Bells of Bournville Green (33 page)

Edie tried to carry on as usual too, and with Anatoli she was gentle and loving and put on a happy face. When she broke down it was often when she and Greta were alone. Sometimes she would come in and sit at the kitchen table and just put her head in her hands.

After a moment she would say, ‘If only he could eat a little bit more – I can’t bear to see him wasting away.’ Or, ‘When I look at him, the way he is, it breaks my heart.’

Then they would look at each other, with a deep, knowing look, then wipe their eyes and carry on. What else was there to say?

Anatoli’s illness was the agonizing chorus that ran through their lives now. The routine continued, with work and children and Greta trying to make sure that Francesca saw something of her Nan. Soon after Mr Marshall’s funeral, she went round to see Ruby. It was a Saturday afternoon and there was a fog which had barely lifted all day, making the little terraced streets seem ghostly and quieter than usual.

Greta pushed Francesca up the hill in the little pushchair. As she went through Bournbrook she passed the second-hand bookshop where she had bought the Christmas present for Dennis Franklin and where the man had been kind to her and given her a book.

She had walked past the shop again many times and hardly given it a thought. What a long time ago it seemed that she had spent her time running after Dennis, trying to impress him! Occasionally now she saw Dennis at the works. She had heard that he had married recently, though he could still barely bring himself to acknowledge her. She still remembered what had happened with Dennis with burning embarrassment, but she could see now that he was stuffy and self-important, even in the way he walked round the factory looking so full of himself.

‘Pompous prat,’ she said, out loud. ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’

When she got to Ruby’s she found her in a mood.

‘Thought you were coming earlier than this,’ she snapped as Greta hoiked the pushchair up the two front steps into the front room and started to get Francesca out. ‘I’ve been waiting since eleven. Hello,
sweetheart
. . .’ she greeted Francesca.

‘Sorry,’ Greta said, to keep the peace, even though she didn’t think she was late. Under her breath she couldn’t help adding,
‘Yes and it’s nice to see you too.’

Holding Francesca she led the way into the kitchen. There was a tall coffee pot on the table, in an orangey-brown pottery, with a long spout and patterns on it like snowflakes. Greta had never seen it before.

‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Where d’you get that?’

‘Mavis got it me cheap somewhere,’ Ruby said. Mavis was one of her pals. ‘Nice, ain’t it? It’s meant to be for coffee but I’m going to use it for tea . . .’ With Francesca on one hip she put the kettle on with one hand.

Greta waited for her to ask how Anatoli was. She knew Ruby had had her differences with Edie, but surely when something so sad and serious was happening she could put that aside. But when she had first told Ruby that Anatoli was sick, that it was serious, for a second she had seen an expression creep over her mother’s face which looked like triumph.
Huh,
it seemed to say.
Time something went wrong for little Miss Perfect.
There was spite in her face which sickened Greta. Could she not put her envy of Edie aside even when something as bad as this was happening? Ruby recovered herself and made the right concerned noises, but Greta could not forget it and it made her feel even closer to Edie.

Instead of asking about Anatoli, Ruby turned to glare at Greta.

‘So – he’s divorcing you?’

‘Who?’

‘Who? Trevor, yer silly bleeder, who else?’

‘I think you’ll find I’m divorcing him,’ Greta said pertly, sitting down at the table. ‘After all, he’s the one who’s committed adultery.’

Ruby was frowning at her, pouting almost.

‘What’s up with you? We can’t exactly go on with him married to me and my sister popping out one of his babies every five minutes, can we?’

‘We’ve never had a divorce in the family before,’ Ruby said, pursing her lips primly. ‘It’s not very nice, is it?’

‘What?’
Greta exploded, astonished. ‘What’re you on about? You’re a fine one to talk! You divorced Carl Christie, didn’t you?’

A haunted look came over Ruby’s face and she turned red.

‘What’s the matter, Mom?’ Greta pressed her.

Ruby turned back towards the stove. ‘I didn’t divorce Carl Christie . . .’

‘But . . .’ Greta stuttered. ‘How could you . . . ? You mean you married Herbert when . . . ? But that makes you a whatsitsname – a bigamist! Oh no – of course! You
didn’t
marry him!’

Ruby’s cheeks were puce.

