Changing Patterns (34 page)

There was a thud and then a wail. George shuffled forward so he could see. One of the kids had fallen over. He ducked down as the man looked around.

Patrick Howarth.

George watched as Howarth left the pram and went to pick up the blonde girl who buried her face against him, crying. The other kid jigged from one foot to the other in front of them. ‘She all right? She all right?’

He’d got kids! Of course. He’d got a family. George had forgotten that. A sodding family. And here he was, on his bloody own, with nowt to look forward to. Fingering the scar on his cheek, he could almost taste the bitterness. Overwhelmed by the fierce rush of hatred, his legs gave way and he slid helplessly down until he was sitting on the dirt, struggling to take in air. Gradually the weakness subsided and he was left with just the loathing coursing through him.

He raised his head.

Howarth had put the girl down and was rubbing her knees. A few moments later they set off along the path again, the two kids holding hands, stopping at one of the other greenhouses.

He heard Howarth call out, ‘Wait here, watch the pram!’ before going inside, reappearing with a bunch of lettuce and some newspaper. Wrapping the leaves up and putting them in the tray underneath the pram, he came back along the path. ‘No running this time.’

George waited until he was sure there was no one else around. He strode over to Howarth’s greenhouse, grinning. Once inside, he ripped up all the tomato plants and lettuces, smashed the wooden staging that held pots of geraniums and emptied every tray of seedlings into the metal tub of rainwater outside the greenhouse door.

They’d know it was him, at least he hoped they would. And he hoped it would put the fear of God in Howarth, wondering what else he would do.

Whitsunday

Linda prodded her last chip into the cone, searching for any grains of salt. Screwing the paper up she glanced around to check no adults were watching before she pushed the wad through the bars of the grid in the gutter. She almost wiped the grease off her hands onto her dress before remembering she was in her new Whitsuntide clothes. Mummy would go mad if she went home with them mucky.

Peeping through the door of the pub at the noisy mass of drinkers she knew she’d never get through to the backyard where the outside tap was; where her Mummy and Auntie Jean had gone to the lavvy. Damn. Mouthing the word, she relished the click of the first letter against her teeth.

Carefully holding her arms away from her side, she ducked under the elbows of the men lounging against the wall of the Crown holding their pints of beer. She pushed past the crowds waiting at the top of Newroyd Street for the next band to arrive and stood, looking around for Jacqueline.

The final notes from the outgoing band ended in a discordant jangle as the men jostled to get onto the charabanc, eager to get to as many venues as possible before the contest’s ten o’clock deadline. The old man who carried the board announcing the name of each band, Grimetown, Blackthorpe, Boarshill, tipsy after an evening of free pints, directed the bus in a haphazard fashion as it manoeuvred to reverse. He lurched away and, attempting to step onto the pavement, lifted one foot high in exaggeration above the kerb. Linda giggled.

Straining her neck to see past the charabanc steering around groups of people in the road, she heard the high-pitched, tuneless chant.

Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around,

Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground…

Jacqueline was skipping with two other girls. Without a word she’d found someone else to play with. Her cousin had forgotten about her, left her. Dipping her head to hide her face she turned and weaved her way through the crush of spectators until, suddenly, the road held only a few stragglers and she was able to run. When she stopped she was alongside the allotments. Today there was no one working in them. Breathing heavily she flopped down on the bank of grass at the side of the road. The ground was still warm from the long day of sun, and pulling at a blade of grass she carefully stretched it between her thumbs. Putting it to her mouth she blew; the screech was satisfying.

She avoided looking along the road towards the old mill with its new barbed wire which glinted in the sun. Once upon a time, a long time ago, before she was even born, it was a prison. Linda knew this because her Mummy had told her once that it was where they’d kept Uncle Peter. Not because he’d done anything wrong, she’d said, but because a lot of men were fighting about something and it was better for Uncle Peter not to get in the way. Still, it wasn’t a nice place. When she was really little she used to imagine that the wooden platform near the big locked gates, overgrown with tall pink-flowering weeds, was hiding someone. And she still believed that the mill beyond, with its black and empty windows, was the home of ghosts. But it was all right. Being there when it was still light was all right, because everybody knew ghosts only came out at night.

