by Annie Murray
And then he released her and walked determinedly to the front door.
‘I’ll be gone in a few days. Please – live your life. And . . .’ He turned, speaking softly, ‘Look after my mother. You are so important to her.’
He held the door open for her, and she passed him, unable to look at him. Going upstairs she checked that Francesca was asleep, looking down tenderly at her. Suddenly she felt very calm, after her storm of released emotion.
‘Well, that’s that,’ she said softly, feeling herself shut down. She knew she could expect nothing from him now.
Chapter Sixty-Five
And David was gone too.
He left for America while Greta was at work. Of course she knew the precise time Edie would go with him to New Street Station to see him off on the first leg of the journey to London, knew the time of the flight. But she said nothing to him the night before, and got up for work the next morning and left without seeing him. She didn’t trust herself. All she wanted now was for him to be gone, so that she could begin to try and forget him, even though she was living in a house where photographs of him were proudly displayed on the shelves, the piano. She tried not to look at them.
That day at work she tried to be as cheerful and chatty as she could manage, and on the way out Pat said, ‘You’re in good form, aren’t you? That John seems to be doing you good.’
Greta winked at her. ‘Maybe that’s what it is!’ Quickly she switched the conversation away from herself. ‘What about you and Andrew? How’s lover boy?’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ Pat said matter-of-factly.
‘You don’t sound too swept off your feet!’
‘I’m not the sweeping off your feet type,’ Pat said, pursing her lips. ‘Not any more, anyway.’
Greta stayed in with Edie that night. The arrangements had gone smoothly so far as she knew, Edie said. Greta could see her trying to be brave, despite her tearstained face.
‘He’ll drop me a line when he gets there, he promised,’ she said. ‘Things’ll soon settle down again and we’ll get used to it.’
The next night Greta had promised to go out with John, who was full of excitement because he was about to buy a second-hand car with the help of his Dad.
They went out together to have a coffee and Greta heard an awful lot about the car, but she was content just to let John talk, while she sat and wondered if David had landed yet, whether he had caught his first views of New York. And had he, at any time in the day, thought about her? A lump rose in her throat. This was her life now, she told herself with bitter realism. She would live with Edie and bring up her beloved Francesca, work at Cadbury’s and make do with men who bored her silly.
But as she undressed that night after John had walked her home, still enthusing about his blessed car, she sat on her stool in front of the mirror in her bedroom. In the soft light she saw her round, pretty face, blonde hair which she had let loose in waves. The mirror showed her a young woman of almost twenty-five, soft and pretty-looking, but who regarded her with wide, sad eyes. She knew she had loved David, loved him with a passion she had never felt for another man, a love which had opened her and made her raw and vulnerable. In the face of his rejection she had closed up – that was how it felt – unwilling ever to be hurt again.
He’s the only one I’m ever going to feel like that about, she thought. So what am I playing about at with John? What’s the point?
The next time she saw John she told him she wanted to call it off.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, in the face of his hurt reaction. ‘You’re a good bloke, John, but I’m just not your type. And I’m still recovering from . . . Well, from someone else. So it’s not fair on you.’
John protested, but she was firm about it, and eventually he had to accept her wishes. She went home with a sense of relief, feeling free.
The spring was well advanced now, the days warm. Gradually Edie and Greta fell into a routine, looking after Peter and Francesca between them. People were kind, work was fun and Greta started to join in with things again. Edie went back to work at Cadbury’s as well and waited to hear from David. He had arrived, and begun work at the hospital. People had been good to him and he was working very hard and finding Manhattan very stimulating. Of his feelings and personal life, he said nothing. Nor did he write very often. It was as if he needed to cut his ties and strike out alone.
Greta tried to keep on the right side of her mother and took Francesca round to see her almost every weekend. Ruby was pleased to see Francesca in short doses, and showered her with sweets and other treats. She had bought her a Cindy doll with a tiny wasp waist and a selection of outfits to squeeze her slim, rubbery limbs into, and Francesca was delighted and spent hours dressing and undressing her.
