Changing Patterns (12 page)

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and studied the burning embers in the bowl. Mary’s brother-in-law was bringing back a lot of unwelcome memories.

Ted was restless. He sprawled his arms out on the surface of the table, spreading his fingers. ‘Before I was captured … the last run we did, we’d dropped a few bombs around the mouth of the Gironde River and, on the way back, more bombs on an oil works off the shore.’ He fixed Peter with a slightly unfocused stare. ‘It was too bloody quiet for a bombing raid. We didn’t see the flack coming and then all at once we were hit.’ He stared down at his hands. ‘I remember the pilot shouting, “One of you had better start praying.”’ He gave a short high-pitched laugh. ‘Then, Jock, my mate, chanting, “For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful,” over and over again. I couldn’t stop laughing.’

Peter shook his head. ‘I am sorry?’ Why was that so funny?

‘It’s a school dinner prayer,’ Ted said, exasperated. ‘It’s what kids say before they have their school dinner.’

‘Ah.’ Peter moved his head, now grasping the meaning. Or at least partly understanding. Sometimes the British people perplexed him.

Ted’s voice rose. ‘The next thing, just a crunch and the aircraft started to rip apart. The order to bail out was given and I was gone. It seemed only a few seconds later there was a blinding flash.’ He waved his arms in a wide arc. ‘The whole plane was blazing as it fell. I didn’t see any of my mates get out.’ All at once he felt almost sober again. ‘I think they were already dead.’

For a long time neither man spoke. The murmur of men’s voices, the clink of glasses, the swoosh of the pub door as it opened, eddied around them. The smell of cigarette smoke and the whiff of urinals each time someone went in or out of the lavatory became stronger.

Eventually Ted’s head drooped onto his arms, folded together on the table.

Peter glanced around, uncertain what to do. Before he could decide, Ted reared up, grinning, his mouth slack. ‘We had a paper, you know, written by some of the Kriegies.’ He flapped his hand weakly. ‘Some other British POWs, you know?’ Peter nodded. ‘In one of the other camps. Telling us what was going on outside all that bloody barbed wire.’ He couldn’t keep the note of triumph from his voice. ‘The Goons … we told them that Goons stood for German Officer or Non-com. They actually believed that for a long time.’ He sniggered. ‘They hadn’t a clue; they even called themselves Goons sometimes.’

Peter’s face tightened slightly. But when he spoke he kept his voice measured. ‘
Ja,
we too had a paper, the
Wochenpost.
It served the same purpose for me,
for my men.
’

Despite the emphasis of Peter’s last words, Ted recognised in his expression the understanding of a shared experience. He was ashamed. He’d gone too far. ‘Sorry,’ he said, making himself sit up. ‘Shouldn’t have said that about Goons … bit too much of the old ale.’ He pushed the glass from him. ‘Not used to it, you know. I don’t get out much and all this business today…’ He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, embarrassed. He should have shut up ten minutes ago. The bloke’ll think him soft.

‘I was a doctor before the war.’ Peter looked away, giving Ted a few moments to compose himself. He wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing but he continued. ‘I did not want to be involved. I was working in a hospital in Berlin. It was
mein Vater,
my father …
bestand darauf, dass ich in den Krieg ziehen sollte
, he insisted I go. He was a farmer, proud of me, but a man with strong opinions. Proud of being German. He said I should do my duty; use my skills.’ He met Ted’s eyes. ‘I killed no one.’ He blocked out the old guilt. ‘In the war, I killed no one.’

Ted inclined his head in acknowledgment.

‘I think we should go home now,’ Peter said
.

‘He’s a bit odd,’ Ellen said, when the minister closed the front door and walked away from the cottage.

A few miles away thunder rumbled and through the net curtains Mary saw an occasional glimmer of lightning behind the distant banks of clouds. ‘Shush. It was kind of Mr Willingham to come to see us,’ she said, yet silently agreeing that the man made an eerie figure in his long black overcoat and Homburg hat. In the gloomy evening light the peculiar old-fashioned cream spats he wore over his shoes gave the impression that he floated along the dark ground. ‘And he gave a lovely eulogy for Tom.’

