Pattern of Shadows (12 page)

Jean was right. Patrick seemed to be floating when he and Mary walked to Jean’s house, the following evening. ‘I suppose I knew it might happen but I was a bit dropped on when Jean told me. Once upon a time I would’ve gone bloody mad but, to tell the truth, I’m over the moon. I think we should get wed as soon as we can.’

‘When will you tell Mam and Dad?’

From his short and determined answer, ‘When it’s all sorted,’ Mary knew that her brother had already dismissed their home and was looking forward to married life.

At least there’d be no more rows between him and her father.

They were late meeting Frank. Mary quickened her footsteps. ‘How we’re doing for time?’ she said.

‘We set off soon enough.’ Patrick fumbled around in the pocket of his waistcoat for his watch. ‘We’re OK.’

They quickened their steps. Even so, Jean was waiting for them by the time they got to the end of her street. ‘Hurry up, we’ll miss the bus,’ she chided, linking Patrick’s arm and giving him a kiss.

‘She’s a right bossy boots.’ He grumbled, but squeezed her arms and began to sing, ‘Oh, Merzy Doats and Dozey Doats and Little Lambs Eat Ivy…’ His voice was muffled when Jean clapped her hand over his mouth.

‘What’s he like?’ she laughed.

The bus passed them.

Mary groaned. ‘Frank’ll hit the roof; he hates it when I’m late.’

‘Tough,’ Jean and Patrick chorused in the same breath.

The dance hall was packed and the loud music made talking impossible. Blue cigarette smoke coiled upwards. The huge glass globe hanging high above on the ceiling twisted and turned, casting a kaleidoscope of coloured rays and mirroring the crowds below. Patrick led Jean on to the dance floor as soon as they’d hung up their coats. Mary and Frank leant against the wall. She knew he was still simmering with resentment at being kept waiting at the bus stop.

‘Can’t do these fast dances,’ he shouted, ‘my leg.’ He glared at the GI’s who made up the bulk of the jivers.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mary mouthed the words and clicked her fingers in time to the Benny Goodman tune. She smiled wryly;
In the Mood
was apt. ‘I don’t much feel like dancing anyway.’ Looking around she saw some empty
seats and, touching his arm, pointed to them just as the jive session finished. ‘Let’s talk.’

He shook his head and gestured in the direction of the stage; the female vocalist was beginning a husky rendition of
We’ll Meet Again
. ‘Slow waltz, come on.’ Grabbing Mary’s hand he pushed his way through the group of girls and American soldiers who were drifting back to their tables. Shouldering into one of the men, he tripped and almost fell. Someone laughed.

‘Take more water with it next time, fella.’ It was Al, Ellen’s boyfriend. Mary looked over his shoulder; her sister was standing behind him. Her giggles turned to screams as Frank dived at Al, bunching his fist into the man’s face. The force propelled him backwards through the crowd and Frank followed, knocking Ellen over. He dived on top of the American and, lifting him up by the shoulders of his uniform, head-butted him. Blood splattered from Al’s nose, covering both men, and in seconds other men appeared from nowhere and joined in.

In the background the singer left the stage and the band struck up a loud version of
Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant Major.

‘Ellen.’ Mary fought her way towards her sister and yanked her to her feet.

‘Get that bloody lunatic off Al.’ Hopping around on one foot, Ellen took off her shoe and began to hit out at the struggling group of men.

Outside the clang of bells grew closer. ‘Police!’ In seconds the chaos stopped and the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had formed. Patrick dragged Frank out of the ballroom.

Ellen pushed Mary away. ‘Happy now?’ She dropped to
her knees at the side of Al. ‘You and that bloody lunatic.’ She shook her head, almost in tears. ‘Always bloody interfering.’

Mary held out her hand. Ellen flicked it away and, with some of Al’s friends, lifted him on to a chair. He fell forward, his head between his knees, blood steadily dripping. Ellen knelt by him, dabbing at his face with her handkerchief. ‘Just go away Mary. Go on, bugger off.’

Mary picked up her coat and ran out of the ballroom. In the dim foyer Patrick had Frank pinned to the wall. Jean huddled, crying, a few feet away.

‘Get him out, Patrick, before the bobbies get here.’ Mary gasped for breath. ‘Jean, you all right?’

‘I just want to go home.’

The clatter of bells rose to a pitch and then faded as an ambulance sped past the building. ‘It wasn’t the police,’ Mary said, ‘but let’s get out of here.’

‘No. Mary. Wait.’ Frank tried to push himself off the wall. ‘Get off,’ he yelled at Patrick. ‘Fuck off.’

‘Calm down, you mad bugger. What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Mary’s brother held on to him. ‘You’re going nowhere till you calm down.’

A laughing group of young people, swarming through the doors of the Palais, quietened as they passed. Frank lifted his hands suddenly and knocked Patrick’s arms away, gingerly touching the reddening skin around his eye; it was already beginning to close. He turned towards the inner doors to the dance floor and shouted, ‘Bloody Yanks. Think they’re God’s sodding gift to women.’

Mary threw him a look of disgust and led Jean outside. The pavement in front of the Palais was crowded with people, but further away the footpaths in front of the
shops were empty.

