Mary didn’t remember much about the journey to Ashford. Her quarrel with Peter, the reality of Frank Shuttleworth’s death, the horrifying memory of Tom flung into the air, melded into a confusion of images she couldn’t escape. She stared at the passing scenery through the window. A thick low mist covered the ground, leaving only the bare branches of trees reaching skyward like skeletal arms. As the train moved northward, the shapes above the fog changed to the oblong mills or tall black-rimmed chimney stacks.
When she stepped out of the carriage, Ted was waiting. He wore only a jacket and his overalls, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Drizzle from the mist glistened on his flat cap and the metal studs on his boots clinked on the concrete flags as he stamped his feet. When Mary kissed his cheek his skin was damp and icily cold.
‘How long have you been here?’ she said. ‘You look frozen.’ She fastened the knot of her headscarf under her chin.
‘I’m fine.’ His tone was grim but he managed a smile and a hug as he took her case from her. ‘Peter all right? He didn’t mind you coming?’
‘I’m here now,’ she said, avoiding the question. ‘Let’s get home.’ She gave an inward start; how easily she’d thought of Henshaw Street as home, even after all these years.
They walked quickly, Mary barely giving a glance towards the derelict mill. The Granville belonged in the past, just as she was determined Peter did. The hurt and bitterness increased each time she thought about the last years with Tom. She knew Tom was quite capable of forgiving Peter for all the years of suspicion and Mary persuaded herself she would have as well, if only he had confessed as soon as he realised Tom was blamed. On the train she’d been determined to concentrate on what was happening in Ashford but it was impossible. Worried her face had given her away she glanced at Ted but he just gave her a brief smile, concentrating on getting back to Henshaw Street as soon as they could.
They passed St John’s church, the serried rows of gravestones behind the wide stone. Mary automatically looked towards the middle of the cemetery where Frank was buried. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, drawing her coat closer and shutting out her thoughts. ‘How’s Ellen?’
‘Won’t get up.’
They crossed the road and hurried through Skirm Park. Mary had avoided the place each time she’d returned to Ashford, since they moved to Wales. There were too many memories of childhood, of Tom, of being separated from Peter, of the time she thought happiness was an elusive memory. And now it seemed that was finally, irrevocably true.
‘Who’s with her now?’
‘Jean. She’s been brilliant. But she’s got more than enough on her plate without us.’
‘How are things between her and Patrick?’
‘Same.’
‘Well, I can stay as long as you need me to.’
In the centre of the park the grey surface of the lake was ruffled by the wind that stung her cheeks.
‘The wedding?’
‘We’ve put it off for now.’
‘Not because of us?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Aw, Mary.’
They’d reached the other side of the park before a thought struck her. ‘Ted, I’m sorry, I should have asked. How are you? With your mother…?’
He brushed her concern away.
She knew not to say any more. ‘How are the children?’ she said instead.
‘Linda hasn’t said anything. I think she knows my mother didn’t like her and now she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to feel.’
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Thanks. William doesn’t understand. He’s been coming with me to the bakery, thinks it’s great.’ He looked anxiously at Mary. ‘I had to keep the shop open. We can’t afford to shut up, even for a few days.’
‘I know.’
‘It’ll be shut for the funeral, of course.’
‘When is it?’
‘Friday.’
‘Everything’s arranged?’
‘Yes.’
They walked along Greenacre Street and down the alleyway to the back gate of number twenty-seven, soaked through and breathless. It was obvious Ted couldn’t bear to be away from Ellen any longer than necessary.
Linda was skipping in the backyard, Jacqueline holding one end of the rope, the other fastened to the joint of the drainpipe.
Jelly on a plate
Jelly on a plate
Wibble-wobble
Wibble-wobble
Jelly on the plate
Custard in a jug
Custard in a …
Their voices were quiet, subdued. They stopped and rushed at Mary, wrapping their arms tight around her waist. When Linda raised her face it was pale and wet with tears.
Mary kissed her. ‘Let me go in and see Mummy,’ she said, ‘then I’ll come back down. You too, Jacqueline.’ She gave her a kiss as well. ‘Be good girls.’ She pushed open the door.
Jean was sitting with William on her knee. She put her finger to her lips and then pointed to the ceiling. ‘She’s asleep. Got a bit upset when she found out you weren’t here,’ she said to Ted, ‘but quietened down when I told her you were meeting Mary.’
Mary bent over to first hug Jean and then stroke William’s cheek. ‘Hello sweetheart.’ The little boy dipped his head, all at once shy of her. ‘Jean?’ Mary didn’t know what else to say. Jean’s eyes were difficult to see against the reflection of light from the window on her spectacles but her face was flushed and her voice trembled.
‘We can talk later. One thing at a time. I’ll get off with these three. You go up and see Ellen.’
‘Thanks.’ Mary smiled her gratitude. ‘I’ll pop over and pick Linda and William up later. You’re still at your mum’s?’
‘For my sins.’ Jean started to put the little boy’s coat on. He didn’t resist. ‘Little chap doesn’t know what’s hit him,’ she said, with a grimace.
‘I know.’ Mary stroked William’s head. She looked at Ted. ‘I won’t be a minute if she’s asleep.’
Ellen was curled in a tight foetal position. Soft snores moved the strands of hair that had fallen across her face.
Mary smoothed them back and let her hand rest on her sister’s forehead. It felt cold and clammy. ‘It’s going to be okay, sis,’ she whispered. ‘I’m here now.’
*
Ellen didn’t move until Mary left the bedroom and she heard the top stair give the familiar squeak. The nail marks dented into her skin stung. She unclenched her hands and rolled to face the wall, hunching the covers over her head. She wouldn’t talk, not yet. If she even tried to open her mouth the scream would escape. And she knew it wouldn’t stop.
She wasn’t sure what had happened, why she was in bed when it was light, when it was obviously the middle of the day. All she knew, all she felt, was the sense of relief that Mary’s presence brought. It would be okay now. Mary would sort it, whatever ‘it’ was. With a long sigh she curled her hand against her cheek and relaxed.
But a moment later a kaleidoscope of recollections and emotions gathered and splintered. Ted’s mother; the slap, the dead gaze, the panic; Frank Shuttleworth; that quick coupling years ago, his contempt. Mary, guilt; Ted, guilt; Linda, guilt. Ellen hurled herself from one side of the bed to the other, pushing and pulling at the covers, trying to escape the darkness of the memories crashing around her. At last she forced her eyes open, afraid that if they closed it would start again. She stared up at the jagged crack on the ceiling that split the whitewash just above her, drawing air into her lungs in short shallow breaths.
Selfishness came at a price, she realised. And the people Ellen most loved had paid the price for hers in the past: Mary, Ted, Linda. Her thoughts were jumbled but the shame, disintegrating and assembling, finally came together in the one image – Linda. One emotion – guilt, for leaving her daughter with the foster carer when she was six weeks old; the memory of walking out of that grubby terraced house and moving faster and faster down the street until she was running. Running away.
For the next two years she’d kept on running.
So much to feel bad about, she thought. So many things she’d done wrong, so much fodder for Ted’s mother to torment her with and the old cow had made the most of it. Ellen turned onto her side, exhausted, and focussed on the photograph of her and Mary taken years ago. But it would all be all right now. Mary was here, she would help make everything be okay. Ellen was sure of that.
Perhaps, with Mary nearby, she would be strong enough to acknowledge the mistakes, the regrets in her life. It wouldn’t be easy but she’d try.
Yet Hannah’s face, eyes blank but accusing, still stared into hers.