Chocolate Girls (50 page)

When she was calmer, she lay looking up into the darkness, wondering if she would ever get to sleep. She longed for someone to talk to apart from Frances. Someone who she could open up to completely. If only Janet were here, instead of the other side of the world!

A thought struck her. A longing. She got up again and put the light on, searching in her drawer for a pad of notepaper.

Why not? she decided. I have to do things for myself now. That’s how it has to be. She wrote her address at the top of the paper, then began, ‘Dear Mr Gruschov . . .’

Edie stood at New Street Station as a cool breeze blew along the platform. The summer’s definitely over, she thought, buttoning up her mac. She kept nervously smoothing her clothes and touching her hair, which was loose today, falling in soft waves round her face. Every few seconds she looked at the clock. The platform was very quiet, although the train was due in two minutes.

Why on earth did I say he could come? she groaned inwardly. Writing that letter when she was feeling low – what had possessed her! Pouring out her feelings about David to a man fourteen years older than her whom she’d only met once! What must he have thought of her writing him such an emotional letter? And now she’d said yes to him coming to see her dull little life. How on earth were they going to pass the time?

The seconds ticked past. A train pulled in on a neighbouring platform. Edie was so nervous she couldn’t bear standing still and started pacing up and down . . . Two minutes late . . . Four minutes late . . . What if it didn’t arrive? Perhaps there’d been a mistake and she could just go home and continue her quiet Saturday. She was startled by the sense of desolation that washed through her at this thought. Oh, she did want him to come! There were so many reasons why: his dark eyes, full of amiability, his comfortable, somehow comforting mode of dress, his sympathy, the way they had talked for hours, all rushed into her mind. At last she heard the train coming in the distance and her heart began to thump even harder.

She saw him, some distance along the platform, before he noticed her, and took in that he was slightly more smartly dressed than the last time they had met. He was wearing dark trousers and a jacket, and seemed both taller than she remembered, and yet somehow more vulnerable in this big echoing space. As he turned and caught sight of her she saw he was also carrying a bouquet of flowers. For her? When had anyone ever bought flowers for her before?

A delighted expression spread across his face as he came towards her.

‘My dear! How very lovely to see you!’

‘Hello, Mr Gruschov,’ she said, shyly.

‘Oh please – call me Anatoli for goodness sake. We are not strangers, after all, are we?’

Edie blushed. ‘So you’ve arrived safely. How was the journey?’

‘Oh, perfectly good, thank you.’ Oblivious of the other people surging past from the train, rather bashfully he handed her the flowers, pink and white carnations. ‘I thought you might like these. But I see I’ve judged badly. They don’t match your hair!’

‘Oh, but they’re lovely!’ Edie protested, smiling down into the little bouquet. ‘It’s ever so kind of you. They’re beautiful – and . . .’ She looked up at him, suddenly finding a lump in her throat. It was impossible to continue small talk with him for more than even a minute. ‘I’m glad you could come.’

He saw that she needed a moment to collect herself, and he glanced away as if looking for the way out.

‘I’m afraid we shall need to catch another train,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t recommend staying in town at the moment – it’s like a building site.’

‘Ah—’ he said regretfully. ‘Of course – so many parts of London are the same.’

‘I don’t know what we’re going to do all day,’ she confided. ‘I’m afraid it’s not very exciting where we live.’

‘Oh,’ Anatoli laughed. ‘I think the day will be much happier without too much excitement.’

On the short train ride to Bournville he was full of genuine interest, commenting on the bomb damage and rebuilding, the glimpse they caught of the university, of the canal in its long straight cut through Selly Oak.

‘Aha,’ he said as Bournville came into view, the huge works with CADBURY large and clear along the side. ‘So there is your place of work. I should like to see, very much.’

‘Would you?’ Edie found herself quite chuffed by this. ‘Well, I s’pose we could go for a walk round.’

‘Oh yes – it’s a nice day for walking. You must show me everything.’

