Changing Patterns (23 page)

For the next two years she’d kept on running.

So much to feel bad about, she thought. So many things she’d done wrong, so much fodder for Ted’s mother to torment her with and the old cow had made the most of it. Ellen turned onto her side, exhausted, and focussed on the photograph of her and Mary taken years ago. But it would all be all right now. Mary was here, she would help make everything be okay. Ellen was sure of that.

Perhaps, with Mary nearby, she would be strong enough to acknowledge the mistakes, the regrets in her life. It wouldn’t be easy but she’d try.

Yet Hannah’s face, eyes blank but accusing, still stared into hers.

‘She’s asleep.’ Mary sat on the kitchen chair. ‘She looks awful, Ted, what the hell happened?’

‘I don’t rightly know. I think when Mother had her heart attack, she panicked. And it’s been rough for her over the last couple of years. I told Mother when we got back from your place to leave Ellen be. I even threatened that she’d have to leave if she didn’t. But she had a hold over us, the money, I suppose you know that?’ Mary nodded. ‘I should have had more guts, told her to get out but I didn’t. I just thought she be scared enough to stop being so vicious.’ He sighed. ‘And then there was the business with Patrick playing about with that woman. As far as I can work out, it’d played on Ellen’s mind for months that it was me messing about,’ he said. ‘I should have told her the truth but I’d no idea that’s what she was thinking. I wouldn’t do that to her, Mary.’ He flushed. ‘I love her too much.’

‘You can’t blame yourself.’ Mary remembered how she’d dismissed Ellen’s complaints about Hannah, how she’d scoffed at the idea of Ted having an affair. All that time Ellen was driving herself mad with worry, and she hadn’t helped.

‘I do though,’ he said. ‘I swore the day Ellen said she’d be my wife that I’d look after her.’ He paused, looking straight into Mary’s eyes. ‘I haven’t.’ Ted rubbed his palms over his face. ‘I was the proudest man in the world the day she said she’d marry me. I was in a black hole when I came home from the war. She made me come alive again. But I’ve been selfish. Building up the business has taken a lot of my time.’ He stared into the fire. ‘And I know I get a bit moody sometimes.’ He placed his hand on his chest. ‘Like in here it’s all bottled up, what happened in the war. Ellen doesn’t want me talking about it so I don’t…’

How could two sisters be so different, Mary thought? I wanted so much for Peter to talk to me about what happened to us, yet Ellen refuses to listen to Ted.

‘But it still haunts me, Mary.’ There was agonised pain in his eyes. ‘It’s only five years since it ended but everyone’s like, “It’s gone … so forget it.” You only have to listen to the news these days. It’s all about Korea now, as though what happened to all the men who fought, all the men and women who suffered, who died in our war are forgotten.’ He licked his lips, his mouth working, a habit Mary knew he had when he was trying to form what he wanted to say. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I know there are horrible things going on. Now China’s joined in the Korean War, God only knows when it’ll stop.’ His voice was harsh, bitter. ‘Six bloody years of hell, Mary, and still men are killing one another.’

And some too cowardly to own up to it and only too happy to let others take the blame, Mary thought, her anger quick to bubble up against Peter.

Ted leaned forward in his chair, forearms on his knees, hands clasped together. ‘All the time I was a prisoner, I told myself that when, if, I got home, I would woo Ellen and I wouldn’t give up till she agreed to marry me. I couldn’t do anything about what other people did to one another, but I could protect her. I knew it hadn’t been easy for her, what with having Linda and all the other stuff. She’s gone through a lot.’ He blinked hard. ‘I promised I’d look after her. I’ve failed.’

‘No you haven’t. She loves you, Ted.’

‘I shouldn’t have been so tied up with myself.’

‘You’ve done your best. That’s all any of us can do.’ We all have images that haunt us, she thought: seeing that van swerve towards Tom, seeing his crumpled body, his blood staining the road, the coffin going into the ground forever. Mary widened her eyes, knowing if she closed them, it would all be there, vivid against her eyelids. And we all bury things inside us, memories that turn into nightmares, returning when least expected. How many nights had she woken, sweating and fighting against the twisted sheets, with the sounds of her clothes being ripped from her body still in her ears, the taste of her own blood and tears in her mouth, the revolting sensation of a man viciously pushing himself into her, unwelcome, unwanted? How many times had she stared into the darkness hearing the heavy sounds of footsteps, of a brutal fight, the splashing of water, the screams of a dying man? How many times had she remembered and hoped for the relief of oblivion?

