by Annie Murray
‘I don’t know that he will,’ Pat said gloomily. ‘So far as Dad’s concerned, right is right and wrong is wrong and there’s nothing in between. He’s got very high ideals.’
‘Hmmm,’ Greta said, thinking she far preferred people whose ideals weren’t quite so lofty if they made you so cruel. She didn’t like to criticize Pat’s father to her, but she thought he was awful, Bible in hand, nose in the air, and unable to show kindness to his own flesh and blood.
‘I know Edie’d be happy for you to come to us,’ she said. ‘Mom’s coming too – everyone together – well, not Marleen . . .’
‘That’s nice of you – and her,’ Pat said sadly. ‘I’ll just have to see if Mom can talk our Dad round.’
A couple of days later she came to work looking as if she was about to burst with news.
‘Guess what!’ She pulled Greta aside as everyone was putting their overalls on to start work. ‘My Mom came round to see me last night and said she’d spoken to Dad. She said, if he didn’t let me in the house for our Christmas dinner, she was going to take Josie and come and have it with me in my room!’
Greta laughed, astonished. ‘She never!’
‘She did!’ Pat looked tearful, torn between laughter and sadness. ‘I’d’ve loved to be there and seen his face.’
‘So he said yes?’
‘He had to – swallowed his pride.’
About flaming time, the mean old hypocrite, Greta wanted to say. Instead, she said, ‘Well, good luck to you. And I’m glad for you, Pat.’
Christmas was a very happy occasion that year. Greta always loved Bournville in the winter, the factory all lit up like a great palace as they went home in the dark, the shine from its long windows falling across the recreation grounds in front. She loved seeing the big Christmas tree twinkling near the Meeting House, the glow from the windows of cosy houses and glimpses of Christmas decorations inside. A group from the Seven O’Clock Club went carol singing in town and collected money for charity.
In the evenings she went back to the warm welcome of Edie and Anatoli’s. Their house, with its open fire and Christmas tree and streamers made by the children, swirled with visitors over the Christmas break. They were a very sociable couple, and as well as Ruby and Janet and Martin and the twins a whole stream of other friends and relatives visited, among them Edie’s brother Rodney. Greta couldn’t help noticing, though, that although Anatoli had two older children from his first marriage, there was never any sign of them. She knew his son lived abroad somewhere, but why didn’t he ever see his daughter? But she didn’t like to ask.
Edie and Anatoli treated Greta just like a daughter, and were also sensitive and welcoming to Ruby. Pat and her Mom and Josie came round at New Year as well, and though they put on a cheerful front, Pat said Christmas had been a strain.
‘He let me into the house,’ she told Greta quietly. ‘But it was awful. He just carried on as if I wasn’t there. He barely even spoke to me. And poor Mom was trying to keep everyone happy and smooth everything over.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t mind for myself, ’cause at least I can go back to my little room, and go to work. But Mom’s just stuck there day after day and I can’t give her enough help.’
Obviously Mr Floyd never helped. He had to be fresh for his important work in the daytime, for Birmingham’s education department, as well as for the Lord.
The next month was an uneasy time for Pat, because Josie was ill for a time and Mrs Floyd wanted Pat to move back home. Pat was torn.
‘I ought to go back because Mom and Josie need me and I miss them,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to live with my Dad – not the way he is. I know I did a terrible thing, but my God I’ve paid for it too. And if he can’t forgive me, I don’t want to live there.’
Greta didn’t know what to say. She felt desperately sorry for Pat and Mrs Floyd, both under the thumb of this heartless man.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Easter 1967
‘So why don’t you come with us?’ Edie invited. ‘There’ll be room in the car – we can squeeze up.’
She laughed, seeing Greta’s surprised face. Her, go all the way down to London? She’d never been to London in her life! And for a demonstration or march or whatever, with all those strange people Edie and Janet seemed to know, who wore duffel coats and had strange eating habits like being vegetarian. Ruby said they were all cranks.