As often as not, when Greta went round, she found Ruby’s boyfriend, Mac MacPherson, there as well. She never expected much of her Mom’s men, but over the weeks, seeing more of Mac, she had come to respect and like him. She found him a solid, kind character, who had lost his first wife in a brutal way when she died of a brain haemorrhage. He was also obviously very fond of Ruby and was good with Francesca.
That afternoon, a sunny, serene one in May, Greta pushed Francesca around in the pushchair. Expecting to find the usual Saturday afternoon scene of Ruby and Mac sitting drowsily in the front room after a good dinner, she was surprised to find the front door open.
‘Hello-o!’ She had unstrapped Fran from the pushchair and they went up the steps. Francesca was clutching her Cindy doll as usual. ‘Mom? You there?’
To her surprise her mother was not sitting drowsing but came through briskly from the back room dressed in a flowery frock. She also seemed to be alone and full of beans, a big smile on her face.
‘Come in, bab – that’s it, park the pushchair.’ She swooped down on Francesca and gave her a big cuddle and kiss. ‘Hello, there’s my babby! You got your dolly with yer? I’ve got the kettle on – come on in.’
Greta was taken aback at this welcome. In the kitchen she found a chocolate cake on the table and cups already set out. ‘Goodness, is it someone’s birthday?’ she laughed.
‘No, but I am celebrating,’ Ruby said, looking as if she was going to burst. She couldn’t hold back the news any longer. ‘I’m dying to tell you – it’s Mac. He’s asked me to marry him!’
‘Oh!’ Greta said warmly. ‘That’s lovely Mom – I’m pleased for you.’ But she couldn’t resist teasing. ‘You mean you’re really going to marry this one?’
‘Oi – that’s enough from you!’ But Ruby wasn’t really offended.
‘You deserve some happiness, Mom – and he’s a nice feller.’
‘We’re getting married in July, so it’ll be all go now – lots to arrange!’ Ruby was girlish and excited. She talked about her plans as she made tea and cut up the cake, handing a sliver to Fran on a plate.
‘I thought she could be my bridesmaid – her and Marleen’s little ’uns, keep it fair,’ Ruby said. ‘I’ll get her summat really pretty to wear.’
‘You going to stay living here?’ Greta asked when she could get a word in edgeways.
‘Oh, I expect so – to begin with,’ Ruby said, going on grandly, ‘But then maybe we’ll rent somewhere bigger. Who knows what the future will bring?’
She talked on about Mac and the wedding while they drank their tea, and then changing tack she started on Greta.
‘You want to get yourself sorted out, my girl,’ she said, ominously. ‘Living the way you do – your young life’s trickling away. You want to get yourself a man and get married – not be so flaming fussy. You’ll end up an old maid else.’
‘Mom, how can I be an old maid when I’ve already been married and divorced?’ Greta asked wearily.
‘It amounts to the same thing,’ Ruby sniffed, cutting another slice of the cake. ‘You’re still on the shelf when you’re on your own, either way. You want to stop hiding behind Edie, and get yourself a man!’
Greta leaned over to wip
e Francesca’s face to hide her angry expression. If only her Mom knew how she felt, how much she was struggling to recover from a broken heart and carry on, when she had had a vivid glimpse of how love might be. Go out and get a man, Ruby said, as if it was like shopping for shoes. If only it were that easy!
Chapter Sixty-Six
Pat’s face was white as a sheet.
She had been absent from work that day and Greta thought she was ill. But she was waiting for Greta outside the factory after her shift. It was unheard-of for Pat to miss work.
‘What’s up?’ Greta took her arm immediately.
‘It’s Josie . . .’ Pat was beginning to shake, clearly in shock. ‘She . . . She . . . Our Mom came to find me this morning, first thing. Josie had a turn in the night and Mom had to call an ambulance. And . . . Oh Gret – she’s . . . She’s passed on! They say she had a heart attack and she didn’t even make it into the hospital!’
