Read Online Bells of Bournville Green by Annie Murray - Free Book Online
Authors: Annie Murray
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said. What’s this about children?
‘In America they have Thanksgiving, not Christmas,’ Marleen volunteered suddenly.
‘That’s most true, they do,’ Herbert said, and this was his cue to go off on a long speech about the Pilgrim Fathers and the good ship Mayflower landing in America in the seventeenth century. ‘It’s really a harvest celebration,’ he finished.
‘Ooh, don’t you know a lot?’ Ruby said, beaming at him. ‘Can I top up your glass, Herbert?’
‘You can top me up any time,’ Herbert said, with a suggestive grin, and he and Ruby laughed for a long time at this.
‘You are a scream,’ Ruby said, her cheeks very pink from cooking and generous amounts of cider. ‘Ain’t he a scream, girls? There’s no one like Herbert for a good joke.’
As the meal continued, with Herbert boasting about how much money he was earning, about the car he was about to buy, not to mention the new house he planned to buy too, and Ruby’s behaviour became more and more flirtatious, Greta sat feeling more and more outraged and embarrassed. She was ashamed of her mother, of her being tipsy, of her past, the way she had to fling herself at men and usually the wrong ones. Men were only after one thing, Ruby often said. So why give it to them all the time then?
The joking and laughing made her feel sick. The longer the meal went on, the more she felt wound up, tighter and tighter. She wanted to get up and run from the house. She looked round the table at her Mom, puce-faced and making up to this fat creep, her sister, sulky-faced and sickly, no more than a child herself and trying to cope with Mary Lou and some other unknown man’s brat in her belly. And this was her family.
Suddenly she felt very distant from them, as if she was seeing them on telly, like a film. She didn’t want to be where they were.
I’m never having children, she thought. Never, never, never.
She was the one who was going to be different. She wasn’t going to get caught out like that – she was going to get somewhere in her life. But she hated feeling like this about her family: she wanted to be bursting with pride, the way Dennis was over his.
As she was lost in these thoughts, she became aware of a strange sensation in her left leg. As she came back to reality with a bump, she realized it was a hand, stroking her. Herbert was sitting at the end, on her left, talking to Ruby as if with all his attention, but all the time his hand was on her thigh under the table. Greta froze. She tried to move away but there was no space. The hand kept stroking. So she picked up her fork and jabbed the prongs into the back of his hand.
Herbert let out a yelp and pulled his hand away.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Ruby asked. ‘Have you hurt yourself, Herbert?’
Greta looked up, innocently.
‘No, no – it’s nothing!’ he said, avoiding Greta’s eye. ‘I just caught my knee under the table, that’s all.’
‘Well as long as you’re all right,’ Ruby said, patting his shoulder. ‘Now then – who’s for plum pudding?’
Chapter Nine
Teeth chattering, Greta rapped her knuckles on the cracked yellow paint of the Biddles’ front door. She’d been in such a hurry to get out, and as they only lived a short way down Charlotte Street, she hadn’t thought to put her coat on. Icy air bit into her cheeks, snow lay trodden in uneven lumps, and more was beginning to fall.
The door opened a fraction to reveal Trevor’s seven-year-old sister Dorrie, a plump, eccentric little girl, who was a smaller version of their Mom. Behind the door she could hear voices and the television and there was a mixture of smells: cooked meat, sprouts, dog and cigarettes.
‘Trevor said you’d never come,’ Dorrie announced. She was wearing a vivid pink dress with a tiered skirt, each layer trimmed with bands of white lace.
‘Well, I’m here aren’t I?’ Greta said. ‘That a new dress?’
‘Yes – it’s my fairy dress . . .’ Dorrie twirled
‘In America they have Thanksgiving, not Christmas,’ Marleen volunteered suddenly.
‘That’s most true, they do,’ Herbert said, and this was his cue to go off on a long speech about the Pilgrim Fathers and the good ship Mayflower landing in America in the seventeenth century. ‘It’s really a harvest celebration,’ he finished.
‘Ooh, don’t you know a lot?’ Ruby said, beaming at him. ‘Can I top up your glass, Herbert?’
‘You can top me up any time,’ Herbert said, with a suggestive grin, and he and Ruby laughed for a long time at this.
‘You are a scream,’ Ruby said, her cheeks very pink from cooking and generous amounts of cider. ‘Ain’t he a scream, girls? There’s no one like Herbert for a good joke.’
As the meal continued, with Herbert boasting about how much money he was earning, about the car he was about to buy, not to mention the new house he planned to buy too, and Ruby’s behaviour became more and more flirtatious, Greta sat feeling more and more outraged and embarrassed. She was ashamed of her mother, of her being tipsy, of her past, the way she had to fling herself at men and usually the wrong ones. Men were only after one thing, Ruby often said. So why give it to them all the time then?
The joking and laughing made her feel sick. The longer the meal went on, the more she felt wound up, tighter and tighter. She wanted to get up and run from the house. She looked round the table at her Mom, puce-faced and making up to this fat creep, her sister, sulky-faced and sickly, no more than a child herself and trying to cope with Mary Lou and some other unknown man’s brat in her belly. And this was her family.
Suddenly she felt very distant from them, as if she was seeing them on telly, like a film. She didn’t want to be where they were.
I’m never having children, she thought. Never, never, never.
She was the one who was going to be different. She wasn’t going to get caught out like that – she was going to get somewhere in her life. But she hated feeling like this about her family: she wanted to be bursting with pride, the way Dennis was over his.
As she was lost in these thoughts, she became aware of a strange sensation in her left leg. As she came back to reality with a bump, she realized it was a hand, stroking her. Herbert was sitting at the end, on her left, talking to Ruby as if with all his attention, but all the time his hand was on her thigh under the table. Greta froze. She tried to move away but there was no space. The hand kept stroking. So she picked up her fork and jabbed the prongs into the back of his hand.
Herbert let out a yelp and pulled his hand away.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Ruby asked. ‘Have you hurt yourself, Herbert?’
Greta looked up, innocently.
‘No, no – it’s nothing!’ he said, avoiding Greta’s eye. ‘I just caught my knee under the table, that’s all.’
‘Well as long as you’re all right,’ Ruby said, patting his shoulder. ‘Now then – who’s for plum pudding?’
Chapter Nine
Teeth chattering, Greta rapped her knuckles on the cracked yellow paint of the Biddles’ front door. She’d been in such a hurry to get out, and as they only lived a short way down Charlotte Street, she hadn’t thought to put her coat on. Icy air bit into her cheeks, snow lay trodden in uneven lumps, and more was beginning to fall.
The door opened a fraction to reveal Trevor’s seven-year-old sister Dorrie, a plump, eccentric little girl, who was a smaller version of their Mom. Behind the door she could hear voices and the television and there was a mixture of smells: cooked meat, sprouts, dog and cigarettes.
‘Trevor said you’d never come,’ Dorrie announced. She was wearing a vivid pink dress with a tiered skirt, each layer trimmed with bands of white lace.
‘Well, I’m here aren’t I?’ Greta said. ‘That a new dress?’
‘Yes – it’s my fairy dress . . .’ Dorrie twirled
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