Greta stared at her incredulously for a second, then started to laugh. ‘Oh my God, Mom! . . .’ She put a hand to her head, wondering if she was going crazy. ‘But – hang on, you
did
marry Carl! That weekend . . . You were having a quiet, romantic wedding, by that lake in Virginia or whatever it was – that’s what you told Marleen and me. And we cried because you wouldn’t let us have new frocks and be your bridesmaids. You said you wanted no fuss . . . We stayed with Ed and Louisa and they took us to the farm show and we had corn on the cob . . .’

‘Yes, well . . .’ Ruby looked down, taking refuge in fiddling with Francesca’s little socks. ‘That’s what we told them. They were so churchy, Bible this and Bible that – I thought it would keep them happy. I loved Carl, or I thought I did, and I thought he loved me. Only I didn’t want to get married again. Not in America. It was all too far away from home.’

‘Mom!’ Greta said, laughing now. After all, what could you do but laugh? Two pretend weddings! Sometimes she felt as if she was more grown up than her own mother. ‘You’re terrible, honestly you are. So stop giving me lectures about me and Trev – you can’t exactly talk, can you!’ Another thought struck her. ‘Hang on though – isn’t Marleen still married? To that Brett bloke?’

Ruby looked stricken. ‘Oh my God – I’d never thought of that! Well she’ll have to get that sorted out before she even thinks about marrying Trevor, however many kids they’ve got!’

It was a relief to be at work and try to forget the heartbreak of the Bristol Road house, of watching Anatoli become more drawn and yellow-skinned by the day.

She was taken on again at Cadbury’s with the other seasonal workers for the Easter rush and was put to work filling Easter eggs. The endless parade of Dairy Milk chocolate half-eggs, with their smooth, shiny insides, slid towards her along the conveyor belt. She had to drop the five chocolates inside, the orange cream first, then the others on top and a piece of tissue paper, before it moved on for the other half of the chocolate shell to be added, before it was wrapped in tinfoil, then encased in the colourful ‘Waddies’ for the shops.

She soon got to know the other women and enjoyed being there in all the company and chatter. And it meant that at least sometimes she saw Pat, who was always over the moon to see her.

‘Hello, Gret!’ she’d call across the girls’ dining room, whoever else she was with. ‘Come and sit here!’

Pat’s life had settled into a quiet, quite dull routine, but she seemed content with things.

‘I don’t want any excitements,’ she said. ‘I’ve had quite enough of that. Come to work, go home and have a bit of peace – that’s me.’

Greta worried for her sometimes. There was something closed down about Pat, as if she had shut the door on life after the tragedy of what happened with Ian. But then, she thought, her own life wasn’t so very different. Neither of them had the cosy marriage and couple of kids that seemed to be held up as the perfect life. And Pat’s predictable life felt comforting at the moment, when other things were changing in a way that was sad and frightening.

Chapter Forty-Five

Anatoli went into Selly Oak Hospital on a bleak March day. Martin Ferris came and drove him, bringing Edie back home afterwards, where Greta was waiting.

The wind gusted through the front door as Edie and Martin came in. Daffodils lay flattened on their stalks on the front garden and the door closed with a slam. Martin smiled hello to Greta.

‘Can I make you a drink?’ Edie asked, after thanking Martin distractedly several times. ‘Tea, coffee?’ Greta could hear what a state she was in, as if her wits were scattered.

‘No thanks, Edie – I’d love one really, but I’d better get back to the surgery.’

Martin, who was normally very reserved, put his hands on Edie’s shoulders and looked down at her with gentle eyes. ‘He’s in good hands.’

Edie nodded, trying not to cry. ‘I know.’ She looked down, the tears falling anyway.

‘Janet will be round later,’ he promised, on his way out.

Edie sat down at the kitchen table with a ragged sigh saying, ‘Dear oh dear . . .’ She seemed smaller, her hair less bright, as if she had faded since this morning.

Greta wanted to comfort her, to say everything would be all right, so she didn’t say anything, just put the kettle on and arranged cups and saucers, milk and sugar. The familiar ritual felt comforting.

She could feel Edie watching her. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Gret,’ she said.

The doctors said the operation had gone well. Edie went in to visit the first few times, while Anatoli was at his weakest after the surgery. The first day she came back looking very pale and worried.