‘Oh, Pat – no!’ Greta was utterly shocked.
‘Mom heard her in the night. She wasn’t feeling too well, obviously, but being Josie she couldn’t explain what was happening to her.’ Pat poured out her story as they walked along. ‘She was thrashing about and very uncomfy, Mom said, but there was nothing she could really put her finger on. But Mom said it was getting worse and she asked my Dad to call an ambulance. He wouldn’t – he said she’d be all right, that Mom was making too much of a fuss over her and it was a waste of the phone bill.’ Pat’s eyes widened with rage as she related her father’s part in the whole sad situation.
‘Dad just went back to sleep of course, and Mom sneaked down and called an ambulance herself. Josie was unconscious by the time they got to the house and she just faded away. Mom could hardly believe it when they told her . . .’ Pat shook her head, distraught. ‘I’ve been with Mom all day and the neighbours have been very good, but I just had to come out and tell someone else.’
‘Oh you poor love!’ Greta had her arm round her friend’s shoulders, but she pulled her into a proper embrace and Pat broke down and cried then as the fact of losing her sister began to sink in.
‘It was never easy looking after her,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘I even used to wish sometimes that she could be taken away somewhere else to let my Mom have a break. I know it was bad of me. And she was sweet really – gentle, and such a character. And she was my sister . . .’
‘Of course she was,’ Greta said, with a pang at how little fellow feeling there had always been between her and Marleen.
‘I came to ask you,’ Pat said. ‘Will you come to her funeral? You were always good to her and I’d like you to be there.’
The service was in a little brick church on the edge of Harborne.
‘Her Dad’s an elder there or whatever they call it,’ Greta told Edie.
‘Poor man,’ Edie said, ‘having to do that for his own daughter.’
Greta bit back the sharp comment she was about to make about Pat’s father. She almost wished Edie would come with her, as she didn’t like the idea of walking into this strange church on her own, but Edie didn’t offer. She was exhausted, and had had enough death and sadness for the moment. There was very little news from David either. Greta was relieved about this. It gave her some peace, some time to try and get over him, but Edie worried of course, and Greta knew she was secretly hurt by his going, however generous she tried to be about it. She wrote to him regularly telling him all the news.
Greta walked nervously into the plain little church, which was more like a hall. Inside were rows of chairs facing a table at one end which had a wooden cross on it and a flower arrangement. Otherwise the walls were bare and white. As she came in, Pat turned and smiled encouragingly at her from her place at the front beside her mother. Greta saw a few other people examining her from under their sober hats and was glad to sink down on to a chair in the middle, out of sight. She did catch a glimpse of Andrew, the young man who was sweet on Pat, positioned a couple of rows in front of her.
Well, he’s not exactly exciting, Greta thought, but at least he seems steady and kind. Maybe exciting’s not everything, she thought, calling David to mind with a pang of bitterness.
At the front of the church there were two chairs facing the congregation, and she saw Mr Floyd seated on one and another man beside him. Both looked self-conscious, with the air of people who felt very important while trying to appear humble. Mr Floyd failed miserably in the humble department, Greta thought. She watched him rubbing his narrow chin as if weighing up the mighty words he was about to utter.
The first hymn took her straight back to Anatoli’s funeral and the thought of David, and she was so busy fighting back her tears that she didn’t hear the reading and prayers which came after it. But she paid attention when Mr Floyd took the floor to pay tribute to his daughter. By the time he had finished, Greta was almost choking with rage.
‘My daughter, Josephine, was an angel,’ he began ponderously. He went on and on about how her life was a blessing, what a gift she had been to their family, what tender memories, in a sober, sanctimonious way which had Greta clenching her fists.
You mealy-mouthed, mean old hypocrite! she wanted to scream at him.
Here was the father who could not accept that his daughter was different, was handicapped, who left all the care of her to his wife while he was out sitting on church committees to make everyone think what a great and worthy man he was. Here was the man who rejected his other daughter when she didn’t fit his religious ideals, who had not an ounce of kindness to show to her in her time of trouble! She watched him, finding herself actually trembling with loathing, knowing all that Pat and her Mom had been through at the hands of this cruel, self-righteous man.
