Bells of Bournville Green (20 page)

She saw Janet looking at her rather intently, but she didn’t ask any more.
No children yet . . . ?
Greta could feel her thinking.

Edie and Anatoli lived in a big house across the road from the university. It felt cosy inside on this dark winter day, a fire burning in the front room, where there were comfortable chairs, Anatoli’s grand piano and violins, along with a comfortable scattering of sheet music. There were a large number of pictures on the walls, some of Edie’s – a landscape over the mantelpiece on which there were family photographs – and some Russian icons in gold and other rich colours, and colourful Persian rugs covered the floorboards.

Peter and the twins ran straight to the piano and started hammering out a proper racket on it.

‘No, not now, loves,’ Edie protested. ‘We’ll go into the kitchen and find you something nice to eat, shall we? Do sit down, Greta – I shan’t be long.’

Anatoli helped make the tea in his usual solicitous fashion, carried in angel cakes and biscuits and then said, ‘If you’ll excuse me ladies . . .’ and disappeared off to his snug at the back of the house.

At first Greta thought she would fall into her usual role of playing with the children, almost as if she was still one of them, and she was down on the floor with the three of them, Peter, and Ruth and Naomi, who were six now and had started school. But then Edie said,

‘Here you three –
Play School’s
about to start. They can sit and watch that, Greta – give you a break.’

The television was in the back room, and soon the three of them were settled in front of it, all trying to squeeze into one armchair and pushing biscuits erratically towards their mouths, eyes fixed raptly on the screen.

Greta felt awkward then, unsure where to sit, but Edie beckoned her kindly, handing her a cup of tea.

‘Come on, love, come and sit with us. I should’ve bought some crumpets to toast if I’d thought.’

‘Never mind – it was all a bit spur of the moment wasn’t it?’ Janet said. She smiled encouragingly at Greta. ‘It’s lovely to see you, dear. We don’t see very much of your mother these days.’

‘No,’ Greta said. ‘I s’pose not.’ She wasn’t sure what to say. Ruby was so caught up with Herbert and Marleen and going to work that she scarcely had time for anything else. And she knew her Mom felt left out with Edie and Janet, now Edie had gone up in the world and was living in a big house.

‘She seems all right though?’ Edie said, sitting down, balancing a plate with a cake on it on the arm of her chair.

‘I think so,’ Greta said. She didn’t see much of Mom either, even though they only lived round the corner, but that suited her very well.

‘You look tired, Jan,’ Edie said.

‘Ah.’ Janet’s kindly face smiled wearily. ‘Just middle age creeping up on me.’

‘Is he having bad nights again?’

‘Yes – off and on. It’s not too bad at the moment.’

Edie looked at Greta and explained gently, ‘It’s the war, you see. Martin and Anatoli – some of the things they had to see – it doesn’t leave you.’

‘How’s Anatoli?’ Janet asked.

‘Oh, he’s all right. It’s not nightmares so much for him – it’s just, he’s so moody and changeable. Sometimes he gets very down, goes all silent on me. He says I’m not to take any notice, it’s not my fault or anything. It’s as if he gets these attacks of gloom and then comes out of them. I feel ever so shut out. But he does come out of them and it’s all right then.’

‘At least we know what it is,’ Janet said. ‘And actually, that’s not what’s been on my mind. It’s the girls – school and everything.’ Her eyes filled. ‘Oh sorry – I didn’t come to be miserable.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Edie said, squeezing her friend’s arm. ‘What’s happened? People being rude?’

‘Yes – the stares, the comments. I mean it was bad enough when they were babies but at least it was just directed at me then. All those “Oh, she’s been with a black man” sort of smirks and remarks. People can be nastier than you could ever believe. Calling the girls golliwogs and all that sort of thing. Well they couldn’t understand then, not when they were babies. I mean they’re not the only coloured children in the school, but the others are from Jamaica and Trinidad, and at least when their mothers come to collect them they’re the right colour. Poor little Naomi had some vicious, bullying little boy pinning her up against the playground wall the other day, demanding to know why her Mum wasn’t a golliwog and making her open her mouth so he could look inside, as if she was a horse!’

‘Oh, how awful!’ Edie said. ‘It’s so terrible the way people pick on anyone who’s different. I know Anatoli had a bit of it when he first came here, but of course he soon learned English and blended in. But poor Ruth and Naomi . . .’

