The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  ‘Well look, love. You might well be right: sometimes it does take a little while. I mean I’ve had long enough gaps between mine, and not for want of trying. But I’ve got a bit of a tilted womb, the doctor said. It might be nothing, but maybe you should go and get yourself looked at?’

  Greta saw that she had no choice but to go along with it, so she smiled gratefully and said, ‘All right. I’ll go – soon as Christmas is over.’

  Later that evening, once the meal was over, they went to call on Ruby and the rest of the family for tea. Ruby had the house all decorated with tinsel and streamers. Mary Lou and Elvis both squeaked with excitement when they saw Trevor and he was immediately in his element, throwing Elvis up in the air and trapping Mary Lou between his legs and tickling her while she giggled in delight.

  ‘Don’t overdo it,’ Ruby warned. ‘Or she’ll be sick.’

  But Mary Lou was on at him all evening. ‘More tickles Uncle Trevor, gimme more!’

  ‘That’s what those children need,’ Herbert remarked. He had settled in the big chair by the fire with his slippers on and a good supply of ale, and he didn’t move all evening. ‘They need a father figure.’

  Who asked you anyway? Greta thought, furiously. She saw Marleen rolling her eyes.

  ‘Pass us another one of those pies, Rube,’ Herbert commanded. Ruby got up and handed him the plate of mince pies.

  Why does she do that? Greta wondered. Why not tell that fat slob to get up and get them himself?

  ‘Maybe you’re the father figure round here now then,’ she said nastily.

  Herbert laughed, undoing his huge cardigan. ‘Oh I think I’m a bit long in the tooth to be able to help with that.’

  ‘Or with anything, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Greta!’ Ruby said in a warning voice.

  Within a few minutes of being in the house, with the stifling front room, the sight of Herbert Smail, of her Mom being used by him, of Marleen, whippet-thin and sulky, and Trevor obsessed with the kids, Greta was desperate to get out again. It was like walking back into the same old trap. There must be more to life than this, surely? But she was so confused. What did she want? One minute she longed for a cosy family like Edie, the next she wanted to be Cadbury Girl of the Year, learning French, off travelling the world!

  She watched Trevor guiltily as he helped Elvis roll in a backward somersault off his lap. Marleen was watching too, smiling at Elvis’s excitement. Both their faces were lit up and Greta hadn’t seen Trevor look so happy in a long time. He looked sweet and boyish as he always did when he smiled. What she should do was stop being so selfish and give him reason to smile more often. She should give in and let him have the babies he longed for so much. After all, she had married him, for better or worse. She surrendered, that afternoon. Why try to be different? Everyone was on at her. She’d stop taking the pills and just give in, let it happen. She’d do what everyone else wanted and maybe it would all come right.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next morning she went downstairs as usual early, to make a cup of tea. This was when she usually took her pill, while Trevor was still safely upstairs out of the way. Shivering in the cold, she lit the gas under the kettle then fished around in the cupboard for the little soap box, with the picture of a sprig of lavender on the lid, where she kept her pills. She was intending to throw it in the bin, have done with it.

  ‘Then I’ll wait and see what happens,’ she said to herself.

  She perched on a chair by the table, the little card with the pills in front of her. ENOVID, it said along the side. She stared at it, only realizing how long she’d sat there in a daze when the kettle boiled. She knew she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not today. Maybe tomorrow – or next week . . . Getting up quickly, before she could change her mind, she fetched a cup of water and swallowed today’s pill down, feeling relief surge through her.

  He’s the one who should have been a woman, she thought. If he wants a babby that badly, he could just get on with it!

  The first day she was back at work after Christmas and in the swing of things, she wondered how she could have even thought of doing anything else.

  ‘Ian bought me a coat for Christmas,’ was the first thing Pat said when she saw her. ‘It’s beautiful – it’s black and ever so elegant.’ She was full of it, pink-cheeked, her eyes sparkling.

  ‘That’s nice. He must have a bob or two to spend,’ Greta said morosely. She was sick of hearing about Ian Plumbridge – he was all Pat ever went on about these days.

  ‘He has,’ Pat said, almost purring. ‘And he’s ever so good to me.’

