The Bells of Bournville Green

by Annie Murray

  He himself felt weary to the core, like an old man.

  The medical school had welcomed him warmly and his studies were going well. Another year, he thought, and he would at last be qualified. What was a year of study when he had no other responsibility than to achieve that? Yet it loomed higher than the Rockies, seeming impassable. He had lost his energy. All that New York offered, the excitement, friendships, a carefree life and his medical qualification, simply enervated him.

  As he looked up, a couple strolled past with their small daughter in a pushchair. They were eating ice cream, and looked serene and happy. The woman had long black hair and her husband’s arm rested loosely round her waist. They looked Jewish, he thought. A couple from Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. A couple just such as he had once made up half of, strolling in the sunshine with their child . . . They glanced at him, still smiling, but not at him. Their smiles passed over him since he was part of the view, then moved on.

  I came here too soon, he thought. Seeing the couple was like a punch in the guts. It was all that he tried not to think about or long for. Shimon . . . Shimon . . . Martin was right, I should have waited much longer.

  He had not heard from Gila, nor contacted her. He could not bear to.

  Nor could he bear to feel, to allow himself longing. Numbness was what he welcomed and tried to hold on to.

  Looking out over the water he thought of the different seas he had fixed his gaze on – the sapphire Mediterranean, the metallic Irish Sea and now the gentle Hudson River, all in search of peace and direction.

  ‘Tell me,’ he whispered to the shifting water, as if he might sit at its knee looking up for guidance. ‘Tell me . . .’

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  ‘And so, on behalf of our Holy Mother the Church, I pronounce you man and wife!’

  The priest of St Edward’s Church beamed at Ruby and Mac as they stood before him. He had had to speak up to be heard over the restless chatter of Marleen’s two youngest, George and Sandra. George had broken free of Trevor’s grasp and run up and down the aisle in the middle of the marriage service, but the priest was a cheerful Irishman who seemed well disposed towards children.

  Ruby and Mac turned to process back down the aisle. Mac looked very spruce in his suit and was boyish with pride, while Ruby was pink-cheeked under her mauve hat, and all smiles, a bouquet of pink rosebuds in her hand.

  She looks so happy, Greta thought gladly. Today she felt generous and happy towards her mother. She’d not had it easy, Greta knew. She deserved to be happy.

  That morning she had helped Ruby get ready for the wedding.

  ‘I’ve told Marleen to get her lot ready at home,’ she confided in Greta. ‘I can’t be doing with all that around me on my wedding day.’

  So, for one of the few times in her life, Greta found herself helping her mother dress in her finery. (‘I’m far too long in the tooth for white and all that.’) And just for once there was a friendly, confiding atmosphere between mother and daughter.

  ‘You look nice, Mom,’ Greta told her once Ruby was safely wrapped in the mauve satin dress she had chosen. And it did fit her well, snuggling tightly over her ample curves.

  Ruby laughed gladly, turning this way and that to see herself in the long mirror.

  ‘Is it all right, bab? Really?’

  ‘It’s lovely. You look a million dollars!’

  She deliberately said something American, and her sincerity seemed to touch Ruby because she turned, her expression suddenly solemn.

  ‘I loved your Dad – you know that, don’t you?’

  Greta nodded, her eyes filling. She couldn’t speak.

  ‘Wally was the love of my life and there’s been no one else to touch him . . . Oh Lord, I’ve set myself off now, look at me!’ She wiped her mascaraed eyes carefully and the two of them laughed. ‘But Mac’s a lovely man – good to me . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Greta said. ‘I can see.’

  ‘I do love him, you know – it’s not just loneliness, though God knows there was that too.’

  She looked appealingly at Greta, seeming to need her approval, and again Greta was touched. Sometimes she felt her Mom was still a child.

  ‘I know, Mom,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’

  And now she looked as happy as a bride ever was. To everyone’s amazement she had also said that to marry Mac she would become a Roman Catholic, as he had been brought up in staunchly Catholic Glasgow and it mattered to him. Since they were a widow and widower, there was no obstacle in the eyes of the Church to them marrying.

