Changing Patterns (22 page)

He jerked away from her.

‘Peter!’

‘
Nein
.’ He held his hand to stop her speaking. ‘I left my family to find you, to be with you.’ He turned his back to her. ‘I thought I was your family?’ Peter raised his eyebrows, his voice haughty. ‘That is what you have told me. I believed you. Yet now you leave.’

‘Yes.’ Mary raised her voice against his stubbornness. ‘Now I leave. To help
my
family. I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t ask you to leave Germany. I was…’ She stopped. She wouldn’t lie, she hadn’t been happy, but she’d learned to live with the sadness. ‘I was okay before you came back.’

‘So? Now we have the truth.’ His proud upright stance was once something that had antagonised her, which she’d grown to love. Now it was as if she saw the old arrogance in the way he straightened his broad shoulders, in the emotionless gaze.

Mary felt suddenly sickened. ‘I grew up with a bully,’ she said. ‘Two bullies actually. I thought you were different.’

‘I am not the bully. The war showed me what is a bully.’

Mary thought of Frank and knew that Peter was thinking of him too. But his next words made no sense.

‘I saved you from a bully.’

The room was still. They waited, watching one another.

Mary turned away from him and stared through the window. Across the road the blackthorn hedge shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Her mind worked feverishly. She blinked rapidly trying to work out what he was saying. ‘Saved me?’ she said finally, stressing her words. ‘What do you mean, you saved me
?
When did you save me?’ She sensed him move closer, heard his shallow rapid breathing.

‘Mary.’ This time he sounded more like the Peter she knew.

But she was angry. ‘What do you mean, you saved me?’ Her voice was harsh, because an unwelcome understanding was hovering at the back of her mind. How? How could it have been him? It was Tom. Perspiration trickled down the nape of her neck. Yet she was so cold.

She felt the touch of his fingers on the bare skin of her arm. This time she pulled away.

‘What are you saying, Peter?’

‘I should have told you before.’ Now he was almost pleading. ‘It would have been better if I had told you the day I came back.’

‘Told me what?’ Mary faced him.

‘I did it for you.’

Oh God, no. She saw him swallow. Forcing out the words she whispered, ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

He nodded, his face slackened.

‘Say it.’

He looked away, towards the window.

Mary grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Say it.’

‘It was I … I was the one … I killed Shuttleworth.’

She moaned and pushed him away from her. He stumbled back a couple of steps but kept his gaze on her.

She couldn’t bear to look at him. Her voice trembled. ‘You let me think it was Tom.’

‘Tom, he knew, Mary, I swear he knew. He did not want me to tell you. That day, the day I arrived, we spoke about it. He told me it was all in the past and that I must not mention it again.’ He tried to make her turn to him but she knocked his arm away. ‘But I had to. Only a month before he was … he died … we talked. He was reluctant but he knew I needed to speak with him about it. We were working in the war memorial garden. On part of the plaque there were the names of four brothers, four sons from the same family.’ Peter followed her around the room as she walked away from him. ‘It made me think of the devastation of the war. And then of my part in it.’ She stood still by the side of the bed. He stopped behind her. ‘I told Tom, I said that for years I had saved lives and yet I do not think of that. I think of the one life I took. And I think of another man being blamed for my action, of Tom being blamed for what I had done. And I am ashamed.’ She could barely hear him for the loud rushing noise in her ears but she felt the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck and it revolted her. ‘Tom said he forgave me, Mary.’

She twisted away from him. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘He said he forgave me,’ Peter insisted. ‘I am not sorry I killed Shuttleworth. But I am sorry your brother was blamed. And I am sorry I kept the truth from you.’

‘I told you about the letter he sent to Gwyneth.’ She spun on her heel to face him and raised her voice. ‘You let me think it was Tom,’ she screamed at him, her eyes wild. ‘No!’ She stretched out her arm. ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t ever come near me again.’ The rage strengthened her. ‘I hate you.’

