Changing Patterns (13 page)

‘He raped me, Peter. On that canal bank, Frank Shuttleworth raped me.’

He flinched.

‘And to stop him, to save me, someone threw him in the river and let him drown.’

Peter couldn’t take his eyes from her. Did she know?

‘The reason we moved down here was to get Tom away from Ashford, because I believed it was Tom. But he refused to talk about it. He said we should try to forget everything.’

‘He was right,
Liebling.
’ Peter lowered his head, willed her to let it go, let the past stay where it should be, in the past.

But she wouldn’t be put off now. ‘Then, one day, we did talk about it and we realised … at least I thought we realised…’ Mary rubbed her temples. ‘That Patrick’s constantly hinting that it was Tom who’d murdered him was to take attention from himself. He killed Frank.’ She pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Or so I believed.’

Mary touched his cheek, moved his face so he had to look at her. ‘The other day Gwyneth showed me a letter Tom wrote to her after Iori died.’ She squeezed her eyes closed. ‘He doesn’t actually say… admit … he did it but I could tell that’s what he meant.’ She looked steadily at him. ‘He always told me it wasn’t him. Now I know it was. It couldn’t have been anyone else. Oh, Peter, I thought Tom was incapable of killing anyone. I thought I knew him.’

Peter held her, rocked her in in his arms. Shame burned so deep inside him it hurt. But still he didn’t speak.

Tom
wasn’t
capable, he thought. But I was. I did that. For you. For us. He closed his eyes. And now I am too much of a coward to tell you.

Dead or not, Frank Shuttleworth still had the power to destroy them.

‘You are ready to leave?’ Peter stood alongside Ted, hands in his pockets. He’d slept badly, the old wound in his shoulder was aching this morning and he’d spent the night going over and over what Mary had told him, reliving the shame of his cowardice, of his inability to confess. Instead he’d let her think the worst of Tom.

And yet still he knew he wouldn’t tell her.

‘Yeah.’ Ted took a last drag on his cigarette and nipped the burning tobacco between finger and thumb before dropping the tab end into the top pocket of his jacket. ‘Just waiting for Ellen to pack and get herself ready.’ He cast an eye over the vegetables. ‘Garden’s looking good.’

‘I follow what Tom started.’ Peter bent down and pulled out an errant dandelion amongst the line of onions, a sudden stab of pain in his shoulder making him straighten up more carefully.

‘I’m glad we finally met,’ Ted said, feeling slightly uncomfortable, ‘even under these circumstances. Happen you’ll come to Ashford sometime?’

‘Perhaps.’ Peter had no intention of ever setting foot in that town again. Even so he smiled at Ted. ‘It is good we understand one another.’ He dropped the weed down onto the path and rubbed his palms together.

‘And I’m sorry about Ellen’s behaviour yesterday. She upset Mary, I know.’

‘I am sure they have made friends again,’ Peter said. ‘Jean is also…’ He halted, unable to find the words to describe Mary’s difficult friend who obviously disliked him.

‘Impossible.’ Ted laughed and then frowned. ‘She’s having a hard time at the moment though.’

Peter cocked his head to one side. ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah, Patrick’s getting handy with his fists by all accounts.’

‘That is shameful.’

‘Yeah.’ Ted passed his hand over his mouth. ‘There’s other stuff going on as well.’ He was almost tempted to confide in this quiet bloke, but then thought better of it. ‘Ellen tells me Mary intends to go back with Jean.’ He sensed the startled movement of Peter’s head. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No.’ The rush of anxiety unnerved Peter. ‘I did not.’ Why hadn’t she told him?

‘Personally, I don’t think it’ll do much good. Jean’s been sweet on Patrick for as long as I can remember. She’ll not leave him now, whatever he does.’ Sensing Peter’s unease, not sure why Mary hadn’t told Peter, Ted focused on fumbling in his pocket for the cigarette end. ‘Mary thinks she should have words with him. But I reckon he’ll go mad and Jean’ll resent it.’

‘Mary should stay here.’ Peter’s voice was grim. ‘She does not need more trouble, more worry. And also, she is to go back to work next week. The hospital, they have understood, but she said to me she has been away long enough. It is almost a month.’

