Bells of Bournville Green (40 page)

‘Come on, Franny-Panny,’ Edie said, lifting her over to the sink to wash her hands. ‘I think you’ve done your share. Let Peter finish them off now.’

Francesca, who was just as happy to play in a bowl of bubbly water in the sink, splashed about contentedly.

‘I spoke to Martin about her,’ Edie said. ‘He’s been ever so kind over the years . . . He said he thought Gila ought to go to one of those mental doctors. I said to him, it’s almost as if she’s shell-shocked, and he said yes, that was how it was. She’s had too many shocks all at once for her system to stand it, what with the bombs and losing her children – and on top of that she’s in a strange country where she barely speaks the language . . .’

‘Oh,’ Greta said doubtfully. It wasn’t something she knew anything about, but she could see Gila was in a desperate state. She hardly left her room now, and when she did she was so withdrawn it was as if she had closed down completely, despite David’s attempts to reach her, which it wrung Greta’s heart to watch. ‘Well maybe she should then.’

Edie gave a long sigh. ‘Anatoli says he thinks Martin’s right. But when I spoke to David about it he said Gila’s mother is frightened of doctors – especially that sort. She’s made Gila frightened too and she won’t go near them.’

Greta thought the idea seemed frightening too.

‘I thought they were for people who were really mad,’ she said. ‘You know – frothing at the mouth and that . . .’

Edie turned, her eyes troubled. ‘That’s what I used to think. But Martin says that sometimes now they just let you talk. Or there are treatments they can have . . .’

‘D’you think she’d agree to go?’ Greta said, wrapping a towel round Francesca’s waist.

‘Well that’s the trouble. David doesn’t think she will.’ Edie gave a sigh. ‘Oh I do wish he’d talk to me properly, poor lamb. He’s shutting me out, trying to make out that they’re managing when it’s obvious they’re not. I think we’ll have to get Christmas out of the way and then see how things are.’

Just before Christmas, a card arrived from Anatoli’s daughter Caroline. Greta and Edie had just helped Anatoli downstairs when it arrived and he opened it by the fire in the living room. Greta glimpsed lines of ornate handwriting inside the card. At first Anatoli’s face was tense when he began to read, but she saw his expression soften and relax.

‘Well, it seems she still has some use for her father after all,’ he said.

‘What does she say?’ Edie asked gently.

Anatoli read, ‘I am so sorry that we have got so out of touch and now to hear that you are unwell. I shall do my best to come up and see you as soon as the Christmas period is over. I’m afraid I can’t bring any grandchildren to meet you. It seems Michael and I are not going to be lucky in that department, so I have resigned myself to the fact. My music teaching takes a good deal of my time and energy these days.’

He looked up. ‘She sings and plays the piano. She always had a lovely voice . . .’ Then he continued, ‘We hear from Richard from time to time and all seems to be well. Wishing you a peaceful Christmas with your new family. Love to you, Caroline. Her married name is Brewer . . .’

Edie and Greta exchanged glances. Anatoli had not been invited to Caroline’s wedding.

‘Well, that’s nice,’ Edie said carefully.

‘Yes.’ He closed the card and looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose you wrote to her?’

‘Yes, I did.’ Edie blushed. ‘After all, she wouldn’t have known anything – how you were.’

‘No. And Richard – did you write to him?’

‘Yes, love.’ Edie took his hand. ‘I thought they should know.’

‘Yes – I suppose so. I should have had the courage to do it myself.’

He didn’t seem either angry or pleased, just very thoughtful.

Francesca was a bit too young to know what was going on at Christmas, but she still woke early on Christmas Day and Greta took her downstairs to get some milk. She sat Francesca at the table with her cup and put the kettle on for a cup of tea, standing by the stove to keep warm as she waited for it to boil, watching Francesca’s bulging cheeks as she downed the milk.

After a moment the kitchen door squeaked open, and to her discomfort David came in. The fact that he was already fully dressed and she was in her dressing gown and slippers made her feel awkward. She had also begun to admit to herself how strongly he affected her, his lovely face, the wistful smiles he gave. She still looked up to him as she had when they were little, but something about him also moved her, more and more with each week that passed.

‘Oh, hello!’ He seemed surprised to find anyone up. It was still only six o’clock. ‘Hello little ’un.’ He rumpled Francesca’s hair as he passed and she let out a gurgle of pleasure. ‘I didn’t know anyone else was awake. I couldn’t sleep.’