‘It’s hard,’ he said, ‘feeling guilty about something, when you know there wasn’t anything you could do about it.’

‘I know.’ Oh how I know, she thought, shuddering.

She realised Ted was watching her. ‘Like I said, I’m here now.’ She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘And I’ll stay until it’s all sorted out.’ There was no point in telling him that she and Peter had separated. That she wasn’t going back to Wales. She hadn’t even told Gwyneth yet. She hadn’t plucked up enough courage to tell the old woman that she was throwing the gift of the cottage right back in her face. Because that’s how it would seem, Mary was sure. But she would have to eventually. She was dreading that.

‘Come on Jackie.’ Linda put her arm around her cousin’s neck. ‘You like hopscotch. It’s fun.’

Jacqueline was shivering. ‘Don’t want to.’ She scowled.

‘You will.’ Linda jumped up from her cousin’s Granny Winterbottom’s front doorstep. She windmilled her arms, wishing she could make her cousin smile. She usually felt safe with Jacqueline, but lately it was as though she had to look after her and she didn’t know how to make things better.

Jacqueline saw the yellow donkey stone on the back of Linda’s kilt but said nothing. She was feeling odd, sort of wanting to cry because she thought her dad might be lonely back home and because, try as she might, she didn’t like Granny with her scraggy arms, bony hands and a voice that hurt your ears. ‘Don’t you miss your Grandma Booth?’ she said.

‘No. She was horrid,’ Linda said airily. She twirled round, admiring the way her kilt swirled into a circle.

Jacqueline’s lower lip trembled. She glanced behind her, making sure the door was closed. ‘I don’t think my granny wants us here. She shouts.’ She pulled her knees up under her chin.

‘Come to live with us.’ Linda crouched down to draw the squares for the game of hopscotch with a small piece of brick. ‘Your mummy could make our dinners with mine being poorly?’ Her face brightened when she looked up at Jacqueline. ‘That’d be good. Daddy makes yummy bread but he’s no good at tater hash.’

‘I think they’d still fall out.’ Jacqueline wrapped her arms around her legs. She wished she could make herself as small as William.

‘Hmm, you’re right.’

The two girls looked at one another, cohorts in their opinions of the adult world.

‘Anyway, we might go home soon, we’ve been here a long time.’ Jacqueline tilted her head to think. ‘Two whole weeks.’

Linda twiddled a piece of her hair around her finger, her mouth turned down. ‘I like you living close. I can come here whenever I want. At your house I’m not allowed. It’s too far.’ She stood up.

‘Well, we’ll be big soon and then they can’t stop us.’

‘I don’t know about that. Mummy’s very old and Grandma Booth used to boss her all the time.’ Linda put her hands on her hips. ‘I hated her and I’m glad she’s dead. And I don’t think she’s gone to Heaven either. I don’t think Jesus wants her there.’ When she spoke again she was nonchalant. ‘I think Grandma Booth is in Hell.’

‘Oh, our Linda!’ Jacqueline stood up with her back to the wall of the house. ‘God will hear you.’

‘I don’t care. He knows she was a nasty lady.’ Linda threw the flat piece of red brick on the first square and hopped onto it. ‘Anyway, you used to laugh at her as well.’ She jumped, two-footed onto squares two and three, glancing at Jacqueline. ‘We both did, remember, last Christmas?’

‘When we had to wait for her to come for dinner?’

‘S’right.’ Linda hopped and jumped to the last square. As she turned she said, ‘Cos she was in the lavvy.’ She balanced on one leg, hopped up and down. ‘Then she just sat at the table and started eating without talking to anybody. And she made horrid sloppy noises.’

‘And her chin and nose bumped together when she chewed.’

They giggled and Linda wobbled, her heel turning on the uneven stone flag. ‘Your mummy shouted at us. But I saw my mummy smile. She put her hand over her mouth but I did, I saw her smiling.’ She was glad she’d made Jacqueline laugh, it made her feel good.

