Bells of Bournville Green (21 page)

It was Christmas when Nancy Biddle had a proper go at her. They’d gone round to have Christmas dinner with them. Greta was coming to dread it more each time. She found it so boring.

‘D’you want some help?’ she asked Nancy, as usual. She didn’t mind doing the veg or whatever was needed. It was better than just sitting around!

‘Oh ta, bab – we could do with yer,’ Nancy said. ‘In fact you’re more help than these two—’ She nodded at April and Dorrie. ‘Dor – go and let the dog out to cock his leg, will yer, before he has an accident on the floor. And April – you go and set the table.’

Having got rid of her two daughters, Greta realized, had given Nancy the chance to start on her.

‘Here—’ Nancy circled the kitchen, a cigarette burning at the corner of her mouth, screwing up her eyes against the smoke. Handing Greta a big bag of potatoes and a blunt knife, she said, ‘You’d better get started on these. Sit at the table there, bab – I’ll bring you a bowl of water.’

Nancy was a kindly sort, and Greta set to work happily enough while Nancy chopped lumps of lard into the roasting pan and pushed it into the oven. There was a huge joint of beef waiting on the table.

‘Want a cuppa tea, bab? There’s some in the pot.’

‘Oh – yes please,’ Greta said. Nancy fished out a packet of custard creams.

‘Go on – have one. The dinner won’t be ready for hours yet.’

April and Dorrie, having done as they were asked, were now drifting in and out of the kitchen and Nancy shooed them out. She sat down at the table with a grunt, stubbed out her cigarette and spooned sugar into the tea.

‘Now then,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a word with yer. I’m not being funny with yer, bab, but – is there summat wrong with you and Trevor in the bed department?’

Greta stirred her own tea, looking down at the table as a thick blush spread through her cheeks.

‘What d’you mean?’ She looked up, trying to make her expression as innocent as possible.

‘What d’you think I mean, wench? You and our Trevor have been married for more than two years now, and no sign of a babby on the way. I know not everyone goes for having them straight off, but Trevor says he wants kids and you’re trying for ’em.’ Her tone softened a little. ‘You know love, there might be a problem. Have you thought about going and seeing the doctor?’

‘Well . . . no,’ Greta stumbled, trying to think what to say. ‘I mean, I s’pose I thought . . .’

‘What, bab?’ Nancy was motherly now, her freckly face sympathetic. She lit up another cigarette. ‘You thought things would come right in the end?’

Greta’s cheeks were absolutely burning now. She felt guilty and panic-stricken all at once. ‘Yes, I mean, I thought maybe it takes some time . . . I don’t know really.’

Nancy leaned over and touched her hand for a second. ‘Course you don’t. You’re only young. That’s when you need a bit of advice. Your mother said anything?’

‘A bit.’ Of course Ruby had hinted at things occasionally, but she was wrapped up in her own life and Greta thought she seemed quite relieved not to have any more grandchildren to deal with just yet.

‘Well look, love. You might well be right: sometimes it does take a little while. I mean I’ve had long enough gaps between mine, and not for want of trying. But I’ve got a bit of a tilted womb, the doctor said. It might be nothing, but maybe you should go and get yourself looked at?’

Greta saw that she had no choice but to go along with it, so she smiled gratefully and said, ‘All right. I’ll go – soon as Christmas is over.’

Later that evening, once the meal was over, they went to call on Ruby and the rest of the family for tea. Ruby had the house all decorated with tinsel and streamers. Mary Lou and Elvis both squeaked with excitement when they saw Trevor and he was immediately in his element, throwing Elvis up in the air and trapping Mary Lou between his legs and tickling her while she giggled in delight.

‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ruby warned. ‘Or she’ll be sick.’

But Mary Lou was on at him all evening. ‘More tickles Uncle Trevor, gimme more!’

‘That’s what those children need,’ Herbert remarked. He had settled in the big chair by the fire with his slippers on and a good supply of ale, and he didn’t move all evening. ‘They need a father figure.’

Who asked you anyway? Greta thought, furiously. She saw Marleen rolling her eyes.

‘Pass us another one of those pies, Rube,’ Herbert commanded. Ruby got up and handed him the plate of mince pies.

Why does she do that? Greta wondered. Why not tell that fat slob to get up and get them himself?

‘Maybe you’re the father figure round here now then,’ she said nastily.

