by Annie Murray
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Well you can’t just string poor old Trev along, Greta! You’re such a flirt – it’s not right.’
‘I’m not! I’m just . . .’
‘Yes you are! If it was just for a laugh it’d be different, but he’s ever so keen on you, you know that.’
‘Well I know, but . . .’
‘It’s not very kind, is it?’ Pat had a way of holding her hands, primly, one clasped over the other, which irritated Greta, and she did it then.
‘What the hell do you know about it?’ Greta’s temper flared as she knew she was in the wrong. She got up, scraping her chair back. ‘You’re not exactly an expert are you?’
They couldn’t discuss Pat’s love life because she didn’t have one. Even if anyone offered she felt she couldn’t leave her Mom to look after Josie on her own. Greta was sorry for her, but sometimes Pat’s goody-goody ways got on her nerves.
She went angrily back to work, slamming the bars of chocolate so hard off the belt that she dropped several on the floor and was told off. She was seething. Who was Pat to tell her what to do? Pat didn’t have a clue what it was like living in Charlotte Road! She needed Trevor as an excuse to get out, when the house was full of Marleen, as well as her Mom’s carry-on with Herbert Smail, who seemed to be there most of the flaming time now. He kept staying over, and the next thing, Greta saw, would be wedding bells and him moving in. All her life she’d been at the mercy of Mom and her blasted men!
But deep down she was ashamed because she knew she was playing with Trevor. She liked the sense of power she had over him because he wanted her. It was very gratifying when blokes wanted her – and plenty of them did. But she knew Pat was right, and that made her anger burn even more fiercely as it was a hard truth to swallow. She’d have to tell Trevor the truth – that she was really not his girl, but Dennis Franklin’s.
By Sunday afternoon she was desperate to get out and go to Dennis’s. Herbert was asleep by the fire, mouth hanging open and apparently oblivious to Mary Lou’s grizzling and Marleen’s snappish outbursts to her.
If the weather doesn’t change soon we’re all going to go mad, Greta thought, slipping and sliding round the back of the hospital towards where Dennis’s family lived, in one of the big houses on the hill. They were all so cooped up she felt as if she was going to explode half the time.
She was shaky with nerves. She had to make a good impression on Dennis’s family, make them like her! Dennis was like a door opening, her chance for a way out, for a better life. She wasn’t clear exactly what it was she wanted, only that she ached for things to be better. Of course, she had to try harder with Dennis than she did with Trev – it didn’t all come quite naturally. But Trev – he was just like her . . . All she’d get with him was more of the same.
But Trevor’s face when she’d told him on Friday that she wasn’t going to go with him wouldn’t leave her. She’d braced herself and gone down to the Biddles’ house. A delighted grin had spread across his face when he saw her standing at the front door. A thin beam of late afternoon light shone on them along the street. She had to brace herself.
‘Trev – I’ve just come to tell you I can’t go out tonight,’ she said, once he’d shut the door behind him. Trev’s smile was already fading and she killed it dead with, ‘Or any night. Thing is Trev – I’ve got to tell you. I’m going out with Dennis Franklin from the Fitting Shop. So I can’t go out with you as well. . .’
Trevor suddenly looked about six years old again, with his slicked-back hair and crestfallen expression. For a moment she thought he was going to cry.
‘Oh,’ he said, rubbing at his hair so it stood up in spikes. Just for a moment Greta wanted to put her arms round him.
Then he looked at her solemnly, not like a little boy now and said, ‘Thing is Gret – I’d’ve married yer. I would. I’d’ve been good and kind to yer – but I s’pose I’m not good enough, am I?’
Greta felt terrible. She realized that up until then she’d never really taken Trevor seriously. He’d been a bit of a joke, the snotty-nosed kid who was no good at football.
‘No – it’s not like that. . .’ She trailed off, knowing it was like that, that was just the trouble. ‘I’m sorry, Trev,’ she said gently. ‘I really am.’
He’d heaved a big sigh which pulled his shoulders up to his ears, and just said, ‘Oh well. I thought it was too good to be true.’
Thinking about it now as she went to Dennis’s, she felt very ashamed that she’d led him on.
