Changing Patterns (26 page)

‘Dirty bugger, that.’ The woman followed her gaze. ‘You’d think there’d be a law against it – belching all that bleeding muck out. You crossing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, then.’ They crossed the road. On the other side the woman said, ‘I’m going that way. I live on Huddersfield Road. Been to a funeral,’ she said inconsequentially. ‘Now you look after yourself, you need to take care.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Especially now.’

Mary’s heart missed a beat. But before she could ask what the woman meant she’d hurried away, moving quickly for such an old woman, her black hat bobbing on her head. Her mother would have been around the same age now. ‘Oh Mam,’ she whispered, ‘I need you so much.’ She put a hand to her stomach.

The wretchedness was overwhelming. First Mum, then Tom. And, in her mind, losing Tom was now intermingled with losing her job. Sometimes she could almost persuade herself both were waiting for her in Llamroth. Then the loss came back with an unrelenting rush. And she blamed Peter for everything. So why hadn’t she told any of the family that she’d finished with him? That she wasn’t going back to Llamroth? What was stopping her from clearing Tom’s name at least, from telling Ellen and Ted, Jean and Patrick … especially Patrick … that it was Peter who killed Frank, not Tom? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wasn’t ever going back to Wales. And she didn’t know how to break that news to Gwyneth.

‘Sorry, miss.’ A man knocked into her. He raised his trilby and hurried on.

‘My fault.’ Mary managed a small smile.

‘Too cold to be standing around,’ he called back to her.

‘You’re right.’ Pull yourself together, she thought. It’s all the worry, you’re not… She couldn’t even form the word in her mind. She pulled back her shoulders and took in a long breath. She’d be glad to get back to the house. The Saturday market was a good place for bargains but it was as though all of Ashford and Bradlow had the same idea and she’d been pushed from pillar to post. Still, it was worth it. The three skeins of parrot wool she’d bought were a bargain and more than enough for jumpers for all three children. She was sure they’d like all the random mix of colours in the wool and knitting would be a good excuse for sitting down. Running about after Ellen was hard work.

Quickening her step, she disregarded the sensation of the heels of her shoes, hard on the pavement, jolting through her body as she wound her way past the straggle of people who seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, despite the cold.

The tops of the trees in Skirm Park shivered with each gust of wind, flinging the last of the dead leaves around the sky. The year is almost over, she thought. So much has happened but it was as though she’d never moved away from Ashford, as though the last five years had not happened.

The van didn’t stop at the top of Newroyd Street before turning onto Shaw Street. The noise of the brakes and the squeal of the tyres as the driver took the corner too quickly brought Mary out of her reverie. Her fingers loosened on the handle of the shopping basket and it fell to the ground, the brown packages of wool scattering.

The van was white with an orange oblong painted on the side as though blotting something out. White and orange. The same colours as the van that killed Tom.

It was that van.

And the driver, turned towards her grinning, as it sped past, was George Shuttleworth.

‘I’m sorry miss, we’ve investigated your allegation and the man you think you saw…’

‘The man I saw,’ Mary interrupted.

‘The man you
think
you saw driving the van that killed your brother has denied being in Wales on that day.’ The police sergeant rose up and down on his heels in front of the tiled fireplace, his hands behind his back as he looked at Mary over the top of his glasses. ‘And he has an alibi.’

A plump woman sitting at a long wooden table jabbed rhythmically at the keys of a large typewriter. She stared, unwavering, at Mary as a small bell pinged and the carriage skidded back before she carried on hitting the keys.

Mary discounted her and looked to a young police officer who was standing by a four drawer metal cabinet balancing a large pile of folders under one arm. ‘He can’t have an alibi. I told you, I saw him, I saw the van.’

‘You saw a van,’ the sergeant stressed.

‘It was his van, white with orange on the side … like the orange had been painted on to cover something up.’

His eyebrows rose.