Herbert laughed, undoing his huge cardigan. ‘Oh I think I’m a bit long in the tooth to be able to help with that.’

‘Or with anything, by the looks of it.’

‘Greta!’
Ruby said in a warning voice.

Within a few minutes of being in the house, with the stifling front room, the sight of Herbert Smail, of her Mom being used by him, of Marleen, whippet-thin and sulky, and Trevor obsessed with the kids, Greta was desperate to get out again. It was like walking back into the same old trap. There must be more to life than this, surely? But she was so confused. What did she want? One minute she longed for a cosy family like Edie, the next she wanted to be Cadbury Girl of the Year, learning French, off travelling the world!

She watched Trevor guiltily as he helped Elvis roll in a backward somersault off his lap. Marleen was watching too, smiling at Elvis’s excitement. Both their faces were lit up and Greta hadn’t seen Trevor look so happy in a long time. He looked sweet and boyish as he always did when he smiled. What she should do was stop being so selfish and give him reason to smile more often. She should give in and let him have the babies he longed for so much. After all, she had married him, for better or worse. She surrendered, that afternoon. Why try to be different? Everyone was on at her. She’d stop taking the pills and just give in, let it happen. She’d do what everyone else wanted and maybe it would all come right.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next morning she went downstairs as usual early, to make a cup of tea. This was when she usually took her pill, while Trevor was still safely upstairs out of the way. Shivering in the cold, she lit the gas under the kettle then fished around in the cupboard for the little soap box, with the picture of a sprig of lavender on the lid, where she kept her pills. She was intending to throw it in the bin, have done with it.

‘Then I’ll wait and see what happens,’ she said to herself.

She perched on a chair by the table, the little card with the pills in front of her. ENOVID, it said along the side. She stared at it, only realizing how long she’d sat there in a daze when the kettle boiled. She knew she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not today. Maybe tomorrow – or next week . . . Getting up quickly, before she could change her mind, she fetched a cup of water and swallowed today’s pill down, feeling relief surge through her.

He’s the one who should have been a woman, she thought. If he wants a babby that badly, he could just get on with it!

The first day she was back at work after Christmas and in the swing of things, she wondered how she could have even thought of doing anything else.

‘Ian bought me a coat for Christmas,’ was the first thing Pat said when she saw her. ‘It’s beautiful – it’s black and ever so elegant.’ She was full of it, pink-cheeked, her eyes sparkling.

‘That’s nice. He must have a bob or two to spend,’ Greta said morosely. She was sick of hearing about Ian Plumbridge – he was all Pat ever went on about these days.

‘He has,’ Pat said, almost purring. ‘And he’s ever so good to me.’

Pat talked about Ian all through the coffee break, and it was only as they were heading back to the conveyer belt with its regiments of Dairy Milk bars that she said,

‘Did you have a nice Christmas, Gret? I bet it’s lovely now you’re married and everything. All the families together and that.’

‘It was all right,’ Greta said, remembering that, what now seemed like an eternity ago, she had thought getting married and away from home would solve all her problems. She knew Pat was desperate to get away from home, even though in her loyalty to her Mom and Dad she could never admit it.

‘Ian’s taking me out to a New Year’s party,’ Pat said before they parted to go to their workplaces. ‘I don’t know where I’m going to tell Mom and Dad I’m going. Could we pretend you’re having a party at yours?’

‘Oh, I expect so,’ Greta said wearily. She wondered why she felt rubbed up the wrong way by Pat’s starry-eyed love affair and realized that she expected it to end in tears one way or another. That was what happened with men and love.

She spent the next few weeks being Pat’s pretend chaperone and avoiding Trevor’s Mom so that she couldn’t keep going on at her about whether she’d seen the doctor. She felt very distant from Pat, and as the weeks went by Pat seemed to withdraw a bit as well. Greta wondered if things with Ian were going downhill. By February Pat was looking pale and drawn. She didn’t like to ask.

One day she turned to look at Pat along the line where they were working. She was white-faced and seemed to be struggling with tears.

‘I don’t want to be nosy,’ Greta said to her during their break, ‘but you look ever so miserable. Are things not going too well with lover boy?’

She kept her tone light and joking, but Pat glowered at her from under her cap.

‘Of course everything’s all right – why wouldn’t it be?’

‘You just look a bit down, that’s all.’

