The house was silent when Patrick closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment staring at himself in the hall mirror, for once oblivious to his good looks, seeing only the grey pallor of his skin, the dark shadows under his eyes.
There was no getting away from the fact that he was missing Jean and his daughter. And that he’d been a fool. Like all the other times with other women, those few weeks with Doreen Whittaker were just a bit of fun. She wasn’t even a challenge with that soft lad of a husband of hers being away most of the time and her having a reputation for being easy from the minute she had moved into old Ma Jagger’s house. Being next door to Ellen’s made it all the more simple. ‘Stupid bastard,’ he said to his reflection, ‘always chancing your arm. Always thinking what the wife doesn’t know won’t hurt.’ But he had hurt her and he was sorry, because the bottom line was that he loved Jean. He was just weak when it came to other women. It had to stop.
He scowled, picturing the look of triumph on her mother’s face when he pushed past her on his way out. ‘Bloody old cow.’ How he’d kept his hands to himself he didn’t know. The spite showed in his face as he glanced again in the mirror and all at once he was uneasy. It was like he was looking at his father, the tight-lipped scowl, the narrowed eyes. He suddenly pictured his mother cowering against the sideboard in the kitchen at Henshaw Street.
He’d despised his father. The only time they’d ever got on was when they were both drunk. ‘I’m not like him,’ he mumbled. And yet here he was, alone, a man who’d hit his own wife.
The surge of self-recrimination and remorse made him turn away. Taking off his overcoat he flung it in the direction of the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Ignoring it as it fell to the floor, he stumbled into the kitchen and flung himself onto one of the chairs, running his fingers through his hair. For the first time in days he became aware of the mess: the fireplace overflowing with ashes, cigarette packets and charred newspaper, the table cluttered with dirty cups and plates, butter-smeared knives and sticky lumps of jam and crumbs. He was sick of toast.
He scraped back the chair, grabbed the ash bucket by the back door and knelt in front of the hearth, feverishly emptying the grate. Standing up, he added the crockery to the pile in the sink and turned on the tap. The water was cold; with no fire lit since yesterday, the boiler in the back of the fireplace had no chance to heat up. With an exclamation of impatience and a promise to himself that he’d wash up later, Patrick grabbed a bottle of beer from the sideboard. Lifting the top off with his teeth, he headed upstairs.
It was icily cold in the bedroom. He’d opened the window to let the smell of cigarettes out before he’d stormed out that morning, determined to bring Jean home where she belonged. Closing it, he gazed out of the window. The woman next door was in the garden, calling for her cat. Patrick watched as it appeared from under the bushes and slunk across the lawn. As she turned to go back into the house she stared up at the bedroom window.
Patrick swore. ‘Nosy bitch,’ he added and hid behind the curtain. He remembered Jean once saying the woman had yet to speak to her, but he bet she knew every bloody thing that happened for miles around. She looked that sort.
He leant against the wall holding the bottle to his mouth, wavering for a couple of seconds before taking a gulp. He didn’t know how to make things right between him and Jean. She’d left him because he was messing about with Doreen, but in his mind hitting Jean was far worse than having a bit on the side. He’d known what he’d done was horribly wrong the moment it happened. What was it his father used to say after he’d given their mother a beating? Something about cutting off his right arm before he’d do it again? Of course he always did do it again. Now he was no better. How could Jean forgive him when he couldn’t forgive himself?
But he was better than his father. He wouldn’t say those words but he’d promised himself that he would never be violent to her again. And he’d never look at another woman. He’d learned his lesson.
The same thoughts went over and over in his head. He’d messed up badly, with the women, with Doreen Whittaker being pregnant, especially with what he’d done to Jean the night Tom was killed.
Tom. A sob as he took another gulp of beer turned into a hiccup. He pushed himself away from the wall and stood next to the bed. It was a crumpled mess. He’d meant to change the sheets. He couldn’t remember doing it in the six weeks since she’d gone, but then when she’d first left a lot of his days had passed in a drunken fog. Lately he’d made sure he worked all hours on his stalls so that by the time he got home he was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as he dropped onto the mattress.
Now he sat, piling the pillows behind him and shuffling up to the headboard. Twisting sideways he put down the beer onto the bedside table, slid open a drawer and emptied out the contents until he finally found what he was looking for.
Although the date on the letter was years ago, the paper was still crisp. Until the day of Tom’s funeral he hadn’t read it for a long time. It was the only time he’d ever written to him.
Dear Patrick,
You will probably be surprised to hear from me but there is something I need to say to you. Mary and me have been talking and I’ve realised something that hadn’t occurred to me before you tried to put the blame on me, even knowing how I feel about the war and all the killing. You know what I’m talking about. I was angry at first but I’m not now. And after I’ve written this, I’ll be able to forget it. Or at least get on with my life as best I can.
Patrick remembered how he’d felt the first time he’d read those words. He’d always been so bloody ashamed of his brother and his weird ways, the first to mock him before anybody else did. It had taken him a few minutes to cotton on that somehow Tom was cutting him out of his life.
You and I have never been close, Patrick. Perhaps it was the difference in our ages, more likely it is because we have never thought the same about life, about all sorts of things. And I know you don’t understand me any more than I understand you. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I do. I need to tell you that as my brother, I’ll always care.
Patrick sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his nose.
And I want you to know that I understood why you did what you did on that day. I would have done the same to save Mary. I would have done exactly the same.
‘But it wasn’t me.’ Since getting the letter all those years ago he’d gone over and over this in his mind. If it wasn’t either of them, then who? It had to be his brother. The one and only time he’d gone to visit him in the Scrubs he’d almost admitted it. Hadn’t he?
He should have chucked the letter away as soon as he’d got it but he’d always intended to tackle Tom, ask him what sort of sly game did he think he was playing? He didn’t get the chance. Tom never came back to Ashford and he’d vowed he sure as hell wasn’t traipsing all the way to Wales.
Between us we both know what really happened. I pray to God that the truth will never come out but if it does I hope you have the strength to face the consequences. I will never betray you but you have to live with your conscience.
Your brother, Tom
Patrick let the letter drop from his fingers. He died believing I’d killed Shuttleworth … that I’d tried to pin it on him. The thought hadn’t gone away since the night he heard his brother had been killed. If he believed in God, that Tom was in Heaven, he’d ask his forgiveness. But he didn’t. And now there was nothing he could do to make things right.
Curling up on the bed he pressed the pillow to his face. The tears were hot and painful.