Changing Patterns (31 page)

Damn you, Patrick, you’ll pay for this, Jean thought. You’ll bloody pay.

‘Where’s Doreen?’

‘They’ve gone.’ Ellen didn’t look up at Patrick. Her arms were aching but she was determined to finish sweeping the yard. She banged the head of the brush on the wall to clean it. Brick dust fell off and she swept it onto the shovel with the rest of the debris. ‘Left last night, and good riddance.’

She put the brush behind the door of the lavatory and closed it, folding her coat closer around her, suddenly cold and tired again. ‘Why do you want to know? I would have thought you’d have learned your lesson, Patrick, you got your fingers well and truly burnt there.’

When he didn’t answer she glanced towards him. He stood in the gateway, the baby in his arms swaddled in a grey Army blanket. She looked swiftly from him to the house next door. ‘No!’ Her hands on her hips, she said, ‘What have you done?’

He scowled. ‘Wasn’t me. Stupid tart came round yesterday and dumped it on Jean. I’ve had a right soddin’ earful, I can tell you.’ The baby started to cry. He hugged it closer to him, jiggling his arms up and down and then said, ‘Can I come in a minute?’

It wasn’t like him to sound so unsure. ‘Course.’ Mary was right when she said it was one thing after another in this family. She led the way to the back door and held it open. ‘Get in front of the fire, you look frozen. That child shouldn’t be out without proper clothes on.’ Undoing her scarf, she pulled it off and shook her hair free.

‘It’s all he’s got. The stupid cow left him at our place like this.’

‘I’ll find some old stuff of William’s in a minute.’

She went to the bottom of the stairs. She avoided the spot where Hannah had lain. She always avoided walking there. What happened that morning was something she’d have to live with for the rest of her life.

‘Mary?’ Anxiously, she threaded her fingers together. ‘Can you come down a minute?’ Ellen glanced at Patrick, noticed how he gently uncovered the baby to let the flames warm him. She wouldn’t have believed how sensitive he could be. ‘Mary?’

‘What is it? For goodness sake I’ll be down in a minute.’

Ellen nodded. She stood still watching the baby. He wore a grey woollen romper suit. His little legs were rosy as he gradually warmed up. ‘I’ll get those clothes in a minute,’ she said.

The voice from the wireless filled the silence:
Labour politician Herbert Morrison sees the Festival as a means of giving the British people a symbolic pat on the back for their postwar achievements and sacrifices. And Gerald Barry, the Festival’s director general, claims that the Festival will prove a ‘tonic to the nation’.

‘Must be bloody joking.’ Patrick glowered at the wireless. ‘Pompous bugger. Here they go again, getting it all wrong. We need a festival like a hole in the bloody head, state the country’s in.’

‘State you’re in, more like.’ Ellen looked anxiously towards the bottom of the stairs. Come on, Mary, she urged silently. ‘You’ve enough to worry about without griping about the bloody Government, Patrick.’ She turned the wireless off. ‘Mary!’

‘God only knows what I’ll do.’ He clumsily arranged the baby in his arms. ‘You any ideas?’

‘No.’ She watched him struggle. ‘There’s only one thing you can do, you know that,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to throw yourself on Jean’s mercy and ask her if she’ll look after him. You’ve no choice.’

‘What’s going on?’ Mary stepped down from the last tread. She stopped when she saw Patrick with the baby.

Ellen swept her arm around. ‘See?’

‘I can see.’ Mary buttoned her thick cardigan over her wrap-around pinny. ‘I just don’t believe it.’

‘I don’t need a soddin’ lecture.’

‘Then you’d better leave,’ Mary said sharply. ‘You’ve a talent for bringing trouble on yourself, Patrick, but this time it seems you’ve dragged us all in it. Is that what I think it is?’

‘Doreen’s baby,’ Ellen said. ‘She’s dumped him on him.’

‘But they’ve gone.’ Mary looked bewildered. ‘They left yesterday.’

‘So I bloody hear.’

‘I’ll look for those clothes.’ Ellen almost ran up the stairs, glad to get away from the row that seemed to be brewing.

Mary fixed him with a stare. ‘How’s Jean taking this?’

‘Like I said to Ellen, I’ve had a right ear-bashing.’

