Families and Friendships (6 page)

‘Cor! She's quite something!' he had remarked to his few friends who knew his story, when he had first met her. ‘What a smasher, eh? I didn't say that to Mum, although I think there might be a plan for them to meet quite soon. Fiona's a lovely lady, so kind and thoughtful, and she makes me really welcome.'

He watched baby Stella grow, too, from an adorable baby to a cute little toddler with her mother's golden hair and the silvery grey eyes of her father.

When he visited them in the June of 1968 Stella was eighteen months old, walking very ably and beginning to talk. He was pleased when the little girl recognized him, calling out ‘Greg!' and smiling delightedly.

‘Good to see you again, Greg,' said Simon, shaking his hand, then giving him a bear hug. Fiona kissed his cheek, telling him he was very welcome.

‘Me, me!' cried Stella, opening her arms for Greg to lift her up.

‘My goodness! You're a ton weight,' he exclaimed. ‘What a big girl you are, Stella.'

‘Don't wear nappies now,' said Stella, and they all laughed.

‘Only at night,' added Fiona, ‘but I don't think Greg wants to know about that. Yes, she's growing up fast.'

‘And you're looking well, Fiona,' said Greg, putting the little girl down. ‘Positively blooming.'

‘There's a reason for that,' said Fiona, smiling at him and then at her husband. ‘Stella's going to have a little baby brother … or sister, of course.'

‘That's great news,' said Greg. ‘Congratulations! So … when will it be?'

‘December,' said Fiona. ‘The same month as Stella's birthday. It's early days yet, so I've only told a few people. My friend, Joan, knows, and Simon's family. And my friend, Ginny, from Tyneside. She was the very first to know, apart from Simon. They came to see us a little while ago, and she guessed … as close friends do. Time enough for the gossip-mongers in the parish to find out,' she said, laughing. ‘But I'm sure they'll be very pleased.'

‘I have some news as well,' said Greg. ‘Nothing as exciting as yours, but come outside and look at my new means of transport.'

‘You've bought a car!' said Simon. ‘Well, good for you. And learnt to drive as well, presumably?'

‘Come and see,' said Greg with great pride. They had been standing in the hallway, and now they all trooped out into the front garden, There on the path was a little red mini car, all gleaming with newness, with a bright red petrol tank.

‘Wizard! That's a smashing little job,' exclaimed Simon, reverting to his old RAF slang. ‘When did you get that?'

‘About a month ago,' said Greg.

‘Brand new, is it?'

‘Almost. Just one careful owner. And I passed my test, first time! I had several lessons before I bought the car. I'm getting quite proficient now.'

‘Yes, they're great little cars,' said Simon. ‘Not suitable for a family, of course, but ideal for a first car. I've often admired them.' The mini had become amazingly popular since it had been brought out a few years earlier, very handy for nipping around the town, and was within the budget of most people. ‘You drive to work now, do you?'

‘Yes, of course. I'm there in no time compared with the bus. But I'll have a bit further to travel before long. That's another piece of news. I'm moving into a flat of my own …'

He had arrived early on Friday evening, travelling from Manchester when he had finished work for the weekend. After Stella had been bathed and put to bed and they had enjoyed their evening meal, Greg told Simon and Fiona all his news.

‘I've put a deposit down on a flat,' he said. ‘Just a small one, but it's self-contained. One bedroom, a living room, bathroom and kitchen. It's a few miles from the city centre, on the way to Oldham. Possibly a bit further to travel, but I've got the car now.' At the moment Greg lived with his mother and younger brother and sister in Didsbury, a rather affluent district of Manchester where his father, Keith, had practised as a doctor.

‘You've done very well for yourself,' observed Simon. ‘I'm sure your mother must be very proud of you. It'll be a wrench for her, though, won't it, you leaving home, with your brother and sister both being away?' Greg's brother, Graham, was in his first year at Leeds University, and his sister, Grace, was due to finish her teacher training at Bingley College this summer.

‘Mum'll be OK,' said Greg, smiling. ‘I've told you before; she's a survivor. Actually, we rather think she'll be getting married soon. We're just waiting for her to tell us. And we all like Brian very much so we'll be very pleased for her.'

‘What about your flat then, Greg?' asked Simon. ‘Are you buying it, dare I ask? Or renting?'

‘I'm buying it!' said Greg, with a beaming smile. ‘Well, with a mortgage, of course. But Dad left us all quite a tidy sum, so I've been able to put down a good deposit. And I've had a rise as well. The firm's on the up and up, I'm pleased to say.' Greg was a junior partner in a firm of solicitors in Manchester, where he had worked since leaving university three years previously.

