The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  ‘How is Peter?’ Greta asked.

  Peter was a handsome little boy with a magnificent head of black curls and obviously like his father, Anatoli, in appearance. Greta thought what a handsome pair of boys Edie had brought up. She remembered that David had been a looker as well. In fact David had been rather awesome in every way, very clever and, once they had grown out of childhood, she had always felt he was way above her.

  ‘Oh, Peter’s full of it,’ Edie said happily. ‘I can hardly believe he’s three already – it won’t be long before he’s at school. And he goes off to the shop and helps Anatoli while I’m at work. I was worried to death when he first started taking him down there, in case he swallowed any of the pills or anything by mistake. But Anatoli says he’s very sensible. He’s starting to teach Peter the violin as well . . . He’s such a grown-up little chap already – he knows all his letters and he’s learning to read.’

  Greta listened enviously to Edie’s pride in her son. If only she’d had a Mom and Dad who had spent time with her and taught her things! She felt handicapped by ignorance and awkwardness, a sense of wanting more but not knowing what to do about it. She went to her classes and read any book she could get her hands on, but she never really felt she knew what she was doing.

  After Edie had asked after Pat’s family, Greta plucked up the courage to say, ‘Are you still going to the art school?’ Ruskin Hall was another provision by the Cadbury foundation.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Edie enthused. ‘I’ve had one of my paintings chosen to go in the exhibition again this year. And I’ve been doing some sculpture, which is all new to me. Oh, it’s marvellous there! I don’t think Anatoli would let me stop even if I wanted to – and I certainly don’t!’

  She looked at Greta intently. ‘Why – are you interested in coming to the Ruskin as well?’

  Greta blushed. ‘I’m no good at drawing,’ she said. I’m no good at anything was how she felt.

  ‘You were always the clever one,’ Edie said. ‘I remember when you and David were little he used to read to you sometimes. Marleen always got bored and wandered off, but you used to sit there, your eyes almost out on stalks listening to him.’

  ‘Did I?’ Greta blushed. She could remember, dimly, sitting at David’s side, his thick jumpers and wayward curls. ‘I ’spect he read very well.’

  ‘Oh yes – but so did you, later. You were a bright little spark. Janet always says you could have gone far.’

  Though she didn’t show it, Greta was glowing inside. She felt like getting up and doing cartwheels round the dining room. Someone believed she could do and be more! But she stumbled on the words could have gone far . . . Was it too late now? After her rebuff by Dennis she had fallen into marriage as if it was a refuge from everything else and an answer to all her problems.

  It was then she made up her mind that she was going to take up the opportunities that working at Cadbury’s offered her.

  She joined the Monday French classes. Ever since she’d seen the picture of Hilda Hurlbutt, the Cadbury Girl of the Year, standing smartly dressed outside the church of the Sacré Coeur in Paris, where she had been taken for her prize, Greta had seen France and French as something romantic and desirable. Of course she had never learned French at school – not at the Secondary Modern. In the eleven-plus she’d barely bothered to answer any of the questions – what was the point? That was how she had felt at the time. And then they’d gone to America anyway, where everything was different, and trying to study in any house where Carl Christie lived was impossible. So everything had drifted, any feeling that she might be good at anything or capable of more, even though her grandparents had told her that her father Wally had been a clever boy at school. That was how it had been for so long, even if they had thought she was the studious one. Anyone was studious compared with Marleen!

  When she started the French classes she was afraid she would not be able to keep up. Dennis had been so proud of himself for learning German. She could never do that, she had thought at the time! She even saw Dennis from time to time, coming out of his German class. The two of them acted as if they didn’t know each other, just looking away. The first time it happened Greta had a pang of sad regret, but it passed. Who needed that stuffy prat? she thought. He’d only liked her because he thought she was something other than she really was.

  And she wasn’t going to let him put her off her classes. Nervous as she was, she found the teacher patient and good at explaining, and Greta’s hungry mind absorbed the new words quite easily and was always left longing for more.