When Patrick appeared at the side of them she said, ‘You look after Jean. I’m catching the next bus.’ She looked past him at Frank. ‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Don’t worry, he will,’ Patrick said. ‘Believe me. Take care, Sis.’

‘Thanks, I will.’ It was the first brotherly gesture from Patrick for a long time. Mary felt the burn of tears.

‘Let me see you home,’ Frank said. He was rubbing his knuckles but his deep breathing was steady now.

‘She told you to leave her alone.’ Patrick barred his way, fingers flat against Frank’s chest.

‘I’m going home.’ She made a sharp movement with her head to emphasise the last word. ‘Alone.’

There was a rumble of engine and a double-decker bus loomed out of the shadows and past them. Mary ran after it. When it squealed to a halt a few yards away at the next stop she jumped on to the platform at the back and clung to the rail as it slowly revved up and set off again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Frank yelled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’

Mary sat down on the bench seat just inside the bus. A middle-aged woman was at the other end, clutching a large basket. She crossed thick ankles and grinned, showing large nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Had a row with your young man then?’ she asked. ‘You not speaking to him?’ She chewed for a few minutes, pushing a wedge of tobacco around her mouth with her tongue. Her foul breath, even from a few feet away, wafted over Mary. She turned to look out of the back of the bus. Frank was still standing in the middle of the road. The woman coughed; a throaty sound. When she spoke again her voice crackled with thick saliva. ‘Well, make the most of it lass, ’cos
once he gets that ring on your finger, it’ll be him that calls the shots, mark my word. Your life’ll never be your own again.’ Her laughter ended in a long wheezing breath. ‘Nope, you won’t be half so clever then.’

‘What the hell was wrong with you last night?’ Mary swung her arm out of Frank’s grasp. ‘Let go, I’ve got to get to work.’ Despite the heat of the midday sun she was cold and she wrapped her cape around her.

‘It was your fault.’

‘What?’ Her mouth opened. ‘What?’

‘It was your fault,’ he repeated. ‘You kept me hanging about like an idiot at the bus stop waiting for you and the night before you stood me up for that bloody fat cow of a friend of yours. I don’t know who you think you are but I won’t be made a fool of.’

He’d turned it all around to her! ‘You’re mad, Frank.’

A hiss of breath escaped through his tight lips. He grasped her wrist under her cape. ‘Don’t ever call me mad.’

Mary prised his fingers off her and backed away. Her stomach was churning. ‘Leave me alone, Frank, just leave me alone.’ She wondered whether to run to Jean’s house, it was only a couple of minutes away. Then she remembered it was her day off and would probably still be in bed and there was no way she wanted to see the smug face of Mrs Winterbottom anyway.

‘I’m sorry.’ Frank was following her along Shaw Street, one hand held out. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
His voice was conciliatory. ‘I just get … I don’t know … I just get …’

Mary spun round. She felt safer now she’d put some distance between them. ‘Mad, Frank, that’s what you get, mad. And so, for no rhyme or reason, you decide to beat the living daylights out of someone you don’t even know?’

The net curtains in a couple of the houses twitched. A woman came out of her front door and began to clean her living room window with a sheet of screwed up newspaper, her face angled in their direction. Mary cringed from embarrassment, but a part of her was glad people could see them; she felt less vulnerable.

He moved towards her, speaking low through clenched teeth. ‘Course I fucking knew him. The bastard made me to do my knee in that night I carried your stupid sister home. Remember?’

For a split second there was a flash of guilt. Mary remembered how he’d struggled that night, but then she squared her shoulders. ‘No, no, I’m sorry Frank, you’re not shifting the blame on me or on Ellen, not for what you did last night. You said it yourself, you were in a bad temper because I was late and you wanted to take it out on someone. The bloke was the convenient punchbag.’ Her chest was tight and she was struggling for breath. ‘You were vicious for no real reason.’ Images of her mother’s face suffering the consequences of her father’s frustrations and anger over the years flashed past her; the familiar fear of his raised voice a childhood memory. ‘I’ve lived with one bad-tempered man all my life. I’ll not put up with another.’ She turned and ran.

Frank took a few paces before his leg gave way and he staggered. He glanced around, made crude two-fingered
gestures at the woman cleaning her window. ‘Fuck off, you nosy bitch.’

She banged the door after her,

With a faked casual manner he strolled on until he got to the old gas lamp at the end of Moss Terrace and he leaned heavily against it. There was no sign of Mary’s cow of a friend. His fingers shook when he took out a Woodbine and it broke, scattering flecks of tobacco over the front of his uniform. He brushed them off with the back of his hand: he couldn’t brush away her words.

Much of what had happened in the dance hall was blurred by the familiar uncontrolled fury that often overtook him but he did remember that bloody bastard American laughing at him and he pulled his top lip back from his teeth. ‘I’ll not let you go, girl, you wait and see,’ he muttered, pushing away from the lamppost. He was late for his shift.

Crossing the top of Newroyd Street, Mary saw the usual group of old men on the benches outside The Crown. She shuddered and held her cape closer. I’ve lived with one bad-tempered man all my life, she said it again to herself, I’ll not put up with another.

