Bells of Bournville Green (22 page)

It was only once they were in the front room, in the light, that they could see the full horror of the situation. Greta, following them, gave a sickened gasp.

‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’ she cried.

Pat’s clothes and all the backs of her legs were drenched in blood, so much that it was seeping down into her shoes. Her head lolled and she passed into unconsciousness.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Greta grabbed a towel and flung it on the chair as they struggled to sit Pat down. She was a dead weight and her head rolled back, eyes closed. There was a smear of blood down her cheek.

‘Trev, go and call an ambulance!’ Greta fumbled frantically in her bag for change.

‘No – you mustn’t!’ Ian tried to stop him. ‘No one’s got to know about this . . .’

‘What’re you on about!’ She was screaming at him in panic. A creeping tide of blood was seeping through the towel Pat was sitting on. ‘For God’s sake, look at her – she’ll bleed to death –
go on
, Trevor!’

Ian tried to stop him but Trevor flung him off, cursing, and ran for the phone box. Greta seized Ian Plumbridge’s arm, sinking her fingernails into him.

‘What’ve you done to her you bastard? She was perfectly all right and
now
look at her!’

‘It was . . .’ The man looked scared and almost tearful. ‘We went to someone – a doctor – paid him. They said he was a proper doctor, it’d all be all right. I mean she was all right earlier on, just a bit pale, and then this started, this evening. And it just got worse and worse. She kept saying not to tell her Mom and Dad and then it was just blood everywhere . . .’

‘Doctor for what? What’re you on about?’ Greta raged at him.

‘The baby – she was having a baby . . . She said her Dad’d kill her . . .’

‘Oh my God.’ Greta was stunned. ‘Oh, Pat – you poor, poor, stupid girl. . .’ She went to her friend, taking her hand and gripping it tightly. Pat moaned, barely conscious. ‘It’s all right love – we’ll get help. Oh, you poor babby – we’ll look after you . . . Pat love, can you hear me?’

There came a tiny moan from Pat’s throat, then her eyes flickered open, full of fear and anguish.

‘What – I can’t hear you?’ Greta leaned closer.

‘For God’s sake . . . don’t . . . tell . . . my Dad . . .’

Greta visited Pat the next afternoon in Selly Oak Hospital. She found her at the far end of the long Nightingale ward, looking as if she had been put in the corner in disgrace. And that was how it felt, the way the doctors and nurses treated her, as a dirty, fallen woman. She had had a huge blood transfusion, and lay under the covers, eyes closed, her face a ghastly white, and too weak to move. Greta only just managed to stop herself weeping at the sight of her.

‘Pat . . .’

Her eyes opened with the same look of terror Greta had seen in them before.

‘It’s OK – it’s me, love.’ Greta found herself saying things a mother might say. ‘Look, I’ve brought you some flowers . . .’ She had some bright bunches of daffs and freesias. ‘And some chocolate for when you feel a bit better – home from home, eh?’ Pat was especially partial to Crunchie and Fudge, so she’d gone and got some misshapen ones from the factory shop for her.

She had been speaking in what she hoped was a chirpy, cheering tone, but when she turned to Pat she saw there were tears streaming down her cheeks. And Pat was shielding her face with her hands as if she couldn’t stand anyone looking at her.

‘Oh, Pat!’ Greta sat down and reached for her friend’s hand again, unable to stop her own tears as well now. ‘Your poor thing.’ She leaned closer, seeing that Pat was trying to speak.

‘I killed my baby,’ Pat sobbed weakly, ‘and all these people think I’m terrible . . .’

‘I don’t s’pose they do,’ Greta tried to say, though she could see really that Pat was right.

‘You should see the way they look at me – as if I’m dirty and wicked And one nurse called me a murdering bitch . . .’ Through her sobs, she said, ‘I expect you think that too, Gret?’

‘No!’ Greta squeezed her hand. How could she think such a thing when she was taking pills day after day to stop babies from being born! ‘Course I don’t. You had to . . .’

‘It was Ian’s babby and I love him, and . . .’ Crying even more, she choked out the words. ‘They said they’d be informing my next of kin and I said no, they mustn’t! But they said they have to and they’ll have told Mom and Dad. He’ll kill me – I know what he’ll say . . .’

‘Has your Mom been in to see you?’ Greta asked.

Pat shook her head, miserably. ‘Maybe she won’t want to see me – or Dad won’t let her . . .’

Greta’s heart ached for her, seeing her friend in such a low state, physically and mentally.

