Jean had never been afraid of anyone in her life until Patrick had come at her, fist raised. Admittedly, in the end, it was more of a shove than a thump but she’d never forgive him that Jacqueline had seen it.
He’d gone down on his knees and begged for her forgiveness as soon as it happened but he wouldn’t get away with it that easy, despite what Mary thought. She’d barely spoken to him since they’d got back from Wales. But she wouldn’t leave him. It was as much her house as his and, anyway she wouldn’t give her mother the pleasure of knowing she’d been right about Patrick all along. Jean could just see the look of triumph on her face if she turned up at Moss Terrace, tail between her legs. No, she’d too much pride for that.
The pulsing throb at her temple was threatening to turn into a headache. She couldn’t think about it now. There was bedding to change before she went for Jacqueline. When Patrick offered to take her round to Ted’s earlier she couldn’t refuse. Jacqueline hadn’t been to play at Linda’s since they’d returned from Wales and she missed her cousin. But Jean hoped she’d keep quiet about what was happening at home. She’d seen the way their daughter watched her and Patrick all the time, worry in her face.
Pulling a duster out of her apron pocket Jean flicked specks off the mirror and blew out a short disapproving burst of air. Mary was a fool if she thought marrying a German wouldn’t end in tears. Whatever she saw in him, that man could have ruined her life six years ago. She would have lost her job at the Granville, even been run out of Ashford and certainly would have brought shame on them all, if people had known.
‘I would have thought she’d have learned, all the trouble it caused then,’ she muttered, biting her lip. Patrick always swore that his Dad suffered the stroke because he found out about Mary’s affair. Privately Jean agreed. She felt torn between her loyalties to him and to her best friend. But however fond she was of Mary, it didn’t mean she had to agree that everything she did or said was right.
‘Blast the man.’ It was bad enough that Peter had returned. Jean had been speechless the day Mary told her he was in Wales with her, her joy unmistakable. But she’d hoped that once Mary saw him for what he was: a foreigner with no money, no job, no prospects – because surely there was no way he’d be allowed to practice as a doctor here – she’d come to her senses. But no. And when they married Mary would be well and truly trapped. She’d find out her friends would be few and far between. The war wasn’t that far in the past.
Still, the small twinge of triumph when Mary asked her to be Matron of Honour at her wedding lingered. She wondered how Ellen would take that.
Stuffing the duster back into her pocket Jean willed the thumping in her head to stop. She studied herself in the hall mirror and wondered if she could lose half a stone before the wedding, whenever it was going to be. Fluffing up her short dark curls, she turned to consider both profiles, sucked in her cheeks. It didn’t help the double chin. Taking off her spectacles, she deliberated whether she could manage without them on the day. But all she could see was a blurred image. She put her glasses back on. She was being vain. After all she’d worn them at her own wedding so what did it matter now?
And yet it did matter. Whatever Patrick had seen in her then had become elusive, just out of her reach to recapture. Most nights she lay for hour after hour listening to his breathing, deep in untroubled sleep, while she stared at the thin line of light under the bedroom door from the landing, hugging herself and unable to silence the relentless certainty that there was another floozy on the scene. Since coming back home the signs were all there: lipstick, face powder on Patrick’s clothes, ineffectually wiped off and the smell of scent, cheap nasty scent, she judged. And that air about him, a restless anticipation when he wouldn’t look her in the eye, an awkwardness. She could almost read his thoughts. And, of course, there were all the small gifts, a bottle of Jasmine perfume, her favourite scent (a much more sophisticated one than he stank of these days), a necklace, a new headscarf and, once, chrysanthemums from the allotment. What had brought those on?
The band of tension around her head tightened. She circled her index fingers over her temples.
She sensed he was almost relieved she wasn’t speaking to him. At least he didn’t have to answer any awkward questions. But she’d bide her time until she was sure.
Stripping off the crumpled sheets, she glanced out of the window. The driving rain gave the impression that the houses and gardens across the road were trembling. In the distance the North Country moors, pockmarked with black peat and patches of heather and rhododendrons, blended into the winter sky.
A gust of wind clattered the window and startled her. The bed creaked under her knees as she shuffled across it to run the palm of her hand around the edge of the frame. A draught whistled through the wood. The latch was loose and, grasping it, she released the casement.
At the same time she saw Patrick. Hunched against the weather, clutching his trilby to his head, he hurried along the road towards the house.
‘Thought you said you were going to check on the allotment,’ she murmured. But he wasn’t dressed in his gardening clothes. She watched as he ran up the steps to the house, heard him unlocking the front door. Closing the window, she pushed herself off the bed.
‘I’m back!’
She didn’t answer him.
‘Need to go again, finish off cleaning the greenhouse.’
I’ll bet, Jean thought. Shaking out the starched white sheet, her mind worked furiously. When she’d suspected him before, it was always after some visit to a dealer or chasing the purchase of a particular car. But he hadn’t been away lately; not that she knew, anyway. She finished making the bed, made sure the corners of the cover were taut and pleated, the eiderdown smooth. And then she stood with arms folded and listened. She couldn’t hear Patrick moving around.
She was lonely. It was twelve months since they’d moved into Manchester Road and still she didn’t know a soul. At least in Moss Terrace, she’d heard the neighbours. Here she felt cut off. The only sound was the traffic from the road. Once or twice she’d seen the woman from next door, hanging out the washing. The first time she’d waved but she wasn’t acknowledged. No point in trying that again. She had her pride, after all.
The front door closed with a crash. Patrick on his way out again, still in his good clothes.
Jean caught her lower lip between her teeth. Where to this time?
‘Has she been good?’
‘She’s always good.’ Ellen closed the front door, balancing William against her side. ‘They’re upstairs.’ Walking down the hall to the kitchen she didn’t volunteer any more conversation.
Jean followed. ‘All right if I go up?’
‘Help yourself.’ Ellen hitched William further up onto her hip.
Hannah Booth was sitting in the armchair by the range. Her eyes didn’t leave Jean as she crossed the kitchen.
‘Mrs Booth.’ Jean nodded to her, half-smiled, uncomfortable under the fixed stare.
Ted’s mother didn’t acknowledge her. She sniffed and looked back down at the newspaper folded on her lap.
Upstairs there was no noise coming from Linda’s room. The door was half-open. Jean put her hand on the handle and gently pushed. Kneeling on the bed by the window the two little girls had their backs to her and were peeping over the sill into the back yard, their arms over each other’s shoulders. She smiled and was just about to speak when Linda whispered, ‘Can you still see them?’
‘No.’ Jean watched Jacqueline straighten her legs and lean forward so her forehead was against the glass. ‘No, they’ve gone.’
‘Why was your daddy in next door’s yard?’ Linda said. ‘Why was he kissing Mrs Whittaker?’
Jean’s knees buckled. She stumbled backwards from the bedroom, crashing the door against the wall. Her chest was tight.
‘Mum?’ Jean felt her daughter’s small hand slip into her own. ‘Mum?’
Outside it began to rain again, slow, tentative drops.
Jean turned her head towards the window, as though listening to the uneven splatters on the panes. ‘I’m fine, love. I slipped.’