by Annie Murray
But once she made the break it was fun to be back in the swing of things. She was not in the same section as Pat, who was still working full-time. Pat had come to visit her at home and see Francesca after she was born. Greta had wondered if it would upset her, seeing a lovely new baby, but Pat certainly didn’t show it. She was delighted at the sight of Francesca and brought a pretty pair of white bootees as a present.
‘That’s an attractive name,’ she said on her first visit when Greta told her what she was planning to call her. ‘It’s unusual that. I like it.’
Greta told her that it had been Anatoli’s suggestion. Pat looked up at her.
‘He’s very good to you, isn’t he?’
Pat had moved out of her one room now into a tiny little flat not far away, and went round to help her Mom, keeping out of the way of Mr Floyd. She seemed resigned to how things had turned out.
‘I suppose I’d’ve had to make the break sometime,’ she said. ‘Although I feel terrible about Mom being left with it all. But I look at my Dad and I think, however much I did something wicked and awful, he’s still in the wrong. I’m his daughter, and if he can’t forgive me, well, that’s his loss.’
Greta was impressed at how strong Pat seemed these days. And Pat was delighted that Greta was coming back to Cadbury’s.
‘It hasn’t been the same without you,’ she said, when they met to walk to work the first day to begin the morning shift.
‘Well it won’t be the same now either,’ Greta said, half her mind still wondering how Francesca was. When she left, Greta had had to hand her over to Edie to finish giving her her bottle, and it felt like one of the hardest things she had ever done. ‘I’m on seasonal – no holiday pay or sick pay or anything. And they’ll lay us off once the Christmas rush is over. But it’ll give me time to be with Franny again and I’m desperate to give Edie some money. They’re ever so kind, but I’ve lived off them long enough.’
When she went back this time she was put on Milk Tray. The women working seasonal shifts were mainly mothers and the atmosphere was chatty, with the radio on, but the work was very fast and you had to keep alert. Hands covered by white gloves, they worked either side of the belt, while the chocolates streamed past endlessly after their journey through the enrobing machine, then into the cooler room to set the chocolate. They scooped them off the belt on to trays fast and furiously, to ready them for packing. When you got there early enough in the morning you could have free cocoa and bread and butter, but Greta did not think she would ever be organized enough for that and tried to eat something at home with Francesca first.
It was wonderful to go home at the end of her first shift and find her baby happily asleep.
‘You’ll be able to pop in for a swim after work if you feel like it,’ Edie said. ‘She’s no trouble. Now Peter’s at school, looking after her is ever so easy.’
She still had plenty of days to spend with Francesca, and on the days Edie was working she sometimes went and picked Peter up from school. He practised his violin and piano while she played with Francesca, or snatched a while to read when the little girl was happy playing near her. Edie and Anatoli had quite a few books and told her to dip in and read whatever she liked. Best of all she liked Thomas Hardy, and had read Tess of the D’Urbervilles twice already. And he encouraged her to read bits of French, even though she no longer went to her lessons.
Things settled into a contented, almost dreamlike routine, and when she stopped to think about it she realized how happy she was. As Christmas drew near again, Greta realized with surprise how much she was looking forward to it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Greta’s favourite time of the day was the early evening when Anatoli came home after closing the pharmacy. The shop was almost a mile away and he always chose to walk home, shaking rain from his big black umbrella on wet winter nights, or anxious to get down to his shirtsleeves in summer. In his old-fashioned way he would never dream of removing his jacket until he was inside with the front door closed, restored to the informal realm of his family.
As soon as he came home Edie made him tea, bringing it to him in his favourite wide-rimmed willow-patterned cup and saucer. He always drank it sitting in his chair in the living room, stirring in plenty of sugar and sipping it with relish, the big blue and white saucer resting in the palm of his hand. Edie always slipped a couple of biscuits in beside the cup as well.
‘Aaah!’ he would say, closing his eyes with pleasure while he swallowed the first mouthful of tea. ‘The taste of home! Where I am treated like a Prince!’
It was a ritual which Greta loved and it was when Anatoli held court to his family. The children were always excited when he came home. Peter would hurry in with a book or some Meccano and bask in his father’s attention. Later it would be time for serious things, like violin lessons, but now was a time for fun. At the moment Peter’s favourite books were the adventures of Thomas the Tank Engine, and Anatoli was good at mimicking different voices for the characters of the trains, which made Peter laugh or gasp in fear at what was going to happen next.
Greta was coming downstairs one evening, deep in the winter, with Francesca in her arms, when Anatoli arrived. His breath streamed white on the freezing air as he came in, then shut out the cold and dark. At first he did not notice her. He closed the door and turned to take off his coat, reaching up to hang it on the hooks near the door. But instead of backing away he held on to the hook and leaned his head against his woollen coat for a few seconds, as if in extreme weariness. This small private action sent a chill through her, though she did not know what it meant. Then Francesca let out a squeak of excitement at seeing him and Anatoli immediately drew back, lowering his arms, and turned to smile at the two of them.
‘Hello young lady!’ He took Francesca’s hand and shook it as she gurgled happily. ‘And hello to you, my dear. Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes thank you,’ Greta said. ‘Did you?’ She wanted to ask if he was all right but she felt shy.
