Changing Patterns (32 page)

Jacqueline leapt from the gate and raced towards the lake, wiping her hands on her dress before holding out her arms and twirling around, faster and faster, then she stood with her eyes closed until she began to topple over.

‘Jacqueline, stop it, if you fall over you’ll get grass stains all over your dress.’ Her daughter laughed, staggering towards them and crossing her eyes.

Linda giggled.

‘If the wind changes you’ll stay like that,’ Jean warned, but forced a laugh. She didn’t want her daughter to see how tired and upset she was.

‘Look up at the trees, our Linda,’ Jacqueline shouted. ‘Remember when it snowed and you said it looked like that crotchy thingy mat your Mum has on her sideboard?’

‘Crocheted,’ Jean corrected. ‘Crocheted.’ She rummaged in her handbag for her cigarettes and matches and then changed her mind. She only smoked to annoy Patrick because he hated seeing it. He wasn’t here now, so there was no point.

‘Yeah, well, Linda said the snow on the trees looked like a piece of that and she was right.’ Linda looked smug. Jacqueline grabbed her cousin’s hand. ‘Now, all the leaves are coming out like little fans.’ She looked around. ‘Can we go on a boat?’

‘Not today.’ Jean walked towards the bandstand. ‘Too wet. Play on the swings.’ This whole park thing was a bad idea but she’d had to get out of the house before she went mad. The whole place was littered with the baby’s things. ‘Far too wet,’ she said again.

‘Slide then.’ Jacqueline dragged Linda to the playground. ‘Let’s go on the slide.’

‘I won’t be able to hold on to my dolly.’ Linda hung back. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too high.’ The metal sheet glittered with blobs of golden rain in the weak sun. ‘And I’d get my knickers wet,’ she said.

‘Don’t be a mardy. Put it down. It’s not as though it’s a real baby,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Not like ours. He’s a real baby.’

Hearing what her daughter said brought a frown to Jean’s face.

‘Come on.’ Jacqueline climbed the steps. ‘The wet’ll make us go faster, be more fun.’ She stopped, held out her hand. ‘Come on, I’m with you. I’ll make sure you’re okay.’ She moved to one side to let Linda pass and then grabbed the rails just in front of her so her own arms encompassed her. ‘See? You’re safe, you can’t fall back,’ she said. ‘When we get to the top, wait until I sit down and then sit on my lap. That way I’ve got you and you won’t get your knickers wet.’

Linda clutched Jacqueline’s knees as they hurtled down the slide, both of them screaming. When they reached the bottom they were tangled together and it took a while before they could stand up. ‘Again.’ Linda laughed. ‘Again.’ She gave Jacqueline a kiss.

‘Yuk, what was that for, you daft brush?’

‘Cos,’ Linda said, ‘just cos.’

They ran round to the steps again.

‘Hello, love.’ Patrick stood next to Jean who was absently watching the girls and listening to the bell ringers practise at St John’s church. ‘Mind if I join you?’

Jean shrugged, not looking at him. He must have followed them from the house. She reached inside her handbag for her cigarettes.

Patrick unstrapped the baby and took him out of the pushchair.

Jean looked at the child, recognising the blue knitted hat and coat. Ellen appeared to have donated most of her son’s old clothes to Patrick’s by-blow. Well, she was showing whose side she was on, no doubt about that. She blinked hard.

‘Can we talk?’ Patrick sat on the iron bench, his knees only inches from hers. He put his hand on her sleeve.

Jean felt the tingle in her stomach from his nearness. They hadn’t made love since Bonfire Night and, although she wouldn’t admit it, she missed him.

‘Jean?’ She didn’t respond. ‘Love, look at me.’ He moved his fingers down until he was gently stroking the back of her clenched hand. ‘Love?’

‘Dad!’ The shriek came from Jacqueline. ‘Have you come to take us on the boats? Will you, Dad? Will you take us on the boats?’ She galloped up to him turning her pleas in her mother’s direction. ‘It stopped raining ages ago.’ She made a wide arc with her arms towards the sky. ‘Please, Mum?’

Patrick leaned forward, only inches from her. ‘I can’t sweetheart. I’ve got Jack to see to.’

