Changing Patterns (11 page)

‘Let me.’ Mary made a hasty move.

‘I’m fine. We’re fine.’ Gwyneth straightened up. ‘Now you’d better be off.’

This time Mary bent to kiss her. Gwyneth’s cheek was powdery soft. She smelt of lavender and carbolic soap. It always reminded Mary of Mam. ‘Don’t let them run you ragged,’ she said.

Gwyneth smiled. ‘They won’t.’

‘I’ll let myself out.’ She went to the door. ‘You two behave for Auntie Gwyneth.’

‘We will.’ Their voices subdued, the two girls stopped skipping and put their arms around each other. Linda’s face suddenly distorted and she started to cry. Jacqueline’s chin trembled as she fought against tears.

Oh no. Mary made to go to them but was stopped by Gwyneth’s hand on her arm. ‘I’ll see to them,
cariad
. You go.’

Mary stopped at the front door, the image of the two small girls still with her. They were upset now, but how much more were they going to be hurt when they returned to Ashford. ‘Oh Tom,’ she murmured looking up at the grey blanket of cloud above her, ‘it’s all such a mess. What am I going to do?’

The first heavy drops of rain fell onto the coffin with soft thuds. Mary watched as the beads of water shivered and spread, magnifying the grain of the waxed mahogany. Tom would have liked the sound. He didn’t mind rain, he always said it was God’s gift to the gardener – saved all the back-breaking carrying of watering cans. The corners of her mouth puckered into a half smile before she took in a shuddering breath. It felt wrong to be thinking of her brother in the past tense; it was too soon.

There was a shift of movement amongst the mourners as four burly men shuffled into position and, holding the braided gold cords, steadied themselves to lower the coffin into the ground.

‘
For as much as it has pleased almighty God of his great mercy to receive unto himself the soul of our brother here departed we therefore commit his body…’

Mary stiffened. His soul. If God existed, as Tom believed, then he had lived for years with the knowledge, that guilt, that he had committed the greatest sin. He had killed another human being and now he’d died with that sin on his soul. To protect her. She stared at the minister. Had Tom confided in him? Had this man of God managed to comfort her brother or had Tom kept his torment to himself?

Peter pulled Mary closer and she rested her head against him, trying to gain some comfort from the familiar smell of pipe tobacco and the soft wool of his jacket.

‘Soon it will be over,
meine Geliebte
,’ he breathed.

But Mary didn’t want it to be over. It meant leaving Tom here in the cold earth and she couldn’t bear the thought of that. Through the black veil on her hat she peered out of the corner of her eye at Ellen. She stood impassive, Ted’s arm around her waist.

On the other side of him Jean shifted the weight from one foot to the other, her face hidden under the wide brim of her black sateen hat.

‘… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust …’

Unwilling to see the coffin slowly disappear, Mary closed her eyes. But then all she saw was Tom lying so still with his blood slowly flowing towards her. She forced her lids open. Concentrating on the brass name plate, her lips moved silently as she read his name over and over again. Thomas Howarth 1912–1950, saying it faster and faster, as though by its repetition, she could hold on to her brother.

She heard Ellen take in a gulping breath. Glancing up she watched Ted tighten his hold on her sister’s waist, supporting her. Heard her whisper, ‘I’m okay.’

What would Ellen say if she told her what Tom had done? However relieved Mary was when Frank died, it was their lovely gentle brother who’d killed him; driven to protect her in a way that went totally against what he believed. Mary whimpered, moved her head from side to side on Peter’s shoulder.

‘Hush,
Liebling.
’

The rain increased. People huddled together, started to raise umbrellas and the drops bounced off the taut material in a pattern of sounds. The wet air carried the scent of the spray of yellow roses, the only flowers she’d allowed to be placed on the coffin.

She turned her face upwards, the rain washing away her tears.

‘… in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through Jesus Christ who shall change our body that it may be like his glorious body according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself
.’