All night she lay, silent and inflexible, by his side, knowing there was a gulf between them that had been inconceivable yesterday; one that grew with every hour that passed. She didn’t sleep. The fear of saying goodbye to him in the morning, and the awareness in her heart of hearts that she wouldn’t be coming back, kept her awake. Five years ago she had run away from Ashford to the safety of Wales. Now she would be escaping from the very place she’d felt protected, away from a man she loved yet couldn’t abide being near.

In the morning she turned her head towards him. He was awake, watching her.

‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘You’ve ruined everything. I’ll never forgive you.’

She left without speaking again.

Peter wanted to reach out, to touch her, to take the few strides it would need to get to the gate and to kiss her. In the end his guilt and his pride wouldn’t let him.

He should have stopped her. But he didn’t. He watched her walk away.

Mary didn’t remember much about the journey to Ashford. Her quarrel with Peter, the reality of Frank Shuttleworth’s death, the horrifying memory of Tom flung into the air, melded into a confusion of images she couldn’t escape. She stared at the passing scenery through the window. A thick low mist covered the ground, leaving only the bare branches of trees reaching skyward like skeletal arms. As the train moved northward, the shapes above the fog changed to the oblong mills or tall black-rimmed chimney stacks.

When she stepped out of the carriage, Ted was waiting. He wore only a jacket and his overalls, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Drizzle from the mist glistened on his flat cap and the metal studs on his boots clinked on the concrete flags as he stamped his feet. When Mary kissed his cheek his skin was damp and icily cold.

‘How long have you been here?’ she said. ‘You look frozen.’ She fastened the knot of her headscarf under her chin.

‘I’m fine.’ His tone was grim but he managed a smile and a hug as he took her case from her. ‘Peter all right? He didn’t mind you coming?’

‘I’m here now,’ she said, avoiding the question. ‘Let’s get home.’ She gave an inward start; how easily she’d thought of Henshaw Street as home, even after all these years.

They walked quickly, Mary barely giving a glance towards the derelict mill. The Granville belonged in the past, just as she was determined Peter did. The hurt and bitterness increased each time she thought about the last years with Tom. She knew Tom was quite capable of forgiving Peter for all the years of suspicion and Mary persuaded herself she would have as well, if only he had confessed as soon as he realised Tom was blamed. On the train she’d been determined to concentrate on what was happening in Ashford but it was impossible. Worried her face had given her away she glanced at Ted but he just gave her a brief smile, concentrating on getting back to Henshaw Street as soon as they could.

They passed St John’s church, the serried rows of gravestones behind the wide stone. Mary automatically looked towards the middle of the cemetery where Frank was buried. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, drawing her coat closer and shutting out her thoughts. ‘How’s Ellen?’

‘Won’t get up.’

They crossed the road and hurried through Skirm Park. Mary had avoided the place each time she’d returned to Ashford, since they moved to Wales. There were too many memories of childhood, of Tom, of being separated from Peter, of the time she thought happiness was an elusive memory. And now it seemed that was finally, irrevocably true.

‘Who’s with her now?’

‘Jean. She’s been brilliant. But she’s got more than enough on her plate without us.’

‘How are things between her and Patrick?’

‘Same.’

‘Well, I can stay as long as you need me to.’

In the centre of the park the grey surface of the lake was ruffled by the wind that stung her cheeks.

‘The wedding?’

‘We’ve put it off for now.’

‘Not because of us?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Aw, Mary.’

They’d reached the other side of the park before a thought struck her. ‘Ted, I’m sorry, I should have asked. How are you? With your mother…?’

He brushed her concern away.

She knew not to say any more. ‘How are the children?’ she said instead.

‘Linda hasn’t said anything. I think she knows my mother didn’t like her and now she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel.’

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘Thanks. William doesn’t understand. He’s been coming with me to the bakery, thinks it’s great.’ He looked anxiously at Mary. ‘I had to keep the shop open. We can’t afford to shut up, even for a few days.’