‘I was making tea,’ Greta said. ‘D’you want some?’

‘Thanks, I’d love one.’

She saw him watching Francesca, his dark eyes tender and slightly amused, and she felt a deep twist of sorrow for him. For a moment she felt like going and putting her arms around him.

‘She likes her food, doesn’t she?’

‘Oh yes – always has. Better that way. It’s not very nice when you can’t get them to eat.’

Still looking at the little girl, David said, ‘Shimon was like that. I remember being amazed by how much a two-year-old could pack away at times!’

It was new, his talking about Shimon so naturally. At first he had not been mentioned. But she realized he liked talking about him.

‘How old was he, exactly?’ she asked gently.

‘He would have been nine – next March.’

‘Of course – about the same as Peter.’

David nodded, a slight smile on his lips.

‘She won’t be two until the summer,’ Greta said.

‘She’s lovely – looks very like you.’

‘Yes, she’s a good girl.’ Greta was unsure what else to say. Usually they talked about day-to-day matters, but today deeper things seemed nearer the surface, things they never normally talked about:
your son, your wife . . .
Fortunately the kettle boiled and she busied herself. David straightened up and looked out of the window over the garden, in silence. Greta wondered what he was thinking.

‘Here—’ She handed him his tea, struck once again by the size and strength of his hands as they curved round the mug.

‘Oh—’ He came to himself as if his thoughts had been miles away, and smiled. ‘Thanks. Shall we sit down?’ He pulled out a chair for her at the table.

Greta had been wondering whether to escape upstairs with her tea, but she also desperately didn’t want to go. And he had asked her to stay! A tingling aliveness came over her as she sat with him, perched on the edge of the chair. David seemed more relaxed and sat back with his tea. He was wearing the big Aran jumper again and the neck came up high round his chin. There was a silence. They sipped their tea, then both went to speak at the same time and stopped, laughing.

‘No – you first.’

‘I was only going to say happy Christmas,’ Greta said, feeling foolish. ‘It’s Christmas Day.’

‘Of course.’ David held up his mug as if it was a pint glass. ‘Happy Christmas to you!’

Francesca saw what he was doing and copied with her little blue cup and they both laughed.

‘Must be very strange for you being back here,’ Greta said.

‘Yes.’ David rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Much more than I expected. It’s like . . . Hard to explain . . . Like stepping back into another life, but feeling . . .’ He stopped, as if he couldn’t find words. He looked at her. ‘And you’ve been here all the time.’

‘Except for when Mom took us to America.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten. You went to see . . .’

‘My grandparents. My father’s Mom and Dad. We were looking for my Dad, sort of, I suppose. I mean we knew he was dead, but it was a way of seeing where he came from. We’d still be there if it hadn’t been for . . .’ Her voice had grown bitter and it was her turn to trail into silence.

‘For what?’

‘Oh . . .’ She was ashamed to admit what had actually happened. Perhaps David knew anyway, but she didn’t want to talk about Carl Christie, or Marleen. ‘I s’pose we didn’t all see eye to eye in the end.’

David looked at her, deeply. ‘And did you feel as if you fitted in there? Belonged, sort of thing?’ he asked, as if he needed to know.
What a lovely voice,
she thought again.

‘I don’t know. I was only young. I was very fond of my grandparents and one day I’ll go and see them again. They were ever so kind.’

‘I see.’ David was looking at her as if with new eyes. ‘This all passed me by I’m afraid. I’d already gone by then.’

‘Yes. Long gone. It seems ages ago now. But since we came back, yes, I’ve been here, at Cadbury’s, like Mom and Edie. Been married, been divorced.’ She shrugged, giving him a wry look. There was no point in hiding that.

‘Not easy,’ was all David said, with no hint of judgement. He drank down his tea in silence, and Greta started to feel uncomfortable. Perhaps he had had enough of talking and wanted her to go?

But he looked up at her and said, ‘I thought I’d go for a walk. It’s nice out and the others are asleep. Fancy coming – you and this one?’ Again he stroked Francesca’s hair.

She leapt inside. He wanted her company – hers! She blushed, feeling flustered.

‘I’m not dressed though . . .’ She realized just how much she wanted to go with him, and because of that, was perversely glad of a reason not to be able to. ‘I’d best stay here. I expect Peter will wake up soon and they’ll want to have their presents.’