A band started playing. Linda leant forward to watch the men marching past Newroyd Street into Skirm Park where the adjudicators, locked in the boating lake shed, judged their performance against the other bands. They were playing
Marching Through Georgia,
one of her dad’s favourites and she could see their instruments flashing in the sun even from this distance. Next year, when she was seven, she was going to start learning the cornet. One day she’d be there, helping to win the contests. And all those people lining the streets would be clapping for her.

Still listening, she lay back, her hands pressed together under her head and stared up at the sky. Sparrows darted back and forth from the sycamore trees. She tipped her chin to watch them, heard them squabbling. Then she closed her eyes and thought back over the day.

One of the worst things was the church parade, having to carry the little basket of flowers while still trying to hold on to the ribbon attached to the banner. On the whole she didn’t mind Whitsunday but wearing the new clothes worried her. When she’d woken up they were already laid out on the chair: pale blue cotton gloves that matched the dress with the tiny sprigs of forget-me-knots, and the blue crocheted cardigan. She’d had to stand up and lean forward to eat her toast so she didn’t get any crumbs on her front. Worst of all were the itchy new knickers. She grimaced and pulled at the crotch until she was more comfortable and then snuggled into the dip she’d made in the grass.

The best thing about Whitsunday was the afternoon races. Today she’d won every one despite Geoffrey Fry trying to push her over. But then after the sports and the potato pie tea in the church hall, she’d had to get out of her shorts and t-shirt and back into her dress. She pulled the sleeves of her blue cardigan down over her hands, making fists. She supposed there were some good things about new clothes, such as that morning when Auntie Jean gave her a penny and said she looked beautiful. Daft really because then her Mummy had given Jacqueline a penny for showing off her new dress, which Jacqueline hated because she’d rather wear trousers.

Grown-ups do funny things.

Sometimes they said odd things as well. She‘d heard her Mummy and Auntie Jean talking about Auntie Mary, saying she was having a baby, when everybody knew that it needed a mummy and a daddy to find the baby under the gooseberry bush. And Auntie Mary hadn’t got a daddy, not yet anyhow because Uncle Peter and her hadn’t had a wedding so they couldn’t be a mummy and a daddy. It was too hard to think about.

When William was born she and Jacqueline had gone into the backyard and searched the alley for a gooseberry bush but there wasn’t one, only a patch of dandelions that next door’s cat had pooed on.

She plucked another piece of grass and chewed the end. The sweet taste filled her mouth and she had a sudden thought. Perhaps it was magic. For as long as she could remember, everybody in her class had been having little brothers or sisters and not once had she seen a gooseberry bush. She smiled, satisfied, that was it, it was magic. She closed her eyes.

When she woke there were no sounds and she lay still, listening. Then a band struck up in the distance and she relaxed. But the sun was lower in the sky and she jumped to her feet. She was always nervous of this time of day. Dad said there was nothing to be afraid of, it was called dusk, but she didn’t even like the sound of that.

She flinched when the hand grasped her shoulder.

‘Hello.’ The large man was pale, like he’d never been in the sun and his curly hair was an orangey colour. There was an old cut on his cheek, like a half moon, and his nose, spread wide between his eyes, was bent to one side so that he looked sideways at her. His clothes looked like he’d got them off the rag and bone man.

She wanted to run. Instead she shrugged his hand away. It was dirty.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘I’m a friend of your Daddy’s.’ He smiled. Large yellow teeth, not a nice smile, like the wolf in Red Riding Hood. And he smelled. He smelled really bad.

