Pattern of Shadows (33 page)

‘I’ll ’ave another pint, Stan.’ Arthur Brown pushed his cap further back on his head, scratched his scalp before he re-adjusted the peak. He swayed slowly, heel to toe: heel to toe.

The landlord moved along the bar to the beer pumps and Arthur looked around for someone else to talk to. He didn’t notice the way most of the other drinkers turned their backs to him. Speaking to no one in particular, Arthur said loudly, ‘Mate of mine tells me there’s a bloody Kraut’s been sniffing round, looking for that girl of Winifred Howarth’s, bloody old cow. Fucked off and left me on my own, that one.’

No one looked at him. Someone sitting at the bench underneath the window called out, ‘Shut your gob, man.’

‘That’ll be sixpence.’ Stan Green held out his hand. ‘C’mon Arthur, I’ve other customers to serve.’

Arthur straightened up, hiccupped, and turned to face the landlord. Fumbling in his trouser pocket, he brought out a handful of coppers and began to count them, putting the coins in a line along the bar. ‘Bloody disgrace, price of a pint.’ He looked around for an audience: his eyes settled
on a young man who appeared at the side of him. ‘Bloody government …’

‘Aye, you’re right there,’ the man said, ‘Happen there’ll be a change after the election.’

Arthur snorted. ‘Change my arse. Sod all; that’s what’ll happen. Bloody politicians.’

Stan gathered up the money with a sweep of his hand and dropped it in the drawer of the till. ‘What can I get you?’ he said curtly to the man who was tapping on his glass with a coin and leaning on the bar, one foot on the brass rail that ran along the front.

‘Another whiskey. Straight.’

‘No trouble tonight, mind,’ Stan warned.

The man ignored him. He turned, and leaning back with his elbows on the bar, gazed around the room. No one made eye contact with him.

Arthur Brown continued with his grumbling. ‘I always said that girl were too pure to pee.’ He tried to put the rest of his coins away, but couldn’t get his hand in his trouser pocket so put them back on the counter. ‘My mate, he’s in charge of the station, he’s the stationmaster.’ He blinked. ‘Actually, thinking about it, there’s no one else there so he’s in charge of himself, yeah?’ He gave a short shout of laughter. ‘Where was I?’ He scratched his jaw, the white bristles moving under the dirty fingernail. ‘Oh yeah, well, he said he told the Kraut how to get to their house. I said he should have told him to go to hell.’ He swayed. ‘Bet it was one of them buggers that were locked up at Granville, that’s where the girl was,
ministering
to the sick.’ He leered, licked his lips, savouring the sound of the word. ‘Ministering to the bloody enemy, more like. And then what did she do? Slope off with that pansy of
a brother of hers and my bloody woman, buggered off to Wales without a thought as to what would happen to me.’ He saw the man next to him watching. ‘Bet it weren’t that long since you were fighting the buggers, eh?’ He didn’t get an answer.

Arthur took a huge swallow of his pint, leaving a line of foam across his top lip which he wiped off with his jacket sleeve. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ He rocked on his heels again and held on the edge of the bar, sticky from his spilt drink.

‘Should do, been coming here on and off for over five years.’ The young man gave him a brief smile. ‘George, George Shuttleworth.’

Arthur tilted his head to one side so it almost rested on his shoulders. He squinted. ‘Aye, well, I was just telling Stan ’ere …’

The landlord, at the other side of the bar, put the glass of whiskey in front of George, took the money for it and, without speaking, moved away.

‘Few years ago I could have shot a bloody Kraut and been called an ’ero. Now we’re supposed to accept them wandering about all over the bloody country. Fucking country’s gone to the dogs if you ask me.’ He belched loudly and paused, looking puzzled. ‘And it were their choice to bugger off to Wales, weren’t it?’

The landlady piled some dirty glasses she’d collected onto the top of the bar. ‘Watch your language, Arthur,’ she said, ‘and keep your voice down. Any hassle from you tonight and you’re out.’