‘That hymn though,’ Ellen said, querulous. ‘I didn’t understand one word.’

‘That’s because it’s a Welsh hymn,
O fryniau Caersalem
,’ Mary said, trying hard to be patient. ‘It means
From the Hills of Jerusalem
, something like that. The minister chose it especially. It was one of Tom’s favourites ever since he first went to that church.’

‘Well, he still gives me the creeps.’

Mary rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. ‘He was a good friend to Tom.’

‘I thought he was nice.’ Jean sipped her tea.

‘You would.’

‘Ellen!’ Mary turned away from the window, frowning. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘Well, one good thing,’ Jean said, clearly snubbing Ellen, ‘it only rained a bit for the funeral.’

‘It was enough for us to get drenched. Except for you in your big hat, of course.’

Mary tried to ignore the two women sniping at each other. She picked up the bowl of damask roses that Alun and Alwyn had sent from their garden, and held them to her face. ‘I love these,’ she said. ‘Tom grew them for me. Do you remember when we were kids, Ellen, how we used to pinch these kind of roses out of the gardens of the posh houses on Manchester Road and put the petals into water to make scent?’

‘It never worked,’ Ellen said.

‘Sometimes it did.’

‘I remember doing that.’ Jean bit into one of the biscuits Gwyneth had made.

‘Not with us,’ Ellen muttered, saying louder, ‘and posh houses, our Mary? You mean where Patrick and Jean live now?’

Jean bristled, spluttered crumbs. ‘He worked hard to buy that house for us.’

Mary stared at her, unable to believe she was still sticking up for Patrick. Red-faced, Jean refused to meet her eyes.

‘Oh, yes, we know all about what Patrick does,’ Ellen said.

As soon as the minister left, Ted had slouched in the chair. Now he roused himself, looking anxiously at Ellen. He sat up straight, taking the mug of tea Peter handed to him. ‘Thanks mate.’

Mary saw him give Ellen a warning look. He doesn’t know she’s told me about Patrick’s affair, she thought. She coughed to get her sister’s attention.

Ellen looked towards her, pursing her mouth. Hesitated. ‘Well, we all know he bought that place with all his wheeler-dealing.’ She dragged her eyes away from Mary. ‘And he’s still showing off, buying this and that, while the rest of us have to put up with queuing.’ She sniffed. ‘Last time I went for tea I had to queue up for an hour for a packet of the stuff. Anyway,’ she changed tack, ‘what excuse did he have for not coming to the funeral?’

‘Ellen! Stop it!’

But her sister hadn’t finished. ‘Can’t be petrol rationing can it? Someone should tell him that finished in May.’

‘He couldn’t get away from his business.’

‘His business? Two market stalls? He should be ashamed of himself.’ Ellen stopped and took a breath. ‘And that’s not all he should be ashamed of, is it?’

‘That’s enough,’ Mary interrupted. If Ellen carried on like this she was likely to blurt out about Patrick in front of them all and Jean would be mortified. Whatever she thought of the situation, Mary didn’t want that for her friend. She’d tell Peter at the same time as she broke the news to him that she was going back to Ashford with Jean for a while. ‘Not today, Ellen, please. I don’t care that Patrick isn’t here, in fact I’m glad.’ Jean sat up, rigid. ‘I’m sorry Jean but I am. You know what he was like with Tom. All the things he said about him. He hated Tom. He has no right to be here today.’

Mary hadn’t forgotten Patrick had been the first to accuse Tom of killing Frank. She hated the idea that he’d been right all along.

‘That’s all old history,’ Jean fired back.

‘To you maybe but there are some things that just don’t ever really go away.’ The pulse in her throat was racing. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about all this. I’d have thought that for today at least, you two would stop this constant bitching at one another.’ The combination of sorrow and anger settled like a hard stone in Mary’s stomach. She flung her arms wide. ‘Oh, I give up. I’m going next door to see Gwyneth and the kids.’

