Pattern of Shadows Read online

  Pattern of Shadows

  Judith Barrow

  HONNO MODERN FICTION

  For David

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  ABOUT HONNO

  Copyright

  Advertisement

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my gratitude to all those who helped with the writing of Pattern of Shadows.

  Thanks to the staff of the Oldham Local Studies and Archives for their unstinting help with my research. For their patience with my many questions and requests. Thanks to Caroline Oakley and Helena Earnshaw of Honno for their individual expertise, and their time, in setting me off on this journey of publication. This book wouldn’t have been possible without them.

  Special thanks to my penfriends, who have encouraged and supported my efforts through the years and without whom this book would never have been completed, Sharon Tregenza, Jane Scott and Kath Levell; exacting critics, fantastic friends.

  Lastly, my thanks to David for his love and the time he gives me to ignore the ‘domestic trivia’ and write.

  PROLOGUE

  February 1945

  Frank Shuttleworth knows this will be his only chance to kill Peter Schormann.

  The guard company has been in position, along the full length of the long narrow road leading up to the camp, hours before the February light reluctantly started the day. Now, as dawn arrives thinly, the prisoners stand in lines of five, the thick rolls of barbed wire on each side hemming them in. In the floodlights the frost sparkles like sugar on the tarmac, emphasising the dark backdrop of the North Country moors.

  A white haze of breath rises over the men. The coughs, the mutterings echo in the stillness as they wait.

  In the sentry box, behind the fence and ten foot above them, Frank also waits, his eyes moving across each line of prisoners until finally he gives up, unable to make out their faces in the distance, and stands up straight, glaring down at those closest to him.

  He watches the sergeant stroll back and forth along the road, checking that the guards are in place and ready for the command to start the roll call which will take all day. When it comes, the four thousand men move forward in compressed shuffling. On the opposite side of the road, at one of the allocated places where the prisoners are counted, one of Frank’s mates, a corporal like himself, gives him the thumbs up but Frank ignores him, concentrating only on looking for his one special enemy amongst the slow-moving mass of men.

  Five yards past Frank’s post the prisoners straggle into single file, stepping through the west gate of the compound to be double-checked by a sergeant of the provost staff with his clipboard; one tick for each man. Every few minutes the procession halts to allow the crush of men inside the compound to disperse.

  ‘Get a fucking move on.’ Frank grits his teeth, his lips a thin line.

  As though they hear him, the guards chivvy the men and they sullenly move away to lean against the gritty stone walls of the Granville, the old cotton mill, now their prison. Some, sucking on cigarettes, complain loudly about the tedious tallying, and huddle deeper into their greatcoats, others stare with blank eyes towards the distant hills in obstinate rejection of their surroundings.

  Squinting into the light of the pale low sun, Frank leans over his Bren gun and moves it slowly along the lines. Even though he knows Schormann was the doctor on duty in the camp hospital he can’t rely on him to be wearing his white coat. As Lagerführer of the prisoners Schormann could just as well be in officer uniform.

  The Germans still waiting in the lines portray a self-conscious indifference to the proceedings. They realise that today’s well-organised registration replaces the daily tally on each of the four floors of the converted mill that they have constantly rendered useless by their rebellious refusal to stand still. Now, marking time at each hold up, they bellow out a rendition of Heil Deutschland, swaying in synchronization, and when they inch forward, they stamp their feet, their boots thudding on the tarmac. One or two give insolent Nazi salutes as they pass each British guard, ignored by some, given vicious jabs with rifles by others.

  Streets away a cluster of old men, sitting on the bench outside The Crown, chatting and smoking, idle their time until it opens. They hear the echoes of the singing and fall silent, remembering their own war.

  The ice melts into wetness. Grey clouds roll overhead, covering the weak sunlight. Beyond the barbed wire on the opposite side of the road to the Granville, the bare branches of the tall sycamores drip water into the wide ditches dug years ago by the first prisoners of the camp. Beyond them the allotments are still deserted. Despite the cold, a hint of steam hovers over the dense crowd of men. Sporadic attempts to revive the singing fade into weariness; the Germans are tired and hungry. The acrid smell of cigarettes that has been wafting up towards Frank disappears. Few of the prisoners have any tobacco left and for the first time he senses anger from them and, despite his own discomfort, he grins.

  But this new enforced tallying is an extra burden for all and there is suppressed rage on both sides as the day drags on. Any attempt to move out of allocated lines is thwarted as the guards shove them back, prodding the jaded men with their rifles when they defiantly attempt to sit down during the long delays. Harsh shouts cut across truculent grumbles. Swearing, hidden within the captives’ language, accompanies arms raised with a shaken fist or crude gestures.

