Changing Patterns (30 page)

Since Mary told him about George Shuttleworth, he’d searched all around town for the bastard. He’d no other plan but to beat the living daylights out of the man. To make him pay for what he’d done and to hell with the police. They were no bloody good. He needed to sort this for himself. For Tom.

Now he looked beyond the man and glanced over his shoulder. There was still no one in sight.

‘Come on, then.’ George appeared to have sobered up rapidly. Shrugging off his jacket, he threw it and the cap on the ground and raised his fists. ‘Come on… You want a fight, so come on.’

Patrick noticed the heavy square signet ring on his right hand. Shuttleworth could do some damage with that given half a chance. But he wouldn’t get it. He showed all the signs of a heavy drinker, the purple veins on the nose, the rolls of fat under his chin, the tight press of stomach against his shirt. Shuttleworth’s movements as he circled in front of him were lumbering and slow. Patrick knew he could play for time, make sure the man knew just why he was going to get the beating of his life. He straightened up, dropped his arms to his sides.

Shuttleworth stopped. ‘What you doing?’ Uncertainty flickered and then he grinned. ‘What’s the matter? Bitten off more than you can chew, huh?’ He stepped forward, jabbing his finger at Patrick’s chest. ‘Runs in the family eh, being a coward?’

Spittle hit Patrick in the face with each word. He turned his head away, his lips thinning. Let the fucker talk. He’d talk himself into an early grave.

‘Like a rabbit in the headlights, he was.’ The man tittered, still prodding at Patrick. ‘Couldn’t believe my luck when I saw him. Took me the best part of the day to find the place. Never have found him in a month of Sundays if that Nazi hadn’t come back to look for his tart.’

That was it. Patrick stopped trying to control himself. He grabbed the man’s finger and viciously snapped it backwards. ‘What did you say?’

George yelped. ‘Sodding hell.’ He staggered and lost his balance. He tried to hold on to Patrick’s arm but was viciously shaken off.

‘What did you say?’

George dropped to the ground and Patrick brought his knee up. There was a loud crack as Shuttleworth’s nose broke, splattering blood and mucus. He screamed, rolled over, his hands over his face. Blood poured through his fingers. Patrick studied him for a moment. Then, looking around again to make sure they were still alone, he adjusted his jacket, pulled at the cuffs of his sleeves and, with great concentration, kicked him.

‘I’ll. Teach. You. To. Fucking. Mess. With. Me.’ He ground the words out each time his foot came into contact with the other man’s body.

Building up the force behind each attack, he took his time, taking in gulps of air to steady his breathing, pushing back the strands of hair that fell over his face.

The man’s screams faded into grunts with each assault.

Patrick gave him one last kick, straining for breath. ‘Arsehole.’ Then he walked away, his legs faltering.

‘Bastard!’ The word was slurred but loud enough for Patrick to hear.

In two strides he stood over George, grabbed him by his jacket and hauled him within inches of his face. The man’s eyes were swollen and closed.

‘What?’ Patrick spoke through clenched teeth.

‘Bastard.’ The man spat two teeth out, flecks of blood landed on Patrick’s hand.

Patrick threw him back onto the ground, wiped his fingers on Shuttleworth’s shirt. He placed his boot on the man’s chest, pressing down, emphasising each word. ‘Every fucking time I see you, this is what you’ll get.’

Shuttleworth moaned, pushed ineffectually at Patrick’s foot.

‘We’ll keep the coppers out of it but you remember – I know. I know you ran my brother down. I know you murdered him.’

He gave one last kick. The man gave out a long winded breath and lay still.

‘So, like I said, you see me anywhere, anytime, you give me a wide berth. You cross the road and you run.’

‘You do know her next door’s had the baby, don’t you? Day before yesterday. A little lad.’ Mary hunched over the fire trying to keep warm. It was freezing outside.

Pulling off her gloves and scarf and unbuttoning her coat, Jean was conscious her friend was watching her with concern. She moved her shoulders in an effort to look nonchalant. Even though she’d prepared herself for it, the news still made her scalp crawl.