‘Oh yes,’ he said in his light way, as if to say, what other sort of day might he have had?
‘Hello, love,’ Edie said, coming through from the kitchen. In her dark brown skirt and pale blue, ribbed polo-neck jumper, her hair pinned up in a pleat, she looked warmly cosy and comforting. She kissed Anatoli and he put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him. Greta watched with a pang. How wonderful to have found love like that!
As soon as the children heard that he was home, Peter came rushing out of the living room and Anatoli said, ‘Ah – it must be story time!’
‘There’s tea in the pot,’ Edie smiled. ‘I’ll bring it through. D’you want one, Greta?’
‘Oh, yes please!’
Greta sat and listened to the stories too. She remembered Frances and Janet reading to her and Marleen and David when they were little, and how much she had loved it. Edie sometimes stayed in the room if she was not cooking, and she did today. Francesca sat on the floor or on one of their laps. Normally she was very active, now she was ten months old, crawling around and into everything, but during story time she already seemed to know to keep still and watch with huge eyes, giggling at Peter’s laughter, and waving and clapping her hands. The sight of her joining in was one of the loveliest things Greta had ever seen. It made her glow with happiness.
‘Look at young miss,’ Anatoli said as he closed the book on another of Thomas’s adventures. ‘She takes in everything doesn’t she? Every detail.’
Edie went out to check on the cooking, but Peter was not satisfied. He sat straddling Anatoli.
‘Will you read another one Daddy?’ he begged.
‘Ah, now you know, you young rascal, that we only read one story!’ Anatoli tickled him, and Peter squirmed happily. ‘That is your ration for the day. And anyway, you know you can really read them yourself as well now . . .’
‘Oh please – just this once!’ Overexcited, Peter began to pummel Anatoli’s chest.
Greta, who had been looking
down at Francesca, jumped in shock as Anatoli suddenly let out a yell.
‘I said no! All right? You heard me – now get off and stop this! Go!’
Peter scrambled down from his father’s knee, lips aquiver, looking as if he was going to explode with upset as he ran from the room. It was almost unheard-of for Anatoli to react like this and raise his voice.
‘Now just leave me!’ Anatoli shouted after his son.
Greta took this to mean her as well, so she got up and went to find Peter, who was curled in a sobbing ball at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s all right, love—’ She went and put her arm round the bewildered little boy who was used to a father who, even in his darker moods, was calm and kindly to him. She felt upset herself, almost as if she was a child and Anatoli had yelled at her as well. ‘Daddy must be tired or something. I’m sure he didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘Mom,’ Peter said, pulling away and running for the kitchen. There was hurt and outrage in every line of his body. Greta picked up Francesca and went after him.
Edie was checking the boiling potatoes to see if they were cooked.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ she said, putting down her knife as Peter plunged at her and buried his head in her skirt. ‘That’s not like my big boy!’
‘He had a little run-in with his Dad,’ Greta said awkwardly.
‘Anatoli?’ Edie frowned and bent down to her son. ‘What happened?’
‘Daddy shouted at me!’ Peter cried.
Face stricken Edie looked up. ‘Why on earth?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Greta said. ‘Peter just wanted another story.’
‘Oh,’ Edie said, baffled. It was so unlike Anatoli. ‘Well, maybe your Daddy’s tired today love. Or got a toothache. Come on – you come and stir the stewpot for me, will you?’
Greta was surprised not to see Anatoli coming into the kitchen to make amends. He and Peter were usually so sunny with each other. She carried Francesca from the kitchen, thinking to go and see Anatoli. She wanted to see him in a happier mood again to make herself feel better.
But when she put her head round the door of the living room, Anatoli was stretched out in the chair with his eyes closed and his face looked tired and sunken. Frowning, she left again, quietly closing the door.
It happened gradually. Edie started teasing Anatoli, telling him he must be watching his waistline because he didn’t seem to be eating much.
‘It’s because you’re going to be sixty this year, isn’t it?’ she said, patting his comfortable tummy. ‘You’re starting to get vain.’
‘Yes – I am going to be like Twiggy,’ Anatoli said, fluttering his eyelashes. ‘These young models have made me start to feel ashamed.’
But as the weeks went past, it was impossible to hide that he was losing weight fast and that something was seriously wrong. Edie confided her worries to Greta. The two of them were very close now, sharing the daily routines of work and each other’s children. They spent a lot of time together in the big kitchen of the Gruschovs’ house, preparing meals or sitting at the table over cups of tea with the children around them.
‘I’ve begged him to go and see the doctor,’ Edie said one gloomy February afternoon. ‘He’s usually quite sensible about things like that, but he keeps saying he’s perfectly all right. He doesn’t look all right at all to me. And d’you know what he said to me this morning? He said, “I think I’ll take the car into work today – just for a change.” He never drives!’
Greta wanted to reassure her but she was very worried as well. Anatoli’s thinness was upsetting: he was gradually beginning to look like someone different. And she saw, from his small movements, in the effort it seemed to take for him to climb the stairs, to hang his coat or lift his small son, that he was tired and weak. One afternoon she found courage while she was sitting with him, Francesca cruising round the room, pulling herself up to stand by the chairs and chuckling.
