The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  ‘Have you seen the Girls’ Grounds?’ Pat said one sunny morning, arriving at work rosy-cheeked and smiling broadly. ‘It’s just a wonderland – absolutely beautiful!’

  Greta was glad to find any chance to get out of home, and there were socials still laid on at Rowheath, the Cadbury recreation grounds. In the evenings there was skating under floodlights and she and Dennis went sledging. She perched behind him on a sledge, her arms round his waist, and they both laughed and screamed, whizzing along and just managing not to fall off at the bottom. They stood in the freezing evening, amid crowds of people enjoying themselves and clouding the air with their breath.

  ‘Shall we have some chestnuts?’ Dennis said.

  The chestnuts were roasted on coke braziers and they stood savouring their delicious singed taste, watching everyone enjoying themselves and tapping their feet to music from the loudspeakers and smelling the tantalizing whiff of hot dogs and fried onions from another stall. Dennis put his arm round her and Greta snuggled up to him. She felt proud that he was claiming her as his girl. She looked up at him and he smiled, and popped his last chestnut into her mouth.

  ‘Warm enough?’ he asked, protectively.

  Greta nodded. ‘Just about.’

  ‘We don’t want you getting cold. Shall we go soon?’

  She nodded gratefully. It was a long time since she’d been able to feel her feet. Dennis was considerate like that, she thought. He took notice of things. Not like at home, where no one seemed to notice her at all.

  On the bus, which crawled slowly along, Dennis kept his arm round her. They had been out and about together, a drink here, a visit to the pictures there. Dennis had liked the book she gave him, and one day when they were in a coffee bar, warming their hands round the cups, she’d talked about Bonjour Tristesse.

  ‘It was sad,’ she said. ‘She was very close to her Dad and he was about to get married. She didn’t like it – well, in a way she did like it, that was the sad thing, ’cause she liked the woman he was going to marry – but she just mucked it up for them . . .’

  ‘Why?’ Dennis frowned.

  Greta thought about it. ‘She was always pulled this way and that, inside herself, I mean – wanting one thing and doing another – as if she had to do the opposite of what was really going to make her happy.’

  Dennis frowned. ‘Seems pretty daft to me,’ he said.

  Greta watched his face. She knew he hadn’t a clue what she was on about. She drained her cup and put it down.

  ‘Maybe it’s not your sort of book.’ But she knew she’d understood it, even if he didn’t. And it made her want to read more books.

  The thing she couldn’t work out was whether Dennis really fancied her or not. He said he did, but apart from kissing her hello and goodbye, he held off. It wasn’t what Greta was used to. Other lads had always been pushy, forever wanting kisses, hands trying to find their way to places they shouldn’t. Dennis is a gent, she told herself. But in a way she felt rejected and was confused by it. Didn’t he want more? And if he did, why didn’t he show it? Sometimes he felt almost like a brother. She didn’t want to seem loose but she expected him to want her. She knew he was well brought up and thought he was too shy. Maybe he needed her to make the first move.

  One night when they had been out for a drink together, sitting pressed close together in the warm pub, they came out into the icy street and Dennis put his arm round her, as usual.

  ‘Can’t have you slipping over, can we?’

  Greta giggled. ‘You don’t want me turning into a fallen woman, you mean?’

  ‘Steady on – that’s not exactly what I meant,’ Dennis said, though from his tone she could tell he had a twinkle in his eye and it encouraged her.

  As they came up the hill and under the darkness of the railway bridge, she stopped him.

  ‘Oh Dennis – I don’t want to go home yet. . .’

  ‘What’s wrong with home?’ he asked, teasingly. ‘You don’t seem very keen to invite me in.’

  ‘I mean, I want to stay with you.’

  She reached up and put her arms round his neck, drawing him towards her. ‘Give us a kiss.’

  She heard him give a faint chuckle in the darkness and he held her in his arms. ‘There’s an invitation,’ he said. ‘Oh, Gret – you’re lovely, you are.’

