The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  ‘I tell you, she should see another doctor,’ Miriam decreed as they ate dinner one evening while Gila stayed in her room and picked at a little food they took to her. ‘My friend Therese knows a very distinguished psychiatrist. . .’

  This provoked the most hysterical outburst that David had yet heard from Rachel Weissman towards her sister, and later she ambushed David in the tiny hallway, whispering urgently.

  ‘I do not want her to see a psychiatrist,’ she implored, weeping again. ‘Don’t make her, please . . . It will finish her . . .’ She leaned forward and touched David’s hand for a second. Instead of feeling comforted he found himself deeply irritated. He couldn’t stand these histrionic women with their tears and quarrels. But he also knew that the state he was in meant no one could do anything right for him.

  Except Annaliese. When he spoke with her on the telephone, heard her gentle, kindly voice, he felt eased a little. With his mother, with Edie, it was less so, but he was still grateful to talk to her. He did not tell either of them the truth though.

  ‘Gila is getting stronger every day,’ he would say. ‘Yes – we are very sad, heartbroken. But we shall be all right. Don’t worry about us. We have had a terrible shock, but we are together and we will be all right.’

  This was what he wanted to believe.

  Sometimes when he could not stand any more of the atmosphere in the dark apartment he went out into the glare of Tel Aviv’s white buildings, walking towards the sea to stare at the endless blue choppiness of the waves. He felt lost. His son had been his direction, the one person in this world who pulled him into the future. Sometimes he sat on the sea wall staring out with tears running down his cheeks. It was as if he had been travelling a road and had come upon a high wall built right across it. He could not see who he was or where he was going any more.

  Chapter Fifty

  At the end of September, Greta’s divorce from Trevor came through. She stared at the papers without emotion. So she was no longer married to Trevor by law. She shrugged. Was she ever really married to Trevor? Not the way Edie and Anatoli were married, close and loving, with a real understanding between them.

  She put the papers away in a drawer in the bedroom with a great sense of freedom, then looked at herself in the mirror over the chest of drawers, at her rounded, pretty face, the waves of blonde hair round her brow.

  ‘So – I’m Greta Sorenson again,’ she whispered. The little picture of her Dad, Wally, was propped up against a box of talcum powder. ‘Free as a bird.’ Here she was, in a lovely place, with a beautiful daughter. She wasn’t going to be like her Mom, chasing after everything in trousers. If she chose, she could keep away from men and marriage for the rest of her life!

  She told Pat the next day, when they managed to coincide for a tea break at work. Pat looked stricken. Divorce to Pat meant disgrace.

  ‘You must be upset, aren’t you?’

  Greta shook her head. ‘I s’pose it’s not very nice being divorced. No one sets out wanting to get divorced, do they? But it had to come and I’m relieved it’s over now. I mean, Trevor takes not the blindest bit of notice of Francesca now he’s got his own family. He was rude enough about her name, said it was too posh. I’m best off without him.’

  ‘I wish my Mom could say the same.’ Pat came out with this forthright remark so suddenly that she seemed to take herself by surprise and she went red. ‘Gosh – I didn’t know I was going to say that! But it’s true!’ she added defiantly.

  Greta, who had privately thought Stanley Floyd was a nasty piece of work for years, looked at her sympathetically.

  ‘If I thought I’d ever marry a man like my father,’ Pat went on hotly, ‘I think I’d lie down on the railway track and end it all, I really do!’

  ‘Well, you won’t though, will you?’ Greta said. ‘And anyway, you live like a nun, so I don’t think that’s likely to happen is it?’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk!’ Both of them laughed, ruefully. ‘We’re just as blooming bad as each other!’

  Greta was so caught up in what was happening in the Gruschovs’ household that she didn’t see much of her own family. Though Edie struggled to be brave, Greta knew she was full of aching grief over Shimon and anguish for David, and that this only added to her worries about Anatoli’s health.

