Bells of Bournville Green (11 page)

‘Oh,’ Greta said, shrinking inside. Cadbury’s offered trips to everyone of course, but somehow she never seemed to have taken these opportunities. Whereas Dennis just took life head-on and did things with straightforward enthusiasm. Somehow, for herself, things always seemed to be more twisted round. Why did she not want to do more things to improve herself? She knew there was a competition at the factory – Cadbury Girl of the Year. When she’d heard she’d felt a bitter pang of envy knowing that she couldn’t enter herself. What did she have to offer? Nothing.

‘I don’t do many club things,’ she admitted. ‘But I think it’s time I took up some more.’

‘Good idea,’ Dennis said. ‘It’s marvellous, I think, all the things we can do. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Some people even go on to the university.’

This seemed so completely over the horizon to Greta in terms of ambition that she could think of nothing to say.

‘It’s so nice talking to you,’ Dennis said suddenly. ‘I always feel that you really understand what I’m saying.’

Greta blushed. Suddenly she was filled with a longing she couldn’t explain. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes. You’re sweet – lovely.’

Everyone seemed to keep telling her she was lovely, but she didn’t feel it.

They walked home very slowly in the icy darkness and Dennis took her arm on the slippery pavement and walked her all the way to the front door.

‘D’you want to come in?’ she felt compelled to ask, praying that he would say no. Herbert Smail was there no doubt, and she could hardly bear the thought of Dennis seeing him. She breathed out with relief when he said, ‘Better not. Another time when it’s not so late.’

For a moment he stood, just looking at her, then put his hands on her shoulders. She thought he was going to take her in his arms and kiss her as she was dying for him to, but he didn’t.

‘God, you’re lovely.’ He looked solemnly into her eyes, and what he said next brought her to tears. ‘And you don’t think well enough of yourself, Greta.’

She could not speak.

‘Goodnight, love. See you very soon.’ And he kissed her cheek, and then he was gone into the dark street, leaving her aching for more.

Chapter Thirteen

Everyone kept harking back to the winter of ’47. The sea was frozen, it said on the telly, and the Thames. Every day the roads had to be cleared and Greta met snowploughs as she struggled along Bournville Lane in the mornings.

‘D’you know,’ Pat said one day when they were on their break, ‘Mom said she saw a bird in the garden this morning. It was sitting on the washing line, very still, and then it fell off, just like that – dead! She’s been putting food out in our garden – crumbs and nuts and stuff. She says it’s the only way they’ll stay alive.’

‘Well, it’s not working very well, is it?’ Greta joked.

‘Anyway—’ Pat said. ‘How’s Dennis?’

‘All right. I’m going for tea to meet his Mom on Sunday,’ Greta said, realizing as she said it how nervous she was. Carelessly, she added, ‘And I’m off to the pictures with Trevor tonight.’

Pat’s eyes widened. ‘What – again?’

‘Well, yeah.’ Greta rather enjoyed Pat’s look of shock. ‘He wants me to go with him, so . . .’

‘But you’re going out with Dennis aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Well you can’t just string poor old Trev along, Greta! You’re such a flirt – it’s not right.’

‘I’m not! I’m just . . .’

‘Yes you are! If it was just for a laugh it’d be different, but he’s ever so keen on you, you know that.’

‘Well I know, but . . .’

‘It’s not very kind, is it?’ Pat had a way of holding her hands, primly, one clasped over the other, which irritated Greta, and she did it then.

‘What the hell do you know about it?’ Greta’s temper flared as she knew she was in the wrong. She got up, scraping her chair back. ‘You’re not exactly an expert are you?’

They couldn’t discuss Pat’s love life because she didn’t have one. Even if anyone offered she felt she couldn’t leave her Mom to look after Josie on her own. Greta was sorry for her, but sometimes Pat’s goody-goody ways got on her nerves.

She went angrily back to work, slamming the bars of chocolate so hard off the belt that she dropped several on the floor and was told off. She was seething. Who was Pat to tell her what to do? Pat didn’t have a clue what it was like living in Charlotte Road! She needed Trevor as an excuse to get out, when the house was full of Marleen, as well as her Mom’s carry-on with Herbert Smail, who seemed to be there most of the flaming time now. He kept staying over, and the next thing, Greta saw, would be wedding bells and him moving in. All her life she’d been at the mercy of Mom and her blasted men!