  He kissed her on the lips, enthusiastically but also politely. Greta remembered the urgency of Trevor’s kiss. But Dennis was much more of a gent, she told herself. She gave a little moan of pleasure. She wanted Dennis to be fiery, to want her. She wasn’t sure what she’d do about it then. She hadn’t thought that far, but she wanted to make something happen.

  As she and Dennis kissed, she pressed herself against him, and she could feel that he was aroused. It made her feel excited and powerful. He did want her!

  ‘Ooh, Dennis,’ she murmured, hardly thinking what she was saying. ‘Let’s go further . . . Let’s find somewhere to go . . . I want to go all the way with you.’

  The second she spoke she felt Dennis’s arms slacken. He pulled back and there was a long, horrible silence. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness.

  ‘What’s up?’ she whispered eventually.

  He let go of her completely then and spoke to her, gently but firmly. ‘I’m shocked, frankly, Greta. I didn’t have you down as that sort of girl. You know – fast, like that. I mean, we’ve got to get this straight. I don’t hold with that sort of thing. My Mom and Dad, they courted for nearly six years before they got married. They were young, and they never . . . Well, I mean, they waited. They did the decent thing. And that’s what I intend to do. That’s the proper way to do things, in my book.’

  Her cheeks were blazing, if he could have seen, and she felt cheap and dirty and utterly mortified.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dennis,’ she said, tearfully. ‘I just got a bit carried away.’

  ‘Well, I know it happens,’ he said stiffly. ‘But let’s not let it happen to us, all right love? You’re worth more than that.’

  This thought filled her chest with a bursting ache, and the tears spilled silently down her cheeks.

  ‘Come on now,’ Dennis said, as if he was a teacher and she a wayward six-year-old. ‘We’ll forget about it. You’re a lovely girl, so let’s not hear any more of that, all right? Let’s get you home now.’

  Her embarrassment stopped her tears and she wiped her cheeks in the dark. On the doorstep he gave her one of his polite kisses.

  ‘Goodnight, love.’

  ‘Goodnight, Dennis.’ She wondered again why he had anything to do with her.

  And then he said, ‘Remember, you’re lovely. You’re a bright girl. You just need a bit of guidance.’

  She watched him walk away again, tears in her eyes at being called lovely, yet wild with rage, like a child after a telling off.

  Two weeks later she went up to her room at home, desperate to find a place she could be on her own. It was March now and the thaw had come at last. Icicles and snowmen which had hung around for weeks were finally seeping away. Lumps of ice lay stranded on bigger and bigger patches of emerging green. But at home there was no let-up in the stifling atmosphere.

  She sat on the bed, in the small space between the cot and the folding bed. The room was full of a slightly sweaty-smelling clutter of Marleen’s clothes, stockings draped over the chair, and baby things all over the bed. Through the floor jarred the sounds of Marleen snapping at Mary Lou as she had her tea. Marleen had stopped feeling sick now, but it hadn’t eased her temper. It was worse if anything, now she had no sickness to distract her from her fury at the fact she was pregnant again. All she wanted now was to be out gadding and not tied down by babies.

  On her lap Greta had a copy of the Bournville Works Magazine which she had brought secretively upstairs. It contained news and articles about the Cad-bury factory and employees and she usually had a look through it, like everyone else. But today she had a special interest in it which she would have been very hesitant to admit to
anyone.

  Her fingers turned straight to the page. She already knew, of course, what would be there, but she had to see. It felt almost like a way of tormenting herself.

  ‘“Girl of the Year” Final,’ she read. ‘Miss Hilda Hurlbutt, the winner.’

  The competition was sponsored by Wallis Fashion Shops, and as part of the final there had been a fashion show. The prize included a trip to Paris and a set of new clothes and luggage.

  Above the photographs of the contestants at various stages of the competition there was a photograph of Hilda Hurlbutt in a stylish suit, her dark hair swept back, smiling happily.

  Greta stared at her. ‘You cow,’ she murmured. ‘You lucky, lucky cow. I wish I was like you.’ She thought about going on an aeroplane and about all the visits Hilda had been promised: Paris, Versailles, visiting dress designers and perfumeries, being treated like a VIP. ‘I’m going to Paris in May,’ Greta murmured, in an affected voice. ‘To the Louvre, and to visit a couturier, you know . . .’