  Pat talked about Ian all through the coffee break, and it was only as they were heading back to the conveyer belt with its regiments of Dairy Milk bars that she said,

  ‘Did you have a nice Christmas, Gret? I bet it’s lovely now you’re married and everything. All the families together and that.’

  ‘It was all right,’ Greta said, remembering that, what now seemed like an eternity ago, she had thought getting married and away from home would solve all her problems. She knew Pat was desperate to get away from home, even though in her loyalty to her Mom and Dad she could never admit it.

  ‘Ian’s taking me out to a New Year’s party,’ Pat said before they parted to go to their workplaces. ‘I don’t know where I’m going to tell Mom and Dad I’m going. Could we pretend you’re having a party at yours?’

  ‘Oh, I expect so,’ Greta said wearily. She wondered why she felt rubbed up the wrong way by Pat’s starry-eyed love affair and realized that she expected it to end in tears one way or another. That was what happened with men and love.

  She spent the next few weeks being Pat’s pretend chaperone and avoiding Trevor’s Mom so that she couldn’t keep going on at her about whether she’d seen the doctor. She felt very distant from Pat, and as the weeks went by Pat seemed to withdraw a bit as well. Greta wondered if things with Ian were going downhill. By February Pat was looking pale and drawn. She didn’t like to ask.

  One day she turned to look at Pat along the line where they were working. She was white-faced and seemed to be struggling with tears.

  ‘I don’t want to be nosy,’ Greta said to her during their break, ‘but you look ever so miserable. Are things not going too well with lover boy?’

  She kept her tone light and joking, but Pat glowered at her from under her cap.

  ‘Of course everything’s all right – why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘You just look a bit down, that’s all.’

  Pat forced her face into a smile. ‘I’m not – I’m perfectly all right. I’ve just got a bit of a cold.’

  ‘Everything all right at home – Josie?’

  ‘Josie’s much as ever.’

  And she wouldn’t say any more, but Greta was uneasy. She felt quite sure there was something up with Pat when all her rosy, happy appearance seemed to have drained away so fast.

  A few days later, Greta found out why.

  It was Valentine’s Day and she and Trevor had intended to go out. Out of guilt she was trying her best to make the best of things and be kind to Trevor.

  ‘It’s horrible out there,’ Trev said, coming in from work out of a night of pelting rain and having to towel his hair dry. ‘Let’s just have our dinner in front of the telly, shall we? You know, just you and me, have a cuddle?’

  ‘OK,’ Greta said, relieved. She didn’t especially want to go and sit in some beery pub staring at Trevor over his pint, though she would have done to try and please him. ‘I’ve done us egg and chips.’

  ‘Lovely!’ Trevor said happily. ‘I’m starving. Bring us the ketchup, love.’

  They settled down together on the old sofa and watched Blue Murder at St Trinian’s. Trevor thought Joyce Grenfell was very funny. Greta wondered what real boarding schools were like. Full of posh girls in funny clothes learning all sorts of things like Latin and Greek and reciting Shakespeare all the time. She wondered what it would be like to be one of them. She could
n’t imagine it.

  The room was warm and cosy and they had hot cups of cocoa on the little rickety table in front of them. It felt nice not to have to go out in the wet. Trevor put his arm round Greta and she felt a rush of affection for him and snuggled up to him.

  ‘That’s nice, love,’ Trevor looked down at her, delighted, pulling her even closer. It wasn’t often these days that she was all soft and cuddly with him. She so often seemed to be rushing off somewhere. He kissed her and leaned round to stroke her breast, his eyes glazing with desire.

  ‘Shall we skip the end and go to bed?’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh, let’s just watch the end,’ she said sleepily.

  ‘Sit on my lap, then . . .’

  She snuggled up on Trevor’s lap. This was all right. It was nice to be wanted, to have someone to come home to . . . In a moment of softness she nuzzled against his cheek. Rain blew against the windows.

  ‘Ah, Gret,’ Trevor said dreamily, squeezing her tighter. He slipped his hand inside her blouse, then her bra. ‘Ooh, come on – let’s go on up.’