  Though looking thinner and more tired than he had been before, for the time being Anatoli’s illness seemed to be stabilized, and the crisis of his operation faded into the background compared with the news from Israel.

  As the summer truly died and they swished their way home through drifts of rusty leaves into autumn, the news from there began to improve. After several weeks at her aunt’s apartment in Tel Aviv, Gila was ready to go home to Jerusalem – but home would be another new apartment that David had rented.

  ‘Bless her,’ Edie said. ‘Oh, it’s going to be so hard for her when she walks in for the first time and there’s no Shimon, even if it is a different place! It breaks my heart to think about it.’

  A brief letter came from David, saying that they had at last been able to have a proper funeral for Shimon, that there was a grave for him in a Jerusalem cemetery not too far away from home. He said that he had laid some flowers there on Edie’s behalf. Gila had had her plaster removed and was almost ready to take up her job back at her dental practice. He was studying hard and they were trying to look to the future. Edie had repeated her invitation for them to come to England, saying that she and Anatoli would pay for them. Everyone commented on how brave they were, how strong. They would have another child, people predicted, and try to keep moving ahead. Everyone’s grief for Shimon continued, mostly under the surface.

  And then, overnight, the shadow which had faded over the summer gathered once more and grew darker. Anatoli was taken ill again. One day he was going along as before, the next he woke in pain and being sick, and could not leave his bed. He quickly grew weak, and Edie stayed away from work and called the doctor.

  It was not Martin Ferris this time. From the kitchen door, Greta saw the man come into the house at dawn and go solemn-faced up to Anatoli. She was gripped by fear. For some time she could hear nothing except the faintest murmur from upstairs, and she carried on giving Francesca her morning milk, all the time straining to hear any movement in the house.

  At last she heard footsteps down the stairs and the front door closing. Then Edie came into the kitchen. Greta could see everything by her face, the way she looked as if she had received a blow, the tears she was struggling to quell.

  ‘He says Anatoli will have to go up to the hospital for more tests, when he’s feeling a bit better . . .’ She couldn’t hold back her emotion any more as she choked out the words. ‘But he says it’s come back. And there isn’t any cure!’

  ‘Now, my dear, I think I have the strength to drink my tea, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a hand.’

  It was a month later and Greta, home from work, was with Anatoli. On better days, like today, he came downstairs, where they made him comfortable on a couch in the living room.

  ‘If I stay all day every day in my bed I shall become a cabbage within a fortnight,’ he predicted wryly. ‘I must see you all and have some life around me. And these little children don’t want to come into an old man’s sickroom.’

  He was recovering from a few days of acute sickness and was very weak, but Greta could see that he was happy to be downstairs, where the children could come and go and he could supervise Peter’s violin practice. They were learning to treat him gently, and even Francesca, though only eighteen months old, seemed to sense that she must not roar around Anatoli in her usual energetic fashion.

  Edie had gone out to collect Peter from school. The days when Anatoli was at his lowest, wretched with vomiting and very weak, were a torment for her and she looked thinner and tired. Greta was feeling the strain too. She found it unbearable that this man whom she loved was suffering so much. But now there was a lull, and he could come downstairs on her arm. She loved tuckin
g him up under the red and black rugs on the couch and pampering him. It was heartbreaking seeing how thin and weak he was, how his magnificent crop of white hair was thinning, compared with the strong, handsome man Greta had seen photographs of when she was younger. As an older man he had still been very striking to look at. These days his cheeks were hollow and his limbs so thin they looked fit to snap, but now he was feeling a little better his lovely brown eyes still danced with life and his sense of humour had returned.

  She leaned over and offered her arm to help him and he hoisted himself up with a groan.

  ‘Oh!’ He sat back, in relief. ‘These days I am creaking like an old farmer’s cart!’

  ‘Can you manage anything to eat with your tea?’ Greta asked, hoping he would say yes.