But deep down she was ashamed because she knew she
was
playing with Trevor. She liked the sense of power she had over him because he wanted her. It was very gratifying when blokes wanted her – and plenty of them did. But she knew Pat was right, and that made her anger burn even more fiercely as it was a hard truth to swallow. She’d have to tell Trevor the truth – that she was really not his girl, but Dennis Franklin’s.

By Sunday afternoon she was desperate to get out and go to Dennis’s. Herbert was asleep by the fire, mouth hanging open and apparently oblivious to Mary Lou’s grizzling and Marleen’s snappish outbursts to her.

If the weather doesn’t change soon we’re all going to go mad, Greta thought, slipping and sliding round the back of the hospital towards where Dennis’s family lived, in one of the big houses on the hill. They were all so cooped up she felt as if she was going to explode half the time.

She was shaky with nerves. She had to make a good impression on Dennis’s family, make them like her! Dennis was like a door opening, her chance for a way out, for a better life. She wasn’t clear exactly what it was she wanted, only that she ached for things to be better. Of course, she had to try harder with Dennis than she did with Trev – it didn’t all come quite naturally. But Trev – he was just like her . . . All she’d get with him was more of the same.

But Trevor’s face when she’d told him on Friday that she wasn’t going to go with him wouldn’t leave her. She’d braced herself and gone down to the Biddles’ house. A delighted grin had spread across his face when he saw her standing at the front door. A thin beam of late afternoon light shone on them along the street. She had to brace herself.

‘Trev – I’ve just come to tell you I can’t go out tonight,’ she said, once he’d shut the door behind him. Trev’s smile was already fading and she killed it dead with, ‘Or any night. Thing is Trev – I’ve got to tell you. I’m going out with Dennis Franklin from the Fitting Shop. So I can’t go out with you as well. . .’

Trevor suddenly looked about six years old again, with his slicked-back hair and crestfallen expression. For a moment she thought he was going to cry.

‘Oh,’ he said, rubbing at his hair so it stood up in spikes. Just for a moment Greta wanted to put her arms round him.

Then he looked at her solemnly, not like a little boy now and said, ‘Thing is Gret – I’d’ve married yer. I would. I’d’ve been good and kind to yer – but I s’pose I’m not good enough, am I?’

Greta felt terrible. She realized that up until then she’d never really taken Trevor seriously. He’d been a bit of a joke, the snotty-nosed kid who was no good at football.

‘No – it’s not like that. . .’ She trailed off, knowing it
was
like that, that was just the trouble. ‘I’m sorry, Trev,’ she said gently. ‘I really am.’

He’d heaved a big sigh which pulled his shoulders up to his ears, and just said, ‘Oh well. I thought it was too good to be true.’

Thinking about it now as she went to Dennis’s, she felt very ashamed that she’d led him on.

The Franklins’ house was high and gabled, with well ordered flower-beds at the front, the rose bushes laden with snow. Dark, shiny windows stared down at her and she felt she was being watched. In the front door was a window edged with glass flowers and fruits, and the front steps had been carefully scraped and swept clear of snow. Altogether it felt very posh and intimidating. She pulled her shoulders back. Dennis had obviously been waiting for her.

‘Hello!’ he said, beaming as ever. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a thick dark green jumper. ‘Just on time – and that’s no mean feat in this weather! Come on in and meet the gang!’

In the hall, on the plush crimson carpet, he pecked her on the cheek.

‘Is that your visitor, Dennis?’ she heard a voice call from the front room. ‘Bring her through!’

‘Coming, Mom – I’m just taking her coat!’

‘She’s here then?’ A man’s voice came from the back of the house somewhere.

A further woman’s voice joined in from upstairs.

‘Who’s that? Is that that friend of yours Den?’

Blimey, Greta thought, overwhelmed. Was it always like this?

A woman appeared then out of the front room, very small in stature, with her blonde hair swept off her face. It was immaculately pinned back, just as the pleats in her skirt hung perfectly straight and true. She was delicate-featured and fair, with freckly, fragile-looking skin, and she didn’t look at all like Dennis. But in seconds, Greta saw that beneath the tissue-frail appearance was a personality of steel. Greta found herself examined by a sharp, blue-eyed gaze. Something about Mrs Franklin made her shrink inside.

‘Mom – this is Greta,’ Dennis announced proudly.

Greta smiled shyly. ‘Hello, Mrs Franklin.’