Frances came to the door to greet them, leaning on her stick, dressed in a russet coloured velvet skirt and blue sweater. Edie, perceiving her as if through Anatoli’s eyes, for the first time, saw how much she was still a woman of natural grace and charm. Her face lit up at the sight of them and to Edie’s relief she saw an instant rapport between the two of them.

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ Anatoli actually kissed Frances’s hand, a gesture which in most men Edie would have found rather suspect, but somehow it was part of Anatoli’s old-world quaintness.

‘You’re most welcome,’ Frances smiled. ‘Come in and make yourselves comfortable. Shall we have lunch straight away? Then you’ll have plenty of time to go out if you want to.’

Edie had laid the table in the back room. As they went to take their places Anatoli admired one of her pictures which they’d had framed and hung opposite the window. He noticed her initials painted in one corner.

‘This is yours?’ He turned, seeming surprised.

‘Yes – it’s the lily pond in the girls’ grounds at the factory. I’ve spent a lot of time there over the years!’ She had been pleased with how it had turned out, felt she had captured the light on the water and the clusters of pink-tinged flowers, and it was also one of Frances’s favourites.

‘It’s a real beauty,’ Anatoli said. ‘You have a gift! You should not speak about your painting as if you just do a little scribbling with a brush!’

Edie blushed with pleasure.

Since they had a visitor Edie and Frances had decided to have a Saturday roast instead of a Sunday one. Edie had prepared all the vegetables to go with their leg of lamb and mint sauce. Anatoli was full of praise for the meal, in particular for Frances’s gravy.

‘You know – my wife used to make gravy almost as good as this,’ he said contentedly. ‘So far as I can see it is something only an Englishwoman can do. I’ve tried to do it myself – I did the cooking when she was too ill to manage for herself. Margot gave me instructions, but I never could get it right. Too thick, too thin, too lumpy, like the Three Bears’ porridge . . .’ He shrugged, despairingly. ‘God did not intend Russian men to make gravy.’

Laughing at Anatoli’s exaggerated woe, Frances asked, ‘How long have you been in this country?’

‘Oh – since the age of six. My father decided to move my mother and myself and my elder brother to England in 1912. Things were very restless in Russia at that time, as you know, and my father felt he would have a better chance elsewhere, in England or America.’

‘So why not America?’ Frances asked.

Anatoli thought about it. ‘You know – I never asked him that! Perhaps because England was nearer, though they did not speak a word of English. We still spoke Russian at home, even though of course I learned English as a schoolboy.’

Frances passed him the potatoes. ‘Do have some more.’

Anatoli beamed. ‘You know, this is the best meal I have had in, well, years!’

Edie watched with delight, seeing how the two of them got on. Frances’s reaction to anyone was an important indicator – she was such a good judge of character, and she had obviously taken to Anatoli straight away. Edie found herself relaxing more and more and just enjoying the day.

‘My husband was very interested in Russia and all that was going on there,’ Frances was saying. ‘I think he had a spark of the revolutionary in him.’

‘Ah—’ Anatoli shook his head. ‘My father was the opposite. A deeply conservative man, even though he could see the suffering and the injustices of the poor in Russia. And now – the price that has been paid for that revolution under Stalin . . . Ideology more important than the people, than reality – and look what happens. No, I am grateful to have been brought up as an Englishman – even if I have not quite mastered the language properly.’

‘Your English is perfect!’ Edie said. She liked the Russian edges of his English – it was completely part of his whole personality.

After a delicious lemon meringue pie and a cup of tea, Frances began to flag, and said she wanted to have her afternoon snooze.

‘I can’t seem to get through the day without sleeping any more,’ she said rather wistfully.

‘Well, Edith said she would show me round a little,’ Anatoli said. ‘Shall we go?’

Strolling down Linden Road in the weak autumn sunshine, he said, ‘She is a very impressive lady, your Frances.’