‘Poor you.’ She didn’t even try to cover up the sarcasm. ‘Better than another kind of bashing, I guess.’

‘Okay, okay. You’re having a right dig today, aren’t you?’ Patrick flushed, uneasy under her stare.

‘First chance I’ve really had.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry to her. Right?’

‘You know what I’m talking about then?’

‘Come on, sis, I know I was wrong. It’ll not happen again.’

‘If I remember rightly, Dad used to say the same thing.’

‘I’d cut my right arm—’

‘Don’t.’ Mary’s voice was cold. ‘Don’t say it. I told her to leave you for good, you know.’

‘I know.’

‘Next time you raise a hand to her, I’ll make sure she does.’

‘I’ve told you, there won’t be a next time.’

‘Good.’

The baby began to cry.

Mary moved towards the two of them, her arms instinctively held out. Then she lowered them. Patrick had to deal with this on his own. ‘Has he been fed?’

‘I fed him this morning. I got a bottle and some Ostermilk stuff from the chemist. He said that’s what’s used these days. But I haven’t got it with me.’ Patrick jerked his head towards the wall. ‘I thought she’d be there. I was going to give him back. Poor little blighter should be with his mother.’ He wiped his palm over his face. ‘Not with me.’

‘We’ve got some evaporated milk I can water down and there’s an old bottle of William’s in one of the cupboards, I think.’ Mary knelt down and opened one of the sideboard doors. She gave a small sound of triumph. ‘Here it is. I’ll rinse it out. I think there’s still some hot water in the kettle.’

When she came out of the scullery with the bottle and the evaporated milk he looked up at her. ‘What am I going to do with a bloody kid, sis?’

What am
I
going to do? she thought. I shouldn’t be drifting along not making any plans, but what else can I do? She flipped a look at him, opening the drawer under the table to find the can opener. ‘You should have thought of that … and no, I won’t,’ she said in answer to the unspoken question of his face. ‘I’m not taking him on. In case you’ve forgotten I’ll have a baby of my own soon and for now I have enough to do looking after Ellen’s two until she’s properly on her feet.’ She struggled with the can opener and the tin of evaporated milk.

‘One more thing – Jean said the other day you’d been in a fight? Shuttleworth?’ She kept her voice down, looking over her shoulder at the stairs.

‘He won’t bother us again.’

‘I asked you not to do anything. I asked you to leave well alone.’ She forced the blade of the can opener through the last bit of tin and prised open the top. ‘I should have known you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.’

‘Well, you going to old Ma Shuttleworth didn’t work, did it?’ Patrick stood and patted the whimpering baby.

‘It might have, if you’d given it some time.’ Mary poured the evaporated milk and some of the warm water into the glass baby bottle and forced the rubber teat on.

‘She wouldn’t drop him in it with the police and I’m damn sure he wouldn’t have given himself up.’

‘You can’t solve everything with your fists. One day you’ll come across somebody who gives as good as they get.’ Shaking the mixture, Mary perched on the arm of the chair next to Patrick. ‘No, you do it,’ she said as he tried to pass the little boy to her. She gave him the bottle. ‘You’ll need the practice.’ She watched the little boy suck greedily on the teat. ‘God, he is hungry, poor little beggar.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’m worried, Patrick. George Shuttleworth?’

‘I told you, I sorted him.’

‘No you didn’t, you had a fight with him. He won’t leave it at that, you know. He’s no different than his brother was. He’ll want his revenge.’

‘Then I’ll be fuckin’ ready for him. But I’m telling you, Mary, he’s learned his lesson. There’s no way he’ll bother us again.’

‘Where is she?’ The woman stood in front of Peter, hatred etched on her face under a broad-brimmed brown hat, which had darkened on one side from the earlier rain. ‘What have you done with her?’ He tried to sidestep her but she thrust her furled umbrella across his path. ‘I’ve known Mary from the first week they moved here and I’m not shifting until you tell me where she is.’ She stood toe to toe with him, her mud-caked wellingtons pushed against his own.

Peter looked around, helplessly aware they had attracted some attention from a few passers-by. He wished he’d gone straight back to the cottage instead of offering to wait for Gwyneth, to carry her shopping for her. ‘I am sorry—’ he began.