‘Of course – how silly. I keep forgetting it’s Christmas.’ David was suddenly remote again, as if he had gone off into his own world. He stood up. ‘Well, I’ll just pop out for a bit – I shan’t go far. Thanks for the tea.’

Greta watched him go down the path, his coat thrown on, tall and yet slightly hunched as if all the cares of the world were laid upon him. She remembered again, with shock, that he was only five years older than her. It seemed a lot more.

She closed the door and stood lost in thought for a moment.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Greta had promised Ruby that she would go over to Charlotte Road after dinner on Christmas Day and stay the afternoon.

‘I want to see some of my granddaughter at Christmas,’ Ruby said rather huffily. ‘And it’s high time you lot could all be in the same room together without world war three breaking out.’

‘All right,’ Greta said. ‘I don’t mind.’ She felt she could face Trevor and Marleen now without much in the way of hard feelings.

What had also changed was that she was quite glad to go out. Anatoli was having a very bad day, sick and weak, and had had to stay in his room without eating, which upset Edie. As the six of them sat round the table without him there, Greta could feel her thinking
, This is what it’s going to be like soon . . .
For they could all see that Anatoli would not last long into the next year.

And Gila sat at the table like a shadow, unable to hide her depression any more. She only ate the bare minimum and went upstairs after dinner, saying she needed to sleep. Greta quietly thanked heaven for the children at the table as Peter and Francesca enjoyed the decorations and the candles, and pulling the crackers which Edie had bought. Peter had had a new bicycle for Christmas and he spent much of the morning riding it in the front drive. He was hell-bent on going to the park with it and David had promised he would take him.

‘Would you like to come, with Fran?’ he asked Greta.

It was kind of him, as she was on her own with Francesca, and there was nothing she would have liked more, but she’d promised.

‘Sorry—’ She was already putting on Francesca’s coat. ‘I’ve got to go to Mom’s.’ She smiled. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

When she got there they were still finishing dinner, on to the Christmas pudding: Trevor, Marleen and their kids were squeezed round the table with Ruby and her new man, Mac. The little house was very hot and full of cooking smells. There were glasses of ale on the table and everyone was pink-cheeked and merry, except for Marleen’s son George, two months younger than Francesca, who was bawling loudly about something.

‘All right, Gret?’ Trevor greeted her, airlifting George away from the rest of the meal.

‘All right, Trevor.’ She could see Francesca was fascinated by the sight of a new crowd of people.

‘Come in, bab – pull up another chair!’ Ruby greeted her. She was full of cheer. ‘We’ve only just got our pudding. D’you want some?’

‘No ta, I’m full up already.’

‘Hello there – a happy Christmas to you,’ Mac smiled, and Greta responded, thinking what a nice, friendly face he had. Maybe, just for once, Mom was with someone who was all right.

‘’Llo sis . . .’ Marleen called, adding importantly, ‘Can’t get up!’ She was at the end of the table, bottle-feeding the latest baby Sandra. Marleen didn’t hold with breast-feeding, which she said was ‘dirty’.

Once they had cleared away the dinner everyone sat around and the younger kids played with the new Christmas toys, fought over them and made up, except for Mary Lou, who was now a sulky looking eight-year-old and sat squeezed into a corner with her nose stuck in a comic most of the afternoon. Francesca was used to having Peter to compete against, so she could hold her own, and Greta was gratified to see Trevor smiling at the sight of her giving George and Elvis as good as she got.

‘She’s a strong ’un,’ Trevor said, laughing, and Greta was surprised how emotional she felt at his warm response. One day soon, Francesca would have to know who her real father was.

‘I reckon this little ’un’s going to be tough,’ Marleen said immediately, looking down at the baby in her lap. Greta saw that she didn’t like Trevor paying Francesca any attention.

But she was amazed by the change in her sister. Marleen had never been exactly pretty, her features always a bit too narrow-eyed and foxy for that. Now, after four children, she looked pinched and thin, her cheekbones very prominent. She had plucked her eyebrows to thin lines and her hair was scraped back in a ponytail. She had aged immensely. But at the same time she was Queen Bee in her household, and Greta could see she loved it. Having children had been the making of her and Trevor. Maybe now she’s happy we can get along better, she thought.