Afterwards, a few people went back to the house. Mrs Floyd had wept during the service but she was calm afterwards.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ she said to Greta. ‘You were always so good with Josie.’
‘I liked her,’ Greta said simply. ‘She was a nice person.’
Mrs Floyd smiled, tears filling her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes, she was. Only not everyone could see that.’
Andrew was at Pat’s elbow all the time they were there, and Greta could see that despite Pat’s worldly-wise attitude to men, she liked him and was grateful.
Greta tried to avoid Stanley Floyd since she could not think of anything polite to say to him, and it was not difficult when he showed no interest in talking to her. He had always looked down on her, she thought. Just as he looked down on Pat for working in a factory.
She left their house and went out into the lovely summer afternoon. Loath to go straight home on the bus, she walked back down to the Green. The air was full of the smell of blossom and she enjoyed the feel of the sun on her face. For a while she sat down on the seat round the circular Rest House and stared back across the gleaming grass. There were people going in and out of the shops, but she had the green space and the seats to herself.
In those moments she allowed herself to feel. Now that her rage against Stanley Floyd had abated, the beauty of the day brought out her own sadness.
‘Oh, David,’ she whispered, seeing his handsome, tormented face in her mind. ‘Why did you have to give me any hope? I love you, damn you . . .’ A surge of grief came over her and she sat and wept, hands over her face, not caring if anyone saw her. Here she was, alone again, the one man she had ever really loved far away across the world, having turned his back on her.
She cried until no more tears would come, then got up and walked slowly back towards Selly Oak. All she could do was just go on.
Within a month of Josie’s death, Pat announced – though only to Greta: she kept quiet to anyone else – that her mother had moved out and refused to live with her husband ever again.
‘Now Josie’s gone, she says she’s had more than enough!’ Pat said, looking awed and excited at her mother doing what for years had been unthinkable. ‘I never ever thought she’d do it!’
‘Blimey!’ Greta laughed. She
found it hard to believe too, of dutiful, respectable Mrs Floyd, but she was delighted. Once again though she bit back any comment about Stanley Floyd. He was still Pat’s Dad after all.
‘What’s she going to do?’
‘Well, she’s moving in with me to start with,’ Pat said, dimpling. ‘And she’s going to get a job and we’ll find somewhere bigger to live. Another flat or something. Oh, Gret – I’m so pleased for her, even though it’s awful really, isn’t it? I can’t imagine what people in the church will say.’
Greta grinned wickedly. ‘No – nor can I.’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
New York, June 1969
The water was a calm blue, broken by tiny, foam-edged waves.
David sat on a bench, looking out from Battery Park at the tip of Manhattan, drinking in the sensation of the sun’s rays on his face. In the hazy distance two of the harbour’s islands rose up in the water, Lady Liberty’s verdigris figure holding high her torch. And he could make out the ghostly, skulking buildings of Ellis Island, once the entry point for countless desperate immigrants fresh off the boats, but now closed down and left to rot.
He thought of all the Jews arriving with their meagre bundles of belongings from the shtetls of middle Europe. And how he had arrived, so smoothly in comparison, with money behind him, to find himself a home, just as they had. Here he was, also trying to be an American, clad here in a new pair of denim Levis and casual tie-dye shirt. New world: new life.
For a moment he closed his eyes, breathing in the billowing air which offered whiffs of cigarette smoke, of fried onions from the hot dog vendor a distance along the path, and a whiff of the brackish water. He was living in a city of discovery, its youth swathed in flamboyant ethnic clothing and swinging with novel trends, with political activism, with poets and songsters, artists and drug-burned visionaries . . . And he was still young. Yet why, instead of feeling at one with them, did he feel so in tune with the older people, many living with the residue of traumatic experiences deep within their nervous systems? He knew that it was because of his father and because of Israel. Because of Gila.