  Occasionally a prisoner is allowed out of line to stand by the barbed wire and, to the cheers of his mates, piss as high a
s he can towards the compound fence in the hope that the urine, vaporizing in the cold, will drench the guard standing by him.

  Hours later they are still shambling forward, a resigned calmness settling over them as they wait to get back into camp. In the dwindling light of dusk Frank strains to examine each passing face.

  The outlines of the old mill merge with the murky night sky, shadowy figures move behind dimly lit rows of rectangular windows on each level, resigned to lying on their bunks in the knowledge that there will be no food until the count is complete.

  It begins to rain. Frank’s eyes ache. He realises he’s allowed his mind to wander. His body is tense, his right knee, now permanently stiffened, throbs. Shifting his stance, he pushes his arms down by his side, desperately wanting to raise them above his head and stretch. But he can see the bloody Staff Sergeant, eyes narrowed, watching from the ground, waiting for a chance to bollock him. Tightening and relaxing the muscles in his thighs, he clenches his buttocks together, takes his weight onto his good leg and shifts his feet, now leaden in the cold. A yawn is creeping up his chest. Glancing down again and seeing the Staff Sergeant with his back to him, he allows himself the luxury of a jaw-cracking inhalation.

  Dusk is swept away in an instant by floodlights; a curtain of sparkling drizzle hangs over the men. At the same time one prisoner breaks rank and runs. Yelling angrily, the man charges along the pavement towards one of the gunners and Frank, looking down the sight, swerves the Bren gun to follow him. He hears the soldier shout a warning, then another.

  ‘Just shoot the bugger.’ Frank’s breath comes in short shallow gasps.

  The prisoners turn to watch the progress of their comrade, a strange silence amongst them. Then, leaning forward, Frank sees Schormann. His scalp prickles. Schormann’s is the only face turned upwards, his eyes just two dark holes in his pale gleaming skin. It seems to Frank, even from this distance, that he is looking at him with loathing: the feeling is mutual. Frank bends low over the Bren, narrows his eyes in concentration and holds his breath. His finger tightens on the trigger at the same time as the soldier on the ground fires.

  Chapter 1

  March 1944

  The rain trickled out of the downspout and rattled onto the tin roof of the coal shed outside Jean’s house.

  ‘I’ll have to go. I’m dying for a pee. See you later.’ Mary gave her friend a hug and ran across the street, clutching her cape at her throat. ‘I’ll call for you at seven o’clock.’ She hurried along the alleyway at the back of the terraced houses anxious to get to the lavvy before it was too late. Behind the blank gates on either side there was the usual racket of radios, children screaming and the high-pitched exasperation of mothers.

  She heard the shouting inside her own house as soon as she stopped at the gate of number twenty-seven. The catch was broken and the wooden panels grated on the stone flags as she pushed them open. Closing the gate with her backside, she jiggled around, struggling with her knickers inside the door of the little brick building before sitting on the lavatory with a sigh of relief. Partly closing the door with an outstretched foot, Mary listened to the voices. It was her Dad and Patrick arguing. Again. God, she was sick of them.

  She tried not to listen. Some days she felt as though she couldn’t take any more and this was definitely one of them; it had been a difficult shift with a batch of Italian patients newly arrived at the camp. Mary listed them in her head: two men with pneumonia, six with a variety of injuries and wounds. She stopped, closing her eyes, when she came to the one that had distressed her most, a young German lad, barely nineteen, so badly burned she was sure he would die before she arrived back on duty in the morning, his cries echoed in her head.

  All day: ‘Mutti, Mutti.’

  In the end she’d leant over him, thanking God for the smattering of phrases she’d picked up from Sergeant Strauss. The interpreter seemed to enjoy sharing his language with her and Mary liked him. So what if he was the enemy? It meant that as she held the young soldier’s hand she’d been able to comfort him. ‘Ich bin hier, sohn, Ich bin hier.’ He’d quietened then.

  Of course Doctor Müller had disapproved. She’d known he would.

  ‘He is a fighting man, Sister Howarth, not a baby.’

  ‘He’s a dying boy, Doctor Müller.’

  She’d walked away before she lost her temper and even thinking about it now still made her seethe.

  *

  ‘I think Matron wastes her breath with all her lectures on fraternization,’ she’d said to Jean on their way home. She dipped her head against the rain and shifted her gas mask to the other shoulder. Fitting end to the day, she thought, feeling the cold wetness seeping through her cape. ‘With men like Müller, I could go off the whole male species.’

  Her friend laughed. ‘He’ll be gone soon.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be sorry. Arrogant pig! He showed his true colours when the Commandant caught him passing notes to that patient last month.’

  ‘I think we should separate the Nazis from the rest of the patients.’

  ‘And me.’ Mary grimaced. ‘What happened to him, that Nazi, by the way? One shift he was in the first bed and the next he was gone, and he wasn’t fit enough to be discharged.’