The Franklins’ house was high and gabled, with well ordered flower-beds at the front, the rose bushes laden with snow. Dark, shiny windows stared down at her and she felt she was being watched. In the front door was a window edged with glass flowers and fruits, and the front steps had been carefully scraped and swept clear of snow. Altogether it felt very posh and intimidating. She pulled her shoulders back. Dennis had obviously been waiting for her.
‘Hello!’ he said, beaming as ever. He was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a thick dark green jumper. ‘Just on time – and that’s no mean feat in this weather! Come on in and meet the gang!’
In the hall, on the plush crimson carpet, he pecked her on the cheek.
‘Is that your visitor, Dennis?’ she heard a voice call from the front room. ‘Bring her through!’
‘Coming, Mom – I’m just taking her coat!’
‘She’s here then?’ A man’s voice came from the back of the house somewhere.
A further woman’s voice joined in from upstairs.
‘Who’s that? Is that that friend of yours Den?’
Blimey, Greta thought, overwhelmed. Was it always like this?
A woman appeared then out of the front room, very small in stature, with her blonde hair swept off her face. It was immaculately pinned back, just as the pleats in her skirt hung perfectly straight and true. She was delicate-featured and fair, with freckly, fragile-looking skin, and she didn’t look at all like Dennis. But in seconds, Greta saw that beneath the tissue-frail appearance was a personality of steel. Greta found herself examined by a sharp, blue-eyed gaze. Something about Mrs Franklin made her shrink inside.
‘Mom – this is Greta,’ Dennis announced proudly.
Greta smiled shyly. ‘Hello, Mrs Franklin.’
To her surprise Dennis’s Mom put her hand out and Greta responded. As they shook hands, Mrs Franklin smiled, but Greta could feel a shrewd appraisal going on.
‘It’s nice to meet, you Greta.’ She had a soft, well-spoken voice, and Greta realized she was not from Birmingham, but somewhere further north. ‘Dennis has told us a lot about you.’
‘Oh,’ she said stupidly. ‘Has he?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Franklin assured her. ‘He talks to us, our Dennis does – about everything he’s doing. You’re a pretty lass, aren’t you? What lovely hair.’
‘Hullo there,’ a voice said before Greta could reply, and she found herself shaking hands again, with Dennis’s Dad, a bulky man who did look very like Dennis, with the same wide mouth and cheerful eyes, and a brisk, businessman’s manner. Greta realized then that she recognized him from Cadbury’s.
And then from upstairs came a young woman who Greta knew was older than Dennis, but she was very small and fair like her mother, except her blonde hair was cut in a short bob which made her look very neat and crisp. She had her mother’s sharp stare.
Dennis said, ‘Greta, this is my sister Lorna.’
Lorna gave her a long appraising look, said hello and disappeared upstairs again.
Greta was starting to wonder whether they were ever going to get out of the hall when Mr Franklin said, ‘Come on now – move through,’ an order more than an invitation.
‘Yes, do come through to the back,’ Mrs Franklin said. ‘We’ve got tea ready.’
‘D’you notice anything about this house?’ Mr Franklin asked as they took their seats.
Greta fumbled for an answer. It’s big and posher than any house I’ve ev
er been in before and you’ve got thick carpets and you’ve obviously got lots of money was what sprang to mind.
‘It’s very nice and warm,’ she chose to say.
‘Yes! Yes indeed!’ Mr Franklin slapped his knees. She’d lit on the right answer by fluke. ‘And d’you know why that is?’
The huge, hissing gas fire under the chimney breast seemed too obvious an answer. Greta shook her head.
Mr Franklin leaned forward, triumphant. ‘Central heating. Throughout. If you look around you’ll see radiators in every room. You can’t beat it.’ He sat back as if able to relax having imparted a vital piece of information.
‘Oh,’ Greta said. ‘That’s nice.’
‘It’s more than nice, young woman. It’s the future.’
Greta was taking in the lavishly decorated room with its red carpet and wallpaper with clusters of red flowers. The room was stifling hot and exceptionally tidy. The furniture all looked new and there was a table to one side with a great spread of sandwiches and cakes. On the mantel was a brass clock which ticked very loudly, the gas fire hissed powerfully, and in front of it was spread a white, very fluffy rug. Soon after she had sat down, Greta was startled when the rug began to move and she found a yellow-eyed face looking at her and realized there was a huge, fluffy cat lying on the rug!