‘I didn’t, no,’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with me.’ But a sickly watery feeling churned inside her. When Jacqueline was born, she’d known Patrick was badly disappointed that she wasn’t a boy. He hadn’t said anything and he loved their daughter, but, at the time, standing by the hospital bed, she’d seen it. Then the doctor had said no more children after Jacqueline. She’d already had one miscarriage and the birth was difficult. Well, he’s got a son now, she thought, that bitch next door managed that for him. Did he know? Had he somehow already sneaked off to see the boy?

Sitting on the arm of Mary’s chair she said, ‘You haven’t seen Patrick today, have you?’ She couldn’t help asking and, as soon as she had, she was sorry. She saw the way Mary looked at her, as though pitying me, she thought, angry.

‘No, love, her husband’s there.’ So Mary knew exactly what she was getting at.

‘I couldn’t care less anyway.’ She gave Mary a thin smile.

But what about the husband? Wouldn’t he know? Hadn’t Ellen once told her he was away most of the time, something to do with the TA? Didn’t he realise the dates didn’t work out? Would it make him think twice? Or had Doreen Whittaker pretended the baby had come early … or late … whichever suited the cow more. The thoughts tumbled around in her head. She didn’t want them to but they wouldn’t go away.

Mary leaned back and put her hand on Jean’s arm. ‘You’re shaking,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, you and Patrick? You’re sure it was for the best, you moving back?’

Jean knew all along she’d go back to Patrick. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity to get involved with Doreen permanently. She brushed Mary’s hand away and stood up. ‘It’s better for Jacqueline.’

‘Is it? You sure about that, Jean? She’s still upset. She saw our Patrick with that woman, she sees the way the two of you blow hot and cold. Worst of all she saw him hit you.’ Mary twisted around so she could see Jean as she stood in front of the kitchen window. ‘She thinks you might leave her dad again. She knows there’s something still going on. And if there is any chance you’ll split up with him, surely she needs to know.’

Jean flushed. ‘And leave the field open for that cow next door? You must think I’m soft.’ Hadn’t Mary enough to worry about, single, pregnant and virtually homeless? ‘I’ll deal with it my own way, thank you, and you can be sure he’ll not get away with all this scot-free.’ But would this baby make a difference?

‘Anyway.’ She tilted her head towards next door’s wall. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about that.’ Even though it plagued her day and night. ‘I came to tell you Patrick’s been in a fight.’ The horror of seeing his face when he walked through the door the day before suddenly returned. ‘His face is a right mess.’

‘Oh no.’ Mary suddenly looked scared.

‘A right mess but he says he’s all right.’ She grimaced. ‘He tells me the other bloke looks worse.’ A thought flashed into her head – suppose it was Dennis Whittaker? What if he’d confronted Patrick? She looked fearfully at Mary. ‘You don’t think it was
her
husband, do you?’ That would open up a whole new can of worms.

‘What?’ Mary opened her eyes wide. ‘No, definitely not. I saw him pass the back gate this morning and he looked fine.’

‘So it can only be something to do with George Shuttleworth?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mary held her hands over her stomach.

There was nothing they could say to make one another feel easier. There was trouble brewing from all directions.

‘I can’t keep him.’ Doreen Whittaker stood on the doorstep, shabby in an old grey raincoat. She was shivering, her face pinched and white and the hair escaping from her headscarf was lank and greasy. ‘We’re leaving. Dennis won’t let me keep him.’

If only Patrick could see her now, Jean thought, adjusting the paisley scarf on her head. ‘What do you want me to do?’ She glared at Doreen. Rage closed her throat, made it difficult to breathe. Trust him to be out. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’

One of the cotton-padded wire pipe cleaners which she used to curl up her hair overnight was sticking in her neck. She surreptitiously pushed it back under the scarf.

‘If you don’t take him, he’ll go into care or something.’ Doreen’s shoulders slumped. ‘I can’t…’ She took a huge gulp, still refusing to meet Jean’s eyes. ‘I can’t keep him, I have to be with my husband.’ She held out the baby. ‘Please.’