‘I’ve got to get back to Mummy,’ she said, and then, ‘she knows where I am.’ She watched a couple pass, arms linked, on their way to the railway station at the end of Shaw Street. The woman glanced at her as though she might speak but didn’t, and the words that Linda wanted to say were muddled in her head and the moment was lost.

The man laughed. ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. She doesn’t and she’s worried.’ He bent his head to one side, frowning so his bushy eyebrows almost met and his voice was stern when he next spoke. ‘She’s not too happy with you, young lady.’ He sniffed and tilted his head even more, studying her. ‘She’s pretty mad you’ve wandered off. She told you to stay outside the Crown, didn’t she?’

Linda nodded, anxiety knotted in her stomach. She hated it when Mummy got cross. The man must have been talking to her if he knew what she’d said. ‘I’ll run back now,’ she said, but the man already had hold of her hand. It was horrible, cold but sweaty at the same time.

‘I’m going back to the pub myself,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk with you. Don’t forget your hat, then.’

Linda picked up her hat. It had got squashed on one side. She pulled the thin elastic under her chin.

In an odd voice, the man said, ‘Look at me, walking out with such a pretty young lady.’

She twisted her hand against his but he was holding too tightly and the fancy ring he wore hurt her fingers so she let him lead her.

She looked down at her feet. The black patent leather was scuffed and there were grass stains on her socks. Something else to make her Mummy cross.

‘How is Mary now?’ Jean asked.

‘Better for a rest.’ Ellen threw the end of her cigarette on the flag stones of the pub’s backyard and ground it out with her foot. She was feeling quite virtuous, insisting Mary stayed in bed for the last two days, and being back in charge of everything was good. And today was her reward to herself. ‘But she doesn’t want to overdo it again. She’s had a fright. So she’s kept her feet up today.’

‘I’ll call in later and see her.’

‘Best you don’t. No need to mither her.’

‘I won’t be mithering her.’ Jean looked affronted. ‘She’s my friend and I want to make sure she’s well.’

‘I’ve just told you.’

‘Yes, well, I’ll see for myself, won’t I?’

For a few minutes neither spoke.

Jean looked sideways at Ellen. ‘Do you think she’ll ever get back with
him
?’

‘Peter, you mean?’ God, Patrick’s bigotry really has rubbed off on her. ‘No, which, actually, I think is a shame.’ Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Ellen thought.

‘When I think what could have happened if they’d been found out during the war. And they put me in a dangerous position. They seem to have forgotten that.’ Jean folded her arms and pulled her chin in.

‘This isn’t about you, Jean.’ Ellen put one foot against the wall of the pub and leaned back, balancing. Chafing her arms to warm them she looked up at the sky. The sun had moved off the yard, only the roof of the little building at the end, housing the two lavatories, had a sliver of weak evening sun on it. She should have brought a cardigan with her. ‘She doesn’t want to talk about it. You have to go along with her.’

‘She can’t have the baby without being married. There’s enough gossip about this family as it is.’

‘She doesn’t care about that.’ Ellen took her cigarettes and matches from her skirt pocket and lit up.

‘Well, she should.’

‘Why?’ Ellen picked a piece of tobacco off her lower lip. ‘She doesn’t care what people think.’ She took a long drag and flicked the match away. ‘Anyway, she’s says she’s not going back.’

‘She’s so big now. They were talking about her in the Post Office.’

‘I hope you told them to mind their own business?’

‘I walked out.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that told them.’ Ellen inspected her fingernails, not even trying to keep her sarcasm under control.

Jean flushed. ‘Anyway, I’m going to call in on her later.’

Hell’s bells, why wouldn’t the woman take the hint? ‘She’s resting, I told you. Ted’s gone to work so she offered to stop in with William once we’d got him to bed.’ If he hadn’t insisted he had to go, she wouldn’t be stuck on her own with Jean. ‘He’s run off his feet getting ready for tomorrow. Where’s Patrick anyway?’

‘With the boy.’