Free Pattern of Shadows by Judith Barrow

chap from last night somewhere before though,’ Jean said.
    ‘Possibly.’ Mary tried to sound nonchalant, ‘Apparently he’s been a guard here since Christmas.’
    ‘And you didn’t know? I find that hard to believe.’
    ‘Well, believe it or not, I didn’t,’ Mary said, ‘did you?’
    ‘Suppose not.’ Curiosity got the better of her. ‘Where did you go, anyway?’
    ‘The Crown.’ Mary glanced up at the main gun post and with a mixture of disappointment and relief she saw that Frank wasn’t on duty. ‘We stayed in the cellar until the air raid was over,’ she said, still trying to appease. ‘You have no idea how mucky it was down there; I had to have a top to toe wash before I went to bed.’
    Jean looked mollified but still couldn’t resist saying, ‘You should have gone home with me.’
    ‘You’re right, I should have.’ Mary held out her arm for Jean to link. ‘Let’s forget it, huh? Water under thebridge?’ She was getting a slightly annoyed now, but Jean was right. She should have gone home, then she wouldn’t be feeling such a fool now.
    But then what about Ellen? What would have happened to her with that bloody American?

Chapter 6
    When they arrived at Henshaw Street at teatime Patrick wasn’t there.
    ‘I’ve brought Jean with me, Mam.’
    ‘I hope that’s all right, Mrs Howarth,’ Jean said.
    Winifred had her back to them as she spread the maroon chenille cloth over the table and flattened it with her hands. Her voice was low but friendly enough as she spoke. ‘That’s fine. It’s good to see you, love.’ She moved the chairs away from the table and pulled out a drawer from underneath that rattled with cutlery. ‘Set the table, will you, Mary.’
    ‘Can I help, Mrs Howarth? Anything I can do?’
    Jean took Mary’s cape and hung it on one of the pegs by the back door. The older woman hurried past her carrying the kettle. ‘No, that’s fine. Warm yourself by the fire, it’s fair freezing out there.’
    ‘Where is everybody, Mam?’
    ‘Ellen’s still in bed. She’s been up twice to the lavvy and gone back, looking like death. Patrick hasn’t come home yet. Apparently some of the men were meeting this morning, to decide on rotas for the picketing.’ She reappeared at the door with the kettle, wiping drips from the spout with the corner of her apron. Putting it on therange she picked up a ladle and began to stir the stew. ‘Mary, can you get the plates for this? Jean, if you’re ready to eat, go and sit at the table.’ As both girls moved, she turned quickly, her slippers slithering on the linoleum and went back into the scullery. ‘Patrick said he was meeting his friend, sometime. That chap from last night? So he’s probably called in The Crown with him. I can’t remember his name…’
    ‘Frank,’ Mary said. Jean gave her a tight smile.
    ‘And I bet your father’s there too,’ Winifred continued. ‘Happen him and Patrick’ll be the best of friends when they come home. At least until the ale wears off.’
    Mary followed her into the scullery. There was something wrong. For a few seconds she watched her mother sweeping the flag floor around the wash boiler. Her hair, instead of being tightly pulled back into its usual large bun, hung untidily in grey wisps around her face. Mary her voice low. ‘What is it, Mam, aren’t you feeling well?’
    Her mother didn’t answer. She pushed the small pile of dust and bits of vegetable peelings onto a piece of newspaper on the floor and crushed it up, tossing it into a bucket under the sink. Straightening, she moaned softly under her breath, holding her side.
    Mary put an arm around her. Seeing the ugly swelling on her mother’s cheek and the red-rimmed eyes she scowled. ‘Aw, Mam, not again. What was it this time?’
    Winifred pushed her daughter away and turned on the tap to rinse her hands. ‘There was only me here and he had one of his moods on him. It’s Patrick really, as if we haven’t enough to worry about.