Arthur pulled a face. ‘All right, all right, I’m going to sup up and then I’m off.’ He banged his glass down. ‘I mean, Wales, why Wales? And never an invite from them,
oh no, wouldn’t want the likes of me visiting. Snotty bitch!’ He was getting louder.

‘That’s enough now Arthur. I think you’d better get off ’ome. You’ve had enough to drink for tonight.’ Stan moved the glass.

‘Miserable bugger,’ Arthur muttered. He pushed himself off the bar and weaved across the room. Holding on to the large brass handle, he yanked the door open and shouted over his shoulder, ‘That’s what you are, Stan Green, a miserable old sod. You and that sour-faced cow of a wife.’ He dropped the coins he was holding and they rolled out onto the pub’s step.

‘Out!’

George Shuttleworth picked up Arthur’s money and followed him. ‘I’ve had enough an all,’ he said. ‘Here you are.’ He dropped the pennies into Arthur’s jacket pocket. ‘I’ll walk with you; I’m going your way, as it happens.’

Peter checked the address on the letter against the name on the gate. He looked up at the small cottage. The gravel path leading towards the front door was lined with heather and a privet hedge surrounded the long narrow garden, separating it from the cottages on either side.

Behind him pebbles tumbled, tugged by the waves crashing on to the beach and falling back. The sound contrasted to that of the Elbe flowing through the wooded fields near the farm he’d left behind in Saxony where the pace was ruled only by the stones and boulders it flowed over. A surge of homesickness overcame him and, not
for the first time, he wondered if coming back to Britain was the right thing to do. There would be people in this country who would always resent, even hate him for what he was, what he represented.

He adjusted his suitcase in his hand. It was heavy and the old wound in his shoulder ached. Shutting his eyes, he breathed in the salty tang of the misty spray that blew over him, mustering his courage before walking up the path.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ The man who appeared from the back of the house wore an old cap and jacket, his trousers and Wellington boots were caked in mud.

Peter took off his trilby and held it to his chest. ‘Tom?’

The man fumbled with a pair of spectacles. He wound the wire ends over his ears and peered through the lenses. ‘Yes?’

‘Tom. It is Peter Schormann.’

Tom took a step forward. ‘Peter,’ he whispered, ‘Peter Schormann?’ There was a moment’s pause. ‘Oh dear Lord.’ He grabbed Peter’s hand and shook it. ‘You got the letter! I never thought … I just hoped, prayed that one day you would come looking for Mary.’

‘I wanted to come back so much. Each year I applied to your Government,’ Peter said, ‘finally the permit arrived.’ A squall of rain swept in from the beach and he shivered.

‘What am I thinking off? You’ve had a long journey. Let’s get in the house.’ Tom picked up the suitcase and led Peter through the garden. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘Travelling two days since I arrived in Britain,’ Peter said. ‘I had four trains, a lot of the walking and a ride in a butcher’s van, finally the last walk to this village. You live a long way from Ashford.’

‘And I thank the dear Lord every day for that.’ They went up the steps to the back door. ‘This will be a shock for Mary. She doesn’t know about the letter.’ Tom closed the door.

‘She is well?’ Peter asked, he ran his hand over his hair and wiped his damp palm on his jacket sleeve.

‘Yes.’ Tom washed his hands at the kitchen sink. ‘I’ll make a brew. Unless you fancy something stronger?’

Peter shook his head, unbuttoning his coat.

‘Tea it is then.’ Tom opened the cupboard door next to the cooker and fiddled with the top of a Calor gas bottle.

Peter watched him fill the kettle and put it on the cooker. ‘Mary is happy?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘She has a … friend?’

Tom took two beakers out of the wall cupboard. ‘Oh yes, we’ve lots of friends; the people in the village made us welcome as soon as we came to live here.’ He took the teapot to the back door and standing on the top step threw the used leaves over the flowerbed. When he came back into the kitchen he stopped and looked at Peter. ‘Oh, you mean … no, no one like that. She always says she’s too busy with her job.’ He put the teapot on a stand next to the cooker. ‘She’s still nursing. She’s a Matron now in a hospital not too far away. No, there’s no one special,’ he repeated.

