by Annie Murray
On that sparkling spring afternoon, while Dennis and his Dad attended to things outside, the women scrubbed the ceiling and walls and the doors of the little cupboards and swept the place out. Mrs Franklin gave the orders, correcting the way Greta and Lorna were doing things. Greta had no choice but to do as she was told, so keen was she to please, but Lorna argued sometimes and there were flare-ups.
‘Oh, Mom – just leave me alone!’ Lorna would say, tossing her head so that her ponytail swung fiercely. ‘I know how to do it. I’m not six years old any more you know!’
Then, from being hard and overbearing, Sonia Franklin could change in a second to being warm and sweet again. That afternoon, as she scrubbed the wall of the caravan, she reminisced about her sisters in Lancashire and their childhood. She obviously enjoyed an audience and, whatever the grim elements of her past were, she did not disclose them. She described how she had come south for an adventure and to look for work, and met Dennis’s father.
‘I’ll never forget the first time I set eyes on Bill,’ she said, pausing with the cloth in her hand. She had a blue scarf tied over her hair and looked quite starry-eyed, a soft smile on her face. ‘I took one look at him – it was on the Green, in Bournville – and I knew he was the one. I must be one of the luckiest women in the world. I know it doesn’t happen for everyone like that.’
And she gave a Greta a sudden, penetrating look with her blue eyes, as if to say, Don’t imagine you can match up to that for Dennis – oh no!
But then she smiled. ‘Oh – many years ago now, that was. When we were young and foolish.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Greta said. And it did. But even though there were these softer intervals, or moments of laughter, she found it hard to warm to Sonia Franklin. She felt that deep down the woman didn’t like her and looked down on her. She talked endlessly about her family, especially Dennis, the high hopes they had for him, about his learning German and all the cricket he played, and Greta felt she was saying: You may think you’ve got your talons in my son, but he’s far better than you. She was the sort of person, if she’d met her, that Ruby would have said, ‘Oh, all her geese are swans.’ But Greta felt woefully inadequate. She was honoured that Dennis wanted to go out with her!
When they had finished washing the walls, Sonia asked Greta to wash the flowery curtains which she had taken down from the windows. Greta enjoyed squatting on the grass in her old pair of black slacks and her little pea-green blouse, a scarf tied over her hair, pounding the curtains in a big bucket of soapy water. As she was pegging them out on a line strung between the end of the caravan and a tree, she saw Dennis watching her, a smile of pleasure and approval on his face. Greta beamed back, genuinely enjoying herself. She was fitting in and it felt nice! At that moment she really began to believe she could be part of Dennis’s family, even if she had to become what they wanted her to be.
After the work was done they all sat out on deck-chairs and drank tea and ate cherry Madeira cake, watching what other caravanners were up to on the field, reminiscing about other caravan holidays they’d had and how marvellous they’d been, and even Lorna became more talkative.
‘It’s nice out here, isn’t it, Greta?’ Dennis’s Dad called across to her. ‘Puts the colour in your cheeks all right! You must come again.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sonia decreed, though there was a hard edge to her voice. ‘She must.’
She did go again, several times. And she began trying to improve herself. She applied for a ticket for the library in Selly Oak, and at Cadbury’s she joined the Girls’ Athletic and Social Club and went to some classes on cake decorating, which she found she was quite good at. She made sure she told Dennis and his mother all about it.
‘That’s a good idea,’ Sonia Franklin said. ‘Our Angela’s a dab hand with decorating cakes. She’s quite a girl. Makes quite a bit of money out of it too.’
Oh, she would, Greta thought.
‘Blimey,’ Pat said when she told her. ‘You’re getting a bit domesticated aren’t you?’
Greta smiled mysteriously. She had not mentioned her plan even to Pat.
As the weeks passed, Greta worked hard at impressing Dennis. At home Marleen was growing bigger and bigger. The baby was due in June, and as the days grew warmer she became heavier and even more evil-tempered.
‘I wish I could just get it over,’ she snarled, sitting hunched on the folding bed in their room one evening. For a moment her face became scared and vulnerable. ‘What am I going to do, Gret?’
