Pattern of Shadows Page 2

  ‘Mam?’

  Her mother glanced up at her in weary resignation. Mary pushed back her hood and took off her cape. Reaching up, she draped it over the end of the clothes rack that dangled from the ceiling and went through to the scullery to wash her hands in the deep stone sink. Turning off the tap, she held on to it for a moment, head drooped, before going back into the kitchen. Pulling the damp white cap of her head, she dropped it on the table and waited, looking from her mother to the stranger. No explanation for his presence was offered so she went over to the stairs, ignoring the debacle in the hall. Hesitating, she held back the velvet curtain that covered the doorframe and glanced at the young man. He was watching her. She nodded at him. In turn, he slightly inclined his head, his eyes still fixed on hers, and she registered their colour, dark grey. She was aware of the glint of amusement in them, though the rest of his face was serious. Then he slowly raised one eyebrow in insolent familiarity. Ignoring him, Mary turned to her mother and gestured with her head, silently offering an escape. ‘Upstairs?’

  Flapping a hand at her, Winifred shook her head.

  Giving the warring two a last glare, Mary let the curtain fall behind her. At the top of the stairs she paused, leaning on the banister, as she heard her father’s clogs scrape across the lino in the kitchen. If he started on her mother she’d go back down. Then she heard him hawk a globule of phlegm into the fire and her mouth moved in disgust as she pictured the green flecks of spit sizzling on the fender. She listened for a couple of minutes before crossing the landing to the bedroom she shared with her sister.

  Then, her hand on the door, she paused again as she heard Patrick shouting from the front parlour. She could picture him, pacing the floor, smacking one fist into the palm of the other, a habit he’d copied from her father.

  ‘I wanted to fight,’ he was shouting. ‘I wanted to get at the Jerries. Bloody Bevin, Bloody Bevin Boys. Bollocks to being a Bevin boy.’

  Mary knew how mortified he felt; some of the men down the mine were conscientious objectors and Patrick let everybody know he resented the possibility that he could be mistaken for one of them or that anyone would think he was a coward. Mary knew how bitterly he hated what his older brother stood for. She heard him shout again, ‘I’m not bloody Tom.’

  No, you’re not, she thought.

  Ellen held both legs straight out in front of her, twisting them so she could inspect her calves. Clothes were scattered on the floor and over the double bed the sisters shared.

  ‘Hell’s bells, have you listened to them two at it again.’ Eyes half-closed against the smoke of her cigarette she looked up at Mary. ‘I scarpered up here as fast as I could when Patrick gave his big announcement. Pity really. His friend’s a bit of all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘Patrick’s friend? Is that who he is?’ Mary was careful to sound indifferent. She always thought that if her brother was anything to go by, good-looking men were always too cocky.

  ‘Yeah, apparently. He’s a guard at the camp,’ Ellen said. ‘God, Mary, haven’t you even noticed him? You’re hopeless!’

  ‘I’ve better things to do at work than ogle the guards. You do enough flirting for the both of us.’

  ‘You do realise you’ll be left on the shelf if you don’t watch out?’ Carefully pulling her dressing gown to one side, Ellen examined her knees. She dipped a cloth into the brown liquid in the pudding basin balanced on her lap and dabbed it on her leg. Indifferent to Mary’s comment she said, ‘They were going at it hammer and tongs when I got in from work. You’d think this was the first time Dad had heard of the strike. Everyone knows it’s been brewing since the beginning of the year. It’s been in all the papers. He’s just been waiting to have a go at Patrick.’

  Mary tried to straighten the unmade sheets on the bed.

  ‘Here, Mary, watch it. I’m waiting for this lot to dry.’ Ellen lowered her legs. ‘I pinched some of Mam’s new gravy browning. It’s thicker than the other stuff. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you could have tidied up a bit in here; it’s a pigsty.’ Mary walked over to the window and adjusted the blackout curtains, pulling the reluctant material along the plastic-covered wire. ‘And am I the only one who cares what happens to this family?’

  ‘Oh don’t be such a bloody martyr.’

  Mary turned and folding her arms, stared at her sister.