  ‘You’re a natural at this,’ Miss Davis, the French teacher, told her when she had been in the class for a few weeks. ‘Well done. We’ll expect great things of you.’

  Great things! Greta felt she was almost going to burst with excitement. She was learning and achieving something and someone expected something for her. From then on she felt she would do almost anything for Miss Davis, and she worked very hard at learning all the new vocabulary and verbs. She felt like a sponge, soaking it all in.

  That was when she joined the Seven O’Clock Club and persuaded Pat to join as well.

  ‘It’ll do you good to get out for an evening,’ she said. ‘You can’t stay in all the time with your Mom. Surely she wants you to enjoy yourself a bit?’

  ‘Oh she tells me to go out and enjoy myself,’ Pat said. ‘Only I feel bad going out when she’s been in with Josie all day. And Dad says it’s my duty.’

  ‘Well what about him stopping in?’

  ‘He has a lot of church meetings,’ Pat said loyally. ‘It is very important you know.’

  ‘Well I’d’ve thought you should get out sometimes,’ Greta said, thinking what a grim, selfish man Mr Floyd seemed. Pat never said a word against him though, and Greta was amazed how much she was still under the thumb of her parents. They could hardly expect her to stay at home for ever, surely?

  But apparently it was all right for Pat to go out the night of the club, so the two of them joined and began to enjoy themselves a lot, with the talks and outings and socials which the club organized. They had gone carol singing at Christmas and put on a play, and over the months Greta could feel herself expanding almost daily into someone different, who could learn and master new things, who wanted more, expected more from life . . . And who was growing further and further away from her sweet, homely husband and his family, who, though kind and easy to be with, expected nothing much from life either.

  They went to Trevor’s Mom and Dad’s every other Sunday for their dinner. When she first went, Greta had felt relieved to be in the familiar little house, after Dennis’s family, where she always felt she had to try too hard and still couldn’t match up to the glorious Franklins. With Nancy and Alf, and Trevor’s sisters April and Dorrie, she was used to them and knew what to expect. She knew everyone could sit around for minutes if not hours at a time without saying anything, that she wasn’t expected to perform and impress anyone. Nancy was partial to the boxing and Alf slept in his chair for half of Sunday afternoon then went down to his mate Jonno’s house, where the pigeon coop was squeezed into the back garden.

  ‘’Ere, Gret – give us a hand,’ Nancy would say when they got there. Even if it was already dinner time sometimes Nancy had not got round to putting the potatoes on and they never knew what time dinner would be. At first Greta enjoyed helping with April, but April became sulkier the older she got and Greta grew fed up with it all as well. You never knew when dinner would be done and in the end most of the afternoon got used up by cooking and eating, and then Nancy would sit back by the television with her fags and her pools coupons and say, ‘Well the cook doesn’t wash up,’ so Greta and Trevor ended up doing it even though they’d helped cook most of the meal as well.

  And every week no one had anything much to say and everything was the same: telly on, the gas fire pumping out in the front room so that the place was always blazing hot and their cheeks were burning red and everyone smelled sweaty, and she soon found herse
lf desperate for reasons not to go. But she couldn’t hurt Trevor’s feelings by saying so. In her way, she knew, she was already hurting him enough.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Where’re you off to now?’

  Trevor stretched out on his chair in front of the telly. The theme tune of Z Cars filled the room and he had to shout to be heard over it.

  Greta already had her coat on.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Out where?’ A sudden surge of energy hoisted Trevor from the chair. He clicked off the television and the room went quiet. ‘Where d’yer think you’re going this time?’

  ‘I told you . . .’ Greta fished in her pockets for her gloves. It was only October, but a cold snap had arrived. ‘I said earlier – I’m just meeting Pat – for a coffee, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh – a coffee!’ Trevor mocked. ‘Tea not good enough for you now then? What the hell’re you meeting her for? You work with her all bloody day – what more can you have to say to each other?’