‘It was terrible,’ she told Greta, ‘seeing him lying there, with that thing in his arm. He looked so poorly, so
old
all of a sudden. When he opened his eyes . . .’ And here her own filled with tears, though she was smiling at the same time. ‘He managed to give me a little smile and he said, “So, I assume I am looking my age at last?” ’

Despite her worries, Anatoli rallied quickly. Soon she came home from visiting and said that he had been asking for Greta.

‘Me?’ Greta felt a great surge of happiness. ‘He actually asked for me?’

Edie looked fondly at her. ‘What he actually said was, “So where’s that lovely girl of mine?” And I said, “I thought I was your lovely girl,” so he said, “Of course you are – I mean the one who is like my daughter.”’

Greta blushed. ‘Can I go and see him tomorrow then? When you’ve finished, maybe? I don’t want to tire him out.’

‘Course you can, love. He’s asked you to, hasn’t he?’

She went in the next day on her way back from work, with a big bunch of daffodils for him. The hospital felt big and bewildering and Greta didn’t like the idea of Anatoli being in here. He belonged in his house with his comfortable armchair, his clutter of music scores and violins, his colourful pictures, his big cup of tea. When she saw him, halfway along the ward, he looked smaller too, and defenceless.

‘Ahh!’ he cried, his face lighting up. ‘Hello, my dear! I was hoping you were going to come and had not deserted me!’

‘I brought you these daffs—’ Shyly, she held them out. ‘Oh – I’ve got something to put them in.’ She had taken with her a big jam jar from home so that she could arrange them for him and not have to ask anyone. She was glad she had because the ward was busy with visitors and the nurses looked forbidding.

‘How lovely – a bunch of sunshine,’ Anatoli said. Turning to the man in the next bed he said, ‘This is one of my daughters . . .’

The man called a chirpy hello to her. ‘Lovely wench, that,’ he said.

Once again the warmth of Anatoli’s affection spread through Greta. She filled the jam jar from the sink nearby and put it on the bedside cabinet to arrange the flowers. She saw that propped against the water jug he had a little watercolour painting Edie had done for him of snowdrops and crocuses.

Anatoli watched her, smiling. ‘Thank you, my dear. Now do come and sit down and tell me everything – how is our lovely little Francesca? I can’t offer you tea or anything in the way of hospitality, but you may be lucky if they come round – you never know. I expect you have come straight from work haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’m all right, I don’t need a drink,’ she said. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘A little stronger,’ he said, slowly, thinking about it. ‘I am weak, I know that. Even the thought of walking along the ward to the bathroom feels like climbing Mount Everest. But I do feel a bit better each day.’

He told her he had kept himself occupied reading the paper and he read snippets out to her. He was very interested in what was going on in Czechoslovakia, the movement known as the Prague Spring, where the Communist Party had lost overall control.

‘Imagine living in a country where there is no freedom, where everything is ruled by the state,’ he said. ‘Now all that will change. It is a great liberation, an upsurge of the will of the people!’

Greta loved to hear him talking about so many things she felt ignorant about. And as well as the news he gobbled up his usual detective stories. He talked cheerfully about the routines of the ward and one of the nurses who had been especially kind to him. Greta could see that he would charm them and make them want to be kind.

‘But I am longing to be home,’ he told Greta. His deep brown eyes looked deeply at her, and he reached out and took her hand in his, cradling it close to him for a moment.

In two weeks he was allowed home. They were so excited that it was like having royalty coming. Edie and Greta cleaned the entire house and made everything especially comfortable and attractive for him, with fresh flowers and books to look at. Peter, who was talented like his mother, had also done a painting for his Daddy, of himself, by looking in the mirror. He had cleverly captured something of his pale, dark-eyed face and mop of curls, and Edie had stuck the painting carefully on to a piece of card so that it would stand up against a vase.

Edie told Greta it was one of the first things Anatoli noticed that afternoon when he walked slowly into the room, looking thin, fragile, but overjoyed to be home. By the time Greta got home from work Anatoli was in his comfortable chair.

‘Is that our girl I hear?’ he called out as she came through the door. His voice sounded thinner, but it made her so happy to hear it.

‘Hello!’ She put her head round the living-room door and there was everyone, just as they should be, Francesca half toddling, half crawling over to meet her, squeaking with excitement, Edie and Peter there and Anatoli with his cup and saucer, and things felt right again.