  ‘What the hell are you going on about?’ Marleen demanded.

  Greta was so jarred by her bursting in like that when she’d been in another world altogether that she jumped, her heart pounding. She slammed the magazine shut at once.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Marleen wanted to know, her eyes narrowing. She rushed at Greta and snatched the magazine off her, holding it above her head as Greta tried to pull it away from her again. ‘Let me see!’

  ‘No! Give it!’ Greta exploded with rage. ‘Give it me and mind your own cowing business!’

  ‘It’s only the stupid factory magazine,’ Marleen said, looking at it in disgust. ‘What’re you making such a fuss about, you prat?’

  ‘Nothing – just give it me!’ If Marleen saw what she had been looking at she would have mocked even more.

  Marleen threw the magazine down on the floor in contempt. ‘Take it, you bloody nutcase. I only come up ’cause he’s here again, the fat old git.’

  In the pause, Greta heard Herbert’s voice and rolled her eyes. For a rare moment, the sisters were allies.

  ‘I’m off out,’ Marleen said languidly. She rummaged among the litter of clothes for her cardi, then leaned close to the mirror on the dressing table, pulling her jaw downwards as she stroked mascara thickly on her lashes.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I dunno. Anywhere.’

  And she picked up her jacket and was gone downstairs. Ruby’s raised voice followed her to the front door, before it slammed behind her.

  Greta picked up the magazine and opened it again to read the rest of the article about Hilda Hurlbutt. She was sick with envy, but what chance did she ever have of winning anything like that? What did she ever do with her life? She’d done so well at the Continuation School, but now she never did anything, even when there were all these opportunities available that Dennis was always going on about, his language class on Monday, cricket and football. Even Pat played hockey every Saturday morning at Rowheath. But she’d let everything pass her by!

  She gave a deep sigh, staring out through the window at the grey sky. Dennis must think she was pretty feeble, as well as a fast worker. The thought of what had happened under the bridge still made her feel queasy with shame, even though Dennis had said they should put it behind them. She must try and do more, be more interesting. She should join some of the Cadbury clubs, get out more – set her sights on something!

  But at that moment everything felt useless. She lay back on the bed. It was no good even going downstairs in this house. She could hear Ruby and Herbert laughing together. Even through the floorboards she recognized the flirtatious tone her mother used with him, with men in general. No wonder she knew no other way to be, with a Mom like that!

  Clamping her hands over her ears, she turned on her side, staring at the wallpaper. How could she get out? Eyes fixed on the faded rosebuds on the wall, she knew, in a sudden flash, that the only way out was to have a man of her own. And that man was Dennis. If it was marriage Dennis wanted, then that was what they must do. They could set up on their own, out of the clutches of her family and of Dennis’s: nice as they were to her, she found them overwhelming, interfering. She and Dennis would be free of them – they’d make a better life all on their own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A couple of days later, Greta arrived home from work into the middle of yet another row. Marleen, dressed in clothes far too skimpy for the weather, apart from a pair of black patent boots, and made up to the nines, was trying to prise a screaming Mary Lou from round her legs.

  ‘You can’t just keep taking off and leaving her!’ With a grunt Ruby squatted beside her granddaughter. ‘Come to Nanna, Mary Lou – Nanna’ll look after you, pet.’

  Mary Lou just screamed all the more.

  ‘I could hear the pair of you from outside,’ Greta remarked, but no one took any notice.

  ‘You’re a disgrace!’ Ruby shouted over the screams. ‘You damn well stay in for a change, yer little minx!’

  ‘You can’t stop me going out!’ Marleen hoiked her coat off the hook and put it on furiously. ‘Anyway, what do you care? You’ve got yer fancy man round here all the time. Makes no difference to you if I’m here or not, does it?’

  ‘Poor little bugger. She’s your daughter!’ Ruby managed to pick Mary Lou up.