‘The thing is, they’re only little . . .’ Janet wiped her eyes. ‘And up until now they’ve just sort of accepted Martin and me as their parents. But now of course we’re having to explain about being adopted and being Congolese and everything all at once.’

‘Ah,’ Edie said. ‘Poor little mites. It’s a lot to take in at their age isn’t it? And with people being so unkind . . .’

Greta felt uncomfortable, thinking of things Ruby had said, and Nancy Biddle, about all the blacks who were coming in these days. If she said, ‘But what about Ruth and Naomi?’ Ruby would say, ‘Oh well that’s different.’

‘Not everyone’s unkind,’ Janet said. ‘Some people have been very good and accepting. But you can’t help feeling it when people are so ignorant and cruel. We’re all human, after all. Thank goodness for the Friends – they always have a lovely welcome at the Meeting House. Anyway—’ She rallied herself. ‘That’s enough of my woes. Your little Peter is looking full of beans. And how’s David?’

Edie’s face clouded. ‘Well – he’s certainly working hard. And Gila. She’s still pushing on to be a dentist. I know it’s what they want and in the long run it’ll be good for them – but I don’t like it. It seems all wrong to me, having Shimon up on the kibbutz or in Tel Aviv. He’s with Gila’s aunt mostly now – goes to school in Tel Aviv. I don’t know how Gila can stand it. It feels all wrong to me. They should be a proper family, not living all over the place like this. I worry about them – it’s all such a strain.’

Greta listened, intrigued by any mention of David, whose life was so unimaginably different from her own. An image came to her of seeing him, aged eleven or so, walking home from school with his satchel and his serious, studious expression, which suddenly broke into a beaming smile when he saw her. They’d been playmates then, equals, before he grew a few years older and transformed into a superior being who went to the grammar school and hardly spoke to girls any more.

‘I’ve begged and begged him to think about coming over here,’ Edie was saying. ‘Anatoli thinks it would be better too. He worries for him. But David won’t hear of it.’

She turned to Greta. ‘D’you ever hear from him, love?’

‘Sometimes – at Christmas usually.’

‘Yes – he’s good like that. Keeps in touch with his family.’

Greta was touched by the way she said ‘family’ so proudly. Edie and David were not related by blood in any way, but she had brought him up.

‘Nothing like family,’ Edie was saying. ‘I thank God every day for Anatoli and Peter . . .’

She stopped suddenly and leaned forward to put more coal on the fire, perhaps realizing she had not been tactful. Janet and Martin had not been able to have children of their own, and Greta knew everyone was beginning to wonder about her.

They turned their attention to her now, asking how things were. As the two older women looked at her she realized they were in some way concerned about her but were too tactful to ask. Is everything all right? How is your marriage? Is there a problem over having children? These questions were in their looks, but they would not have voiced them. She felt the same concern that she knew they had always had for her Mom, for Ruby’s men troubles and her erratic life.

‘I’m doing French lessons.’ She spoke shyly, afraid of being mocked. When she told her Mom, Ruby had said, ‘Huh – don’t s’pose you’ll stick at that for long. You’ve never even been to France, have you?’

‘Oh that’s marvellous!’ Janet exclaimed.

‘What a good idea!’ Edie agreed.

They asked her about it and wondered whether she might think about taking up any other classes. When Anatoli came into the room to suggest a lift home, he was told about it too.

‘French lessons! Ah – what a very good thing. Well done, my dear. Keep it up!’

When he dropped Greta off at the end of Alliott Road and she walked the brief distance home in the dark she felt uplifted and glowing from Edie’s and Janet’s encouragement. She felt warm inside, and understood, and bubbling with excitement.

‘Oh – so you finally made it!’

Trevor was in a right state when she came in. He was sitting in front of the gabbling telly. Glancing at the clock she saw to her horror that it was a quarter to seven. She’d had no idea she was going to stay so late!

‘God – sorry, Trev,’ she said, sincerely. ‘I lost track of the time – I’ll get the dinner on.’

‘Too bloody late – I’ve been down the chippy.’ He got up, glowering. Only then did she take in the fishy, vinegary smell in the room. ‘Thought I’d better, since my
wife
wasn’t going to bother turning up.’ He didn’t even bother to ask where she’d been, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her.

‘Edie asked me back for tea, that’s all,’ she said, backing away, trying to calm him. ‘They gave me a lift down to the Bristol Road and I had to wait for him to give me one back . . .’

Trevor’s face was closed and sulky and he sat back down by the television.