  ‘I might as well,’ Ruby said. ‘Won’t do me no harm, will it? The Catholics aren’t killjoys like some, anyway. They’ll have a drink with you. And it might do me some good, you never know! I’ve never had much guidance about anything from anyone.’

  Her two bridesmaids were Mary Lou and Francesca. Mary Lou, now eight, thin and narrow-eyed like Marleen, took her responsibilities very seriously and shepherded Francesca around, holding her hand as Ruby and Mac made their vows. Greta watched Francesca, melting with pride. She was wearing a sweet little lilac dress with smocking and flowers embroidered on it, her blonde hair was a haze of curls and she was wide-eyed and serious, solemnly following her big cousin Mary Lou.

  ‘You’re a peach!’ Greta said, scooping her up afterwards as all the guests showered Ruby and Mac with confetti in the afternoon sunshine. There was a sea of glad faces: Edie with Peter, Janet and Martin with Ruth and Naomi, Marleen, who was already evidently expecting baby number five, was holding Sandra while Trevor tried to keep the boys in check. They were married now too, quietly, in the registry office. Trevor’s family, the Biddles, had come along to wish Ruby well, as well as other neighbours and a clan of Cadbury girls, some of whom Ruby had worked with for years. Then there were Mac’s sons and their families, his sisters all the way from Glasgow and a gaggle of his friends, all spruced up to the nines.

  ‘Glad you’ve found someone to keep you out of trouble, Mac!’ one of them shouted as the scraps of confetti whirled round them on the breeze and everyone was laughing and cheering.

  Mac grinned and punched the air. ‘Oh yes – the missus’ll keep me in line all right!’

  ‘That remains to be seen!’ someone else shouted.

  ‘You going to throw us your bouquet Ruby?’ a voice called.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Ruby said. ‘And I’m not leaving it to chance – I know who this one’s for.’

  Her eyes met Greta’s. Fortunately she had already put Francesca down, as the pink flowers came flying towards her. Instinctively she reached up and caught them, laughing with surprise. The flowers were lovely and matched her pink, sleeveless dress.

  ‘Thanks, Mom – but you’ll have a bit of a wait!’

  The marriage was to be celebrated with a ceilidh in a nearby hall. Greta had never heard of a ceilidh before.

  ‘It just means a good old dance and jig,’ Ruby told her. ‘I went to that one with Mac when his nephew got married. It’s much nicer than just standing around with a sausage roll in your hand. And the kids’ll enjoy it.’

  Mac’s family had taken charge of the hall and there were streamers across the ceiling and trestle tables along one side laden with food, with small vases of flowers at regular intervals. In the middle, in a larger vase, was one large bouquet.

  As they all trickled in, the band was already playing, and Greta found herself longing to dance to the accordion and fiddle. Everyone immediately looked happy and started tapping their feet.

  ‘Oh my goodness . . .’ Ruby breathed as she saw the decorated hall. Greta realized she was almost in tears of surprise and thankfulness. ‘It’s lovely, Mac!’

  ‘Only the best for my wee gal,’ Mac said, putting an arm tenderly round her shoulders.

  Greta felt a deep pang of longing. Her mother had found something good, she could see. Something real and solid and loving, you couldn’t mistake it.

  The dancing was irresistible and began almost straight away, with
one of the band shouting instructions for the steps of the dance. Greta found the steps easy to learn and everyone, old and young, could join in. There was a bit of a shortage of men there, although quite a few of the Cadbury women were married and had brought their husbands, and there were Mac’s strapping sons, but in some cases women were dancing opposite women, children dancing with anyone who came along and everyone having a very good time.

  Greta held Francesca’s hand to begin with, but the little girl was soon taken into the dance and looked after by whoever was nearest, and she saw Peter and Elvis and George, Mary Lou, Ruth and Naomi being looked after in just the same way.