  ‘And your granddaughter . . . So you look after her for a bit!’ Marleen fastened the last of her buttons. ‘And don’t you carry on at me as if you’re better than me, with all the blokes you’ve had!’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that!’ Ruby began but Marleen wasn’t listening. And although Ruby shouted and carried on at Marleen, Greta could tell she didn’t feel in control or know what to say because she felt guilty about all that had happened, especially them having to live with Carl Christie and all he’d put them through. It often felt as if Mom wasn’t solid inside, and it wasn’t a very nice feeling.

  ‘Anyroad, I can’t stop in,’ Ruby changed tack, desperately. ‘I’ve got to go out . . .’

  Marleen already had the front door open.

  ‘Well, tough tits – get her to stay in then. She never lifts a finger to help. I’m sick of it all. I’m off, and you can’t stop me!’

  The door slammed, shaking the house. Mary Lou buried her face in Ruby’s shoulder and wailed all the more.

  ‘What the hell am I going to do with her?’ Ruby groaned. ‘Gret – can you mind this one for a bit? Edie’s had her babby – a little boy. I promised I’d go up the hospital to see them . . .’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Greta said sulkily, thinking, more flaming babies!

  ‘Anatoli’s pleased as punch – he said they’ve called him Peter,’ Ruby said, settling Mary Lou at the table with a rusk. ‘I’m happy for her really – thank God it’s not me, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you going to marry that Herbert?’

  Ruby was standing at the cooker, heating milk, and for a second Greta saw a hunted look on her face. Then her expression hardened.

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘How can you even go near him?’ Greta persisted.

  Ruby turned back briskly to the pan of milk and in a hard voice she said, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers at my time of life.’

  And Greta suddenly found she wanted to cry.

  Marrying Dennis felt like her only way out. You had to have a man, otherwise you were a sad, dried-up spinster, and marrying was the only way she could see to leave. Dennis was a classy bloke, his family had money and he wanted her, didn’t he? He was the answer to all her problems – except for one. In everyone else’s eyes, it seemed, the whole point of marriage was children and family. And at the moment that was the last thing she wanted. The very thought filled her with panic.

  ‘You can get these pills now . . .’ She remembered a whispered canteen conversation. ‘It’s the woman who takes them and it stops you having to have a baby . . .’

  The thought that she could be in control of whether or not she would have babies felt
like a miracle. She could get married but it wouldn’t all just be that endless round of babies and nappies and washing! She could do other things! She had no clear idea of what those things were, only that her whole being rebelled against everything she could see around her about being a woman and a mother. Marriage to Dennis would be a way out of home all right – but she would marry and be different. Look at the mess Marleen was in already! Anything was better than that.

  On her dates with Dennis now, she tried to be what she thought was his ideal kind of woman. She dressed prettily but in a demure style and was careful never to be forward with him in any way. She talked about her family as warmly as she could and told him about Dr Ferris and Janet, and Edie and Anatoli, talking about them almost as if they were relatives. Her fears about Dennis insisting on coming to her home soon faded. She always had some ready excuse when he asked: Mom wasn’t well, there was no one in or they already had visitors. It wasn’t hard to put him off. It soon became clear that Dennis was so wrapped up in his own family that he only had a passing interest in hers. She was always enthusiastic about the Franklin family, even though she found them very hard going.

  Spring arrived, the verges in Bournville scattered with cheerful yellow, purple and white crocuses and clumps of daffodils, and Dennis’s Mom and Dad started going out to their caravan again. Dennis invited Greta to come too.

  The site was in the country near Redditch, a long, sloping field edged with trees and with a stream running through it. As the caravan needed a scrub out after the winter, Greta helped Sonia Franklin, Dennis’s Mom, and his sister Lorna to give it a spring clean. Lorna was still not very friendly, but Dennis’s Mom seemed grateful for her help. Sonia Franklin, Greta learned, was always nice as pie as long as you did everything the way she wanted. Underneath the warm exterior she was as hard as nails and completely dominated her family, whether they could see it or not. Dennis had not said much about his mother’s life except once, when he let slip that she had come from a background of gruelling poverty and hardship. Whatever had happened to her, Greta could see it had left a rod of steel where her spine was, and chips of ice in her eyes.