Peter had been silently watching, reluctant to be part of what was obviously familiar animosity. Now he stood and made to follow Mary. Before he left he turned and looked at the two women. ‘It is to your shame you speak so to one another today.’

The storm had left the air cooler and, even though it was late, Peter lit a fire.

‘It is good we are on our own at last.’ He stretched out on the sofa, relieved everyone else had gone to bed early. There was something wrong with Mary, had been for days now, and he had a feeling it wasn’t only the grief. Perhaps now she would tell him what it was. ‘Your family is … how to say?’ He lifted his stockinged feet to warm them against the flames.

‘Hard work.’ Mary sat down next to him, resting her arm along the high back of the sofa. She stroked his blond hair; it felt soft, thick under her fingers. ‘I think Ellen and Jean have exhausted themselves with their quarrelling.’

They exhaust everyone around them, Peter thought, acknowledging how lucky he was to be with Mary. He didn’t know how Ted managed to be so tolerant of Ellen. He seemed a steady man despite going through so much during the war. ‘Ted is a good man.’

‘Yes.’

‘He has much patience with Ellen.’ He felt her hand still on his head and wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.

‘Yes,’ Mary said after a beat, ‘he does.’

Peter took a long suck at his pipe and blew a stream of sweet-smelling smoke into the air. ‘Families can be sometimes difficult.’

‘Yes.’ She snuggled down, fitting her cheek into the slight hollow between his shoulder and chest. ‘Do you miss your own family, your home, Peter?’

He didn’t answer immediately. He thought about his father and brothers, all taciturn men, only Werner still alive, left to work the farm. ‘No.’ In the few short months he knew Mary’s brother he’d grown closer to him than his own. ‘No, but over the last few nights I have had recollections of days before the war,’ he admitted. ‘The pattern of the lines on the ice when I and my brothers skated on a local pond; long summer days, working on the farm.’ His voice was pensive. ‘Sitting by the Elbe, the water high on the banks, high over the boulders on the river bed; the mornings of autumn, harvesting, the cold winters and warm fires in our home. My work as a doctor.’ He didn’t mention his short marriage, the wife who left him for another man.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said. ‘I’ve neglected you. With Tom and everything else that’s happening—’

‘No.’ He stopped her words with gentle kisses. ‘You have not,’ he whispered against her mouth. ‘I do think of home. But since the war, since the Soviets … Saxony is not a world I know anymore. There is nothing there for me now. I miss what there was, but it is not the same. And I do not miss that as much as I missed you all those years. We are family now?’

‘We are,’ she said. But Peter knew there would always be a space where Tom should be.

‘It was a good funeral … one he deserved.’ Peter said. He’d grown to admire her brother’s quiet ways. ‘Tom was well liked, I think.’

‘I wonder if everyone would have thought so well of him if they’d found out he was with Gwyneth’s Iori in prison. If they’d known he was a conscientious objector during the war?’ And if they’d known that he had killed a man, despite his beliefs, she added silently.

‘It would make no difference. They knew him as a worthy man. They are good people. After all, they show no quarrel with me, they have accepted me, and I was called the enemy.’ The recollection of the four hostile men in the pub flashed through his mind. He wouldn’t tell her.

They sat together, listening to the whistle of air through the sticks of wood in the fireplace, watching the changing patterns of the flames. For the first time in days Peter let the muscles in his shoulders relax.

‘Peter?’

He felt the warmth of her hand through his shirt. He rested his chin on top of her head. ‘Hmm?’

‘I have to tell you something.’

There was a slight hesitation in her voice that alerted him. ‘Of course,
Liebling.
’

‘It’s about Tom.’ She sat up, looking into his face. ‘And Frank Shuttleworth.’

‘
Ja
?’ Peter shifted, rubbed the side of his nose, reluctant to look at her.
Gott in Himmel,
how much longer would that bastard haunt them? Would the spectre of her former boyfriend always be there? ‘I am listening,
mein Herz
.’

‘We’ve never talked, you and me, about what Frank did to me?’

‘I did not want to make you remember … to upset you.’ God forgive your cowardice, Peter Schormann.