  The dancing made everyone look flushed and happy and Greta found herself with a huge smile on her face as they jigged the evening away to the lively fiddle music, sitting a dance out every so often on the chairs at the edge of the long room to get their breath back. She sat for a time with Francesca on her lap, feeding some pop and a sandwich to her wriggling little girl, who was mad keen to get up for the next dance.

  ‘Just rest for a bit and have a drink,’ Greta cautioned her. ‘Or you’ll be worn out!’

  Cuddling Francesca, she enjoyed watching Martin Ferris, tall and very long-limbed, as he danced the lively Scots and Irish dances, and Janet, who was usually so sedate, joining in and laughing unreservedly at the sight of her husband. Edie was chatting with some of the other Cadbury workers and seemed to be enjoying herself. Greta grinned at the sight of Alf Biddle, pink-nosed and staggering slightly as he made his way along the row apologizing for trampling on people’s feet. She sat sipping a glass of lemonade and the dance came to a triumphant, clapping end.

  ‘Very sensible, having a rest!’ Martin Ferris came up to the table beside her in search of a drink.

  ‘Oh, I expect I’ll dance the next one,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I was just thinking how much Anatoli would have enjoyed this.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Martin said, soberly. Then he smiled. ‘A great man.’

  Greta nodded gently. ‘No one like him.’

  Then a voice behind her said, ‘Fancy a dance?’

  To her surprise she saw Trevor, a cautious expression on his face.

  ‘Marleen’s not up to much this evening, what with the babby and that,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, so you’re going for second choice are you?’ But she didn’t say it sharply – was able to tease – and she jumped up. ‘Come on then. I’m ready to go!’

  They stood opposite each other as the dance lined up and off everyone went. She wondered at how much less gawky Trevor was these days, as if he had grown into himself.

  ‘Your Mom’s looking good!’ he shouted over the music. Ruby was leading the dance with Mac, and they could hear her laughter from the other end of the room.

  ‘Yeah!’ Greta agreed. ‘She’s all right!’

  They were split up then as the partners shook hands and switched round, and she didn’t meet up with Trevor until the end. He bowed to her and she said, ‘Thanks, Trev.’

  ‘Gret—’ He looked at her solemnly in the middle of the crowd. ‘I hope you find someone else soon.’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ she said lightly. She could see Marleen watching them with Sandra asleep on her lap. ‘Go on – go to your wife.’

  The evening passed in a very jolly fashion and everyone ate and drank, burning it all off on the dancing. The musicians seemed to be tireless. As the sun went down and the pace picked up they barely stopped and the party became well lubricated and faster and louder.

  Greta danced a lot of the dances and sat others out, amazed at Francesca’s energy – she still showed no sign of flagging and was full of excitement. Sometimes she made her come and rest a little, and Greta was pleased to spare her burning feet and sit and chat instead, glad that she hadn’t worn heels that were any higher. But each time, Fran soon wriggled and wanted to get down.

  ‘Dance, Mom – want to dance!’

  ‘You’ll be the death of me!’ she said, after what seemed the umpteenth dance. It was getting quite late now and her feet were very sore. The Scottish revellers seemed set to go on all night. ‘All right – but this really is the last one – then I’m taking you home.’

  Francesca ran off into the crowd of merrymakers and Greta had just straightened up, smiling after her. She saw Edie in front of her in her pretty green frock and was about to go to her and have a word when she saw the expression on Edie’s face. She looked shocked, disbelieving, and was staring down at the back of the hall.

  ‘Edie?’

  She wasn’t listening. No one else seemed to have seen anything and were all drinking and dancing as before. Greta moved closer to her and turned, trying to see what the trouble was.

  And she stopped, frozen to the spot.

  ‘David?’ Edie said, as if she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

  Greta caught sight of his face, seeing him with the swimmy strangeness of a dream. He was heading straight towards them, so unerringly that suddenly he was standing right in front of her. All she could think was that he was wearing a dark blue denim jacket, and that she had never seen it before.