‘Well it’s a bit late to ask that now,’ Greta said. You got yourself into it, so what do you expect? she thought. But she tried to find something kind to say.
‘I ’spect it’ll be all right, Marl. And it’ll be company for Mary Lou, won’t it?’
It didn’t stop Marleen going out and about either, bump on her belly or no, and there were constant battles over this with Ruby. Greta watched her swelling up with horror. She had to get away from here before the whole house was taken over with Marleen and babies and all the racket that went with them – not to mention Herbert Smail, who seemed almost to have moved in already.
Dennis still treated her very fondly but seemed in no hurry for anything to go any further, and Greta was getting frustrated. Now and then she brought up the subject of marriage.
‘It must be so nice to be settled and that,’ she might say. ‘You know – married with your own home.’
‘Oh yes,’ Dennis agreed in his rather ponderous way. ‘Nothing like it.’ But he said nothing further.
Another time, she said, ‘I don’t think people should leave it until they’re too old when they get married, do you, Dennis?’
No – not if they’re sure,’ he said. ‘Although courtship’s a serious thing – look at my parents.’
Greta looked deeply into his eyes. They were sitting across a table in a coffee bar that afternoon. ‘I’m sure, Dennis,’ she said hopefully.
Dennis smiled and took her hand across the table. ‘That’s sweet,’ he said, stroking the back of her hand. ‘I’m a lucky man. But we mustn’t rush.’
She almost said something then, but stopped herself. When she lay in bed that night, hemmed in by Marleen’s bed and Mary Lou’s cot, she felt overwhelmed with longing and frustration. What was holding Dennis back? He said he wanted to be with her, so why didn’t he say something? What was the point of waiting if they’d both made up their minds? How long was she going to have to hang on until Dennis popped the question?
Then a thought came to her which made her heart pound with excitement. Did it always have to be the man who proposed? It might seem very forward, but why could she not say something – perhaps help him along?
She lay rehearsing lines in her head. ‘Dennis – I’d like to ask you to marry me . . .’
Chapter Sixteen
A couple of nights later, she was woken by a piercing yowl of pain. She leapt out of bed, heart racing.
‘Marleen?’
‘It’s the babby – it’s coming!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m sure!’ Marleen gasped. ‘Get Mom!’
This was not right – it was only the beginning of June and it wasn’t due to arrive yet. Surely she wasn’t going to have it here!
‘Aren’t you going to have it in the hospital?’
‘I don’t bloody know – just get our Mom!’ Marleen roared at her.
Ruby took one look at Marleen writhing on the bed and said, ‘Gret – go down the phone box and call an ambulance. Quick!’
Greta ran outside, a jumper thrown over her nightie, up to the telephone box at the top of the road. Please, she thought, don’t let it be too late. She wanted Marleen’s baby to be born away from there, somewhere where she didn’t have to see or know much about it.
‘I hope they flaming well hurry,’ Ruby said, throwing a few things into a bag for Marleen. ‘I don’t want a repeat of the night you were born. I’m not up to that, not like Frances was.’
Ruby had
given birth to Greta at Frances Hatton’s house during the blackout, but at least Frances had once worked as a midwife.
The ambulance soon drew up outside and Marleen was taken away, moaning with pain, to Selly Oak Hospital. Ruby went with her. Mary Lou had miraculously slept through the whole thing. Greta dozed, her nerves jangled, and was eventually woken by the sound of the front door closing. Getting up, she found Ruby downstairs, eyes ringed with tiredness but a soft look on her face.
‘It’s over,’ she said. ‘Quite quick really. She’s had a little lad. Says she’s going to call him Elvis. Make us a cup of tea, love, will yer?’
While Ruby sank on to the kitchen chair, Greta put the kettle on and digested the news.
‘She all right?’ she asked.
Ruby nodded proudly. ‘She’s not one who has it too hard – she’s a natural.’ She was twisting her wedding ring round her finger. Greta realized she wasn’t even sure which man had given it to her. ‘We’ll have our work cut out here though.’