It was what Tom had believed. She hoped for his sake that, if He actually existed, his God was merciful. She hadn’t held onto the religion she’d been taught as a child. Growing up in a household such as hers had driven that away. Perhaps if she had a faith it would help her now but she doubted it. Tom was a good man and the God he loved hadn’t saved him.

She hated Frank Shuttleworth. But the sounds of him drowning in the canal hadn’t diminished in her mind. Her conscience vied with the satisfaction that he’d got what he deserved and kept her awake at night.

She took an uneven breath. Peter tightened his hold on her. She wondered what he would say when, if, she told him. However much she loved Peter, did she trust him not to condemn Tom? Even as she thought it, she dismissed the doubt. Peter wouldn’t judge Tom.

The undertaker dropped a few grains of earth onto the coffin.

‘Mary?’

She flinched. The undertaker was holding out his hand, inviting her to take some earth. ‘I can’t.’ She backed away, stumbling awkwardly against Peter. ‘I’m sorry, I need to go now.’

As Peter led her away she looked over her shoulder at the long line of people filing past the edge of the grave. She didn’t recognise many of them. She hadn’t appreciated how many friends Tom had made over the last five years. She wished she’d known. And then she saw Tom’s two best friends, Alwyn and Alun. The twin brothers stood for a moment, black bowlers in their hands, before moving on. They had also refused to fight in the war; their beliefs were the same as Tom’s. She wondered how they would react if they knew what he had done. Even though it was to save her, would they would say there should have been another way? Surely they would believe their friendship was built on a falsehood.

That was something else to feel guilty about.

‘Another?’ Ted lifted his glass.

‘No.’ Alwyn pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. ‘Early start in the morning for us, eh, Alun? We’ve a lot on at the moment, see.’

‘Indeed.’ The other man nodded.

‘But it was a fine turn-out for a fine man. Tom was a good friend to us when we came here from the Valleys. A good friend.’ Alwyn looked towards the bar where a few black-suited stragglers from the funeral were huddled together consciously not looking their way. ‘And take no notice of that lot. Live in the past, they do.’

Peter had noticed the way the four men ignored him on the way out of the churchyard. He hoped Mary hadn’t seen. One of them had deliberately shouldered him in the pub doorway, even though he’d stood to one side to let him pass.

‘It does not matter.’ He pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Mary was glad to see you today. She said you also had been good friends to Tom. She said I must say that you always will be welcome to come to the house. Thank you.’

The handshakes were firm, friendly. For a moment Peter was overcome. Apart from Tom, the two brothers were the first men he could imagine as his friends since he arrived in Britain. He coughed, cleared his throat to cover the emotion and smiled as they turned to leave.

Ted nodded at the brothers. He’d sat silently watching throughout the exchange. Once they’d gone he held up his glass again. ‘Another?’

‘I will buy this one,’ Peter said, but Ted had already slid along the faded red and gold
fleur de lis
patterned cushion on the bench. Using the wooden arm of the seat he pushed himself up, rocking slightly on the soles of his feet. He hadn’t reached the stage where the room floated around him, but one more pint would tip him over. He wasn’t used to drinking. Seeing the state Patrick got himself into and remembering Ellen’s father’s violent rages in drink, he’d promised himself he would never put her through that.

He looked back at Peter. The antipathy Ted nurtured towards the German who’d somehow managed to worm his way into Mary’s life had started to dissolve earlier in the day, however much Ted tried to hold on to the hatred and fear he’d felt for his captors. At the bar he glanced over his shoulder. Peter was studying the dusty Victorian fireplace with the iron chains that hung across the collection of bottles at the end of the tap room. The thing needed a good clean as far as Ted could see, but there was no hint of distaste in Peter’s expression, just curiosity.

Even so, carefully carrying the two gill glasses across the stone flagged floor, Ted tightened his resolve not to be won over by Peter. Not yet anyway. From what he’d heard, the bloke’s time in captivity as a prisoner of the British army was nothing compared with his own horrendous experiences. Doctor at the prison hospital had been a cushy number for Mary’s boyfriend as far as Ted could see.

