Pattern of Shadows (31 page)

‘I wanted to tell you before, but I wasn’t sure it would work out. But now I think it will, one way or the other. I’ve just told Ellen so, while Mam’s gone with her to Mrs Booth’s, I thought I should come round and tell you and Patrick.’ Mary stood at the window watching the rain hammer down. The light from the kitchen shimmered in the puddles in Jean’s back yard as the drops hit the surface.

‘What am I going to do without you?’ Jean was on the edge of tears. She laid one of Jacqueline’s dresses on the blanket over the table and ran the iron over it.

Mary reached up and pulled the kitchen curtains together, shutting out the darkness. ‘I’ll miss you too. I’ll miss all of you, especially my little niece. We both will. But I’ll keep in touch and you can visit. You do understand, don’t you?’ Mary said quietly. ‘I can’t take any chances. I have to get Tom away from here.’

Jean bit her lip but didn’t answer. She draped the dress over a tiny wooden hanger and hooked it on the back of a chair. ‘Have you any idea where you’ll go?’ She started to press one of Patrick’s shirts.

‘Hopefully, Wales.’

‘Wales?’ Jean stopped ironing and stood the iron upright. ‘Why Wales? It’s miles away.’

‘Exactly!’ Mary ran hot water in the bowl in the sink and piled cups and plates into it. She worked quickly, scrubbing with the dishcloth. ‘I’ve been writing to Iori’s mother. You know, Iori; the chap Tom was friends with in prison? She’s got a cottage I’m hoping she says we can rent.’ Mary balanced the last plate against a cup. ‘It’s in a village called Llamroth, it’s very peaceful apparently. Just what Tom needs.’ She dried her hands, watching Jean ironing a shirt of Patrick’s in a haphazard fashion. ‘Patrick and your mother out?’ she asked, picking up a tea cloth and drying a cup.

‘Patrick’s at the pub and Mother’s next door,’ Jean said, lowering the clothes rack to hang Patrick’s shirt on it before hauling it back up to the ceiling. ‘He shouldn’t be long.’ She rearranged damp nappies on the rails of the clotheshorse around the fire. Steam rose rapidly. The
roaring flames sizzled every now and then as drops of rain fell down the chimney. ‘How is Tom?’

‘I think he’ll be better when we’ve gone.’ Mary said. ‘You know why I’m worried, Jean. I’ve no proof it was Tom and I only wish I could persuade myself I’m wrong. And I know we’ve heard nothing about what happened to Frank for a while. God willing, we never will. But, all in all, I think it’s better he’s not in the area.’

‘Has he ever said anything about it?’

‘Not a word. Has Patrick?’

‘No!’ Jean stopped folding a pile of tiny nightdresses and cardigans and looked steadily at Mary. ‘Yes.’ She frowned, fiddled with the buttons on her blouse. ‘I’m sorry, I should have said something before now. Patrick told me it was Tom there that day.’

The room tilted. ‘Did Tom admit it?’

‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it, just that Patrick said that’s why he went to see Tom as soon as he came out of solitary. He thought right away it might be Tom.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, admit it, Mary, you did too.’

‘I thought it could have been either of them; either Tom … or Patrick, you know that.’

‘It wasn’t Patrick,’ Jean blurted.

Mary raised her eyebrows.

‘It wasn’t. We knew you’d told Tom what Frank was doing, stalking you and all that, and we all know how protective he’s always been of you. That has to be why he escaped?’

They faced one another across the table.

‘But you said before he’d only got as far as Bradlow?’

‘That’s what Patrick said to me at the time but apparently
it wasn’t true. He’s told me since Tom let it slip he did get off the train here.

‘But Tom’s a pacifist. He wouldn’t kill anyone. It goes against all his beliefs.’ Mary had argued this to herself a thousand times.

Jean shook her head. ‘Not so much so that he won’t fight to protect those he loves. Look what he did when his, his friend … got beaten up.’

‘Why did you say “friend” like that?’

‘How long have I known you, Mary? I can read you like a book and I listen to what you say. I knew why you were worried about Tom and Iori.’

‘Does Patrick know about them?’

‘I haven’t said anything.’

Mary nodded. ‘Good, keep it that way.’ She drummed her fingers on the table, her lower lip between her teeth. ‘But you should have told me what Patrick said. I’d have got Tom away from here as soon as he came out. Is that why Patrick’s hardly spoken to me for months, because he didn’t want to tell me?’

The baby began to whimper. Jean went through to the hall and pulled the pram into the kitchen, gently bouncing it on its springs until the crying stopped.

‘Jean? Is that why he’s been odd with me?’

‘No.’ There was a catch in Jean’s voice. She turned towards Mary. ‘I … I’m sorry.’