They were in Bournville Park when she asked him, the next day. It was a beautiful early summer evening, May blossom in flower and the leaves a fresh, exuberant green. It was a Thursday and they’d finished work, so they were snatching a bit of time together before going home, walking along the little stream which ran the length of the park.
She’d told Dennis that her sister had just had a baby.
‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe,’ Dennis said, squeezing her hand. ‘Well, let’s hope that’s not true. A boy eh – I bet her husband’s pleased?’
‘Oh yes,’ Greta said vaguely. ‘And I’ll go in and see her a bit later tonight.’ The more she got to know Dennis the more she had realized how horrified he would be if he knew the true details of her family. There was time for that later, she thought, when they’d got settled and it wouldn’t matter.
They wandered along, hand in hand, talking about this and that. Greta knew she was going to push things forward today. She couldn’t resist. She was in too much suspense. Marleen would be out of hospital and she needed to know she had a means of escape.
Dennis was talking about some of his mates at work, telling her jokes and what had happened in one of the departments that morning. She hardly heard what he was saying, she was so distracted by trying to think how to steer the conversation her way.
‘Dennis!’ Playfully she faced him and put her arms round his neck.
‘That’s my girl,’ he said, smiling. ‘Ooh you are lovely.’
‘Am I your girl?’ she asked, suddenly serious.
‘Course you are.’ He was still speaking lightly. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well—’ She put her head on one side. It was now or never. ‘It’s just that sometimes I wonder – if I really am your girl, you see.’ She could see she had his attention now, so she just kept talking. ‘I mean, if we’re really serious – if I’m your girl and you’re, well, you’re my man, sort of thing – then why don’t we make it legal? I’m asking . . . I mean, I think . . . Would you marry me, Dennis?’
For a moment he looked stunned, and then Greta saw him recoil. He stepped back so that she had to release him, a look of absolute disgust on his face.
‘That’s . . . Oh God . . .’ He was almost speechless. ‘What on earth d’you think you’re doing? You can’t . . . I mean, you don’t propose to me! We spend time courting . . . Years if necessary. Do it properly! That’s not how things are done at all! I can’t believe you’d behave like this . . .’
‘But Dennis—’ Greta felt sick at the look on his face. ‘I’m sorry, but I . . .’
‘I can’t possibly marry someone who thinks like that . . . I mean, I’ve had some doubts – your family don’t seem to be very close, to offer much. But I thought mine could make up for that. They’re very strong and they have a way of taking in waifs and strays and keeping them on the right track . . .’
‘Waifs and strays?’ Greta’s temper erupted. All the things that had irritated her about Dennis’s family welled up now. ‘Who the hell d’you all think you are, you and your flaming family? You all think the sun shines out of each other’s backsides don’t you? Everything the Franklins do is so marvellous and perfect . . . Well, I’ve got news for you Dennis: not everyone thinks your precious family is as bloody wonderful as you do. Your mother’s a bossy, interfering cow just for a start!’
She was so stung by his rejection that she could have said a lot more, but she stopped herself.
‘I see.’ Dennis’s face went pale with rage. He looked at her like a blind person seeing for the first time. ‘I’ve obviously had a lucky escape here. I thought you were getting well in with my family, after all their kindness to you, but obviously I was wrong. You’re not who I thought you were at all. You’re . . . You’re cheap and superficial. I’d certainly never marry you.’
He turned and began to walk back through the park. ‘See you around, Greta.’
She watched him disappear across the grass, every line of him giving off righteous indignation. She boiled with rage and humiliation.
‘You smug bastard,’ she said aloud. ‘Good riddance – to you and your bloody perfect family!’
A few minutes later, as she began to walk home, she began trembling in shock, and the tears came.
‘Oh God,’ she sobbed, not caring who saw her. ‘What have I done?’
Part Two
Jerusalem, 1963
Chapter Seventeen
David lay naked, half covered by a sheet. Thin blades of sunlight knifed in between the slats of the blinds and already he could feel the heat building up, sense the glare from the strip of concrete outside the block of apartments. Beyond it grew a dusty row of cypresses, separating it from the scrubland round the neighbouring set of raw new blocks of tiny apartments like theirs. Their development was on the far-flung edge of southwest Jerusalem.