‘Anatoli?’
‘Umm?’ He looked up at her from his newspaper. The whites of his eyes seemed yellowish, she thought. Or perhaps it was the light.
‘It’s just – you don’t look very well. We’re all worried about you.’
‘Oh!’ he gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Not you as well, umm? Edith keeps fussing . . . You don’t want to be worrying about me.’
‘But I do . . .’ She felt tongue-tied. ‘Why won’t you go and see the doctor?’
Anatoli looked down at his hands. They were bonier than they had been.
‘Perhaps I should . . .’ he said vaguely, as if to himself. She was sure she saw a look of fear pass across his face and she found she had tears in her eyes. She had never seen him look like that before and she wanted to put her arms round him and tell him everything would be all right.
‘It might be better,’ she said. ‘You know – just to make sure there’s nothing serious.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I’m being silly.’
A few days later she came home from Cadbury’s, bringing her white gloves to wash as usual, and she went straight to the kitchen to soak them. Edie was standing by the sink, looking out of the window, and she didn’t seem to hear Greta come in.
‘Edie?’
When she turned, her face was wet with tears. She looked shrunken, as if something in her had collapsed. Greta’s heart seemed to stop.
‘It’s Anatoli isn’t it?’
Edie crumpled, nodding. She leaned back against the sink, hands over her face, and started to sob. Greta went and put her arms round her. The age gap between them, which had mattered less and less over these months, was nothing now. This was a man both of them loved.
‘He came in earlier . . .’ Edie brought her hands down and felt in her sleeve for a hanky to wipe her nose and cheeks. ‘He’s gone back to work now . . . I asked him not to, but he said he had to. He wouldn’t know what to do else . . .’ She turned to Greta. ‘He’s ill – very ill, Greta. The doctor said it’s cancer – of the pancreas . . .’ She struggled to say it, looking as if she’d been punched. ‘I don’t even know what a pancreas is . . .’
‘Oh my God,’ Greta breathed. She didn’t know what a pancreas was either. It was the word cancer which filled you with dread.
‘He said . . . They’re going to do an operation – soon. He’ll have to be in hospital and they’ll take out some of the tumour. I think that’s what he said.’ Her eyes started to pour tears again. ‘But he said . . .’ Her face contorted again. ‘There’s no cure. Nothing much they can do, in the end. Oh God, Greta – he’s going to die. My lovely Anatoli’s going to die!’
Chapter Forty-Three
Greta was afraid of facing Anatoli. She was afraid of breaking down. The thought of losing him was unbearable. And today, of all days, she planned to keep out of the way so that Anatoli and Edie could be alone together.
When he came home, she was upstairs. She heard the door open and close, and she was in such a state that she couldn’t seem to do anything except perch tensely on the edge of her bed, cuddling a wriggly Francesca. Softly, from downstairs, came the sound of voices. There was an ache inside her, like a heavy stone sitting in her chest. It was awful to dread seeing Anatoli. It was as if his illness had turned him into a stranger and she had no idea how to talk to him.
But within a few moments she heard his voice.
‘Greta? Are you coming to join us for our cup of tea?’
Cup of tea? As usual! How could anything be usual when the sky had fallen in? But his voice sounded much as ever. And it came to her that precisely because the sky had fallen in, Anatoli might want things to feel normal. She must pull herself together.
‘Yes – just coming!’ she called, getting shakily to her feet.
In the living room, Anatoli was already holding his teacup, and there was a Madeira cake on a plate, cut into slices. Peter lay on the hearthrug by the fire with his Dinky cars, close to Edie’s chair, and everything seemed just as it always did. Perhaps
it was! Greta clutched at the idea. Perhaps it was all a mistake!
‘Here you go,’ Edie said, passing her a cup of tea. ‘Have some cake if you’d like, love.’
Edie’s face had the freshly washed look of someone who has wept for a long time, but she was calm and not crying now.
Greta sat down, trying to keep her hands from shaking, and was about to say something bright and conversational, when Anatoli put his cup down and looked from one to the other of them.
‘You both know the news that I have been given today.’ He gave them a moment to nod. ‘I don’t want to hide anything from you or for this to be something we have to whisper about, or pretend it is not true, that there is really nothing wrong and so on. I have been pretending to myself for too long. I have not been feeling well for some time, I know that now, but somehow it has crept up on me and I find that I am much sicker than I thought.’
Greta felt a lump forming in her throat and swallowed hard. She wanted to be calm, like him. She glanced at Peter, wondering if he knew what was happening, but he was playing, trying to stop Francesca pinching his cars, and did not seem to be listening. Every now and then Francesca let out loud roars of indignation as he tugged cars away from her, which made them all smile and helped the situation.
‘I shall go into hospital some time fairly soon. They can delay things a little, by an operation, but so far as I understand, that is really all they can do.’
Both Edie and Greta were fighting back their tears, and Peter suddenly looked up and saw his mother’s face. Without saying anything he climbed on to her lap and stared up at her. Edie held him tight and kissed his curls.
‘It’s all right, love,’ she said gently.