‘CND needs our support – and there’ll be lots of young people,’ Edie said. ‘It’s vital that we protest – the H-bomb is a terrible evil; surely you think so, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Greta agreed. ‘But . . .’ What did it have to do with her? All these things were decided by politicians weren’t they?
‘But what?’ Edie asked gently. ‘Everyone should be able to have their say, you know. This isn’t Russia. And anyway, it’ll be fun. We’re not going on the march or anything – some people walk all the way from Aldermaston in Berkshire. We’ll just go and join them in London. It’ll be fun – we’ll take all the children and a picnic. I mean—’ She eyed Greta’s stomach apologetically. ‘That’s if you think you can manage? I’d have my doubts if I were you.’
Greta smiled, more worried about what she was letting herself in for in general than about being nearly eight months pregnant. She was carrying the child neatly, a small, round bump at the front, and she felt very healthy. ‘It’s all right, I’ll come! I’m sure I’ll be OK.’
So on Easter morning they set off, all in Anatoli’s capacious car, Martin Ferris in the front beside Anatoli with Naomi on his lap, and Edie, Janet and Greta taking it in turns to hold Peter and Ruth on their laps.
‘I don’t know if they usually have many children on the march,’ Janet said, sounding nervous.
‘Well, in that case,’ Anatoli called breezily over his shoulder, ‘it’s time they did. After all, we are marching on behalf of the future, are we not?’
They played ‘I-Spy’ with the children, and read some story books to while away the time. Edie kept up a supply of mints to suck and biscuits. Every so often she whispered, ‘You all right, love?’ to Greta and Greta said, ‘I’m fine.’ She was happy to sit staring dreamily out of the window while the others talked, taking in the journey south to London, through towns and villages she had never seen before. Life was expanding, she felt, a delicious feeling.
When she thought about the baby and the birth, she felt very scared. Most of the time she pushed thoughts of it away. At least she knew that once it was over, she could stay with Edie and Anatoli.
They found the stream of people moving towards Trafalgar Square, a solemn, soberly dressed crowd holding home-made banners with the CND symbol on them and the words ‘London to Aldermaston’.
For a few moments they stood watching them pass. Greta looked round her, seeing the grand, high buildings of London, dwarfing the drab column of marchers with their macs and serviceable, unglamorous clothing, their sensible shoes and little haversacks. Scattered among the earnest-looking men with spectacles, the women in tweed skirts, walked clergymen in black cassocks. All of them looked determined and serious.
‘Look, here’s a gap,’ Janet said, steering Ruth, whose hand she was holding, into the crowd.
Greta and Edie followed with Peter between them, each holding his hand. Behind them a group was holding a banner which read ‘Leeds Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament’.
‘Feels a bit of a cheat just squeezing in at the last moment!’ Martin Ferris said.
‘Ah well, we’ve got children to deal with,’ Janet replied.
Greta felt self-conscious at first, moving along in the crowd of protesters while passers-by stared at them. She noticed the curious looks they received because of Ruth and Naomi, and realized how much of that Janet had to put up with all the time. It made her feel proud, and defiant on Janet’s behalf.
Every so often someone would call out ‘Ban the H-Bomb!’ or ‘Make Peace not War!’ and there would be a ragged cheer of agreement.
Somewhere ahead someone was strumming a guitar and singing. As she looked round Greta saw that there were quite a few people her own age on the march. Students, she thought. They looked different, educated and intelligent, and she felt intimidated by them.
But it was exhilarating as the crowd gathered in Trafalgar Square for the speeches, more and more filing in until the middle of the square round the fountains was a sea of people, sending the pigeons scattering out of their usual haunts towards the grey sky with an alarmed flapping of wings, and she gazed across at the sunlit faces of the buildings. They had all changed places and now Greta was squeezed in between Anatoli and a young man who she thought was from the Leeds group behind and facing the grandest building she had ever seen.
‘That’s the National Gallery,’ Anatoli told her. Smiling wistfully, he added, ‘Edith and I spent some fine afternoons there when we were courting, when I still lived here.’