‘Shame you didn’t think of that before you threw yourself at mine.’ Jean ignored the desperation in the woman’s dark-ringed eyes; hardened her heart to the tiny bundle inches away from her. She looked to see if any of the neighbours were witnessing this debacle. There was no one around but who knew how many were hiding behind their curtains. She hunched her shoulders against the bitter cold. ‘I want you to leave.’ She nodded towards the gate. There was still a sparkling of frost on the path that the sun wasn’t strong enough to shift.

She repeated her earlier words and tried to ignore the baby’s whimpering. ‘Look, this is nothing to do with me, nothing at all.’ She stepped back into the hallway. ‘I’m shutting the door now. You’d better get that child home.’ Why say that? It wasn’t as if she cared what happened to the brat. Even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t the baby’s fault he’d been born into all this. He was innocent, an unwanted child. Without looking at the woman she began to close the door.

‘Please?’ Doreen stopped it from shutting with the flat of her hand. The baby cried louder.

Angry, Jean swung the door open. The woman fell forwards and was only stopped by Jean catching hold of her. In an instant the baby was thrust into her arms and Doreen had half turned away.

‘Whoa there, madam.’ Holding the child to her, Jean clutched at the woman’s coat. ‘Just one minute. Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘I have to do this. Dennis says if I’ve still got him when I get home he’ll leave on his own.’ Doreen yanked herself away and hurried to the gate.

‘I’ve told you, this is not my problem.’ Jean raised her voice above the baby’s cries. She was beginning to panic. It really looked as if the woman would leave. Still in her slippers she ran after her, slithering and sliding on the icy path. As Doreen quickened her steps Jean faltered to a stop. ‘I’m putting him down,’ she yelled, oblivious to the next door neighbour who, stooping to pick up the milk bottle from her doorstop, had stopped in surprise and now, still half bent, was staring at Jean. ‘Do you hear me? I’m putting your baby on the ground.’

‘Do what you want.’ Doreen didn’t look back.

Jean watched until she’d disappeared around the corner.

‘Mum, come in.’ Jacqueline was at the front door. ‘Bring it in.’ She made a gesture, indicating the house. ‘Bring it in, we’ll look after it.’

Oh God, Jacqueline had heard everything. Jean cursed her husband.

‘We’ll have it if she doesn’t want him. She’s nasty. You should have just taken it and told her to bugger off, Mum.’

Jean heard the neighbour make a tutting sound and turned to glare at her before hurrying into the house, holding the baby at arm’s length.

Jacqueline was arranging the eiderdown off her bed on the rug in front of the fire in the living room. ‘Let’s put it here,’ she said, leaning back on her haunches and holding out her arms.

Jean knelt down next to her, relieved she didn’t have to hold the baby any longer than necessary. ‘We can’t keep him.’ He began to scream again, a thin helpless wail interspersed with quivering silence, as though he was listening for a response.

‘Isn’t he my brother like William is Linda’s?’ Intent on unfolding the blanket wrapped around the little boy, Jacqueline didn’t see Jean flinch. ‘Pooh!’ She held her nose. The stench from his dirty nappy immediately filled the room. But when she saw her mother’s look of disgust she said, ‘It can’t help it. It’s only a baby. It doesn’t know how to use the lavvy yet.’

Ignoring the protest Jean pushed herself off her knees. ‘I’ll find some rags, clean him up.’

Undressed, the little boy was pitifully thin, his lower body caked in excrement. Jean concentrated on cleaning him, pushing away the compassion which vied in equal measure with anger towards her husband, towards the child’s mother.

‘What’s he called?’ Jacqueline was sitting back watching with interest and excitement, her arms folded across her knees which she’d pulled up under her chin.

‘I don’t know.’ It struck her. She didn’t even know the kid’s name. She stood again. ‘I’ll find something to make into nappies. She looked around the room. A feeling of helplessness prevented her from moving. This was her worst nightmare. ‘Towels,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll cut a towel up, that’ll do.’ She nodded, agreeing with herself. ‘Nappies and starch.’

‘Starch?’

‘Reckitts’ starch. It’s good for nappy rash. I used it on you.’

When she came back into the room Jacqueline had wrapped the now-sleeping baby in her cardigan and was cuddling him as she rocked from side to side. When she looked up at her mother she beamed. ‘See, I’ve got him to sleep.’