‘That’s Fifi,’ Dennis said, laughing at her surprise.
A few moments later the white cat separated itself from the rug and came towards her, sniffing her. Then it leapt up on to her lap.
‘Aah!’ Mrs Franklin said, enthusiastically. ‘She’s taken a liking to you, Greta. Well aren’t you lucky?’
‘Oh, yes, isn’t she?’ Mr Franklin said, and Dennis laughed. They were all staring at her.
Greta blushed, looking down at the cat, which turned itself around on her lap a few times, stuck its claws in her leg and finally settled with the apparent intention of going back to sleep.
‘Well, you are privileged!’ Mrs Franklin remarked. ‘She hardly ever favours anyone like that!’
Greta smiled and stroked the furry body. It felt nice but she wasn’t really used to cats. She felt very much on her best behaviour and very scared of saying the wrong thing. As she’d wrapped up well to come out she was also beginning to feel very hot, and she wished desperately that she could fade into the corner and they’d all stop paying her any attention.
‘Don’t mind her,’ Dennis said. ‘She’ll just sleep.’
‘Now, Greta, would you eat some pikelets?’ Mrs Franklin asked.
Seeing her hesitate, Dennis said, ‘They’re a bit like crumpets.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Greta said. ‘Yes please.’
Mrs Franklin handed out little flower-edged plates She seemed to be full of wiry, restless energy and kept getting up and down and offering more food – cups of tea with little silver tongs to pick up the sugar lumps, buttered pikelets, bread and butter, little iced cakes and fruit cake . . . Each time she offered a plateful to Greta, she said, ‘You will have one of these, won’t you?’ and Greta only felt she could say no once she was so full she couldn’t face any more.
‘So tell us all about yourself, Greta,’ Mrs Franklin said when they were still on their first pikelet. She leaned forward in her chair, with keen attention.
Greta swallowed. ‘Well, I work at Cadbury’s,’ she said, barely above a whisper.
‘You’ll have to speak up, wench,’ Mr Franklin said, a hand behind one ear. ‘My hearing’s not what it used to be.’
‘Your mother works there too, doesn’t she?’ Mrs Franklin continued her interrogation.
‘Yes,’ Greta agreed. She was starting to feel a slight itching in the corners of her eyes and put her plate down to try and rub them without smudging her makeup.
‘I’m in my twenty-fifth year with the company,’ Mr Franklin said proudly. ‘I joined in ’37, when I’d done my apprenticeship in machine tools, and I was there all through the war when it was made over to Bournville Utilities for the war effort. Course, that’s when I met Rita . . .’
‘I came down during the war of course – from Burnley . . .’
Mr Franklin took up again. Greta looked from one to the other as if they were a double act. ‘I said to Dennis as he was growing up, Dennis, you want to get an apprenticeship at Cadbury’s – it’ll set you up for life. Michael should’ve done the same of course – he’s our older boy, but he wanted to go into the motor trade. Still, he’s done well for himself . . .’
‘Oh, he has that. . .’ Mrs Franklin chimed in.
‘And I’ve had my finger in a few other pies as well. You have to learn how to invest wisely, that’s what I tell our Dennis . . .’
Greta soon realized that she was not going to have to tell them anything more about herself because the Franklins were quite capable of talking for the whole of teatime about their family: Michael and his wife and two children, and Dennis’s sisters, Angela, the eldest of the family, and her three, Maggie and the new baby, about Lorna, the frosty young woman upstairs who was training to be a nurse. Dennis sat smiling at this catalogue of successes, and Greta listened politely, eating and feeling inadequate and all the while feeling the itchiness in her eyes grow worse and worse. She was finding it difficult to concentrate. More than anything she wanted to rub furiously at her eyes.
She dragged her attention back to Mr Franklin, who was now telling her about the caravan they kept parked out beyond Redditch.
‘Nothing like it, getting into the country of a weekend – out in the fresh air, good long walks and no one else to please. We all go down when we can, Lorna, all of us – in the fairer weather of course. Marvellous.’ Mr Franklin sipped his tea.