‘Like it was covering up words. Oh, that’s not important…’ Mary flushed, the anger rising quickly. ‘It was the same van. I saw the driver and I recognised him. I know it was him.’ Her voice was hard. It was impossible George Shuttleworth could get away with killing Tom. The police had to believe her. ‘He’s someone I know.’

‘So I understand, miss.’ The sergeant cocked his head to one side. ‘We found the report of a previous altercation between your families.’

Oh no! Mary swallowed hard against the sickening lurch of her stomach. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realised their investigations would uncover all the stuff from before? Stupid woman, she told herself. She gripped the edge of the counter. Pull yourself together, she thought. There was nothing else to do but brazen it out. ‘Altercation, sergeant? If you’ve read the report, you will know full well what kind of altercation it was.’

His face mottled.

‘This man’s brother assaulted me.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

‘And was subsequently murdered, according to records.’

‘Nothing to do with me or any of my family,’ Mary said. She went cold, a wave of uncertainty flooding through her. Now was the time to tell him that it was Peter who’d killed Frank Shuttleworth. But she couldn’t. Why? Confused thoughts raced around in her head. Her bitterness that he’d let her think it was Tom was still there but, right now, standing in front of this policeman, something held her back from blurting out the truth.

‘Hmmm. That’s as maybe. The case was not solved.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But neither was it closed.’

Oh God. Mary stayed as still as she could and maintained eye contact with him. Stay calm, stay calm. She was here to persuade them that it was George Shuttleworth driving the van that killed Tom. Nothing else mattered.

‘However …’ He stopped rocking on his heels and clapped his hands. ‘That’s for another time, perhaps.’ He glared at the young policeman. ‘Find the file on Miss Howarth’s complaint, Roberts,’ he said bluntly. ‘Read out the results of our investigations.’

The officer pulled out a file from the top drawer and, giving Mary an apologetic smile, placed it on the large table.

The typist twisted the end wheel of the carriage with a flourish and removed the paper. She rose, adjusted the hem of her black cardigan and went through an opaque-glass partition in one corner of the charge room. Mary heard the click of metal covers on the switchboard, the slide of extension plugs and the low voice of a man but she kept her eyes on the young officer.

He coughed slightly before reading. ‘According to this, there is a witness to say he was at home that day.’ He paused. His gaze on Mary was almost sympathetic before, lowering his head, he read the next sentence. ‘There was no chance he could have travelled to Wales and then back to Manchester on the day the victim was killed.’

‘And those are your investigations? After only three weeks you’re giving up?’ Mary couldn’t help herself. ‘A witness? Who? Who said he was home on that day?’

‘We’re not at liberty to tell you that, miss.’ The sergeant walked across the room.

Mary spoke slowly. ‘You said the witness said George Shuttleworth was at home. There’s only one other person who lives in that house with him as far as I know and that’s his mother, Nelly. Was it Nelly Shuttleworth?’ She looked past the sergeant to the other man, who cleared his throat again and coloured but didn’t answer her.

Behind her the door of the vestibule opened and a man was pushed against the counter next to Mary. The smell of alcohol filled the air as he blinked slowly at her before being shoved again by a constable holding him up.

‘I suggest you leave the investigations to us, miss.’ The sergeant turned to pick up a large leather-bound book from the table and placed it on the counter. He studied the drunken man. ‘Right Lewis,’ he said to the constable, ‘charge?’ Without looking at Mary, he added, ‘And you’d better think twice, miss, before making any more false accusations.’

Without another word Mary left of the police station, shaking with fear and anger.

Standing on the steps outside, she glanced up at the stone letters engraved above the door.
BRADLOW STATION
. Alongside it, the blue lamp flickered. A black car drew up and an officer in full uniform crossed the pavement and got into the back.

She was unable to move. A few people passed by, looking up at her with curiosity but she was indifferent to them. Her only thoughts were, The man has an alibi.

It was a lie. Nelly, because it had to be her, had lied. Why? After everything Frank did? Mary knew the answer even as she formed the question. Nelly would do anything to protect the one son she had left.

