by Annie Murray
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 d
escribed 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 . . .’
Edie was laughing now.
Anatoli flashed a grin at her, then his expression sobered. ‘So when I received another letter, saying something, sharing something true, and very eloquently too, then . . . It made me happy – truly.’
‘I’m glad then.’ Her cheeks were burning after all he had said.
‘There is not time in life for only dealing with the surface of each other.’ Anatoli turned his cup round and round in the saucer. He was very serious now. ‘Especially at my age. You know – that is what Hermann Mayer remembers. It is why I remember him. To me it seems I did so very little for him that I feel ashamed that he remembers me so acutely. But we were together for perhaps fifteen minutes, and it was fifteen truly human minutes. I can never forget. After this, etiquette and formality are a tissue of nothingness.’
Edie looked back at him, moved. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to . . . to this.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ His eyes were twinkling again. ‘But we shared so much that day, you remember? It would be a pity to waste such a friendship.’
‘I just didn’t know if – if you talked like that with everyone.’
‘No. Oh no. Most people don’t allow it. So – tell me more about your David.’
She poured it all out. Another letter had arrived since. He wanted to stay, to become an Israeli citizen. He knew this would mean that he had to be an army conscript. He was in love with a girl called Gila Weissman and they were both planning to apply to the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. He sounded so very passionate and, yes, happy too.
‘I suppose the worst of it is that it’s made me feel that everything I’ve given him is what he doesn’t want now. He doesn’t want to be English, to live here near me, he wants to be Jewish, and Israeli and go into the army. I mean, he was never that sort of boy! He wasn’t tough – he never even liked games at school very much. And he wants to marry some girl I’ve never even met and probably never will . . .’ She drew out a hanky to wipe her eyes.
‘But why should you never meet her?’ Anatoli leaned towards her, surprised.
‘Well—’ Edie said angrily. ‘It’s the other side of the world. I can’t exactly just drop in and see them, can I?’
‘And why not?’ Gently he reached across and enclosed her left hand in his right. His touch felt warm and comforting. ‘Look, he’s alive, he’s well and happy. He writes you letters because he loves you. He sounds like the sort of boy who loves easily and it must have been you who taught him that. It will be all right, Edith. And you will see him. Of course you will.’
Forty-Nine
‘I’m all right,’ Frances assured her for at least the third time. ‘Really, dear – I shall have a lovely quiet day tucked here.’
‘I feel terrible leaving you,’ Edie said. How long was it since Frances had taken to resting so much? And how long had she been so wrapped up in herself and Anatoli that it had taken her until now to notice?
Frances rallied herself and sat up straight. ‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Edie. It’s only for the day! I’ve everything I need, and you’ll be back tonight. I’ll be the one feeling terrible if you don’t go!’
After Anatoli’s first visit to Birmingham they had parted promising to meet again the following month. Edie went to London in October, and they both said let’s not leave it so long next time. Soon there was barely a weekend when one of them was not making a journey to see the other.
Still uneasy about Frances, Edie went to catch her train. It was cold, mid-November, but she wrapped up warm in her new winter coat and tied a scarf round her hair. Who cared if it was cold! They had planned to go to a lunchtime concert in St Martin-in-the-Fields, then visit a small gallery Anatoli knew not far away. The day stretched pleasurably ahead.
With each visit they made to one another, Edie found herself more and more impatient to be in his company. A fortnight became too long to wait, then a week. Every time she was with him she felt special: she loved the way he listened to her and shared his thoughts with her, the way he looked at her, attentively, as she talked, and the fact that they enjoyed doing so many things together. She felt a great tenderness for him and, increasingly, desire. She knew she was falling more and more in love, and the feeling was so new and heady she could scarcely think of anything else.
I’m more flighty than when I was nineteen! she thought as the train chugged – so slowly! – towards London. This is ridiculous – he’s so much older than me and it’s all so strange. But the thought of a time when she had not known him now seemed unthinkable.
When she arrived at Euston there was no sign of him, though he had promised to be there. Deflated, she walked off the platform. How dismal the place seemed without him beaming at her, very often over a bouquet of flowers, and pacing impatiently up and down! Surely she had not mistaken the day?
Her heart lurched. There he was, running, waving, an eccentric-looking figure, a fur hat perched on his head today. A joyful smile broke across her face.
‘Have you been here long? I’m sorry – I misjudged how long it would take.’ He kissed her cheek.
‘It’s all right – we’ve only been in a few minutes. But I thought you weren’t coming!’
‘Not coming! How could I not be coming, you foolish girl? Umm?’
She laughed and linked her arm through his. She was struck once more by the comfort of their friendship, as if they had known each other for years. And at the same time, when she looked round at him as they stood waiting for the Tube, his rather severe profile, the hat, she felt a sense of mystery and strangeness. How well did she know him really? She wanted to know how it would be to kiss him – really kiss him – not just the affectionate pecks they gave each other on the cheek.
He caught her examining him and gave her a quizzical look.
‘You’re wondering about me – umm?’
She laughed at having her thoughts read so accurately.
‘Sort of.’
‘You’re asking yourself if I am really Jack the Ripper?’
‘No, of course not!’ Her reply was half drowned by the train clattering in to the platform.
They sat in the echoing space of St Martin’s as the pianist rolled the magnificent notes of Beethoven sonatas round the walls, listening attentively, though it was cold and Edie could feel her feet growing more and more icy. After the music had gone on for some time, Anatoli reached for her hand, holding it between both his own, and looked searchingly into her eyes. Moved, Edie looked solemnly back.
They did not speak as they walked out of the church, glad to move about and get warm, but kept hold of each other’s hands. After lunch, they walked to the little gallery off the Strand. The artist was a young Italian called Alessandro Peti and Edie enjoyed the bright, sunshine colours of the work. Some of the paintings were abstract, but one of the last in the exhibition, to which Edie felt particularly drawn, was a picture almost completely of sea, in rich mix of azure and mauve. Providing perpective, the artist had painted the thinnest, curving spit of land, at the end of which stood a tiny lighthouse.
‘I’d like to be there,’ she said.
Anatoli turned towards her, bringing his lips close to her ear. ‘What I should like is to be alone with you.’
They left the gallery. Edie knew that a step had been taken, that he had let her see how much he felt for her, but what should they do now? It was so cold and there was nowhere obvious to go.