  ‘What’s up with you, then?’ Ellen said.

  ‘That lot downstairs, of course.’

  ‘Good God, I would have thought you’d be used to it by now. Be like me, ignore them.’ Ellen’s tone was light. Mary knew she had little patience with Patrick. Even though he was two years older than her Ellen always maintained he acted like a spoiled brat. ‘There’s nothing you can do anyway.’ She lifted her legs out in front of her again. ‘Well?’

  ‘Doesn’t it ever bother you? All that Mam has to put up with?’

  Ellen frowned and peered closer at her knees. ‘I’ve missed a bit there.’ She shrugged. ‘Like I said, there’s nothing either of us can do about it.’

  ‘You could. You could talk to Dad. He lets you get away with anything, he always has.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Ellen blew a plume of smoke upwards.

  ‘I’m not. You know you can’t do wrong as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘Not jealous by any chance, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’

  ‘Look, I’m saying nothing. He’s just as likely to turn on me as you.’

  That wasn’t true. Mary watched Ellen admiring her legs. What was it about her that got everybody running around for her, never demanding anything from her? Especially Dad. From the minute Ellen was born nobody else got a look in with their father. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her sister, but when they were growing up Mary had soon grasped that Bill’s infatuation with Ellen was as blatant as his lack of interest in her. She hadn’t cared. She’d told herself she had Tom and once she realised how indifferent the girl was to her father she’d almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  ‘Come on Ellen, you know you could make things easier for Mam.’

  ‘If you want to have a row with him, go ahead,’ Ellen said. ‘Just don’t get me involved. Anyway I’m off to the Palais tonight. You never know, I might meet someone … anyone … who’ll take me away from this bloody miserable house.’

  What about me? Mary thought again. Who’s going to take me away from this bloody miserable house? ‘You be careful, our Ellen.’

  ‘I’m just having a good time while I can.’

  When didn’t she? She’d been allowed to do what she wanted all her life. All the family had spoiled her … except for Patrick, Mary corrected herself, he only looked out for himself. She could hear him still shouting.

  Ellen patted the tip of her finger on her thigh to test if the colouring had dried. ‘Can I borrow some of your perfume, that lily of the valley one?’

  ‘It’s in with my undies.’

  Ellen stood up, crushed what was left of the cigarette in the saucer on top of the tallboy and opened a drawer. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears and at her throat and put the bottle back. Choosing a blue dress with a small white Peter Pan collar she took it off the hanger. ‘It wouldn’t do you any harm, to have a bit of fun sometimes.’ Her voice became peevish.

  ‘What’s up with you tonight?’ Mary sat on the edge of the bed and unclipped the suspenders from her dark regulation stockings.

  Ellen wouldn’t return her gaze. Waiting for her to say something, it struck Mary how thin her sister had become. Her underskirt, made from a small piece of parachute that Winifred had miraculously produced, moulded every rib and revealed the sharpness of her hips. ‘Are you okay? You’ve lost loads of weight. Are you eating properly?’ she said. ‘I only ever seem to see you with a cigarette in your mouth these days.’

  ‘Stop fussing, you’re off duty now.’ Ellen stepped into the dress and pulled it up carefully over her legs. ‘And never mind me; you should get out more.’ />
  ‘If you must know, I’m meeting Jean tonight. We’re going to see Clarke Gable and Vivien Leigh in a film at the Roxy.’

  ‘What an exciting life you have.’ Ellen pushed her arms through the short sleeves of the dress and turned one way then the other to see herself in the wardrobe mirror. ‘You do know, don’t you, that Jean’s only your friend so she can get closer to Patrick? She’s been sweet on him for ages.’

  ‘Don’t be nasty.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Ellen sat down heavily next to her. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I’m not sleeping properly. And the bloody air raids. I never know whether to go to the shelter in Skirm or chance it under the stairs, putting up with those two –’ she dipped her head towards the floor ‘– needling one another. And I keep wondering when it’ll be our house, our street that gets it.’

  There was a long silence. Downstairs their father started ranting again. Oh God, Mary thought, no more. She stopped unrolling her stocking and covered her sister’s fingers with her own.