‘You will be.’ In the light from the shop window, her weather-beaten cheeks developed an unsightly red flush.

‘What’s all this, Mair Bevans?’ Gwyneth came out of the butcher’s shop. ‘Bullying again? What’s the matter? Had another row with your Ryan, is it?’

‘I just want to know what this one has done with Mary. Not seen her for months on my rounds.’

‘Just because he cancelled the milk doesn’t mean anything. Don’t be so bloody
twp
, woman. Mary’s looking after her family in England, see? Now, if you don’t mind?’ Gwyneth handed her shopping bags to Peter, who took them in one hand. ‘We’ll be on our way.’ She glanced around at the small group of people who had gathered, fixing them with a scathing glare. She linked arms with Peter as they walked away.

‘You know, Peter, that sister of hers must be better by now. She’s one for always wanting attention, see,’ she said. ‘I knew it from the minute I saw her years ago. Not bad, just spoiled. And, from what I saw, nobody has babied her more than Mary.’

He didn’t answer. He didn’t feel he had the right to judge Ellen but he couldn’t help the resentment. If it wasn’t for her he and Mary wouldn’t have quarrelled. Instantly he was fiercely ashamed of himself. If he’d told the truth as soon as he arrived in Llamroth they might have had a chance of happiness. As it was he’d been
ein Feigling
 – a coward. It wasn’t Ellen’s fault. It wasn’t anybody else’s fault but his own.

Gwyneth was watching him. ‘Mary’s grieving,’ she said eventually, ‘that’s what it is. She and Tom were very close. They looked after one another and it’s only a few months since he went … and in such a horrible way.’ Her voice choked. ‘No,’ she said as Peter stopped walking. ‘I’m all right, keep going.’ She gave a small cough before saying, ‘She’s grieving for him. It’s all part of life. So she’s gone away from where it happened, just for the time being.’ She gave his arm a little shake. ‘But not for too long, see. Now, I know there’s something you’ve not told me … and that’s fine. But I also know how much you mean to one another. So, when you think the time is right, will you go after her?’

Peter thought for a moment. He couldn’t tell her the truth; what he’d done, how he’d hidden behind the lies, how he’d ruined Mary’s life by coming back to find her. He shook his head. ‘She does not want me to go there. I must wait for her here.’

Other than making a small noise of exasperation, Gwyneth was quiet as they walked along the road. In the gathering darkness Peter heard the sea moving sluggishly between tides, a damp film of mist glistened in the gas street lights, hovering above the beach. His pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, ashamed to show that tears threatened. His skin was cold and clammy.

‘Oh!’ Gwyneth gave a shudder. ‘Someone’s just walked over my grave.’

‘What is it?’ Peter was concerned. She looked frightened for a moment.

She gave him a small smile. ‘Just a shiver,’ she said, still looking at him pensively. They’d reached the cottages. Peter walked with her to her front door.

‘Come in for a cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you, no.’ He gestured to his clothes and boots. ‘I have had a long day working with Alun and Alwyn in their garden. They are putting a new shed there,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Have you eaten today?’ Gwyneth studied him.

‘I have.’ He hadn’t. But all he wanted was to go into the cottage next door. All he wanted was to lie down on the bed; the bed where he and Mary had slept and made love. To wrap himself in the covers and sleep, to escape the misery that walked alongside him all the time.

The air carried a fine drizzle that landed bead-like on Jean’s raincoat as she hurried towards Skirm Park. The two girls were swinging on the new gates at the entrance oblivious to the rain.

‘Get down, you two,’ she said, brusquely, ‘you’ll be wet and filthy before we start.’

She was so tired. The baby had cried for most of the night. She’d heard Patrick walking about in the spare room with him. Once, Jacqueline had gone in to them. Jean forced herself to stay in bed. She’d lain on her back, listening, arms by her side, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached.

‘Go on, get down.’

Linda jumped onto the ground and, tucking her doll under her arm, held her hands out. Making an impatient noise Jean pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped the grime off her niece’s fingers. ‘There, all clean.’ She smiled at Linda and gave her a quick hug before raising her voice in annoyance. ‘Jacqueline, get down. I won’t tell you again.’