‘She’s been like a mom to me,’ Edie said. ‘More than a mom in some ways – a lot more than my own ever was.’

‘You speak harshly of your mother. What was she like?’

‘Not very kind.’ She didn’t want to go into it, not today, but she explained how she had come to live with Frances. ‘My father’s still alive – I see him from time to time. But I s’pose I’ve had a funny life really,’ she said as they turned on to Bournville Green. ‘I haven’t had much luck with blood relations. I’ve had to adopt a mother as well as a son!’ They stopped by the circular Rest House. A few brown leaves drifted down through the air.

‘You must have good instincts for what is good for you,’ he said. ‘Or you would not have found these things.’

‘Maybe – I’ve definitely been lucky.’ Or I was, she thought, for a spell, before Davey decided to go off and leave me for ever. They stood looking round for a moment and he commented on how pretty the place was, how clean and orderly.

‘It is truly a garden factory. I have never seen this sort of thing before.’

‘That’s the Continuation School,’ Edie pointed. ‘We all used to go there one day a week. The baths are over the other side. Come on, I’ll show you some more of it.’

She took him round the edge of the works, pointing out the various blocks she had worked in, the dining block and the recreation areas.

‘That little picture I did – it was done just over in there,’ she pointed towards the girls’ grounds.

Memories flooded back as they walked round, and she found herself chatting on, about Ruby and Janet and the war and all that had happened, and Anatoli encouraged her. They walked and walked on into Selly Oak and found a little tea-room. Amid the steamy air Anatoli described how he and Margot had met and married before the war. She was a schoolteacher, and they had been introduced in a church, after a recital of the St Matthew Passion.

‘She loved music,’ he said, with a half smile. ‘She would go to listen anywhere – she heard Dame Myra Hess play during the war. And of course she was a good pianist herself.’

Edie listened to him, struck by the admiration he had had for his wife. Yet as she heard him talk she felt a pang of some emotion, a sense of deflation, sadness almost. No one could ever replace Margot in Anatoli’s eyes! She told herself not to be so silly. He was a friend. Nothing more – and that was what she needed most now, wasn’t it? A good friend.

‘So—’ He leaned forward, his worn black sleeves resting on the table. ‘Shall I ask for more water to top up this teapot?’ Once the waitress had obliged and he had poured more tea for her, Anatoli looked across at her. ‘You are upset about your David.’

Edie felt very embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what you must have thought – me writing all that to you. I’m sorry – I got a bit carried away.’

‘Edith . . .’ He spoke in a low, gentle voice. ‘Why are you ashamed of telling me your thoughts? Umm? I felt honoured to receive them. You feel sad because your son has grown up and you feel he is growing further and further away. You are lonely . . .’

Blushing even more, she admitted, yes, she was lonely.

‘So – what is wrong with that? Is it your fault you are lonely?’

‘I don’t know.’ She looked directly at him. ‘Sometimes I think it probably is.’

‘Look—’ He sat back, teacup in one hand. ‘I was a married man for many years. Margot and I used to go out a great deal together, play music, we had many friends. I still see a few of those friends – but times change. When Margot was ill I couldn’t get out much, so I lost touch with people. Then suddenly, when you are alone again, it is not the same to do things on your own that you used to do together. And some friends have died or moved away . . . Suddenly I am, yes – a lonely man too. It takes time to get over losing someone so close – but one day I looked up and said to myself, “Anatoli – you are really an old hermit crab these days. And you never really liked being like that, did you?”’

Edie smiled, disarmed.

‘You know – that day you came was the best day I can remember for . . . I can’t even think how long. I don’t know what you thought of me and all my chaotic life but I thought to myself, this girl is too good to lose!’

She was amused at being called a girl.

‘Then—’ he frowned, pretending to be offended, and put on a mocking voice, ‘she writes me one of those ever-so-British notes, a note with a stiff upper lip, saying that I will be welcome to visit – perhaps if I were to call one day and leave my card with the butler . . .’