  ‘It frightens me too, Ellen. It’s hard not to worry but you’ll make yourself ill. We just have to get on with our jobs.’

  ‘That’s just it. Whatever else is happening, you’re satisfied with what you do. Ever since we were little you’ve wanted to be a nurse,’ Ellen said.

  ‘You were always a good little patient.’ Mary smiled.

  Ellen pushed her lower lip out. ‘While me, I can’t wait to get out of that bloody factory every day.’ She pleated the material of her dress between her thumb and forefinger. ‘Honestly, it’s driving me mad in there. It’s so boring, sitting at the same bench, day after day, making the same part day after day and listening to the same nattering, day after bloody day. You should hear them, Mary.’ She smoothed out the creases and buttoned the bodice of the dress with her free hand. ‘They only talk about rationing, clothes coupons, their kids’ ailments and the latest letter from their husbands. I’m eighteen, I’ve nothing in common with any of them; there’s no one under thirty and they’re all married. And they’re so bloody cheerful. It only takes one and before you know it they’re all singing along to the bloody BBC. Bloody unbelievable!’ Stopping for breath she stood up, tugged at the skirt of her dress and pulled the narrow belt tightly around her waist. She saw Mary trying not to smile. ‘It’s not funny.’ She was indignant, yet couldn’t resist grinning. ‘If I was with Edna and the others on the next floor it wouldn’t be so bad, but there … Music While You Work. I ask you.’

  Mary laughed, quickly covering her mouth so she wouldn’t be heard downstairs and, before long, Ellen joined in. She flopped back down on the bed and tucked her head into her sister’s neck. Arms around each other’s waist, they giggled.

  ‘You are daft. Why don’t you ask for a transfer? They’re so short of workers they won’t care which section you’re on as long as you’re there.’ Mary squeezed her. ‘Ask for a transfer. Tomorrow,’ she added firmly. ‘Here.’ She lifted her pillow and picked up a small purse. ‘Put a bit of this on.’ She handed Ellen a small metal tube. ‘Not too much, mind, that’s got to last.’

  Ellen carefully applied the red lipstick. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Lovely. Now, get out there and knock ‘em dead. You look gorgeous.’ Ellen stood up and Mary looked without envy at her sister. She was beautiful: blonde hair waved to her shoulders, eyes a startling blue and a wide full-lipped mouth. She gave her a small push on the backside. ‘Go on, shoo! I’ll see you later and mind what I said. Be careful.’

  Ellen gave her a quick peck on the cheek and, pulling at the padded shoulders of her dress, she took the shoes that her sister handed to her. ‘Thanks, our Mary, I will.’

  ‘Don’t forget your gas mask.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Ellen left the bedroom, jumping down the stairs two at a time. Mary heard her shout to their mother. Then the back door crashed shut.

  Mary unbuttoned the bodice of her uniform and massaged the back of her aching neck; sometimes she felt ninety-two not twenty-two. She studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. She wasn’t too bad, similar features to her sister, though not as striking, she conceded. So why had she never had a proper boyfriend? She knew the answer without really thinking about it; she’d been too busy studying, too tied up with her job. Fighting her father’s determination to push her into one of the factories, Mary had known she must succeed. And she had.

  Anyway, between those two downstairs and Müller, she was better staying clear of men. The face of Patrick’s friend came into her mind. Mary put a hand to her cheek, feeling the sudden heat in her face. She leaned forward and pulled out the Kirby grips, letting her hair hang so she was enclosed in the dark curtain.

  An envelope fell out of her pocket: Tom’s letter. She picked it up and, flicking her hair back, started to open it then stopped, uncertain whether she wanted to read it.

  She felt the familiar guilt. Tom had looked after her since she was a baby. Running her fingers along the back of the envelope she smiled, remembering the battered old pink pram he took her around in. The other boys had laughed at him but he didn’t care. She must have been five when the carriage eventually collapsed and she’d cried, so he’d taken the wheels off and made a go-cart for her and Patrick.