To her surprise Dennis’s Mom put her hand out and Greta responded. As they shook hands, Mrs Franklin smiled, but Greta could feel a shrewd appraisal going on.

‘It’s nice to meet, you Greta.’ She had a soft, well-spoken voice, and Greta realized she was not from Birmingham, but somewhere further north. ‘Dennis has told us a lot about you.’

‘Oh,’ she said stupidly. ‘Has he?’

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Franklin assured her. ‘He talks to us, our Dennis does – about everything he’s doing. You’re a pretty lass, aren’t you? What lovely hair.’

‘Hullo there,’ a voice said before Greta could reply, and she found herself shaking hands again, with Dennis’s Dad, a bulky man who did look very like Dennis, with the same wide mouth and cheerful eyes, and a brisk, businessman’s manner. Greta realized then that she recognized him from Cadbury’s.

And then from upstairs came a young woman who Greta knew was older than Dennis, but she was very small and fair like her mother, except her blonde hair was cut in a short bob which made her look very neat and crisp. She had her mother’s sharp stare.

Dennis said, ‘Greta, this is my sister Lorna.’

Lorna gave her a long appraising look, said hello and disappeared upstairs again.

Greta was starting to wonder whether they were ever going to get out of the hall when Mr Franklin said, ‘Come on now – move through,’ an order more than an invitation.

‘Yes, do come through to the back,’ Mrs Franklin said. ‘We’ve got tea ready.’

‘D’you notice anything about this house?’ Mr Franklin asked as they took their seats.

Greta fumbled for an answer.
It’s big and posher than any house I’ve ever been in before and you’ve got thick carpets and you’ve obviously got lots of money
was what sprang to mind.

‘It’s very nice and warm,’ she chose to say.

‘Yes! Yes indeed!’ Mr Franklin slapped his knees. She’d lit on the right answer by fluke. ‘And d’you know why that is?’

The huge, hissing gas fire under the chimney breast seemed too obvious an answer. Greta shook her head.

Mr Franklin leaned forward, triumphant.
‘Central heating.
Throughout. If you look around you’ll see radiators in every room. You can’t beat it.’ He sat back as if able to relax having imparted a vital piece of information.

‘Oh,’ Greta said. ‘That’s nice.’

‘It’s more than nice, young woman. It’s the future.’

Greta was taking in the lavishly decorated room with its red carpet and wallpaper with clusters of red flowers. The room was stifling hot and exceptionally tidy. The furniture all looked new and there was a table to one side with a great spread of sandwiches and cakes. On the mantel was a brass clock which ticked very loudly, the gas fire hissed powerfully, and in front of it was spread a white, very fluffy rug. Soon after she had sat down, Greta was startled when the rug began to move and she found a yellow-eyed face looking at her and realized there was a huge, fluffy cat lying on the rug!

‘That’s Fifi,’ Dennis said, laughing at her surprise.

A few moments later the white cat separated itself from the rug and came towards her, sniffing her. Then it leapt up on to her lap.

‘Aah!’ Mrs Franklin said, enthusiastically. ‘She’s taken a liking to you, Greta. Well aren’t you lucky?’

‘Oh, yes, isn’t she?’ Mr Franklin said, and Dennis laughed. They were all staring at her.

Greta blushed, looking down at the cat, which turned itself around on her lap a few times, stuck its claws in her leg and finally settled with the apparent intention of going back to sleep.

‘Well, you are privileged!’ Mrs Franklin remarked. ‘She hardly ever favours anyone like that!’

Greta smiled and stroked the furry body. It felt nice but she wasn’t really used to cats. She felt very much on her best behaviour and very scared of saying the wrong thing. As she’d wrapped up well to come out she was also beginning to feel very hot, and she wished desperately that she could fade into the corner and they’d all stop paying her any attention.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Dennis said. ‘She’ll just sleep.’

‘Now, Greta, would you eat some pikelets?’ Mrs Franklin asked.

Seeing her hesitate, Dennis said, ‘They’re a bit like crumpets.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Greta said. ‘Yes please.’

Mrs Franklin handed out little flower-edged plates She seemed to be full of wiry, restless energy and kept getting up and down and offering more food – cups of tea with little silver tongs to pick up the sugar lumps, buttered pikelets, bread and butter, little iced cakes and fruit cake . . . Each time she offered a plateful to Greta, she said, ‘You will have one of these, won’t you?’ and Greta only felt she could say no once she was so full she couldn’t face any more.