Jack? Jean grimaced. Where the hell had he got that name from? I’d have chosen Adam, after my granddad, if I’d been asked. What was she thinking? She had no interest whatsoever in the child. But she’d furtively watched her husband struggle to cope with the baby over the last month. She hadn’t even offered to help him when he’d gone to one of the stalls to check the stock or cover for someone who was absent. He’d just fastened the boy into a makeshift cot on the backseat of the car and left. To give him his due, she thought, he hadn’t moaned once about it and he’d never asked for her help. Until now. The implication was there. She sniffed, aware both Patrick and Jacqueline were looking at her. She knew they were waiting for her to offer to hold the baby while he took the girls on a boat. He knew there was little she’d refuse her daughter if it were possible.

‘Mum? You take him,’ Jacqueline demanded.

Silently Jean held out her arms. Patrick passed Jack over to her. ‘He should stay asleep. He’s only just had a bottle.’

She nodded stiffly, looking straight ahead.

Patrick and Jacqueline ran down to Linda, who was waiting by the lakeside, thumb in her mouth and holding her doll to her face, its clay head against her cheek.

Clutching one another, the girls stepped into the middle of the wobbling rowing boat, while Patrick paid the hire fee to the attendant sitting inside the small green ticket box. He took off his flat cap, shoving it into the pocket of his coat which he folded so that the lining was to the outside. Then he doubled it up and handed it to Jacqueline. The girls waited in excited impatience as he sat down on the seat, turned his shirtsleeves up his arms and stuck his thumbs under his braces to adjust them. ‘Right,’ he said at last, ‘let’s go.’

Spitting on his hands and rubbing them together with a flourish, Patrick grasped the oars, delicately turning the left one in small circles to spin the boat around before heaving on them both and heading for the middle of the lake. The clunk of the oar in the stirrup and slap of water on the paddle were the only sounds as his muscles bulged and relaxed in his arms.

Jean felt the warmth of the small body against hers. She’d opened her raincoat so the baby wouldn’t get wet against it and wrapped it around both of them. He was taking small open-mouthed breaths. She glanced across at the lake, making sure no one was watching before looking down at the little boy’s face. Barely five months old his features were as yet not fully formed but with a start she saw the shape of his eyebrows, the curve of his earlobe, both so familiar. There was no doubt she was holding her husband’s child by another woman. She registered the knowledge with an acceptance that surprised her and tried to work out why the anger against the boy, which had flared since his birth, had burned itself out. She was holding the answer in her arms. He was so small, so vulnerable. Whatever the circumstances of his conception, it wasn’t his fault.

Yet, stubbornly, as she knew she would, when they finally climbed out of the boat and stumbled up the wooden ramp, when Patrick walked towards her, hand in hand with the girls, she set her face and held the baby out to him saying, ‘It wants changing.’

‘He’s called Jack,’ Jacqueline said, ‘like the beginning of my name. Call him Jack, Mum.’

It hadn’t occurred to Jean. She looked up at Patrick. He grinned sheepishly, in the way that usually melted any animosity towards him. ‘Seemed the obvious thing.’ He moved his shoulders.

‘Not to me,’ Jean interrupted. ‘Not to me.’ He’d even stolen that from her. He’d chosen Jacqueline’s name and now he’d shared it with another woman’s bastard. How could he? However irrational a thought, and she knew it was, she couldn’t stop the anger. But this time it was different. This time there was a deep hurt threaded through the resentment that didn’t include the boy. In the thirty minutes she had held him close to her something had changed. What she felt about him was completely different from how she felt about Patrick. What she felt for the boy – for Jack – was a tiny flame of compassion, of a need to protect this defenceless human being, born into such turmoil.

But she’d be damned if she’d let anyone know how she felt.

George pushed his way through the white sheets and pillowcases propped up on washing lines strung from the outside lavatory to the house. His hands left smears of grime.

‘Ma?’

Nelly was at the kitchen table ironing. The back of her neck was red and sweaty. She stiffened. ‘What do you want?’ She didn’t turn to look at him.

‘Well, that’s a nice way to greet your son.’ George dropped his duffle bag on the floor and slung his jacket on top of it. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and sniffed, hoping she’d notice he had a cold. When she still didn’t look at him he shrugged and glanced around. ‘Mind if I make a brew? I’m parched.’