  ‘Dunno, sent off to Canada same as Müller will be, I suppose,’ Jean said. ‘Well away from being able to cause any trouble.’

  They huddled closer and quickened their steps.

  ‘You’d think they’d have stopped transporting them by now,’ Mary said. ‘You don’t hear much about threats of invasion on the news any more.’

  ‘We’ll be the last to find out what’s happening. Bloody hell!’ Jean clamped a hand on her cap against the sudden gust of wind. ‘We’re just supposed to patch them up enough to get them back into camp.’ She leaned towards Mary. ‘My head’s dizzy sometimes with the way they ship them in and out. I swear I nearly gave the patient in bed three an enema for his appendix op. before I realised he was a different bloke.’

  Despite herself, Mary giggled. ‘You didn’t?’

  Jean grinned. ‘No but it made you laugh, didn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t, I’m dying for the lavvy.’

  And by the time they’d reached the end of the Jean’s street, Mary was in such a hurry she didn’t even feel the usual twinge of irritation when she saw Jean’s mother peering at them from behind the net curtain on the landing window.

  Now she shifted her body slightly and tilted her neck, resting her head on the lime-washed wall. God she was tired. A sudden cold draught snaked its way round the door flapping at the squares of newspaper fastened by string to a nail on the wall. She tore the first one off and narrowed her eyes to read the print in the fading light.

  Road Deaths in Britain for ’43 almost total 6,000. And underneath: More Than Half Occurring During the Blackout.

  ‘Well, what do they expect?’ She’d had a few close calls herself, both going in on night shifts and coming home first thing in the winter mornings. It sometimes seemed the darkness was smothering her. Yet even that was better than the nights of the last two months. The constant air raids over Manchester, which ripped buildings apart and destroyed streets, also embraced the towns and villages around the city. And the indiscriminate pattern of smouldering fires, which lit up the start of the days and silhouetted the silent figures searching through the rubble, were becoming a familiar sight in Ashford.

  Mary heard the rain quickening to a steady beat.

  She used the piece of paper and pulled up her knickers.

  The rubber soles of her shoes slipped on the greasy green flags around the grid, sunken into the middle of the yard, as she moved quietly towards the house. She leant against the doorframe, listening to the shouting inside. Her gas mask brushed against the tin bath hanging on a large nail on the wall, moving it slightly against the brickwork and dislodging heavy drops of rain that ran down in tearful streaks.

  Peeping in at the kitchen window, Mary saw her mother sitting in her usual place, on th
e rocking chair by the range. Standing next to her was a man Mary didn’t recognise. Casually leaning against the wall and resting one arm along the iron mantelpiece, he contradicted his apparent nonchalance by chewing on the nails of his other hand. Their faces were pale and blank through the net curtain. Neither was speaking, seemingly ignoring the shouting behind them.

  ‘What now?’ Mary could see and hear the two men in the hall beyond the kitchen. She put her thumb on the spoon-shaped latch, gently pressed it down and slipped into the room.

  She saw Patrick loom over her father and square up to him as the older man flung a fist, punching his chest.

  ‘Waste of bloody space.’

  Patrick caught hold of her father’s arm, forcing it down to his side. ‘Don’t bloody try that again.’ He jutted his face forward. ‘I didn’t ask to go down the bloody mines. Fucking Ernest Bevin!’

  ‘You do what you’re told in a war; you don’t ’ave any bloody choice.’

  ‘I wanted to go in the army. I signed up for the army. I didn’t want to go down the damn mines.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go in the trenches but I‘d no choice and look at the state of me now, coughin’ my bastard lungs up.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’ll finish up in the same way stuck down that hellhole. So if I do have to go, I want paying a proper bloody wage. So get off my bleedin’ back. If we want to strike, we will.’

  ‘I’ve told you, man, it’s unofficial. You’ll get nowhere.’

  ‘We will, if we stick together.’

  ‘An’ in the meantime I’m supposed to keep you?’

  ‘You’ll get your money when we get ours. Now piss off and leave me alone.’

  ‘Don’t bloody talk to me like that. Is this what I fought for?’ Mary saw her father’s face was blood red. ‘So me own son can swear at me? A man who can ‘ardly get ‘is breath on account of being gassed?’

  He took a long drag at his Woodbine and gulped, narrowing his eyes. The smoke was let out in an explosive cough of air, snot and spit as he leant one palm flat against the pattern of pink cabbage roses that lined the walls in the hallway. Wreathed in blue haze of cigarette smoke, he bent forward in a long choking session, shoulders rounded and neck, scrawny as a tortoise, sticking out of his collarless white shirt. His scalp, purple and pitted with old scars, showed through the few grey strands. Mary watched him; no one went near him. They knew better; all the family had had a backhander at one time or another for going to his aid.