There was a ripple of applause through the crowd.
‘Ah now – we are supposed to listen.’ Anatoli winked down at her. ‘Are you feeling all right my dear?’
Greta nodded, but suddenly she did feel rather weary. She wished she could go and perch on the side of the fountain, but she didn’t like to push through the crowd, so she stood still, hoping the speeches would not go on for too long. She looked round the square at the statues, leaning back to catch the soaring height of Nelson’s Column.
‘Where’re you from?’
The young man standing next to her, wild-haired, with black-framed spectacles and dressed in a dark blue duffel coat, repeated the question, smiling down at her.
‘Who me? Oh – from Birmingham,’ she said, flustered.
‘I didn’t see you on the march,’ he said. She heard his northern accent. ‘Have you just joined us today?’
‘Yes – we just drove down. Cheating a bit, I suppose.’
‘Well,’ he laughed, and Greta saw that he had a handsome, kindly face, ‘better than not coming at all. I joined the march because I’ve stayed down here over Easter. But I’ve joined in with the Leeds lot because that’s where I come from.’
Greta wasn’t sure what to say, but she didn’t want to look like a dumb cluck, so she asked, ‘You’re a student then?’
‘Yes – at the LSE. London School of Economics. I’m studying French and Economics, second year. It’s hard work, but I’m glad I came.’ He seemed happy to have someone to talk to. ‘My Dad’s not so sure about it all – they never had much education. It can drive a bit of a wedge between you at times. We don’t really see eye to eye. They treat me a bit like a stranger when I’m there now. Tiptoe round me, like. That’s why I stay down here for the holidays if I can. I’ve got a friend who lets me lodge with his family.’
‘Oh,’ Greta said. ‘That’s nice.’ She liked the way he was talking to her, like an equal, and the way he had told her about his family. He leaned closer.
‘Are you a student?’
‘No.’ He had not noticed that she was pregnant either. ‘I’m out at work.’
‘Ah – what sort of work?’
‘In a factory,’ she admitted. ‘I work at Cadbury’s.’
‘Well, that’s what I’d be doing if I hadn’t . . . Well, I s’pose I just went for it. Tried for summat else. I didn’t want to be like my Dad, see?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Must be a nice place to work though? Not like the factories round us.’ She realized he was worried about sounding like a toff because he was a student.
‘Yes – it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve been there since I was fifteen.’
The young man looked thoughtful. ‘Sometimes, when it’s really hard down here, I think I should have just stayed. Done what they wanted. The work’s hard, least I find it is. And I don’t find it easy to fit in, being a northerner. Bit of a fish out of water. Anyway, damage is done now, I reckon.’
He laughed at himself and she laughed with him.
Before too long someone else in the crowd beckoned him and he moved away with a goodbye nod in her direction. Greta realized she had not even asked his name, but she had liked the way he talked to her, as if she was someone worth talking to. Although he was a student he didn’t seem so different from her really, struggling to work out where he fitted in. It made her feel better about herself.
As the marchers dispersed later that afternoon, Edie suggested they go and find some fish and chips before driving all the way back to the Midlands.
‘You must be starving, Greta,’ she said.
‘Yes, I am a bit,’ Greta said, though in fact she did not feel all that hungry. Instead she felt a bit sick, her body stretched and heavy from all the standing and walking around. As the afternoon wore on she had kept getting niggling pains through her, her muscles tightening painfully. Edie had warned her that this would happen towards the end.
‘It’s your body getting ready for the birth,’ she said. ‘Like practice contractions. Anatoli used to say it was like an orchestra tuning up!’
Some of these ‘practice contractions’ had started coming on late in the afternoon, and the last one had almost taken her breath away.
She couldn’t finish her fish and chips. Not liking to say anything, she longed to be back in the car, able to sit and rest. Surely then these sharp pains which seemed to turn her body into a tight muscular drum would let up and she could have a doze and feel better.