  Anatoli considered, rubbing his hand over his abdomen, wincing. ‘I shall have to be careful. Anything which brings back that sickness seems like poison to me. I feel as if a whole herd of cattle have trampled over me. But yes – I think I could manage a couple of those nice plain biscuits if we have any.’

  Of course they had some! Edie went straight out and bought anything that they thought he might have a ghost of a chance of eating. Greta went gladly to the kitchen and arranged some biscuits on a plate for him. When she came back she was happy to see that he was sipping the sugary tea.

  ‘Where is that little one?’ Anatoli asked.

  ‘Still asleep – she’s having a long one today.’

  They sat contentedly in silence together, drinking their tea. Greta’s chair was positioned close to the couch and she took Anatoli’s cup when he had finished.

  ‘Any more?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘No – I think I shall stop there. But that was . . . You know what the advertisement says, “Aaah – nectar!”’

  Greta laughed. ‘No – just Tetley!’

  ‘Well it tasted like the food of gods to me.’

  He let himself lie back and relax, glancing over to the piano.

  ‘You know, it’s weeks since I’ve played.’

  ‘I know.’ It was something she had missed, the sound of his music. It was a horrible reminder of how the house would be without him, none of the beautiful sound of his piano and violin playing, and only Peter’s beginner’s exercises to take their place. ‘Would you like some music?’

  Sometimes she would put his favourite records on the old gramophone, beautiful haunting pieces of music which touched her deeply, though she dreaded it when they did this because often Anatoli wept and it was awful seeing it. Last time they had put on Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto and it had almost been too much for both of them.

  ‘I think I’ll just lie here in the quiet today, thank you,’ he said. ‘Unless you would feel like reading to me a little? Do we have another Maigret adventure somewhere?’

  Greta jumped up. She had been to the library in Selly Oak, looking for picture books for Francesca and new Maigret titles for Anatoli.

  ‘We have Maigret in Montmartre and Maigret and the Headless Corpse.’

  Anatoli chuckled. Greta heard how thin his voice and laugh had become. ‘Well, what a splendid choice – a tour of Paris or a gory murder . . .’

  ‘Oh I expect there’ll be a murder whichever one you choose!’ She held them up so that he could see the covers.

  ‘Let’s begin with Maigret in Montmartre. A headless corpse might demand more strength than I have today!’

  Greta sat beside him and began to read, and they were just getting involved when they heard Edie, and Peter’s head came round the door.

  ‘Is that my boy I hear?’ Anatoli said.

  Peter ran to him and Anatoli ruffled his hair. Edie appeared, smiling.

  ‘Oh, you managed to get down – that’s lovely! And you’ve had tea. Well, I could do with one. I’ll put the kettle on again. Can you manage another cup, love?’

  Releasing Peter, Anatoli twinkled up at her. ‘You know, I think I probably could.’

  The two women caught each other’s eye and smiled with delight. This was a good day, a day to cherish. They both knew that such days were going to run out.

  Those weeks of Anatoli’s illness were ones that Greta came to treasure. They were autumn days of mists, the poignant smell of decaying leaves along the pavements and the smell of smoke as fires were lit once again. The nights were drawing in, the air becoming cold and raw. And, Greta found, she experienced everything more sharply because it was set against the prospect of death and loss. Sometimes she looked at Francesca’s fresh round face, her blue eyes and soft tumble of blonde hair, and felt she would overflow with love for her. Although she went to work still, her life centred on the Gruschovs’ house.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ she said to Pat one day, when they were eating their lunch together. ‘Some days it feels as if the house is just full of love. You can feel it.’ As she spoke she found tears welling up. ‘Sorry—’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Don’t know what’s come over me. I’m turning into a soppy old thing.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Pat said kindly. ‘Anatoli’s a lovely man. It must be terrible seeing him so poorly.’

  ‘It is.’ Greta looked down, feeling more tears fill her eyes. ‘And there’s poor little Peter – he’s only eight. . . And Edie – I’ve never known a couple as close as they are . . .’