  He went to Edie and kissed her, keeping a hand on her arm for a moment as if to stay her questions. But his eyes were fixed on Greta.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  She stared back at him, a sense of melting inside her, of warmth and hope being reborn.

  ‘Will you come outside for a minute?’

  ‘David!’ Edie called, utterly bewildered. ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’

  But he was already moving away and Greta followed, seeming to float through the crowd, and they went out and round to the patch of grass at the side of the hall. It was dark now and the grass was newly cut and smelt sweet.

  David stopped and turned to her.

  ‘I’m a mess and a fool,’ he said.

  ‘No—’ she went to protest. She understood what he had been through and was humbled by it.

  ‘I didn’t trust myself – what I feel for you.’ He looked down for a second. ‘New York has been a lesson. I can’t find someone else to be there. I’m a stranger, I have no one. It doesn’t solve anything. Everything I am is here. And you – I’ve not stopped thinking of you all the time I was there. I’ve been so stupid . . .’

  She stopped him. ‘You didn’t mean to be.’

  He stepped up to her. ‘Here’s where I belong. With you – if you’ll have me. May I have another chance?’

  Edie was waiting as they came back in, and the look of astonishment on her face as Greta and David came back into the hall holding hands made both of them laugh.

  ‘Is this your good-looking lad back again?’ one of her Cadbury friends asked.

  Edie nodded, quite overcome.

  ‘I think I need to sit down,’ she said, breathlessly.

  ‘Oh no you don’t!’ Greta cried. ‘You’re coming with us!’

  She and David each took one of Edie’s hands and the two of them whirled her away, laughingly, into the dance.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Birmingham, 1971

  Greta woke from a light new mother’s sleep, hearing the snuffling breathing of the tiny baby in the carrycot beside her. Leaning up on her elbow she looked anxiously down at him, her breasts tightening and filling with milk in anticipation of his morning cries. But he was still sleeping peacefully after his night feed.

  She lay down again and snuggled up to David’s naked body. He didn’t like sleeping with anything on, after the long habit of living in a hot country, and she laid her cheek against the strong muscles of his back.

  ‘Hello,’ he said softly.

  ‘I thought you were asleep. Did I wake you?’

  He turned and they cuddled up together. ‘No – I was half there already. I take it his majesty’s still sleeping?’

  ‘Like a baby,’ she said.

  Their little son was only ten days old and she was basking in the happiness of a safe birth and o
f being home from the hospital, in her own bed with her husband of a year, since their quiet Quaker wedding in Bournville. Her strong body was recovering well from the birth.

  They lay under the high ceiling in the big back room of Edie’s house, their permanent home since their marriage, the summer dawn filtering through the pale floral curtains.

  It had hardly taken any discussion for them to decide to call him Anatoli after the man who had acted as a father to each of them, and whom both of them had loved. Greta cried after he was born, remembering the last time, when she’d had Francesca far away in a London hospital and he was the person who had stayed faithfully with her and come to see her. She ached for him to be there and see her and David’s little son.

  There had been no question either that they would live anywhere else than with Edie, in the big family home with its pretty flower garden at the back. And they knew their son would have a loving crowd of adults round him: Ruby and Mac and Janet and Martin, and David even hoped that Annaliese and her new husband Pierre would be able to visit later in the year. Annaliese’s letter from Haifa, full of loving greetings to them, was balanced on the mantelpiece downstairs, with the other cards of congratulation.

  ‘I understand why you do not wish to come to Israel, at least for the time being,’ Annaliese wrote. ‘That this is now such a place of sadness for you. I know you do not hear from Gila, but I do have news of her. She is working very successfully as a dentist in Jerusalem and is doing well in the practice. I gather that she has not remarried but I do not know, of course, what else she has going on in her life. I am told she is well enough though, to continue with life.’

  There were cards from the Ferrises, from Pat and her mother and from all the Cadbury crew. There were others from the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, where David had just completed his training. He had qualified as a doctor shortly before little Anatoli was born.