At last they reached the car and the children crawled in thankfully, exhausted by the day. Peter and Naomi fell asleep almost immediately; Naomi huddled in Janet’s arms. Ruth, awake and bright as a button, sat on Martin’s lap in the front, chattering to him. Greta sank on to the seat, more grateful to sit down than she had ever been in her life. She took a deep breath, and as she did so her body contracted again so that it took her all her self-control to keep quiet. But she was beginning to feel really frightened and her thoughts whirled. Please make it stop! She gripped the leather strap inside the door. What was happening? It was too early for the baby to be coming, so why was she having all these pains? She must have just overdone it today, walking around London. The pain eased off again and she sat back and closed her eyes as Anatoli drove off. If only she could just sleep through the journey and be safe home in bed!
There was a lull and she sank thankfully into the darkness.
‘Poor Greta – we’ve really worn her out,’ she heard Edie say, and then she was unaware of anything, and must have dozed for a few moments, until another pain jerked her awake and she gasped at the force of it.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ Janet asked, next to her.
‘Yes . . . Thanks . . .’ Greta managed to say. Maybe this would be the last, she thought. It would all be all right. But she was close to tears of pain and panic. How could this be happening when she was stuck here in a car in the middle of London?
More pains came, and soon there was one so bad that it made her cry out.
‘Oh goodness, Greta – whatever is it?’ Janet cried.
‘You’re having contractions, aren’t you?’ Edie said, leaning round. ‘I thought so! Oh my goodness, I knew you shouldn’t have come!’
The pain took its grip in her again, built until it was like being clenched between enormous jaws. She felt sweat break out on her forehead and back, and then it began to die again.
‘Oh God!’ Greta cried. ‘It’s the baby – I think I must be starting!’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Once she had admitted what was happening, the pain seemed to take her over, coming in wave after wave. She was aware of Janet trying to help loosen her clothes, tugging at the little sash on her smock blouse, and her voice saying,
‘It’s all right dear, you’ll be all right. We’ll look after you . . .’
One of the children was crying somewhere, and she heard Martin saying, ‘The only one I can think how to get to from here is St Mary’s . . .’
It was dark in the car, lights from the street flashing past, and then suddenly there was a
muddle of being lifted from the car and everything was very bright. She was on a stretcher and being rushed along a white, glaring corridor. Everyone she recognized seemed to have vanished. They took her to a room, lifted her on to a bed, and as the pains came and went, searing through her, a nurse undressed her and she was draped in something pale and rather stiff. Everything felt like a bad dream.
In a lull between the pains, a black face loomed over her, framed by a rounded bowl of black hair.
‘I am your midwife,’ she said in a calm, deep voice. ‘Now, let me have a look at you.’
‘Where is everyone?’ Greta cried, panic-stricken. ‘I don’t even know where I am.’
‘Ah now – you need not worry.’ The midwife pronounced every word very precisely and slowly. ‘You are in St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. And you have someone waiting for you outside. Your father, is it? He is very worried about you.’
‘I’m not supposed to be having it yet!’ Greta wailed. ‘It’s too early.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the woman said, as if nothing on earth could throw her from being calm and steady. ‘You’re doing all right. It’s going quickly, dear – it won’t take you long I don’t think. You just do your breathing exercises, all right?’
Greta had had a few instructions on breathing in labour, and she tried to put them into practice. But at the height of each of the contractions the pain wiped any thought of counting from her mind and she just wailed and groaned.
In a calmer moment she wondered who was waiting outside. It sounded like Anatoli, or Martin perhaps. He was a doctor after all. But she hoped, longingly, that it was Anatoli. She just yearned to see someone familiar between these frightening white walls.
And then she could think of nothing as the pains overwhelmed her and there were other people in the room and she was being told to push!
But there was something wrong, more people there, and she felt her lower body being lifted, and when she looked up there were someone’s legs being held up in the air in stirrups and she thought, I wonder whose legs those are, and then a voice said,