‘If it’s not that …’ Mary’s skin tightened with a cold prickling sensation. Her stomach flipped. She knew what Jean was trying to say. ‘You told Patrick, didn’t you? You told him about me and Peter?’

The rain had stopped but Mary could still hear the gurgle
of water in the downspout by the back door. The fire had settled into red embers and the nappies on the
clothes-horse
no longer steamed. Neither woman had spoken for the last quarter of an hour, the long minutes ticked off by the clock in the hall.

Jean was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry, really I am,’ she said, ‘it just came out.’

Mary closed her eyes and sighed. ‘When?’

‘Ages ago, after I lost the first baby, I was telling Patrick how kind Peter was and it sort of came out about you and him.’

‘Hmm. Well, it answers some questions. I’ve always thought he was still mad at me because I didn’t tell him about Frank being Ellen’s baby’s father.’

‘No. It was about Peter. He was so angry.’

‘Obviously still is.’ Mary couldn’t stop the bitterness. ‘I have to go.’ She grabbed her coat and put it on.

‘But he wouldn’t report you, you know that. You’re his sister, he loves you.’ She caught hold of Mary’s hand. ‘And so do I. Don’t be angry with me, please. Don’t leave like this, let’s sort it out.’

Mary fastened her headscarf. She looked from Jean to Jacqueline and softened. ‘There’s nothing to sort out, love. I’m not angry, not really, it’s too late for that. And you’re right, Patrick could have reported us and he didn’t. Knowing how resentful he’s been these last few years about not being able to fight and knowing his temper, I’m amazed and I’m grateful. We’ve you to thank for that, you’ve made him happier than I’ve ever seen him, you and Jacqueline.’ She hugged Jean. ‘But we’ve no choice now, Tom and me. We have to get away from here.’ Her throat tightened. It was difficult to get her next words out. ‘We
have to make a new life. Peter’s gone and I have to try to forget him. He’s gone and that’s all there is to it.’

Mary switched on the light in the front room and drew the curtains against any curious stares from people passing by on the pavement outside. Then she sat on the lumpy settee and skimmed through the letter that Winifred had propped up against the teapot on the kitchen table.

… As you know the cottage next door belonged to my parents but ever since they died it’s been empty, so it’s a bit damp. It would have been Iori’s eventually and I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else being in it but I’ve made a decision. It’s here if you and Tom want to rent it …’

Mary let the piece of paper drop into her lap. It was going to happen. She could get Tom out of this place.

Iori’s buried in the local churchyard, which is just down the lane from the cottages. I would really like it if Tom could help me to look after the grave?

You wanted to know if there would be any work for Tom, so I asked around. There are quite a few older people in Llamroth who told me they are always looking for odd job men to do their gardens and such.

As for the other thing you asked me to find out about. There is a hospital in the nearest town, Pont y Haven, that’s looking for trained nurses. I’ve enclosed the details …

Laughter and applause told Mary the radio had been switched on in the kitchen. There was a great burst of giggles from Arthur. The door opened. ‘Can’t stand that programme,’ Tom said, sitting next to Mary.

‘It’s That Man Again, Handley.’
Mary smiled. ‘He’s all right in small doses. Listen, there’s something I want to ask you.’ She paused, watching him closely. ‘I’ve been writing to Gwyneth, Mrs Griffiths, for a while now.’

Tom now straightened up. ‘Iori’s mother?’

‘Yes, we’ve come up with a plan. I think you’ll like it.’

Tom twisted sideways to look at her, nervously gathering the antimacassar on the back of the settee into folds in his large hands. ‘What is it?’

‘Here, read her letter.’ She waited, watching for his reaction. When he looked up at her again she said, ‘What do you think?’

Tom dropped his chin on his chest. She could hear him struggling not to cry. When the tears came, it was a noisy outpouring of grief. Mary knelt up on the settee and held him, rocking him from side to side.

Gradually he calmed down, his breath drawn in great shuddering gasps against her shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he finally said, scrubbing at his face with Mary’s handkerchief. ‘I didn’t …’

‘I know.’ She let go of him. ‘I didn’t want to say anything until I knew I could make it happen.’

They sat quietly, each thinking their own thoughts. Out on the street footsteps hurried past, the rain drummed on the window, plopped down the chimney into the empty fireplace.

Tom sat forward. ‘What about Mam?’

‘I thought between us we might persuade her to come
with us?’

‘Right!’ He nodded. ‘I’ve not been much use lately, have I?’

Mary smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Everything that’s happened … to you, to Dad, Mam, Ellen … and Iori, it just all built up.’

‘Do you feel like talking?’ When she saw the distress on his face, she leaned towards him. ‘Tom? What is it?’ Her first thought, please don’t tell me it
was
you, was like a chant in her head. She hated the thought that he’d had to betray his beliefs to protect her.