‘I know.’

‘It’ll be shut for the funeral, of course.’

‘When is it?’

‘Friday.’

‘Everything’s arranged?’

‘Yes.’

They walked along Greenacre Street and down the alleyway to the back gate of number twenty-seven, soaked through and breathless. It was obvious Ted couldn’t bear to be away from Ellen any longer than necessary.

Linda was skipping in the backyard, Jacqueline holding one end of the rope, the other fastened to the joint of the drainpipe.

Jelly on a plate

Jelly on a plate

Wibble-wobble

Wibble-wobble

Jelly on the plate

Custard in a jug

Custard in a …

Their voices were quiet, subdued. They stopped and rushed at Mary, wrapping their arms tight around her waist. When Linda raised her face it was pale and wet with tears.

Mary kissed her. ‘Let me go in and see Mummy,’ she said, ‘then I’ll come back down. You too, Jacqueline.’ She gave her a kiss as well. ‘Be good girls.’ She pushed open the door.

Jean was sitting with William on her knee. She put her finger to her lips and then pointed to the ceiling. ‘She’s asleep. Got a bit upset when she found out you weren’t here,’ she said to Ted, ‘but quietened down when I told her you were meeting Mary.’

Mary bent over to first hug Jean and then stroke William’s cheek. ‘Hello sweetheart.’ The little boy dipped his head, all at once shy of her. ‘Jean?’ Mary didn’t know what else to say. Jean’s eyes were difficult to see against the reflection of light from the window on her spectacles but her face was flushed and her voice trembled.

‘We can talk later. One thing at a time. I’ll get off with these three. You go up and see Ellen.’

‘Thanks.’ Mary smiled her gratitude. ‘I’ll pop over and pick Linda and William up later. You’re still at your mum’s?’

‘For my sins.’ Jean started to put the little boy’s coat on. He didn’t resist. ‘Little chap doesn’t know what’s hit him,’ she said, with a grimace.

‘I know.’ Mary stroked William’s head. She looked at Ted. ‘I won’t be a minute if she’s asleep.’

Ellen was curled in a tight foetal position. Soft snores moved the strands of hair that had fallen across her face.

Mary smoothed them back and let her hand rest on her sister’s forehead. It felt cold and clammy. ‘It’s going to be okay, sis,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here now.’

*

Ellen didn’t move until Mary left the bedroom and she heard the top stair give the familiar squeak. The nail marks dented into her skin stung. She unclenched her hands and rolled to face the wall, hunching the covers over her head. She wouldn’t talk, not yet. If she even tried to open her mouth the scream would escape. And she knew it wouldn’t stop.

She wasn’t sure what had happened, why she was in bed when it was light, when it was obviously the middle of the day. All she knew, all she felt, was the sense of relief that Mary’s presence brought. It would be okay now. Mary would sort it, whatever ‘it’ was. With a long sigh she curled her hand against her cheek and relaxed.

But a moment later a kaleidoscope of recollections and emotions gathered and splintered. Ted’s mother; the slap, the dead gaze, the panic; Frank Shuttleworth; that quick coupling years ago, his contempt. Mary, guilt; Ted, guilt; Linda, guilt. Ellen hurled herself from one side of the bed to the other, pushing and pulling at the covers, trying to escape the darkness of the memories crashing around her. At last she forced her eyes open, afraid that if they closed it would start again. She stared up at the jagged crack on the ceiling that split the whitewash just above her, drawing air into her lungs in short shallow breaths.

Selfishness came at a price, she realised. And the people Ellen most loved had paid the price for hers in the past: Mary, Ted, Linda. Her thoughts were jumbled but the shame, disintegrating and assembling, finally came together in the one image – Linda. One emotion – guilt, for leaving her daughter with the foster carer when she was six weeks old; the memory of walking out of that grubby terraced house and moving faster and faster down the street until she was running. Running away.