And then she thought of the other thing the sergeant said. ‘The case was not solved … but neither was it closed.’

Mary put her hand to her stomach. If there was a life beginning inside, however much the thought terrified her, how could she tell the police what she knew? Peter might even own up if confronted. She’d made it clear she would never go back to him. Knowing she hated him, knowing there was little to go back to in Germany, would he care what happened to him?

If she was having his baby, whether she ever saw him again or not, she couldn’t be the one to tell the authorities. How would she ever tell his child it was her fault its father was hanged?

Barnes Street didn’t look much different from the last time she’d been there. The houses still had that air of prosperity long since departed. One or two of the small walled gardens now sported a shrub or two, some of the old bay windows had been replaced by sash ones that looked out of place against the faded red brick, but the street was still as quiet as she remembered. Unlike Henshaw Street, no children played football on the road, no neighbours gossiped on the doorsteps. Further along a black Ford car was parked outside one of the houses and a man and a young boy, wielding buckets and sponges, were cleaning it despite the cold drizzle of rain.

There was no van outside Nelly’s house. Mary breathed a sigh of relief but still hesitated. She hadn’t prepared what she wanted to ask and she was nervous. If Nelly wouldn’t help she didn’t know what else to do.

The corroded metal number four was missing now, only the imprint remained on the door. Red paint barely concealed the burst bubbles and flakes of the black paint that Mary remembered used to be there. She grasped the dull brass knocker and banged it down.

She heard the soft shuffle of feet and then the door shifted slightly in the frame. A woman’s voice cursed. ‘Bloody thing.’ The door was tugged again. And then, ‘Can you give it a shove?’

Despite her anxiety Mary grinned and put her shoulder to the door. It opened with a screech.

Nelly’s blue turban flopped, as usual, over one eye. She squinted at Mary, pushing out her large lips in concentration. The recognition came all at once. ‘Mary, pet,’ she exclaimed. ‘Well, I’m blowed. Mary.’ She brushed floury hands on her apron and engulfed her in large soft arms. ‘Come in, come in.’ She peeped out of the doorway at the overcast sky. ‘Another storm, I shouldn’t wonder. Let’s get in. I’m just doin’ a bit of baking.’

‘I can see that.’ Mary smiled, closing the door and surreptitiously wiping the white marks from her sleeves.

The grey strands of hair that had escaped from the turban were covered in flour and she had a streak across her nose. She waddled along the hall, her bare feet spread at angles. ‘’Scuse, the old trotters,’ she said, over her shoulder, ‘bunions playing up.’ Her backside bounced from side to side with each step. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother, Mary. You got my letter?’

‘I did, Nelly, and thank you, it meant a lot.’ Now was the time to tell her why she was here. But Nelly was talking again.

‘Sorry it was a bit crumpled. It got screwed up by mistake and I had to iron it flat again. It’d taken me that long to write it I hadn’t the heart to copy it out again.’

‘No, don’t worry, it was a lovely thought. It meant a lot to me,’ Mary said again.

‘And I was sorry to hear about your Mam, she was a good woman,’ Nelly carried on. She took a tray of unbaked scones from the kitchen table and, opening the oven door, pushed them carelessly onto a shelf. ‘I liked what I saw of her.’

‘Thanks, Nelly.’ Mary left it at that. The feelings hadn’t been reciprocated. Winifred couldn’t stand Nelly, mainly because Frank was her son.

‘And loyal to her family.’ Nelly sounded breathless from bending forward. ‘Loyal to you, pet. I respected that.’

Her words made Mary uncomfortable. ‘How are you keeping?’

‘Fair to middling.’ Nelly clapped her hands together and a puff of flour rose around her. She turned and studied Mary for a few moments. Then she sighed and gave a guarded smile. ‘Hope you don’t mind me coming right out with it, pet.’ She put her fists on her hips. ‘This isn’t a social call, is it?’