Stepping onto the pavement on Shaw Street, Mary shivered. A bank of cloud covered the weak winter sun letting through only a silvery wash of light and, after the oppressive heat of bodies squashed together in the bus, the chilly wind seemed to go right through her.
She was glad of the fresh air though. On the way back from Manchester she’d started to feel nauseous. It was having to go on the top deck, she told herself, all that cigarette smoke and the rolling motion of the bus. Yet, always there, the anxiety that in the middle of the night magnified itself into panic. She’d missed one monthly and was three days overdue on the second. In the daytime, like now, she could convince herself it was all the turmoil, all the upset she’d been through. She’d begun to dread going to bed.
‘You all right, m’dear?’ The old woman who’d got off the bus behind her put her arm around her. Mary nodded, her lips compressed into a forced smile. The woman stank of damp and her black coat was spotted with greenish splodges. Mary watched the bus move away, a funnel of shimmering exhaust fumes distorting the air. She held her breath, not wanting to take in either smell.
‘Dirty bugger, that.’ The woman followed her gaze. ‘You’d think there’d be a law against it – belching all that bleeding muck out. You crossing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, then.’ They crossed the road. On the other side the woman said, ‘I’m going that way. I live on Huddersfield Road. Been to a funeral,’ she said inconsequentially. ‘Now you look after yourself, you need to take care.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Especially now.’
Mary’s heart missed a beat. But before she could ask what the woman meant she’d hurried away, moving quickly for such an old woman, her black hat bobbing on her head. Her mother would have been around the same age now. ‘Oh Mam,’ she whispered, ‘I need you so much.’ She put a hand to her stomach.
The wretchedness was overwhelming. First Mum, then Tom. And, in her mind, losing Tom was now intermingled with losing her job. Sometimes she could almost persuade herself both were waiting for her in Llamroth. Then the loss came back with an unrelenting rush. And she blamed Peter for everything. So why hadn’t she told any of the family that she’d finished with him? That she wasn’t going back to Llamroth? What was stopping her from clearing Tom’s name at least, from telling Ellen and Ted, Jean and Patrick … especially Patrick … that it was Peter who killed Frank, not Tom? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she wasn’t ever going back to Wales. And she didn’t know how to break that news to Gwyneth.
‘Sorry, miss.’ A man knocked into her. He raised his trilby and hurried on.
‘My fault.’ Mary managed a small smile.
‘Too cold to be standing around,’ he called back to her.
‘You’re right.’ Pull yourself together, she thought. It’s all the worry, you’re not… She couldn’t even form the word in her mind. She pulled back her shoulders and took in a long breath. She’d be glad to get back to the house. The Saturday market was a good place for bargains but it was as though all of Ashford and Bradlow had the same idea and she’d been pushed from pillar to post. Still, it was worth it. The three skeins of parrot wool she’d bought were a bargain and more than enough for jumpers for all three children. She was sure they’d like all the random mix of colours in the wool and knitting would be a good excuse for sitting down. Running about after Ellen was hard work.
Quickening her step, she disregarded the sensation of the heels of her shoes, hard on the pavement, jolting through her body as she wound her way past the straggle of people who seemed in no hurry to go anywhere, despite the cold.
The tops of the trees in Skirm Park shivered with each gust of wind, flinging the last of the dead leaves around the sky. The year is almost over, she thought. So much has happened but it was as though she’d never moved away from Ashford, as though the last five years had not happened.
The van didn’t stop at the top of Newroyd Street before turning onto Shaw Street. The noise of the brakes and the squeal of the tyres as the driver took the corner too quickly brought Mary out of her reverie. Her fingers loosened on the handle of the shopping basket and it fell to the ground, the brown packages of wool scattering.
The van was white with an orange oblong painted on the side as though blotting something out. White and orange. The same colours as the van that killed Tom.
It was that van.
And the driver, turned towards her grinning, as it sped past, was George Shuttleworth.