  Greta kept calm, but she wanted to scream at Trevor. What d’you want me to do? Stay in with you for ever more, when you haven’t got a word to say about anything?

  ‘She just asked me to come. I think she’d got something on her mind.’

  ‘Oh – summat on her mind eh . . .’ Trevor made a mocking, sinuous movement with his body which was somehow more insulting than his words. ‘Well it must be nice to know a woman with summat on her mind . . .’

  ‘Don’t be so horrible, Trev,’ Greta snapped. ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘Ooh – since when have you been so prim and proper? Why can’t you stay in for once?’

  ‘You’ll just watch telly. You don’t want me here anyway, do you? You never say a word when I am here.’

  He looked upset now. ‘No, but we don’t have to talk – we could cuddle up, watch Z Cars. Go on, Gret – just for once.’ He came towards her, putting his hands on her shoulders, trying to seduce her. ‘It’s a long time since we had a proper kiss and cuddle. Go on, stay in.’

  Looking up at him she thought what nice eyes he had. She knew that really, that his eyes were big, grey and somehow innocent; it was just that these days she didn’t look at him very much.

  ‘Look, I’ve promised,’ she said. ‘I can’t let her down . . .’

  His hands fell from her shoulders and he backed away. ‘You can let me down all right though, can’t you? OK – suit yourself.’ He switched the telly on again and threw himself down in the chair.

  Sergeant Bert Lynch was saying something urgent on the screen. Greta thought about apologizing, promising they’d stay in together tomorrow. But he was lost in the programme.

  She went to the front door and slipped outside.

  They decided to take the bus into town, found a coffee bar near the end of Bull Street and sat with their espressos in the steamy warmth with other young people, mostly couples, around them on the high stools by the counter and at the tables. In the background The Seekers were singing ‘I’ll Never Find Another You’. This was more like it, Greta thought. A bit of life and freedom!

  Pat hummed along, then started giggling.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Greta asked, though it set her off as well. It was a way of letting off steam after her argument with Trevor. For a moment the two of them sat and laughed. Pat’s eyes were dancing with life and Greta had never seen her look so much as if she was bursting with news.

  ‘Go on – what’s up? Spit it out!’

  Pat beamed. ‘I think I’m in love!’

  ‘What? You’re never!’ Pat, who never had boyfriends or anything like that. Not that she wasn’t pretty in a sweet way, but she barely ever got out to meet anyone. ‘Who on earth with?’

  ‘His name’s Ian, and he’s ever so good-looking, and he’s . . .’ She hesitated, blushing even more deeply. ‘Well, he’s a few years older than me.’ She looked anxiously at Greta as if waiting for her approval.

  Greta was laughing with astonishment. ‘How did this come about then, all of a sudden? I thought they never let you out!’

  ‘It was that wedding we went to on Saturday, over at Kings Heath . . .’ She was girlish with excitement.

  ‘Oh – someone from the church then?’

  ‘Well no – not exactly.’ Pat looked bashful. ‘It was after the service: we were all standing round outside while they had their pictures taken and all the confetti and that, and I was at the edge of the crowd and suddenly I realized there was this gorgeous bloke standing next to me. I sort of looked round at him and he smiled and I smiled back and then he said, “Are you one of the family?” I said “No,” and he kept looking at me and he told me he was one of the drivers, taking them to the do afterwards. Well, we went off to the hall they’d hired and of course he was there and one way or another we spent most of the afternoon together. I kept out of Mom and Dad’s way – she was busy with Josie, Dad was hobnobbing and there were too many people there for them to pay me too much notice. And by the end, he asked me out!’

  Pat was blooming, Greta could see, as if all her natural prettiness had been brought into flower by this attention.

  ‘So – you going with him?’

  Pat’s face clouded. ‘Thing is, Mom and Dad don’t know. I daren’t tell them. They’re touchy enough as it is . . .’

  ‘But they must want you to have a life of your own?’

  ‘They wouldn’t like Ian – he’s not a Christian and he’s older than me.’

  ‘How old?’