‘Yes, that must be nice,’ Greta said, desperately blinking to try and clear her agonized eyes. She looked at Dennis, hoping he would notice she was in trouble, but he was watching his father, eyes shining with pride. For a moment he glanced at her and smiled, as if to say, see, I told you my family is special.
‘You’ll have to come out with us one weekend,’ Mrs Franklin said. Once more, this was an order more than an invitation. ‘We know how to show people a good time. You’d love it.’
‘That’d be nice,’ Greta said politely, half repelled, half attracted by their absolute belief in themselves. ‘I expect I would.’
Then, unable to stand the terrible itching any more, she put her plate down and rubbed at her eyes one by one, hoping desperately that she wasn’t rubbing mascara and eye-liner all over the place. Mr Franklin was talking about the difficulties of towing caravans.
‘What you don’t want at any price is them fish-tailing,’ he was saying.
Greta, with tears beginning to spill down her cheeks, shot a desperate look at Dennis, who at last paid her some attention.
‘What’s the matter, Greta?’ He jumped up. Suddenly everyone was watching her. ‘Has something upset you?’
‘Gracious!’ Mrs Franklin cried. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Nothing – I’m not upset – it’s just my eyes.’ She was screwing them up, trying to ease the dreadful irritation. ‘They’ve gone all itchy – I don’t know why.’
‘That’ll be the cat,’ Mrs Franklin said. ‘Oh good heavens, I never thought! You should’ve said you were sensitive that way! None of us are, you see.’ She made it sound like a weakness. ‘Fifi, get off, you naughty girl! Now you come with me, love, and we’ll bathe your eyes.’
She led Greta upstairs to a very smart, clean bathroom with blue lino on the floor and a woven white rug over it.
‘Here – cotton wool. Let’s get plenty of water on them to ease them. Oh dear – you should’ve said, love.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Greta said, in immense relief at the feel of the water on her burning eyes. ‘I don’t have much to do with cats, you see.’
Mrs Franklin fussed round her and was kind and motherly and Greta warmed to her a little more, though she still found her intimidating. Dennis and his father fussed over her when she went downstairs. They e
ven got Lorna to come and check if there was anything seriously wrong.
‘She’s a nurse, you see,’ Mrs Franklin said proudly.
Lorna’s piercing blue eyes stared into Greta’s for a moment. ‘No – she’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Have you washed your hands? Yes, well don’t touch your eyes again.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,’ Greta said, mortified.
‘Not at all – now you sit down and I’ll make another cup of tea,’ Mrs Franklin said. ‘You still poring over your books up there, Lorna? She’s still at her books, Bill,’ she informed her husband.
They fussed over her so much that Greta was amazed. She had never known a family who seemed to be so much all over each other. Everything anyone did had to be remarked on by everyone else and chewed over. But they did take care of her and that felt very nice.
When Dennis said he’d walk her home there was a great to do about getting home before it was dark and did she need to borrow any boots? At last they stepped out into the dusky afternoon.
Dennis turned to her, beaming. ‘So – you’ve met my family. Marvellous, aren’t they?’
Greta smiled, gratefully. At that moment they did seem rather marvellous, and things hadn’t gone too badly despite her reaction to the cat. And she’d fixed on Dennis, she knew that now. He made her feel as if she’d been invited into a magic circle. ‘Yes. They’re very nice,’ she said. Of course they were! ‘Sorry about all the fuss.’
Dennis squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry. You were in the best hands. Now – my turn to come to yours for tea next, eh?’
Chapter Fourteen
The freeze went on and on. In February, a thirty-six-hour blizzard hit the West Country, and villages and farms were cut off by gale-force winds and twenty-foot drifts. Sheep and cattle starved in the fields and barns. Later in the month, a massive snowfall hit the northwest of the country.
Birmingham, though more sheltered, was still buried deeply. The streets had to be ploughed or shovelled almost daily. Pipes burst, coal in the factory stores froze so hard that it had to be loosened with steam jets and hacked out by pickaxes. Though everyone got browned off with it all pretty quickly, there were compensations.