They were words she repeated a week later to Frank’s brother, George, when he met her at the top of the steps to the canal path. The low sun cast a pearly glow on the oily surface of the water.

‘But there’s a reason for what he does … how he is.’ The man walked alongside her. She would never have
guessed they were brothers; he looked nothing like Frank. A pale man with curly ginger hair, he was almost a head shorter than her. Only his grey eyes, now fixed on hers, were the same.

Unease made her voice harsh. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know you, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. Why should I believe anything you say? If he thinks he can send you to explain away what he did, he’s mistaken.’

An old man stood in their way, feeding three ducks that darted around, snatching noisily at small chunks of bread. He grinned toothlessly at Mary. She smiled at him and quickened her step to get in front of Frank’s brother. They walked in single file until they’d passed him.

‘Surprised they’re not on somebody’s table by now,’ George joked, catching up with Mary.

Mary tried to shut off from him.

‘Frank doesn’t know I’m here. I’ve been waiting outside the hospital for ages. I asked one of the guards to point you out. The least you can do is to listen to what I have to say.’

‘Why? I don’t owe you or him anything.’

He offered her a cigarette; his fingers were thick, stubby. When she shook her head he lit his as he carried on walking. Like her dad, like many short men, he had a bouncy arrogant walk; her dislike of him was instinctive. ‘I’ve been home for over a week now and I knew right away there was something wrong. He only told me about you last night and … well … me and him are quite close. When we were kids it were only us; we didn’t need anybody else, especially after our dad left.’

Mary wished he would shut up. He had nothing to say that she wanted to hear.

‘He’s proud, you must know by now. He doesn’t say much about what happened to him in France?’

‘He’s actually told me quite a lot,’ she said. Too much for his own good sometimes, she thought, he’d revealed a lot about his bigotry.

‘But not this, I bet.’ He sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘Ever since he got back from France, every now and then, it’s like he’s going to explode. He can’t stop it.’

Mary made a small clicking noise on the back of her teeth with her tongue. She’d heard the same excuse from her father when he was drunk and maudlin. He thought it excused the bouts of temper, the brutality.

‘He was ill when he first came home.’

‘I know that.’

‘No,’ George waved a dismissive hand. ‘I mean really ill.’ Tapping his head he said, ‘He cracked up. Our Ma says it used to be called “shell shock”; there’s a fancy name for it now.’ He had to take quicker steps to keep up with her. ‘He always says he doesn’t remember much about being in hospital, only bad headaches and pains in his leg, but I think he remembers a lot more and won’t admit it.’ His cigarette gave a slight hiss as it hit the surface of the canal. ‘And then, when he actually went home … they were in Rhyl then … Ma says he had nightmares. She had a right time with him.’

Mary stopped by the steps leading up to Skirm. ‘This is where I go up to the road.’ She held on to the rail, still warm from the day’s sun. ‘It makes no difference.’ She glanced towards the top of the steps. ‘I have to get home.’

‘I might as well come with you as far as The Crown; I’m supposed to be meeting him there.’ He batted at a swarm of midges. ‘God, let’s get away from this lot, shall
we? We’ll be bitten to death.’

They crossed the bridge. ‘Our Frank means a lot to me, Mary, and I know how much he thinks of you. So it’s up to me to make sure you know all the facts; why he gets bad moods, why he’s so short tempered, the nightmares … before you decide to get rid of him.’

‘I’ve not changed my mind. I’ve told him there’s no point in carrying on.’

‘But he’s getting better all the time. Honest.’ George rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘He won’t tell you this but he still sees the doc and
he
says it’s just a matter of time.’

Oh hell, Mary hesitated, her innate sense of fairness seesawing with the urge to escape from this man. ‘These nightmares?’

‘They’ve always been the same. His mate, Arnold, was killed in that first spat they were involved in. When Frank was in hospital, he used to say he saw him. He said Arnold would sit at the end of his bed and smile at him, that he had a little blue hole in his neck. And then Arnold would laugh and get up and walk away and Frank would see that the back of his head was blown off.’ Mary closed her eyes briefly. George nodded. ‘When he came home the nightmares carried on. Don’t happen as often these days, but I think he still dreads them. And I think he’s ashamed of them, like it makes him weak or something. He doesn’t want anybody thinking he’s soft.’ George walked alongside her as far as the churchyard wall and stopped. ‘So there you are. Ma says he’s been a lot more settled since you started going out with him. She says she’d like to meet you.’ George blew out a small sigh. ‘To thank you for making our kid easier to live with.’

Mary moved her head, she could feel herself being sucked back in. ‘No, she said, side-stepping him, ‘no, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can.’ She walked away. ‘Like I said to him, I live with one moody bloke, I don’t need another.’

She slowed down when she got to the lake. The water was calm and the boats were still. She sat down on one of the benches, wrapping her cape around her. There was no one else about and the only sounds were the occasional engines of vehicles on the road and the mutterings of birds settling down for the night. The light was fading fast and shadows darkened under the trees around her. Mary shivered; the more she thought about what Frank’s brother had told her, the more uneasy she became.