Peter’s legs shook as the relief flooded through him. ‘I can sit?’

‘Sorry! What am I thinking?’ Tom pulled out a chair from the table. ‘Sit here. My goodness, I still can’t believe you’re here, I didn’t even know if you’d find our old house if ever you did come back.’

Peter gave Tom his hat and coat and sat down. ‘I knew only the name of the street where Mary lived. She told me one time. So I ask the man at the train station.’

Tom struck a match and, turning a knob, held the flame to the gas ring. It clicked a couple of times and lit with a whoosh, then he shook the match until it went out and put it back in the box. ‘Look, while it’s boiling, come into the living room. It’s more comfortable in there and the fire’s lit. Mary will be home in about half an hour. She gets a lift from someone in the village.’

The living room was larger than Peter expected, with oak beams and paintings covering the white walls. In the corner a tall Grandfather clock ticked sonorously and the huge iron fireplace with the large rag rug on the stone floor in front of the hearth reminded him of the farmhouse he’d grown up in. Two small windows on either side of the porch door were framed by pale cotton curtains. He sat on the large dark red Chesterfield sofa and rested his head on the high back.

‘She was heartbroken after you’d gone,’ Tom said. ‘We talked a lot about you.’ He sat on a battered leather footstool by the fire and held his hands out towards the flames. ‘She told me you were married?’ He frowned. ‘I did wonder if I was doing the right thing leaving a letter for you when I knew that … but she was so miserable.’ He shrugged. ‘I’d do anything for Mary.’

‘I am divorced now. When I went home my wife already had left. With an officer who was with a Unit near the farm.’

Tom’s frown relaxed. ‘The farm? Your home?’

‘Yes, but I have sold my share of it to my brother, Werner. I can live … find work in your country.’ He
rubbed his hand on the arm of the settee. ‘May I ask a question?’ he said abruptly.

‘Of course.’ Tom was cautious when he saw Peter’s anxious expression. ‘What is it?’

‘Why here? Why did you come to live here: so far away?’

When Tom spoke there was a neutral evenness in his words. ‘It was Mary’s idea. We needed to get away.’ He paused. ‘We had our mother with us until last year. She passed away, heart attack.’

‘I am sorry.’ Peter bowed his head.

‘It was peaceful, she died in her sleep.’ Tom gazed into the fire. ‘She loved it here, she was very happy for the four years she had.’ He smiled.

‘I still do not understand.’

‘Mary thought a fresh start would be good for both of us. This village is where my … my friend, Iori, grew up. We were in prison together. He … he died. His mother, who lives next door, owns this cottage and she let us rent it.’

‘But when I remarked you are living a long way from Ashford, you sounded relieved?’

‘Too many bad memories, neither of us wanted to live there any more.’ Tom spoke calmly but his hands were clenched tight. He looked at the fire again, frowning. Finally he seemed to make a decision. ‘Mary trusted you. She jeopardised her whole life because of you. Can I trust you too?’

Peter nodded. ‘
Ja
.’

‘She told me everything about Frank Shuttleworth,’ Tom said.

Peter’s throat tightened. ‘Shuttleworth?’

‘Yes, it was because of him we moved, because of what
happened to him. Not long after we got here, I realised Mary thought it was me that had attacked him, had pushed him into the canal.’ Tom stuttered slightly. ‘It wasn’t, but I understood then why she wanted to get me away from Ashford. She was afraid that, one day, they would reopen the case.’

‘Will they?’ Peter’s voice was hoarse. ‘Open again the case?’

‘Doubt it now.’

‘Do you know who killed him?’

‘I thought I did … once … a long time ago.’ Tom lifted his head, staring steadily at Peter.

Peter took in a long ragged breath. ‘Who did you think it was?’ he said quietly.

‘You’ll say nothing?’

‘I will say nothing.’