‘Mary’s looked out for her family all her life. She’s a strong woman.’

‘Still, she has me now. I will look after her.’

‘She’s been especially good to Ellen. She’s relied on Mary for a lot of things.’ Ted nodded. ‘I don’t know how much you know about all the stuff that happened to Ellen during the war?’ he said. ‘She didn’t have it easy … and I know folk think I’m soft with her, that I let her get away with murder…’

Peter was barely listening, his mind furiously working on ways to persuade Mary not to go to Ashford.

Unaware he’d lost Peter’s attention, Ted continued, ‘I swore then if I got home and she’d have me I’d look after her if it killed me. When I found out everything that had happened with Linda and everything, I was so angry I wasn’t there to protect her.’

So he knew about Shuttleworth? Peter didn’t ask.

‘It’s hard,’ Ted said, ‘feeling guilty about something, when you know there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I’d kill for her, you know.’ Ted’s spoke almost casually.

Peter tightened his lips before the guilty admission spilled out. Instead he moved his head, acknowledging what Ted had said.

‘Ted, what are you doing? Come and drink this tea before we leave. The kids are getting fractious.’ Ellen stood at the back door.

The two men grinned at one another in a shared moment of humour. Then, in an even tone, Ted said, ‘You really don’t want Mary to go to Ashford, do you?’

‘No, it will do no good I think.’

‘Let me have a talk with her. I think I can persuade her she’s better off staying here.’

‘Come on, we’ll better get a wriggle on.’ Ted stood on the doorstep, jingling the van keys. ‘It’ll take all day, the rate that old banger goes.’

‘It’ll get you home, though?’ Mary imagined them stuck in the middle of nowhere. That would be sure to cause a row. She kissed both children, welcoming Linda’s tight hug. ‘Be good for your Mummy now.’

‘Yep, radiator’ll just need topping up every now and then.’ Ted grinned. ‘I’ll get Ellen to do it if it’s raining.’

‘You won’t.’ Ellen gave him a light slap on the arm. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘we’ll be down again for the wedding, once you’ve set the date. We’ll have a new car by then.’ She gave her husband a mock warning look. ‘Won’t we?’

‘Aye, I suppose so,’ he said in feigned resignation. ‘I doubt the nattering’ll stop till we do.’ He held out his hand to Peter, his grip warm. ‘Thanks mate,’ he said firmly, ‘you make sure you look after our Mary.’

‘I will.’ Peter put his other hand over his and Ted’s clasped ones. ‘And thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For the friendship you have offered to me.’

‘And thank you for our chats.’ Ted’s voice affected casualness. ‘And if ever you feel you can face Ashford, you’ll always be welcome in our house.’ He added sheepishly, ‘And I’m sorry if I offended you yesterday. I was a bit bladdered – middle of the day as well – should be ashamed!’

‘Not at all.’ Peter smiled. Their conversation had broken down barriers that could have lasted years. ‘As I said, thank you.’

Ted turned to usher the children out onto the path. ‘Come on, wife,’ he ordered in mock officiousness, laughing and staggering slightly as Ellen gave him an indignant shove.

She put her arms around Mary. ‘I wish you were coming with us.’

There was something in her eyes that made Mary say, ‘You’ll be all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Ellen crossed her eyes and grinned. ‘Bright as a button, me. Right, no more yacking, let’s get the show on the road.’ As she turned away Mary saw she’d begun to cry; large beads of glistening tears. ‘I’ll miss Tom too, you know. It’s easy to take things for granted, like I always knew he was here.’ She gave a loud spluttering cough and shepherded Linda and William towards the gate. ‘Come on, Ted, or it’ll be dark before we get home.’

Mary lowered her voice. ‘Look after her, Ted. She’s not as hard as she pretends to be.’

‘I know, don’t worry.’ He walked away. ‘Tell Jean ta-ra for us, will you? We’ll probably see her tomorrow when she gets home. Tell her I’m sorry there’s no room in the van.’

‘I will.’

‘Course, she could have travelled in the back like you offered, Ted,’ Ellen called over her shoulder as she ushered the children into the van. ‘Bit of flour doesn’t hurt anybody.’

Mary’s lips twitched at the thought.

Ted turned back to hug Mary. ‘Thanks Mary,’ he said, ‘I owe you.’ He held her at arm’s length.

