Christmas Day
‘Here we are.’ Jacqueline was excited and relieved to be at Henshaw Street. When she’d woken, there’d been an odd light in her room. Peeping through the curtains, she saw it was snowing and she worried that they wouldn’t be able to get to Linda’s. She really, really wanted to be with her cousin because, even though Mum and her had moved back with Dad this week, they were still being funny with one another sometimes. And she didn’t like Mum sleeping in her room with her because she snored. Dad was sleeping on his own. She always thought mums and dads slept together because they had the biggest bed.
Even opening her presents hadn’t been fun. They were so quiet watching her, instead of laughing and teasing like they used to.
In the end she’d left some gifts unwrapped and sat on the bottom step of the stairs for the best part of an hour in her balaclava, coat and wellington boots, waiting to go, unsure if Mum would agree to going, even though Uncle Ted and Auntie Mary had asked them last week. So she was happy when they finally closed the front door and left, carefully walking along the spade-sized path that Dad had made through the snow.
Kicking off her wellingtons and throwing her balaclava and coat in the direction of the clothes stand in the hall, she ran into the kitchen to find Linda.
‘What did you get?’ she said, kneeling and hugging her cousin who was on the rug in front of the fire.
‘A new doll from Father Christmas, this spinning top from Mummy and Daddy and a toy piano from Auntie Mary. Look.’ Linda held up the small, pink, wooden instrument. ‘It plays too.’
‘I know. Auntie Mary bought one for me as well.’ Jacqueline lifted the lid and poked at the keys.
‘And she bought William a tambourine.’ Linda picked it up and shook it in the little boy’s direction. Sitting in his high-chair he leaned over and she handed it to him. Laughing, he banged it on the tray.
‘Father Christmas got me a Kaleidoscope and a kit of some moulds and Plaster of Paris. I’ll be able to make all the seven dwarfs and Snow White.’ Jacqueline pressed down quickly a few times on the handle of the spinning top and it spun off the rug. She scuttled after it. ‘And a Rupert Annual.’
‘We can swop. I got a Noddy Annual.’
Jean and Patrick crowded in at the door, looking awkward. They were still wearing their coats.
‘We nearly didn’t get here did we, Mum?’ Jacqueline said. ‘And look, Linda’s got her parrot jumper on that Auntie Mary knitted, like me. Oh and William. See? All the colours all mixed up like mine?’
She gazed up at the Christmas decorations. Mum had only let her fasten some balloons to the ceiling in her bedroom but here they were all over the house; crinkled paper rolls pinned with drawing pins near the light bulb in the centre of the room were twisted round and round, blue then yellow, red then green, and fastened to all the corners. And the lametta draped over each line looked like a sparkling curtain; the short heavy strands of silvery lead balanced precariously, falling off when anyone touched them. Perhaps she and Linda could smuggle some upstairs later, to put over the metal rail on Linda’s bed.
‘Parrot wool,’ Jean corrected, with a tight smile. ‘We certainly had a job on the streets,’ she agreed.
Jacqueline laughed. ‘Dad threw snowballs and Mum threw one back.’ Of course the fun stopped after they’d called for Granny Winterbottom. Mum had said she had to come too. Dad almost had to carry her over the snow. He’d pulled some really funny faces behind her back though. ‘We had to jump over all these lines of snow that the milkman made with his float. We followed it all along Manchester Road and up your street.’
‘Working on Christmas Day, poor sod,’ Patrick said.
Jean frowned at him. ‘Some of the tracks were none too straight, either,’ she said, ‘I think he’d already had a tipple or two at some of the houses.’
‘Well good for him.’ Ted laughed, picking up William and the highchair together and carrying them down the hall to the parlour.
Patrick looked towards the window. ‘You find out who chucked the brick?’ he asked Ted as he passed him.
‘No, they’d gone by the time I got to the alley,’ Ted said, his voice tight with renewed anger.
‘Probably some drunk. I could ask around?’
‘No point. Didn’t take long to put new glass in.’
‘Bloody cheek, though.’
Jean glared again at Patrick.
‘Yeah, well, done now,’ Ted said, coming back into the kitchen and glancing at the window, at the same time calling: ‘Back in a minute, son,’ to William who, objecting to being left on his own, was wailing.