  The credits were just beginning to roll as the jaunty theme music played and Trevor kissed her hungrily.

  ‘I don’t think we’re going to make it upstairs, are we?’ Greta teased him, but her words were cut off by an urgent hammering on the front door.

  ‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’ Trevor groaned as Greta jumped up.

  ‘No idea . . .’ Her heart was pounding with shock. ‘Sounds like the fuzz, banging like that . . . You haven’t been up to anything have you, Trev?’

  ‘Course not!’ he said as the thunderous banging came again.

  She opened up, and outside in the soaking darkness saw a stranger with dark hair and a lean, handsome face. She had no idea who he was.

  ‘Are you Greta?’ He was obviously in a state, eyes roving nervously from side to side.

  ‘Yeah . . . Who’re you?’

  He jerked his head towards the road. ‘I’ve got Pat Floyd in the car. She told me to come here. She’s been taken bad.’

  Greta was glad to feel Trevor standing in the hall behind her.

  ‘What d’you mean? Are you Ian?’

  ‘Yes – give me a hand will you? She’s really bad. Said she couldn’t go home and I was to come here . . . I didn’t know what else to do.’ She could tell he couldn’t get rid of Pat fast enough.

  Without even thinking of a coat, Greta followed him to the car. Through the wet windows she could just make out someone slumped inside, on the passenger seat. Ian opened the door.

  ‘Pat?’

  Even in the gloom she could see the terrible pallor of Pat’s face. She was lying across the seat, barely even conscious. She managed to open her eyes.

  ‘Gret?’ Her voice was slurred. ‘Help me, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Trevor!’ Greta shouted, only to find he was already beside her. ‘We’ll have to take her in – put her to bed . . . Both of you, get her out,’ she instructed the two men. ‘Sit her in the front room and I’ll get the bed ready.’ She caught Ian’s arm as he went to obey. ‘How long’s she been like this?’

  He wouldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It just came on this afternoon,’ he said.

  He and Trevor gently took Pat from the car, and half carried, half dragged her into the house. She gave terrible moans as they moved her, especially as they jerked her up the step into the hall.

  It was only once they were in the front room, in the light, that they could see the full horror of the situation. Greta, following them, gave a sickened gasp.

  ‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’ she cried.

  Pat’s clothes and all the backs of her legs were drenched in blood, so much that it was seeping down into her shoes. Her head lolled and she passed into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Greta grabbed a towel and flung it on the chair as they struggled to sit Pat down. She was a dead weight and her head rolled back, eyes closed. There was a smear of blood down her cheek.

  ‘Trev, go and call an ambulance!’ Greta fumbled frantically in her bag for change.

  ‘No – you mustn’t!’ Ian tried to stop him. ‘No one’s got to know about this . . .’

  ‘What’re you on about!’ She was screaming at him in panic. A creeping tide of blood was seeping through the towel Pat was sitting on. ‘For God’s sake, look at her – she’ll bleed to death – go on, Trevor!’

  Ian tried to stop him but Trevor flung him off, cursing, and ran for the phone box. Greta seized Ian Plumbridge’s arm, sinking her fingernails into him.

  ‘What’ve you done to her you bastard? She was perfectly all right and now look at her!’

  ‘It was . . .’ The man looked scared and almost tearful. ‘We went to someone – a doctor – paid him. They said he was a proper doctor, it’d all be all right. I mean she was all right earlier on, just a bit pale, and then this started, this evening. And it just got worse and worse. She kept saying not to tell her Mom and Dad and then it was just blood everywhere . . .’

  ‘Doctor for what? What’re you on about?’ Greta raged at him.

  ‘The baby – she was having a baby . . . She said her Dad’d kill her . . .’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Greta was stunned. ‘Oh, Pat – you poor, poor, stupid girl. . .’ She went to her friend, taking her hand and gripping it tightly. Pat moaned, barely conscious. ‘It’s all right love – we’ll get help. Oh, you poor babby – we’ll look after you . . . Pat love, can you hear me?’

  There came a tiny moan from Pat’s throat, then her eyes flickered open, full of fear and anguish.

  ‘What – I can’t hear you?’ Greta leaned closer.