  Edie had given up work to devote her time to her husband. Anatoli’s business was being run by his manager, a good, reliable man who was also very fond of Anatoli, so they did not have money worries. Edie spent all the time she possibly could with her husband. Greta knew that often she just slid into bed beside him and they held each other for the comfort of it, no matter what the time of day.

  Amid all the kind enquiries and offers of help from Quaker friends, Janet came round more often. Sometimes she brought Ruth and Naomi, who were nine now and would play with Peter, and at others she came during the school day and spent time listening to all Edie’s worries. Greta had always been a bit intimidated by Janet, but all she could see now was her kindness, her real sadness on Edie’s behalf. And Ruby came too, her good-heartedness overcoming any hard feelings, and she sat and kept Edie company.

  One thing that was really worrying Edie was the question of Anatoli’s children. One afternoon when she and Greta were sitting talking in the kitchen as they often did, she said,

  ‘Well, I’ve taken the risk. I’ve written a proper letter to Caroline telling her exactly what’s happening and asking her to visit. Richard has always kept in touch anyway, though goodness knows if he can come over from Canada. But Caroline seems to have taken so much against her father . . . Neither of them came to our wedding.’

  ‘He never went to see her either though, did he?’ Greta asked.

  ‘He did try, but she gave him the cold shoulder and she seemed to be living a very busy life. She’s a musician as well . . .’ Edie sighed. ‘I don’t really understand it all. Anatoli has so many regrets about the past, and since I wasn’t there it’s hard for me to know what has happened. But I really think they should both at least have a chance to see their father before . . .’

  She left the sentence unfinished.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  ‘Mom!’ Peter came running through to the kitchen. ‘Look – letters!’

  They had heard the clatter of the letterbox. All of them were still in their nightclothes.

  ‘Ooh look – one from David!’ Edie glowed with happiness as Peter handed over the blue aerogramme. She tucked it into her dressing-gown pocket. She already looked pink and cheerful as Anatoli had had a good night. ‘I must get this tray upstairs before I settle down and read it. And you need to get going, Peter – you should be dressed by now. Get moving or you’ll be late!’

  Just as Greta was leaving for work, Edie came down, her curvaceous little figure dressed in black slacks and a royal blue polo-neck jumper, hair fastened up in her usual pleat at the back. She was full of excitement.

  ‘They’re coming. They’re really going to come over! David’s
booked for them to fly on December the tenth, so they’ll be here for Christmas. Oh, the poor things – they’ve been through such a terrible time. I want to spoil them rotten!’

  Greta said how pleased she was, but the truth was that the news gave her very mixed feelings. It was on her mind all day at the factory. She was used to having Anatoli and Edie all to herself, and she loved their cosy household, where she felt special. The thought of David coming over was difficult enough. After all, he was Edie’s son, or near enough. Edie thought the world of him and would want to give him all her attention, especially after the tragic time he and Gila had had. Greta felt very guilty for her resentment of them coming when she thought about this. They’ve lost their little boy for heaven’s sake, she told herself. What on earth are you making a fuss about? But it wasn’t just that she dreaded feeling pushed out. She was in awe of David, or her memory of what he was like. He was clever and serious and she had no idea what they could say to one another. As for Gila, she seemed like a person from another planet altogether. Edie had described her as tough, ‘a real Israeli sabra’. The combination of her toughness, grief and inability to speak much English seemed terrifying. She could never say it to Edie, but secretly she felt really miserable at the prospect of them coming.

  Perhaps Ruby had been right, Greta thought. She really would be in their way now. And David and Gila had lost their son – how would they feel about living in a house with two young children running about? With a heavy heart she decided she had better offer to move out. She could put up with living with her Mom for a bit, surely? And it would give Francesca time to get to know her granny better. By the time she went home she had persuaded herself that it was a good idea.