‘Give over.’

‘You’ve got a good man there, lass,’ he whispered.

‘I know.’ Mary smiled. ‘And you’re probably right about what you said. I should let Jean sort things out for herself. She wouldn’t thank me for interfering in her marriage … and Patrick certainly wouldn’t.’

Ted nodded. ‘You have to look after yourself, love. You’ve gone through a hard time as well.’

They hugged one last time.

With Peter’s arm over her shoulder she waved until the van disappeared round the corner. The loneliness the sudden loss of their noisy presence provoked was almost painful. Everything’s changed, she thought. Oh Tom, I am really going to miss you too. Looking back at the cottage she felt that all at once she couldn’t face going in.

Then Jean appeared at the door. ‘Nice to have a bit of peace,’ she called. ‘Fancy another brew?’

‘I have to say the grounds have never looked so good.’ The Minister pulled an apologetic smile. ‘But that’s all there is at the moment, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be anything else for you to do.’ He handed a pound note to Peter. ‘I’ll let you know when … as soon as … something else crops up.’ He beamed. ‘Good job, good job, well done, well done – now must dash, a christening this morning. Yes, yes, a christening.’ Muttering to himself he ambled back to the church, stopping now and again at various graves.

When he reached the last one before the porch, a grey headstone that was slightly sunken in the ground he turned back. ‘Sam Jones,’ he called in a bright voice, his hand resting on it, ‘he was the church gardener for thirty years or so I’m told. Of course he did it for the love of his work – wouldn’t take a penny, I believe.’

Peter pretended he hadn’t heard. He picked up his shears and knelt down to trim around the graves. Tugging at a particular stubborn clump of weeds he studied his hands. There were cuts and callouses on his skin but he didn’t mind. They were the hands of the gardener he’d become, not the doctor he once was.

But now he was worried. Would he get work with Tom gone? It didn’t seem so. This was the only job he’d had since then. He shook his head, trying to shift the worry.

Packing away the tools in the old shed at the back of the church he pondered on what to do. He walked slowly along the path and perched on the stone wall by the lych-gate, folding the pound note into small squares. He looked up as two women passed by. The younger one’s smile swiftly faded, vanquished by a dig in her ribs by the older woman.

Peter watched them until they turned the corner at the end of the church wall, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He needed to do something. Mary couldn’t be the only one to bring in money, his pride wouldn’t accept that.

He reluctantly acknowledged his only option: he must ask Alun and Alwyn if they could give him some gardening jobs. Tom had sometimes taken on work they hadn’t time for. They were his only hope. For Mary’s sake he had to try.

He jumped down from the wall and made his way to the outskirts of the village. Looking up towards the top of Ellex Hill he could just see the roof of the twins’ house. He’d never been but Mary had once pointed it out to him.

The air was humid and difficult to breathe as he climbed slowly, back hunched, his knees bent against the steep gradient of the lane. When he reached the top he turned and looked out over the sea to the horizon. On fine days he supposed the views would be breath-taking. Today there was a heat mist rolling in shrouding the cliffs and the beach far below. He took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his arm before turning to face the path leading to the house. If he didn’t know better he would have thought it was empty. No curtains hung in the widows, the framework and the door were badly in need of repair and paint, on the corner the drainpipe hung broken and grass sprouted from the guttering. Mary had told him the twins didn’t bother about their home but still … he stared, a slight flicker of surprised humour in him.

He swallowed, his pride sticking in his throat like a piece of dried stollen. Begging for work wasn’t something he’d done before and he resented it now.

For an instant he remembered the time he was revered as the doctor in his village in Germany. ‘Dummkopf,’ he muttered, twisting his cap in his hands. Those times had gone. He strode up the path and around the side of the house.

The plot of land at the back was immaculate. Canes steepled together were entwined by runner beans, the rows of dark red-veined leaves of beetroot gave way to the shoots of onions and inside the greenhouse was a mass of tomato plants. In the far corner, in the middle of lines of the ferny tops of carrots and the broad leaves of spring cabbage, a homemade scarecrow, wearing an old plaid shirt, black trousers and tattered brown trilby, leaned to one side, its clothes barely moving in the light breeze.