  ‘For God’s sake . . . don’t . . . tell . . . my Dad . . .’

  Greta visited Pat the next afternoon in Selly Oak Hospital. She found her at the far end of the long Nightingale ward, looking as if she had been put in the corner in disgrace. And that was how it felt, the way the doctors and nurses treated her, as a dirty, fallen woman. She had had a huge blood transfusion, and lay under the covers, eyes closed, her face a ghastly white, and too weak to move. Greta only just managed to stop herself weeping at the sight of her.

  ‘Pat . . .’

  Her eyes opened with the same look of terror Greta had seen in them before.

  ‘It’s OK – it’s me, love.’ Greta found herself saying things a mother might say. ‘Look, I’ve brought you some flowers . . .’ She had some bright bunches of daffs and freesias. ‘And some chocolate for when you feel a bit better – home from home, eh?’ Pat was especially partial to Crunchie and Fudge, so she’d gone and got some misshapen ones from the factory shop for her.

  She had been speaking in what she hoped was a chirpy, cheering tone, but when she turned to Pat she saw there were tears streaming down her cheeks. And Pat was shielding her face with her hands as if she couldn’t stand anyone looking at her.

  ‘Oh, Pat!’ Greta sat down and reached for her friend’s hand again, unable to stop her own tears as well now. ‘Your poor thing.’ She leaned closer, seeing that Pat was trying to speak.

  ‘I killed my baby,’ Pat sobbed weakly, ‘and all these people think I’m terrible . . .’

  ‘I don’t s’pose they do,’ Greta tried to say, though she could see really that Pat was right.

  ‘You should see the way they look at me – as if I’m dirty and wicked And one nurse called me a murdering bitch . . .’ Through her sobs, she said, ‘I expect you think that too, Gret?’

  ‘No!’ Greta squeezed her hand. How could she think such a thing when she was taking pills day after day to stop babies from being born! ‘Course I don’t. You had to . . .’

  ‘It was Ian’s babby and I love him, and . . .’ Crying even more, she choked out the words. ‘They said they’d be informing my next of kin and I said no, they mustn’t! But they said they have to and they’ll have told Mom and Dad. He’ll kill me – I know what he’ll say . . .’

  ‘Has your Mom been in to see you?’ Greta asked.


  Pat shook her head, miserably. ‘Maybe she won’t want to see me – or Dad won’t let her . . .’

  Greta’s heart ached for her, seeing her friend in such a low state, physically and mentally.

  ‘Are you going to be all right?’ She squeezed Pat’s hand. ‘You gave us the most terrible fright.’

  ‘They say I should be . . .’ Tears rolled down her cheeks again. ‘But they don’t know if I’ll be able to have a babby again . . .’

  ‘Oh, Pat, I expect you will . . .’

  ‘And they keep on at me wanting me to tell them the name of the doctor who did the . . . Who took it away . . .’

  ‘Well you’ll tell them, won’t you? He wants stringing up, whoever he is!’

  Pat shook her head, and to Greta’s disbelief, whispered urgently, ‘No! He was kind and he was trying to help us. He didn’t charge that much – not like some. And he did his best. He said things should be easier for women when this happens . . . I don’t want to get him into trouble.’

  Before Greta could argue, she caught sight of someone coming in through the double doors at the far end of the ward and a second later she saw Pat register it as well – her Mom, Mrs Floyd, was walking between the other beds towards them. She looked even more drab in these surroundings, her brown coat pulled protectively round her, the collar still up and her face, never adorned with makeup, was dreadfully pale and pitted with worry and grief. Greta wondered whether to get up and leave, but there wasn’t time. Mrs Floyd had seen her and hesitated for a second, but then came towards them.

  ‘Hello, Greta,’ she said flatly, stopping a few feet from the bed.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Floyd . . .’

  But her eyes were fixed on Pat’s face and Greta saw in Pat’s eyes the defenceless, frightened longing for her mother not to reject her. Mrs Floyd came closer, almost on tip-toe, gazing wide-eyed at her daughter as if she was a monster.

  ‘Pat . . . We’ve only just heard . . . Dear Lord, what have you done? What have you done?’