know Frank. He seemed kind enough, despite his earlier cockiness; look what he was doing for her now. But still…
‘How old is he?’
‘Thirty-four, twelve years older than me.’
Frank raised his eyebrows.
‘Mam was … Mam was married before.’ So? she thought, a white lie, so what?
He pointed to the wooden bench at the side of the path. ‘Do you want to sit there for a minute?’
She glanced at Ellen whose head rested against his shoulder. A strand of blonde hair had fallen over her face and Mary tucked it behind her ear.
Ellen flailed a hand in the air and wriggled irritably. ‘Stop it.’
Mary sighed. ‘No, it’ll still be wet from the rain. Anyway, we’d better get her home. Put her down now, Frank, let’s see if she can walk.’ Although in the shadows, she could still see the strain on his face, the tightness of his lips, and Mary fumed at the situation Ellen had put her in. She spoke sharply, ‘Come on you, try walking.’ She patted her sister’s arm. ‘Come on, stand up.’
Pattern of Shadows Page 4