Sometimes he woke still expecting the camp after his years in the army, even though he had been home now for weeks, and as he surfaced was convinced he could smell hot canvas and male sweat. Occasionally, even now, he woke thinking he was in England, that he was still young and unmarried, with Edie cooking him breakfast downstairs and the lush Bournville gardens outside. Then he would open his eyes and find himself back here, in the place he now called home.
The boy from the apartment below was bouncing a ball on the concrete outside. Once David had taken notice of the sound it began to irritate him. Very soon it was more than irritation: he experienced one of his moments of weariness, of revulsion at this country and the exhausting, anxious difficulties it presented him with daily. This feeling came to him as tightness in the chest, a queasiness in his stomach, and he had to turn his thoughts to something else to escape it. He rolled on to his side, aware of the sheen of sweat on his body, and lifted himself up on his elbow, looking down at his wife.
At once the sick feeling subsided. Gila was sleeping soundly, curled on her side, facing away from him, her blue-black hair tucked neatly round her head, just one strand lying across her cheek. Very gently, he lifted it between finger and thumb and smoothed it back, stroking her head. She stirred, her body neat and athletic, even after the child. The curve of her buttocks rubbed, arousingly, against his thigh. He loved her waking, fresh, a little bewildered, like a child herself.
‘Doodi,’ she murmured, opening her eyes. Her name for him: English David crossed with Rudi, his real birth name in Germany. Her eyes opened wider, startled to see him looking down at her, and she began to sit up. ‘Shimon – he’s OK?’
She was forever nervous about the boy. There was no real reason, as Shimon was healthy and strong, but since his birth she saw danger everywhere.
‘He’s still sleeping. I checked just a few minutes ago.’
They almost always spoke in Hebrew, though he had taught her a little English.
Gila smiled, more awake now. ‘Well – that’s very nice and kind of him, for a Saturday morning.’
Usually Shimon, who had passed his third birthday back
in March, was up at first light, chattering and jumping into their bed with its noisy springs. He slept on the sofa in the little living room, as there was only one bedroom.
Gila’s dark brows pulled into a frown. ‘He doesn’t have a fever? He was hot last night . . .’
‘He’s fine. Really. Don’t worry so much.’
She cuddled up to him, his arm round her and her head resting on his chest. Their skin stuck clammily to each other’s. Gila raised her head, looking into his eyes.
‘You want a drink?’
‘Not yet. Stay.’ He was full of desire for her and he stroked his hand across the small of her back. He loved the dip at the base of her spine above the muscular slope of her buttocks, and the steep curve from her waist up to her hips. ‘You are like a guitar,’ he joked sometimes. ‘Curving and beautiful.’
She kissed him. For a second she drew back, taking him in solemnly, and then, eyes filling with mischief, she climbed on top of him. David gave a groaning laugh, pretending to surrender. ‘So – you’re not getting up?’
Gila grinned. Her two top middle teeth crossed over slightly, which seemed to add mischief to her smile. She tweaked the tip of his nose. ‘Do I look as if I’m getting up?’
‘God, woman . . .’ already he could feel himself slipping off into that place of desire where there was nothing but the two of them and all their tenderness. Then for a second, cold thought intervened and his eyes opened again.
‘You took your pill?’
‘Yes,’ she said impatiently, reassuring him, and angry with him all at once. Angry too at herself.
Always now there was this between them – their longing for another child mixed with their dread of it. Every other young woman in the young state of Israel seemed to be pregnant. It was a good thing, and smiled upon. And neither of them had a brother or sister themselves, so that the idea of not giving Shimon a brother or sister soon was terrible. But they had so many demands on them already. David had at last begun his medical studies after army service and Gila was burningly frustrated because she could not yet begin her own training. So Gila took the tablets, day after day, trying to keep doing the practical thing. She was a child of the kibbutz, conditioned to being of use, to act for the greater good. As soon as she could she would begin her studies to be a dentist.