Pat forced her face into a smile. ‘I’m not – I’m perfectly all right. I’ve just got a bit of a cold.’

‘Everything all right at home – Josie?’

‘Josie’s much as ever.’

And she wouldn’t say any more, but Greta was uneasy. She felt quite sure there was something up with Pat when all her rosy, happy appearance seemed to have drained away so fast.

A few days later, Greta found out why.

It was Valentine’s Day and she and Trevor had intended to go out. Out of guilt she was trying her best to make the best of things and be kind to Trevor.

‘It’s horrible out there,’ Trev said, coming in from work out of a night of pelting rain and having to towel his hair dry. ‘Let’s just have our dinner in front of the telly, shall we? You know, just you and me, have a cuddle?’

‘OK,’ Greta said, relieved. She didn’t especially want to go and sit in some beery pub staring at Trevor over his pint, though she would have done to try and please him. ‘I’ve done us egg and chips.’

‘Lovely!’ Trevor said happily. ‘I’m starving. Bring us the ketchup, love.’

They settled down together on the old sofa and watched
Blue Murder at St Trinian’s.
Trevor thought Joyce Grenfell was very funny. Greta wondered what real boarding schools were like. Full of posh girls in funny clothes learning all sorts of things like Latin and Greek and reciting Shakespeare all the time. She wondered what it would be like to be one of them. She couldn’t imagine it.

The room was warm and cosy and they had hot cups of cocoa on the little rickety table in front of them. It felt nice not to have to go out in the wet. Trevor put his arm round Greta and she felt a rush of affection for him and snuggled up to him.

‘That’s nice, love,’ Trevor looked down at her, delighted, pulling her even closer. It wasn’t often these days that she was all soft and cuddly with him. She so often seemed to be rushing off somewhere. He kissed her and leaned round to stroke her breast, his eyes glazing with desire.

‘Shall we skip the end and go to bed?’ he murmured.

‘Oh, let’s just watch the end,’ she said sleepily.

‘Sit on my lap, then . . .’

She snuggled up on Trevor’s lap. This was all right. It was nice to be wanted, to have someone to come home to . . . In a moment of softness she nuzzled against his cheek. Rain blew against the windows.

‘Ah, Gret,’ Trevor said dreamily, squeezing her tighter. He slipped his hand inside her blouse, then her bra. ‘Ooh, come on – let’s go on up.’

The credits were just beginning to roll as the jaunty theme music played and Trevor kissed her hungrily.

‘I don’t think we’re going to make it upstairs, are we?’ Greta teased him, but her words were cut off by an urgent hammering on the front door.

‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’ Trevor groaned as Greta jumped up.

‘No idea . . .’ Her heart was pounding with shock. ‘Sounds like the fuzz, banging like that . . . You haven’t been up to anything have you, Trev?’

‘Course not!’ he said as the thunderous banging came again.

She opened up, and outside in the soaking darkness saw a stranger with dark hair and a lean, handsome face. She had no idea who he was.

‘Are you Greta?’ He was obviously in a state, eyes roving nervously from side to side.

‘Yeah . . . Who’re you?’

He jerked his head towards the road. ‘I’ve got Pat Floyd in the car. She told me to come here. She’s been taken bad.’

Greta was glad to feel Trevor standing in the hall behind her.

‘What d’you mean? Are you Ian?’

‘Yes – give me a hand will you? She’s really bad. Said she couldn’t go home and I was to come here . . . I didn’t know what else to do.’ She could tell he couldn’t get rid of Pat fast enough.

Without even thinking of a coat, Greta followed him to the car. Through the wet windows she could just make out someone slumped inside, on the passenger seat. Ian opened the door.

‘Pat?’

Even in the gloom she could see the terrible pallor of Pat’s face. She was lying across the seat, barely even conscious. She managed to open her eyes.

‘Gret?’ Her voice was slurred. ‘Help me, for God’s sake . . .’

‘Trevor!’ Greta shouted, only to find he was already beside her. ‘We’ll have to take her in – put her to bed . . . Both of you, get her out,’ she instructed the two men. ‘Sit her in the front room and I’ll get the bed ready.’ She caught Ian’s arm as he went to obey. ‘How long’s she been like this?’

He wouldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It just came on this afternoon,’ he said.

He and Trevor gently took Pat from the car, and half carried, half dragged her into the house. She gave terrible moans as they moved her, especially as they jerked her up the step into the hall.