‘Aye, I do.’ This time Nelly banged the iron down onto the asbestos trivet and swung round to stare at him. ‘I told you, you’re no son of mine. Get out.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Ma, look at the state of me.’

‘Not my problem anymore.’ Determined not to ask where he’d been, Nelly forced down the pity she felt at the sight of him. His hair needed a good cut and he was filthy. She noticed the frightening scars and the puffiness around his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Still drinking, though, I see.’ She took the iron and crossed the kitchen to put it on top of the range. Picking up a smaller, second one she spit on the flat of it. The saliva hissed and bubbled and she nodded, satisfied.

‘Piss off,’ he said.

It hadn’t taken long for his temper to show, Nelly thought. ‘You bugger off, George. Now! You’ll get nothing more from me. Ever.’ A second later she felt the blow in the middle of her back. She fell against the hard back of the chair and then onto the floor. She rolled onto her back, fighting for breath, one arm covering her face as he bent over her.

‘I’m back,’ he said, ‘whether you like it or not.’ He grabbed the front of her apron and pulled her closer. ‘Now, sort me a bath out and then get me some grub.’

She didn’t think what she was doing. As though by itself her arm swung in an arc, the hot iron still in her hand.

‘Bloody cow!’ George staggered back holding his cheek, his skin reddening.

Taking advantage of his shock, Nelly got on all fours and, still clutching the iron in one hand, heaved on the edge of the table to pull herself upright. The pain in her back was almost unbearable but she lumbered towards him, erratically swinging the iron. ‘Out!’ she shouted, ‘Out!’

‘You’re mad, you stupid bitch,’ he yelled, backing away. ‘You want locking up.’

‘It’s not me that’ll up be locked up if you come near me again,’ Nelly panted. ‘I’m warning you for the last time.’ She gave him a shove. ‘If I see you … or even hear you’re still in Ashford I’ll go to the police. And don’t think I won’t.’

He fell through the open back door into the yard. Throwing his bag and jacket after him, she slammed the door and bolted it.

‘You’ll be fuckin’ sorry you’ve done that,’ he yelled.

Nelly covered her ears. ‘Go away,’ she mumbled, ‘leave me alone.’

He carried on cursing and shouting. Then stopped. Nelly stayed leaning against the door for a few minutes before straightening up. She peered through the net curtains at the window. He’d gone. She was shaking. She stumbled towards the armchair by the range, sinking onto it. He’d gone. But she knew it hadn’t ended. She didn’t dare to think what he’d do next.

‘I should have stayed in Manchester with my mates.’ He tipped back on the chair, balancing on two legs. ‘We’ve had such a blindin’ time they begged me to stay.’ His mouth twisted. They hadn’t, not the last lot he’d dossed at; kicked him out like his sodding mother had, like they all had in the end, just because his money had gone. With no one else to sponge off, he’d had to come back to Ashford.

He pinched his nostrils together and sniffed before spitting out into the empty fireplace.

‘Hey up, yer dirty bugger,’ Arthur Brown said, ‘don’t do that.’

‘Got a cold.’ George sniffed again.

‘Well, use your sodding ’anky,’ Arthur grumbled.

George noticed an opened bottle of Arthur’s homemade potato wine on the sideboard. ‘I could do with a drink. Bloody landlord in the Crown wouldn’t serve me.’

‘That’s my last bottle.’ Arthur reached over and, opening one of the doors, put it in the cupboard.

George stood up to leave. ‘You’re a miserable bastard, Brown. Always have been, always will be. A proper bloody tight-arse.’

George
hung around in Skirm Park until it was almost dark and the park-keeper kicked him out and locked the gates. There was only one place left to go.

He
sidled through alleyways and side streets in a circuitous route, resentment and anger rising as he passed the terraced houses with the lit windows and the sounds of voices, muffled by curtains.

Once, hearing footsteps, he waited in the shadow of one of the Corinthian columns outside the Roxy. The cinema was closed, the crowds dispersed over an hour ago, and behind the mullioned windows the building was in darkness. A couple, arm in arm, hurried past, their voices loud and echoing as they walked under the glass canopy. He gave them a few minutes before moving off again, slipping past the backs of the houses to come out near the camp.