  But the last four years in and out of prison had changed him. He was pessimistic, more cynical these days and it made Mary sad; she hated what it had done to him. She put the letter to one side. She needed ten minutes of peace and quiet.

  She heard her father’s heavy tread on the stairs and, closing the door, she flicked the light switch. Except for the dim glow from the landing filtering underneath the door, the room was in darkness. A few moments later the bed in her parents’ room gently groaned a protest and, almost immediately, the familiar crackling snores sounded through the wall.

  Mary unhooked her dressing gown off the nail on the door and, putting it on, flopped onto her own bed. The wire springs twanged loudly and she froze, but there was no break in the noisy rhythmic breathing. Relieved, she tucked up her feet and wrapped her dressing gown round them. She could do without one of his rants at her. Grabbing the hem of one of the blackout curtains she tugged it back. The window, like all the others in the street, was criss-crossed with sticky tape, giving the terraced houses a strangely wounded appearance. The rain had stopped and the wind had carried the clouds away on its back. Through the smeared glass the stars were bright pinholes in the black sky over the town.

  Perhaps Ellen was right, making the best of things, having a good time while she could. Maybe she should do the same. Mary chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking about Patrick’s friend again, seeing the half-mocking, half-inviting grin. She dragged the eiderdown over her and snuggled down. Cocooned in the feather warmth, the drowsiness made her body heavy. She curled her arm around her pillow and drew it closer, tucking it under her neck.

  Chapter 2

  Mary woke with a start and focussed on the clock on the bedside table; she’d slept for over an hour. Kneeling up, she closed the curtains. Her skin prickled as she walked on the cold lino to switch on the light and she jumped back onto the rag rug at the side of the bed.

  She dressed quickly in a woollen jumper and thick trousers, the warmest clothes she had. The March wind would be sure to find its way into the Roxy and there was no heating in the draughty old building. Holding her shoes, scarf and hat, she opened the door and paused, listening to her father’s laboured breathing. Then, avoiding the top creaky tread, she crept downstairs.

  In the kitchen, her mother was raking dead ashes from under the grate.

  ‘Dad’s flat out up there now, Mam. I’m off. Are you all right?’ Her mother didn’t look up. ‘Where’s Patrick?’ Mary said.

  ‘He’s in his room as well. His friend’s left. Mortified I am. Quarrelling like that in front of strangers. And the language. I’m ashamed, Mary, really I am.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. He looked the sort to have heard it all before.’ Mary waited, studying her mother’s s
tooping figure. It was almost as though she hadn’t really seen her for a long time. The woman who had always been so strong, standing before her family, protecting them from her father’s rages had now shrunk, become fragile. ‘I’ll be back by ten.’ She paused. ‘Shall I stop in?’ Even as she asked, she regretted the impulse.

  ‘Get on with you. I need a bit of peace after that little lot tonight.’

  Winifred pushed the poker into the coal bucket between the range and the fireplace and straightened up. Smiling, she produced a thin paperback book from behind the back of the mantelpiece clock. ‘With your Dad out of the way I can have a good read, without him moaning that I’m wasting time and finding things for me to do. And I’ve got that bottle of stout he brought me last night.’

  Putting on her coat, Mary kissed the older woman’s cheek, smelling the blend of carbolic soap, lavender and beer. She gave her mother a hug. ‘Build that fire up, Mam. There’s plenty of that slack our Patrick brought home last week.’

  ‘Yes, well, I think that’ll be the last for a while so we’d better be careful.’ Winifred dragged her grey shawl from the back of her chair.’ If there’s only me in here, this’ll do for now.’

  Mary knew there would be no arguing with her. Instead she said, ‘I had a letter off Tom this morning. If you’re still up when I get home we can read it together.’

  Her mother’s shoulders stiffened but she spoke softly. ‘That would be lovely, our Mary, I’ll look forward to it.’

  Mary closed the back door and peeped in at her mother. She saw her shudder from the cold flow of air that had streamed in from the night and knew she would be thinking of Tom in his cell in the prison, wondering if he was warm enough; it was a question she often voiced. Mary watched as her mother covered her head with the shawl, leaned closer to the glow of the embers in the grate and opened her book.