Not for the first time he remembered Patrick’s bitter words when they found out Peter had returned to Britain. ‘Silly cow, she couldn’t see he was buttering her up, trying to use her so he could escape.’ But the man hadn’t escaped. And anyway, he must have known it was impossible to get out of the Granville. The camp had a reputation for being the most secure in the country, with a record of not losing one prisoner. Ted assumed Patrick was mouthing off, holding on to his resentment about being forced down the mines during the war instead of being released to fight.

Still, he prided himself on not being a pushover. Even though Mary thought the chap could do no wrong, he’d make his own mind up about him.

He put the drinks on the table and sat directly opposite Peter, who waited, his face impassive as he took out his pipe and tobacco pouch.

‘So, what do you think about warships and air squadrons being involved in the North Korea shindig then?’ Ted took a sip of beer and wiped foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘Doubt it’ll be long before the troops are sent in. Suppose it doesn’t affect you?’

‘Another war. It is sad.’ Peter kept his voice neutral. He’d picked up on the resentment from Ted the minute he’d walked into the cottage at the beginning of the week and found Ellen and her husband ‘going at it hammer and tongs’, as Mary would say. The last thing he wanted was to cause more worry for her, especially today. Despite the sudden increased tension Ted’s question caused between them, he held on to that thought.

Ted fidgeted. The man sitting across from him, leaning forward with his hands clasped around his glass, was difficult to understand. ‘I know you were a POW.’ Ted spoke harshly, loudly. The four men glanced over their shoulders and glowered before turning away.

Peter nodded. How could Ted not know? He pressed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, concentrating on packing it closely.

‘Did you ever try to escape?’ Ted couldn’t help himself; he couldn’t prevent the challenging tone. He put his glass down carefully on the drink-stained table top. He wouldn’t drink any more.

Peter wasn’t about to share his secret with Ted. ‘No,’ he said, and then, giving in to a forgotten pride, ‘I couldn’t, I was
Lagerführer
of the camp, what you would call, the leader of the prisoners.’ Clamping the pipe between his teeth he struck a match and held it to the tobacco, sucking furiously. Waiting until the last second, just before the flame reached his fingers, he blew it out and dropped the charred remains into the ashtray.

Ted watched, and then shrugged, dismissing Peter’s last words. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. No, this man had never experienced anything like he had. He’d not spent hours terrified he would suffocate with his face pressed to the floor of a failed escape tunnel, the weight of tons of earth on his body, hearing the voices of his enemy joking and laughing while they made him wait until they decided to dig him out from the terrifying darkness. ‘I did,’ he said. It was becoming more difficult to concentrate. ‘Eight times. Always got caught but I kept on trying. The Ferrets.’ He belched. ‘’Scuse. The Ferrets, them that specialised in finding out about our escape plans, were sly buggers. Used to come into the compound whenever they felt like it and search any hut without warning, usually in the middle of the bloody night. They’d throw all our stuff in a bloody great pile in the middle of the room. Bastards.’ He opened his eyes wide and blinked, searching Peter’s face for a reaction but there was none.

Peter deliberately kept still. He knew Ted was trying to provoke him. And was quite drunk. But he also knew that he had to let the man speak. He repeated his earlier thought to himself, if the two of them quarrelled now it would cause more upset for Mary.

‘Then I’d spend days cooped up in a tin shack, middle of the compound, sweating in the bloody heat of daytime, shivering in bone-numbing cold at night.’ Ted took another drink and sat back, rolling his head from side to side. ‘When I was first captured I was kept in what we called a sweatbox, a bloody awful little room where they turned the heating up. Left it on all night before the interrogation in the morning.’ His voice was slurred now. ‘Geneva Convention? They took no bloody notice of that, the bastards. They said we weren’t governed by it, ’cos we were Air Force. They said we were what they called Luft gangsters, killers of women and children. It gave them the excuse to treat us just as they liked.’