The thought occurred to Mary that it could have been George Shuttleworth but she kept quiet.
‘Anything I can do?’ Jean asked Mary, taking off her coat and glancing over at Ellen who was sitting in the armchair reading the Radio Times.
Ellen saw her; she flapped the magazine. ‘Want to read the King’s Christmas message … got his picture in as well?’
‘No, thanks. Mary?’
‘No, it’s all ready. I’ve set up the table in the parlour and Ted’s carried everything in except the chicken.’ Mary was flushed, her forehead and nose shining from the heat in the kitchen and scullery and she’d spent most of the morning heaving against the smell of the roasting chicken and boiling sprouts.
And it wasn’t just being pregnant or worrying all the time about money that was churning her stomach. Every day she waited for the knock on the door, hoping Nelly had second thoughts and had spoken to the police. Afraid she’d warned her son.
‘Bird okay, then?’ Patrick said, as Ted passed them it on a large serving dish. ‘Got a good deal from the butchers for that and the sausages.’
‘First time for everything.’ Jean pressed her lips together. He was only trying to get in their good books. It hadn’t done him any harm putting his hand in his pocket for once.
‘Come on then, don’t let it get cold.’ Ellen ushered the girls out of the kitchen.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I just need to make some more gravy,’ Mary said.
When everyone left she closed the door to the hall and went to the back door for a breath of fresh air. Ted had cleared a path through the snow to the lavvy and thrown some bits of bacon rind down for the birds. Now a cluster of sparrows scattered and lined up on the wall, squabbling. Above them the sky was clear blue and, when she looked higher, she saw the full moon, still visible from the night before, a pale, tissue-paper thinness.
Mary automatically covered her stomach with her hands as though to protect the tiny life inside. Fear for the future mixed with a bleak sadness. And guilt. She shouldn’t have told Nelly about Linda without asking Ellen. What she’d say if, or when, she found out, Mary didn’t want to think about.
She stretched her neck from side to side to try to release the tension. Closing the back door she pulled her pinny over her head. Looking in the mirror she tidied her hair. She couldn’t be bothered with lipstick and face powder.
At the parlour door she listened to the chatter and laughter, the clinking of cutlery and dishes. She took in a long breath, fixed a smile on her face and went in.
The last thing she felt like doing was pretending to enjoy a family day.
‘Good scram that, our kid.’ Patrick tipped his chair back on two legs. ‘If I say so myself. Can’t beat a good bird.’
Jean sighed with impatience.
‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Mary said, starting to pile the plates together.
‘Ask your dad to play his harmonica.’ Jacqueline gave Linda a nudge. ‘Go on, ask him,’ she urged.
‘Okay.’ Linda went to sit on Ted’s knees. Arms around his neck she burrowed her face into his shoulder and whispered to him.
He nodded and went through to the kitchen, returning seconds later holding the harmonica and waving a trail of Izal toilet paper and two combs.
Sitting on the sofa, the two girls next to him, he helped them to wrap the Izal around the combs. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘The Grand Old Duke of York.’ The girls put their lips to their makeshift instruments and hummed. The comb and paper made a rasping sound.
‘Makes your lips tingle,’ Linda giggled.
Mary forced a smile. Feeling sudden loneliness amongst her family was unbearable. ‘I’ll clear up,’ she said.
‘I’ll help.’ Jean moved her chair back. ‘Ted, you and Patrick have some of that rum he brought with him.’
They didn’t need telling twice. Ted put the harmonica in his trouser pocket and went to get two glasses from the sideboard. ‘Come on, then kids,’ he said to appease their protests at the ending of the music, ‘who wants a game of Ludo?’
‘Are we having a cup of tea?’ Peeved at being left out Elsie Winterbottom followed the women into the kitchen. She belched loudly. ‘That Christmas pudding has given me indigestion.’
‘I thought it was tasty, Mother.’ Jean put the large dishes of leftover food on the kitchen table and covered them with plates. ‘I thought you did too. You had two helpings. And you got the sixpence.’
‘Which she bloody pocketed,’ Ellen whispered to Mary. She raised her voice. ‘I’ll make a brew.’
‘I’ll make soup with the leftovers later.’ Mary ran hot water from the Ascot heater into the sink, ready to tackle the mountain of dirty pots on the draining board.