‘Are you going to be all right?’ She squeezed Pat’s hand. ‘You gave us the most terrible fright.’

‘They say I should be . . .’ Tears rolled down her cheeks again. ‘But they don’t know if I’ll be able to have a babby again . . .’

‘Oh, Pat, I expect you will . . .’

‘And they keep on at me wanting me to tell them the name of the doctor who did the . . . Who took it away . . .’

‘Well you’ll tell them, won’t you? He wants stringing up, whoever he is!’

Pat shook her head, and to Greta’s disbelief, whispered urgently, ‘No! He was kind and he was trying to help us. He didn’t charge that much – not like some. And he did his best. He said things should be easier for women when this happens . . . I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

Before Greta could argue, she caught sight of someone coming in through the double doors at the far end of the ward and a second later she saw Pat register it as well – her Mom, Mrs Floyd, was walking between the other beds towards them. She looked even more drab in these surroundings, her brown coat pulled protectively round her, the collar still up and her face, never adorned with makeup, was dreadfully pale and pitted with worry and grief. Greta wondered whether to get up and leave, but there wasn’t time. Mrs Floyd had seen her and hesitated for a second, but then came towards them.

‘Hello, Greta,’ she said flatly, stopping a few feet from the bed.

‘Hello, Mrs Floyd . . .’

But her eyes were fixed on Pat’s face and Greta saw in Pat’s eyes the defenceless, frightened longing for her mother not to reject her. Mrs Floyd came closer, almost on tip-toe, gazing wide-eyed at her daughter as if she was a monster.

‘Pat . . . We’ve only just heard . . . Dear Lord, what have you done?
What have you done?’

‘I’m all right, Mom – I’m going to be all right,’ Pat assured her, weeping weakly as she spoke. ‘I’m so, so sorry . . .’

‘How could you
do
something like this to us?’ The words choked out harshly. ‘You’ve never been like this . . . You were a good girl . . . Your father is in a dreadful state . . . He’s been praying, praying, with no let-up until I’m afraid he’ll make himself ill!’

Greta could feel herself beginning to boil. Why did everything always revolve round Stanley Floyd, as if no one else ever had any feelings? Who cared if he was praying or not? And she knew Mrs Floyd was afraid of her husband.

‘Pat’s very weak,’ she pointed out. ‘She’s lost a lot of blood.’

This seemed to penetrate through Mrs Floyd’s frozen exterior to the real kindliness which lay beneath. Suddenly, she fell to her knees by the bed, tears welling in her brown eyes.

‘Oh, my poor dear!’ she cried, weeping now and not seeming to care who saw. ‘My poor little girl. . .’

‘But Daddy?’ Pat’s expression was terrible.

Mrs Floyd closed her eyes. It was a moment before she opened them again. Her silence seemed to say everything there was to say and her tears continued to flow. They were all crying, Greta as well. A nurse walked down to the bottom of the ward, gave them all a distasteful stare, then turned on her heel and went away.

‘What did he say?’ Pat sobbed.

Mrs Floyd wiped her eyes, but her face creased again with terrible grief.

‘I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive you.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Pat stayed in hospital for almost three weeks, very low after all the blood she had lost and fighting an infection that sent her temperature soaring. Greta visited her often, but Pat swore her to secrecy.

‘I don’t want anyone else knowing,’ she said, her face pinched with worry. ‘Just tell them I’m poorly.’

She was in a dreadful state all the time she was in there. Although her mother came to visit, she did so secretly: Pat’s father would not countenance her coming back into his house. She had broken one of the Ten Commandments in the most wanton and shameful of ways, and so far as he was concerned, his daughter was dead to him.

And just when other Cadbury girls might have been able to give her friendship, Pat refused to let them know. She was popular in her quiet way and they kept asking after her. Greta found it difficult bearing the burden of Pat’s secret tragedy and having to make up stories about her having had appendicitis, which is what they decided on. Despite all that, it did not stay a secret.

One Saturday afternoon when Pat was still in hospital Greta opened the door to find Marleen on the doorstep with the kids.

‘Oh!’ she said startled. It wasn’t like Marleen to call. ‘What’re you doing here?’

‘Just thought I’d come. Don’t you want to see me?’ Marleen responded in her usual aggressive style.

‘Well, yeah – I just wasn’t expecting you, that’s all. Hello, Mary Lou, Elvis! Trev – we’ve got visitors!’

Trevor was on the sofa watching the football and Elvis, who was toddling now, ran in and flung himself roaring into his lap.

‘Oi mate!’ Trevor gave a pretend groan and rolled his eyes, which made Elvis gurgle with laughter. ‘You’re like the human cannonball!’