‘My brother, Patrick, came to see me in prison.’ Tom pressed on his eyes with the pads of his thumb and forefinger. ‘It was the first time he’d visited in four years, I was so grateful. I’d been going through a bad time. It was strange; we got on really well, better than we had for years, but we had an odd conversation. He wanted to know exactly where I’d been when I escaped. I told him. It wasn’t until later, when the police came to question me about Shuttleworth’s death, that I thought I knew why he’d come to see me. I believed he was trying to find out if I’d killed him. I even thought he was looking for a way to protect me but then …’ He paused. ‘Then, after we’d moved here, Mary told me he’d said I did it. At first I was angry but I know, given the chance, I could have killed that man for what he’d done to her, so perhaps Patrick saw that in me.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Our Ellen suffered
because of Shuttleworth as well. Oh, I had so much rage in me at that time.’ He spread his fingers. ‘But I didn’t do it.’

His voice changed, became more decisive. ‘We went over and over it. In the end Mary said the only reason Patrick lied was because he’d done it. But that would have meant he really hated me and I couldn’t … don’t want to believe that. In then end we agreed to stop talking about it.’

‘Do you see your brother?’

‘No, his wife, Jean, and Jacqueline, our niece, visit sometimes, but they always say he’s busy. He has his own market stall, sells all sorts of things.’ Tom leant forward and chucked a piece of driftwood on to the fire. It crackled and spat blue salt-laden flames.

‘You cannot be sure that it was Patrick,’ Peter said. ‘Perhaps he did believe it was you but he did not report it to the police. They would arrest you. Instead he told Mary so that she could decide what to do.’ Peter leaned forward. ‘It could have been anyone from the camp. It is possible. The prisoners, they hated him more than any of the other guards.’

‘No. No one escaped from that place.’ Tom was emphatic. ‘Mary told me it was impossible.’

‘Yet it could be done. Many attempts were made.’

‘But that’s all they were, attempts.’ Tom made a great show of warming his hands, holding them out to the flames and vigorously rubbing his palms together.

Tom was wrong. Peter knew he was wrong.

Wood from the bases of the bunks was fashioned into makeshift ladders and hidden under mattresses many times. In the early morning rush to the latrines a man
could easily slip unnoticed out of the mill and across to a deserted part of the compound away from the guardhouse. It was possible to prop the ladder against the double fence, take a flying leap across the two coils of barbed wire at the top, roll down the banking outside the camp and wait and watch from the bushes.

‘There were head counts every day,’ Tom said, interrupting Peter’s thoughts. ‘Mary told me.’

And it was possible to get back into camp. Peter knew that too. After all, who would want to break into a prisoner of war camp? Lorries brought prisoners back to Granville every day after working on the farms. It was only a case of waiting for the one that had no guard in the back, there was always at least one, especially towards the end of the war; carelessness set in. And then a hasty run at the tailgate, a leap and plenty of hands to haul one aboard. Peter smiled at the memory of the bemused expressions that caused. The men were only counted as they filed through the doors of the mill. It was easy enough to slip away when the trucks stopped inside the compound.

Tom shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t anyone from the camp.’ He rested his arms on his thighs and pressed the palms of his hands together almost in supplication. ‘We don’t talk about it any more. It’s best left in the past. Mary and I have new lives.’ He smiled. ‘Mary especially, now you’re here. I can’t wait to see her face.’ He stood. ‘Fine host I am. We didn’t have that brew.’ He pushed open the kitchen door and paused, looking back at Peter, his face expressionless. ‘Just let it lie, eh?’

The sound of the key turning in the lock of the front door, followed by the cold blast of air that forced open the inner porch door, broke the tension that was suddenly
between them. Both men turned towards Mary.

Mary and Peter stared at each other. She held on to the doorframe to steady herself. Before Tom could move, Peter crossed the room and caught her in his arms. Cradling her, he brushed aside the rain-drenched strands of dark hair from her face and kissed her cheek, feeling her skin cold under his lips and breathing in the familiar fragrance of lily of the valley.

He closed his eyes and the memory was immediate. Mary’s screams, thin with terror, echoing through the bridge. The sounds of his boots thudding down the steps. The surface of the sullen canal rippling as a bottle sank. The fight on the muddy path, abrupt and violent. The splash of water. The snap of the branch.

The drowning man.

It was over. They were together