‘That new?’ Jean asked.
‘The Ascot?’ Mary lathered up the bubbles. ‘Yes, Ted put it in last week. The other one was on its last legs and this is bigger, holds more water so we’re not having to wait for it to heat up all of a piece.’
The window clouded over with the steam, melting the snow that had settled in the corners of the frame. The top panes were still clear and showed a few flakes swirling against the greyness of the late afternoon sky. ‘It’s started up again,’ Jean said, ‘I’m going to ask Patrick to take Mother home.’
‘Right.’ Mary listened to the children’s laughter coming from the front room. Any other time it would have made her believe they had a happy carefree childhood. But how many times did she and the others laugh when they were kids, though their house was filled with trouble and anger? Lots, she supposed. Nothing is ever like it seems, she thought, never.
All of a sudden, she knew what she had to do.
The logs in the fire shifted, sending a spark of flames up the chimney and changing the pattern of the shadows on the back wall of the parlour. For once the five adults were comfortable in one another’s company. The two men dozed after the half bottle of rum, Ted with his arm around Ellen on the sofa, Patrick slumped in one of the armchairs, his hand on Jean’s shoulder as she sat on the floor between his knees. Nobody spoke, nothing contentious had been brought up in the conversation, and general chatter had gradually drifted away.
The children had been in bed for the last hour, worn out by all the day’s activities.
Mary held her lower lip between her teeth, sucked on it for a moment. She straightened up in her chair, aware of being the one solitary figure in the room. ‘I’ve got something I need to tell you all.’ Her voice was too loud – the men jumped. Jean and Ellen turned quickly to look at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
As one they shook their heads, their eyes fixed on her.
Her heart was thumping. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop them shaking.
The logs shunted again, louder this time, and everyone glanced at the fire before returning to Mary. It gave her a second to calm down. ‘I thought I should tell you I’m not going back to Wales. I’m staying in Ashford.’ She didn’t miss the delight in Ellen’s eyes.
‘What are you—’ Jean started to ask.
‘Going to do?’ Mary pre-empted her. She turned to Ted. ‘If it’s okay with you I’ll stay here for the time being?’
‘Of course, you know you’re more than welcome.’ He was puzzled. ‘But what about Peter?’
‘I’ll come to him in a minute.’
‘You could go for one of the jobs I told you about,’ Jean said, immediately enthusiastic.
‘I couldn’t … I can’t. Because I’m pregnant.’
There was a stunned silence.
She hurried on. Better to get it all out into the open while she felt brave enough. ‘I’m about three months as far as I can work out. But I’m not with Peter anymore.’ She warned Jean to keep quiet with a look. ‘And that’s not something I’ll discuss just now. Which means, Ted, that for the time being I won’t be able to pay my way. I won’t be able to contribute anything to the housekeeping. I’m sorry.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’ He looked extremely upset. She knew he’d grown to like Peter. ‘You’ve done more than enough these last three months.’
‘There’s something else.’ Her stomach muscles tensed and she threw a cautioning look at Patrick. ‘But I need all of you to promise me that you won’t tell anyone else.’
‘If that’s what you want, Mary.’ Ted spoke firmly. ‘Me and Ellen promise. Don’t we, love?’
She moved her head. ‘Of course.’
‘Jean?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Mary could tell she was bursting with curiosity.
‘Patrick?’
‘It depends.’
‘Then I can’t tell you.’
‘Patrick,’ Ted said, ‘for God’s sake man.’
‘All right, all right,’ Patrick growled, ‘I’ll say nowt.’
Mary sat back. It was now or never. ‘I’ve seen the van that killed our Tom,’ she said. ‘Here in Ashford.’
‘What!’
‘Be quiet, Patrick.’ It was Ellen. ‘Go on.’
‘I went to the police.’
‘You did what? Fucking hell, Mary, why?’
‘Patrick!’ This time it was all three of them who shouted at him.
‘I thought they’d believe me,’ Mary said. Patrick gave a snort of derision but kept quiet. ‘They didn’t.’ Mary stared down at her folded hand; her knuckles were white. ‘I saw the van coming out of Newroyd Street.’ She took a deep breath. ‘As soon as I did I knew it was the one that ran our Tom down. Same colours, same markings on the side.’ Watching Patrick fling himself from his chair she still didn’t know if she was doing the right thing. ‘George Shuttleworth was driving it.’