‘You be careful with your Uncle Trevor,’ Marleen said. ‘You’ll do him an injury.’

‘No, he’s all right.’ Trevor laughed. ‘D’you wanna watch the football, Elvis?’

The kids gravitated towards Trevor, and Marleen buttonholed Greta in the kitchen. She leant up against the back of a chair. Greta could see her looking round, sizing the place up to see if there was anything new.

‘Nice outfit,’ Greta said. She always got on better with Marleen if she complimented her.

Marleen smiled smugly. She’d got a job now, part-time in a clothes shop in town, and she had a bit of spare money for clothes. Today she had on a straight pinafore dress in big black and white checks over a white roll-neck jumper, her hair swinging long with a fringe. Marleen fancied herself as looking like the model Jean Shrimpton.

‘Ta.’ She flung her hair back, then looked down at the floor, rubbing the toe of her black shoe round a rough hole in the lino.
‘Shame,’
she said. ‘I’d’ve thought you could run to a new bit of lino, couldn’t you, Gret? It’s not as if you and Trev have got kids as a drain on yer.’

No,’ Greta said drily, making the tea. She wasn’t going to be drawn on that subject. Marleen was ever so nosy about it. But she had other fish to fry today.

‘So—’ she eyed Greta slyly. ‘What’s this I hear about your mate Pat?’

‘What about her?’ Greta said sharply.

‘Why’s she in hospital?’

‘She had her appendix out,’ Greta said. ‘I’ve only got Rich Tea, sorry,’ she added. ‘Trev’s eaten all the others.’

‘That’s not what Trev’s Mom said,’ Marleen persisted.

‘What – that he’s polished off all the Bourbons?’

‘No. She said . . .’ Marleen whispered the words importantly, eyes agleam. ‘That Pat went to a
back-street abortionist.’

The blood rushed to Greta’s cheeks. ‘Is that why you came round? To spread lies and gossip?’

Marleen narrowed her eyes. ‘It ain’t lies though, is it? I heard Nancy Biddle telling Mom that Trevor came to her saying Pat had turned up with some bloke and was drenched in blood from head to foot, and that he had to go and call an ambulance because she’d had a botched job. She said Trevor was in a right state . . .’

Greta knew this was true. Trevor had come in from seeing the ambulance off, trembling and white as a sheet. It was partly the sight of all the blood, of course.

‘I’ve never seen anything like that,’ he’d said, sinking down on the sofa. ‘How could she do it? Killing her own child? She ain’t the type.’ He put his hand to his head. ‘I feel all funny – that was horrible that was.’

Greta was furious with him. She had asked him not to tell anyone and he had gone running to his Mom, and now Ruby knew as well and soon everyone would because Nancy Biddle was leaky as a cracked bucket.

All she said to Marleen was, ‘Don’t you go spreading evil gossip about my friend. You just shut it – right?’

‘So it’s true then?’ Marleen smirked triumphantly. ‘Little Pat, eh? Not such a Holy Joe after all then is she?’

Trembling with rage, Greta poured the tea and swept past Marleen into the front room, ignoring her. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Marleen followed, a smug smile on her face.

‘You all right, Trev?’ she asked, as he romped with Mary Lou and Elvis. ‘You like your Uncle Trev, don’t you kids?’

This wound Greta up even more, and as soon as Marleen had gone, she erupted.

‘Why did you go and tell your Mom about Pat? What the hell did you think you were doing? She’ll tell everyone under the bloody sun now!’

‘No she won’t – I said not to. Anyway –’ abruptly he turned nasty, ‘why shouldn’t I? She turns up at our house looking like summat from a slaughterhouse . . . I can talk to who I like, I don’t have to ask your permission.’

‘For God’s sake, Trevor – she’s telling everyone! My Mom knows, and Marleen – she’ll tell the world just to be spiteful . . .’

No – she ain’t like that!’ Marleen was always sickly sweet to Trevor because he’d spend hours entertaining her kids.

‘Oh, yes she is! She’s a mean, scheming cow. God—’ She wanted to punch something in her frustration. ‘I could kill you for spreading that. I told you not to!’

‘Don’t cowing well keep on at me!’ Trevor threw himself down in front of the telly again. ‘Serves her right. You and your mates think you’re a cut above everyone else. You’re just not normal – you’re not a proper woman, are you, swanning off, going to all these classes instead of being a proper wife and mother. And that stuck-up little cow shouldn’t have got herself into that mess in the first place, should she?’