  Pat looked down at the red Formica-covered table. ‘He’s thirty-one.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Greta said. ‘Well, they’d have a point.’

  Pat looked sharply up at her. ‘I thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  ‘I am. Don’t get me wrong. But ten years is quite an age gap.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like a gap when I’m with him,’ Pat said dreamily. ‘He’s lovely to me. I’ve never felt like this before.’

  ‘Well—’ Greta sat back, holding up her coffee cup, taken aback by the pang of envy that shot through her. ‘Lucky you.’

  The music in the bar changed to the Beatles singing ‘Help!’

  ‘I think it’s the Real Thing,’ Pat was saying breathlessly. ‘God, Gret – I just can’t stop thinking about him. D’you know what I mean?’

  Greta looked into Pat’s eager face. Did she know? Yes, she had been besotted with Dennis all right, or thought she was. Never with Trevor.

  ‘Yeah – I think I do,’ she said.

  And she ached inside as she said it.

  Ian Plumbridge, as he was called, was all Pat could talk about at work now. One minute she’d be working at manic speed, pulling the chocolates off the belt, the next, standing there as if she’d forgotten what she was supposed to be doing and getting left behind.

  Often the radio was tuned to Music While You Work in the mornings and everyone sang along. One morning soon after the forewoman, Janice, wandered along the long rows of women working in their white overalls and caps, most of them singing away, and then she went over and clicked the radio off. There was a great collective groan.

  ‘Hey – what’s that for?’

  ‘What’s happened to the music?’

  ‘Bit of a break, I thought,’ she said, looking hard at Pat. ‘Some of us’ve got their heads up in the clouds!’

  ‘Aw – come on, Jan,’ someone else moaned. ‘We want our music back again!’

  ‘We were listening to Shirley Bassey!’

  Pat looked mortified and turned back to work with renewed vigour.

  ‘What the hell’s got into you?’ Greta demanded at the break. ‘You’re a proper Little Dolly Daydream.’

  ‘Ooh, I feel in a right tizz,’ Pat said. ‘I can’t sleep and I’m all sort of floaty. Thing is, Gret—’ She stared at Greta, obviously daring herself to speak. ‘It’s very difficult for Ian and me to meet, what with Mom and Dad and all that. Ian lives out at Barnt Green as well so it’s a bit of a way. I was wondering . . .’

&
nbsp; ‘Ye-e-s?’ Greta could already guess where this was leading.

  ‘Well I thought, maybe if I said I was coming to meet you, and Ian and I could meet instead?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Greta said drily.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Gret! It’s not that I don’t want to meet you but I want to see Ian so much and I can’t say anything to them. They’d go mad at me – they’d never let me out again!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Pat – you’re twenty-one years of age!’

  ‘I know – but you don’t know what Dad’s like . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah – course I don’t mind,’ Greta said. ‘Tell them what you like. I just hope this fella of yours is worth all this.’

  Pat’s face lit up. ‘Oh, he is, Gret. Really he is!’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A few days later a raw wind was driving across Bournville Green as Greta left work. The sky was a heavy grey, the grass edged with the remains of the last soggy autumn leaves. She walked head down against the stinging wind, and as she passed the old Day Continuation School she heard the bells of the carillon in the tower across the Green.

  When she reached the road she was in another world, thinking about Pat and this Ian bloke she never seemed to hear the end of at the moment, when she suddenly realized a car was crawling alongside her by the kerb.

  ‘Greta!’ Edie was winding down the window of Anatoli’s black Pontiac. ‘You all right, love – like a lift? You could come for tea if you’ve got the time!’

  Greta hesitated, seeing the car was almost full, with Anatoli and Peter and also Janet and her girls. And Trevor would be expecting her home. But there was something in the way Edie called out to her as if she was an equal. She felt a sudden longing. She wouldn’t be late – they were only going for a cup of tea. And she liked the idea of being seen climbing into their big, swish American car!

  ‘Well yes, thanks – that’d be nice,’ she said.