‘I can’t stop thinking about Iori. It was horrible what they did to him.’ He screwed his eyes shut and then opened them. Mary was horrified by the surge of relief in her. ‘There were seven of them. They blocked him in the cell. I couldn’t get to him, I tried I really tried, Mary.’ He leaned forward, pressing his hands against his eyes.

‘Yes, Tom, I’m sure you did.’ She put her head on his shoulder.

‘When he was on the floor they kept on kicking him, again and again and again,’ he said. ‘I climbed over them, I hit them, I kicked them, I was screaming for them to stop. The prisoners who stood by and watched what they did to Iori later told the Governor I went berserk.’ He nodded. ‘I think I did. I wanted to kill them. When I got to him he was unrecognisable. His face was all smashed in. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, that’s all I can see.’

‘Oh Tom.’ Mary heard the clock in the kitchen strike ten and overhead sounds of her mother clattering about on her way to bed. A thought struck her. ‘Did I get it wrong then?’ she said. ‘Be truthful, Tom, do you really think it would be a good idea going to Llamroth?’ She leaned
forward to look into his face. ‘Would it be too painful, love? Make those memories worse?’

‘Oh no, Iori loved the place.’ He smiled at her. ‘And when I went there, when I escaped, I loved it too.’

‘You don’t want time to think about it?’ Mary worried. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I don’t want time to think about it,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure.’

The stone-fronted house looked even more neglected. A large patch of moss partly covered the enclosed area of tarmac where rain had dripped from a broken gutter. There was even less paint on the door now and a piece of swollen wood replaced one of the leaded windows.

Mary let go of the tarnished brass knocker and stepped off the smooth dip in the centre of the dirty grey step. She heard feet scuffling on the lino in the hall: Nelly Shuttleworth filled the doorway.

‘I hope you don’t mind my calling, Nelly,’ Mary said. ‘I know I haven’t seen you since you came to our house, but I really wanted to talk to you.’

‘No, come in. It’s nice to see you, pet. The weather’s driving me mad. I can’t remember the last fine day.’ She led the way to the kitchen. ‘Brew?’

‘Thanks.’ Mary unbuttoned her coat, sat in one of the overstuffed armchairs and waited while Nelly made the tea.

She had her back to Mary as she asked, ‘Was it something about Frank? Have you heard from the police?’

‘No, it’s not that,’ Mary said hastily.

Nelly poured tea into two mugs, her hand unsteady. ‘What is it then?’ She held up a small jug. ‘Milk?’

Mary nodded. ‘Please. I wanted to tell you I’m moving away, I came to say goodbye. You were kind enough to come to see me after Frank’s funeral.’

‘I came because I thought it was something I should do.’ Nelly’s voice was gruff. ‘He was my son and he – he hurt you.’ She passed a mug to Mary. ‘But he paid for it, didn’t he?’ She wheezed as she eased herself into the armchair opposite Mary, her skirt riding up to show her pink bloomers. ‘Are you leaving because of that, because of what he did?’

‘To be honest, I just need a fresh start.’

‘Where will you go?’

Mary hesitated, she’d decided she wouldn’t tell Nelly about Wales: if she was to protect Tom, the fewer who knew the better. ‘Not sure yet.’

‘You’ll be leaving your family.’

‘I’m hoping Mam comes with me, and Tom.’

‘How is your brother?’

‘He needs a change as well.’

‘And your Mam?’

The image of her mother sneaking the bottle upstairs the day Nelly came to the house flashed into Mary’s mind. ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

There was the rasp of a key in the front door lock and a shout: ‘I’m back.’

‘George,’ Nelly said to Mary.

‘I’d better go.’ She hadn’t forgotten the venom in his voice the day of the inquest.

George poked his head round the kitchen door, stared
at them and then, without speaking left. Mary heard him bounding up the stairs. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said.

Nelly followed her to the door. She folded her arms, the sleeves of her blouse cutting into the flab, as George came back down and slouched against the wall, his eyes narrowed. Mary ignored the snort of contempt from him as she kissed Nelly on the cheek. ‘Bye then.’ But she couldn’t stop the shiver of fear that coursed through her body. He reminded her so much of his brother.

As soon as Nelly closed the door, the argument started. Mary stood on the path, her hand on the top of the gate and listened. The quarrel in the house became louder. She heard George shouting. ‘I don’t know why you let that fucking bitch in this house. She’s the reason Frank’s dead, you stupid cow.’

‘You’re talking rubbish. You don’t know that.’

‘Course I bloody do.’

Mary pulled the gate closed. If she wasn’t already determined to leave, George Shuttleworth’s words would have been enough to make up her mind. She hunched her shoulders, shoved her hands into her pockets against the sharp autumnal wind that went straight through her, and walked away.