Patrick paced the rug in front of the fire. ‘Right!’
‘You’re not to do anything Patrick, you promised.’ Mary watched him, anxious.
‘I don’t understand.’ Ellen twisted her fingers together. ‘Ted?’
‘It’s obvious,’ he said. ‘After all these years Shuttleworth somehow found out where Mary and Tom lived. He drove down there and ran him down because he knew Tom was the one who saved Mary and killed his brother. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it Mary?’ His voice was gentle.
‘Yes … but he was wrong.’
Except for the low crackle of the fire and a sudden creak of springs through the ceiling as one of the children turned in their bed, the room was silent.
‘You all thought Tom killed Frank. I did too.’ She waited a moment. ‘But it wasn’t Tom, it was Peter.’ She kept very still, willing herself to stay calm. ‘We had a row the day you asked me to come here. He didn’t want me to come to Ashford. I didn’t understand why. Then it all came out. He said … he told me … he told me … I’m sorry, I can’t.’ The tears, held back for so long spilled over. Jean came towards her. Mary flapped a hand at her friend. ‘No.’ She stumbled from the room.
The icy air, streaming in from outside, stung her throat but still she took in great mouthfuls of it, clinging to the handle of the back door. Her whole body shook. But she’d done it; she’d told them everything. Nothing was hidden now and she felt an enormous relief. Whatever else now happened she wasn’t carrying that burden of secrets anymore.
Gradually Mary’s head stopped spinning and she began to focus. The yellow light from the kitchen doorframe was a slanted elongated shape on the snow in the yard. A paler blurred shape from the children’s bedroom window covered the back gate. The yard walls and lavvy roof were outlined with layers of white. Further away, over the houses on Bridge Terrace, the sky was indecipherable from the surroundings; no moon or stars tonight, just a dark covering of cloud. And all around a smothering silence.
When she heard the footsteps on the kitchen linoleum she knew it was Patrick.
‘I’ll kill him.’
‘Who?’ She didn’t turn.
‘The Kraut.’
‘You won’t.’ She blew her nose.
‘Our Tom’s dead because of him.’
‘No, Tom’s dead because George Shuttleworth believed he’d killed Frank.’ Mary glanced at Patrick’s profile. In the light from the kitchen his face glistened with tears. Impatiently, he wiped them away on the cuff of his shirt sleeve. She pretended she hadn’t seen. ‘He wanted revenge. But it was on the wrong man.’ She scrubbed the handkerchief under her nose again. ‘I’m warning you, Patrick, keep away from Peter. Whatever I feel about him, and all I feel at the moment is contempt, you leave him alone.’ Still holding onto the handle she twisted around to face Patrick. ‘You know why George Shuttleworth believed it was our Tom?’ He shook his head, refusing to look at her. ‘Because somebody told him that’s what happened.’
‘Not me,’ Patrick protested.
‘No, I didn’t think that. But who was the one who first pointed their finger at our brother? Who was convinced it was our Tom and didn’t waste any time telling us? You.’
Patrick moaned. He rolled against the doorframe, stumbling out into the yard. He crumpled against the wall, shoulders heaving with dry sobs.
Perhaps she’d been too harsh? ‘There’s nothing we can do now.’ The tears were hot on her cold cheeks. ‘And I’m carrying Peter’s baby. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him.’
Patrick gave a muffled howl. Of anger? Of despair?
‘We all share some of the blame for what’s happened.’ She touched him on the shoulder. ‘This all started years ago.’ When I first got involved with Frank Shuttleworth, she thought. She stepped into the snow, ready to take him into her arms, to comfort him. ‘Shuttleworth might leave us alone now.’
His next words stopped her moving any closer. ‘I’ll sort it, once and for all.’
‘No, Patrick.’
‘For Tom. I’ll sort it for Tom.’
‘No. Leave it alone, Patrick. George Shuttleworth is dangerous.’
‘I’m dangerous.’ He turned his tear-stained face towards her. ‘I’m fuckin’ dangerous. He’ll find that out soon enough.’