‘It was a shame we missed our pudding though.’

‘Yeah.’ Linda made her way back to the start of the hopscotch. ‘Your turn.’ She handed the piece of brick to Jacqueline and flopped down on the step. She wet her finger and rubbed at the donkey stone and then examined her finger. It was satisfyingly yellow. ‘So I’m glad she’s dead. They’re going to put her in a hole in the ground today.’

‘In somebody’s garden?’

‘No, in some gravy yard or something.’ Linda paused. ‘I heard Auntie Mary say. She told the milkman they were burying her this afternoon. So, see, she can’t hurt Mummy anymore.’

‘I’ve arrived, and to prove it, I’m here!’

‘Turn that bloody rubbish off.’

Jean twisted the knob of the radio. ‘I like it … and it’s not your house.’ The volume of the banter between Max Bygraves and the clipped high-pitched tone of Peter Brough’s ventriloquist’s dummy increased.
‘Well Archie…’

Patrick reached past her and switched the wireless off.

‘Do you mind?’ Jean banged the iron down onto the board, holding it steady when it rocked. She much preferred to iron on a table but her mother insisted on ‘being modern.’ Her scalp was still prickling from the dismay of seeing her husband. She’d forgotten he had a key to the front door.

‘When’re you going to stop being stupid?’ he said. ‘It’s daft when you’ve got a bloody good home of your own.’

Jean pulled her lips into a tight line. ‘I prefer it here at the moment, thank you. And I don’t take kindly to being called stupid. I’m not in the wrong. Remember?’

Patrick ran his fingers through his thinning hair, the two carefully arranged waves instantly in disarray. Impatiently he brushed the strands from his eyes. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry, Jean. I’ve said it a hundred times.’

‘You could say it a thousand times and the situation will still be the same.’ Jean wouldn’t look at him. She arranged the pleats on Jacqueline’s kilt and started to press each one slowly. ‘You had an affair.’ She pushed the point of the iron into the waistband, trying to keep her voice calm, wishing she could say to her husband she forgave him, she just wanted all this to go away. But she knew she had to be strong. She stressed her next words. ‘Another affair, Patrick. That is one thing I have been stupid about. Turning a blind eye to all your shenanigans. I should have left you the first time.’ The kilt blurred. Jean lifted her glasses with her forefinger and flicked the tears away. Some fell onto the material, the tiny patch of tartan became a brighter red and green and she dabbed at it with the edge of a tea towel off the pile of ironing. When she spoke her words were too loud but she couldn’t do anything about that. ‘I didn’t. But this time it’s different. This time there’s going to be a baby.’ She didn’t trust herself to say any more.

Patrick’s fingers twitched on the brim of his trilby he held to his chest. ‘Please, Jean. You know I love you.’

She moved her head in denial, noticing the way his face darkened with anger.

The bright sunlight angled across the linoleum through the opened backdoor. ‘It’s dried this lot already.’ Jean’s mother peered over the top of the pile of washing. ‘That backyard’s a suntrap. You wouldn’t think it’s nearly November and—’ She stopped mid-sentence. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her features set. ‘Get out of my house.’

Patrick’s fury found a different target. ‘I think you’ll find it’s Jean’s house. Her father put it in her name when he left. Remember?’ Patrick pushed his face at her, his brown eyes narrowing. ‘Jean, my wife? Therefore my house too. You’re just the tenant we let stay here.’

‘Patrick!’ Jean protested. She’d seen the fear in her mother’s face and, realised, for the first time, she was the stronger of the two women. She took the clothes from her. ‘It’s all right Mother, go into the front room and I’ll bring you a cup of tea in a minute.’

Seeing Jean had the upper hand, Elsie Winterbottom tossed her head. The metal curlers under her hairnet rattled. Giving him one last glare she went out, leaving the door ajar.

Through the crack they could see her lingering in the hallway. ‘You didn’t complain when you were getting all that stuff for nowt, did you?’ Patrick shouted. ‘I was the bee’s knees then, eh? Kow-towing all that time just so you could get stuff from me … must have bloody killed you, you old crow.’

Jean picked up the iron again. ‘You really are spoiling for a fight, aren’t you? If you think that’s going to make things better you’ve another think coming.’