‘I had our tea half ready anyway – the rest of that stew. You could have had some . . . Done some potatoes to go with it . . .’ She couldn’t hold back her sarcasm. ‘Or is boiling a few spuds beyond you?’

There was no reply for a while. Then eventually, like a sullen child, he said, ‘I don’t care where you’ve been.’

Trevor sulked all evening and barely said a word. At first Greta felt apologetic, then impatient. And she didn’t like him ignoring her. She sat by him on their old sofa and Trevor, sprawled with legs stretched out, wouldn’t even look at her.

‘I’ve said sorry, haven’t I? What more d’you want? All I did was go out for a cup of tea.’

‘All?’
Trevor snapped.

‘Well it’s not the crime of the century is it?’

He folded his arms more tightly and kept staring ahead.

‘Trevor!’ she protested, suddenly wanting him to be nice to her, to forgive her. She tried cuddling up to him, undid the top buttons of her blouse, and in the end he gave in and put his arm round her.

‘You shouldn’t keep going out all the time,’ he said. ‘I want you here – you’re my wife.’

‘I know I’m your wife.’ She spoke to him seductively. ‘I never meant to stay out so long . . .’

‘Well, what d’you want to go and see them for anyway? They’re not your age are they?’

‘No, but . . .’ She couldn’t easily explain. They’d known her always, but also they had things she wanted, they had lives full of interest, better lives than hers. But all she said was, ‘They’re a bit like aunties I s’pose.’

Trevor soon came round. She knew he loved it when she cuddled up to him, wanting something from him.

‘Let’s go up shall we?’ he said after a while, giving her a wink.

That night things were good. Trevor got into bed and immediately snuggled up and started making love to her. She cuddled him back, knowing she could please him easily and make things better between them. He lay on top of her, grinning with pleasure as he moved inside her, and when he’d finished he lay back, panting.

‘There – I bet that’s made us a babby,’ he said happily.

‘Yes, love,’ she said, stroking his chest, glad he was happier now because she needed to feel loved and held by someone. ‘Maybe it has.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Pat was changing. Ever since she and Greta started at Cadbury’s she’d always been the quiet one. Greta had always felt like the lively one who took the risks, and she knew she was safe with Pat. Now it was as if her best friend was living a double life.

Before Christmas she asked Greta if she could use their house as a place to get changed before meeting Ian.

‘Thing is, I‘ve bought myself a new outfit and I don’t want Mom and Dad to see,’ Pat said bashfully. ‘They think I’m coming to see you anyway, so that sort of makes it true, doesn’t it?’

‘Well, I s’pose so,’ Greta said. They were standing outside at the end of work, in the hot, chocolatey breath of the factory.

‘You don’t sound very sure,’ Pat said, disappointed. ‘I thought you said you didn’t mind if I said I was with you? I know it’s not very nice lying, but . . .’

‘No – it’s all right,’ Greta said. ‘Course you can.’ It would have been hard to explain to Pat that she was much less bothered about her telling fibs to her Mom and Dad than about the way she seemed to be moving on so fast. She needed Pat to be her old, sweet, reliable self. ‘Anyroad—’ She forced a cheerful note into her voice. ‘I want to see this outfit of yours.’

That night Pat got changed in their bedroom and came down wearing a knitted Orlon dress, in black and orange stripes, with a black belt nipping her in at the waist and matching shoes with kitten heels. She stood in front of Greta and Trevor, blushing but pleased with herself.

‘Well – d’you like it? I got it at C&A.’

Trevor said, ‘It looks nice, Pat.’ And he seemed genuine.

‘It’s lovely,’ Greta said, though she was a bit taken aback. Pat had put black eye-liner on and her long hair was hanging loose. Instead of appearing mousy she looked suddenly quite glamorous.

‘Blimey,’ Trevor said when she’d hurried off to meet Ian. He looked a bit disapproving. ‘What’s happened to her?’

‘She’s in love,’ Greta said.

‘Looks a bit fast to me.’

Pat started coming round once a week, more if she could get away with it, changed her clothes and went eagerly off to meet Ian, who would drive over in his Ford and pick her up. She was full of him all the time, especially at work: Ian’s taking me to the Hippodrome, Ian says this, Ian says that, all over the Christmas period, until Greta wanted to say, ‘Can we just talk about something else for a change d’you think?’ But she never said it. Pat was on cloud nine and she didn’t want to shoot her down. Lucky Pat.