‘I shall look forward to entertaining you all when I've settled in,' he told them. ‘Sorry I can't put you up, but I've got to start small, then maybe I'll progress to buying a house, some day.'

‘You've done very well as it is,' Fiona told him. ‘And what about … she's called Helen, isn't she?'

‘Oh, I'm afraid Helen's history now,' said Greg, a trifle regretfully. ‘It was good while it lasted, but we decided to call it a day. It was mutual and we parted on good terms. So … I'm footloose and fancy free at the moment.'

Fiona thought to herself that he would probably not stay that way for long. He was a personable young man with his father's – his real father's – winning ways; the same warm smile and thoughtful grey eyes. He was pleasantly handsome, too, which, coupled with his friendliness – albeit with a touch of modesty – would be bound to attract many a young woman.

‘Simon and I are really pleased you came and found us,' she told him later, whilst Simon was having a long telephone conversation with a member of the church council, which often happened of an evening. ‘Of course I've told you this before, haven't I?'

‘The same goes for me,' replied Greg. ‘You've become my second family. And I'm really pleased about your news, Fiona … You'll be wanting a boy this time, maybe?'

‘Perhaps; I might …' she replied. ‘One of each, it would be nice. But I don't really mind. You do know, don't you,' she added, ‘that Stella was not my first child? I'm sure Simon will have mentioned it. I did say to him that he should tell you.'

‘Yes, and so he did,' said Greg. ‘A strange coincidence, wasn't it, the same thing happening to both you and Simon? It must have been a very traumatic time for you, having your baby, then losing her?'

‘Yes, it was. It took a while for me to forget. Well, I've never really forgotten, of course, but it doesn't hurt any more.'

‘And have you never been tempted to find out what happened to your little girl?' he asked.

‘I was tempted at first, but not now. I still think about her sometimes. I'm sure to, I suppose, but not as much as I used to do.'

‘There's always the chance that she might want to find out, like I did,' said Greg. ‘That is if she knows she was adopted. She might decide to look for you. Have you thought about that?'

‘Sometimes,' replied Fiona. ‘It's a possibility. At the moment, though, I'm very contented. Amazingly happy, in fact …' She didn't really want anything to come along and disturb her comfortable and settled way of life.

‘Of course you can't leave school, Debbie,' said Vera, for the umpteenth time. ‘Your teachers all say how well you're doing. You've taken – how many O levels is it? Eight? – and you'll no doubt pass them all …'

‘It's nine, actually,' said Debbie, in the offhand manner that was starting to irritate her mother so much.

‘Well, nine then,' snapped Vera. ‘That's even better, isn't it? And it makes what you want to do even sillier. Leave school, indeed! Now, I don't want to hear any more about it. Neither does your dad … do you, Stanley?'

Stanley Hargreaves, from behind his newspaper, gave an audible sigh. ‘No, Debbie. Your mum's right. We think you should make the most of the chance you've got to go into the sixth form. You're a clever lass, and we don't want you to waste all this … well, all this book learning and so on.'

‘Yes, your daddy and me, we never had the chances you've got, to do all this schooling. We had to leave school when we were fourteen and get a job, like it or not.'

‘Tell me the old, old story …' muttered Debbie under her breath, but Vera heard her.

‘And don't be so cheeky, young lady! I don't know what's happening to you just lately. You never used to be like this.'

‘Yes, just you watch what you're saying, pet,' said Stanley, a little more tolerantly. In a way he could understand how his daughter felt. All this sixth form business, then college or university was very strange to him. After all, Debbie was sixteen, and, as Vera said, they had been working for two years when they were that age. But things were different now, he supposed, and he was doing his best to support his wife in what she wanted for their precious daughter.

‘And don't forget,' he added, ‘your mum's going out to work now, so that we can have a few extras, and you never go short of anything.'

‘Nobody asked her to,' retorted Debbie. ‘She's doing it because she wants to, aren't you, Mum? And that's what I want to do; go out to work instead of going into the boring old sixth form. I've already got a job, and Mr Hill says I can work there full time in September if I want to. And I do want to. You know how good I am with plants, Dad. You've been telling me ever since I was a little girl that I've got green fingers – like you have. I thought you would understand. It's what I enjoy doing, more than anything.'

‘And we don't want to stop you from doing it, Debbie,' said her mother. ‘You could still carry on working at Sunnyhill, like you're doing now, at weekends and in the holidays, if you went back to school.'

Debbie had been helping out at the Sunnyhill garden centre on the outskirts of Whitesands Bay for almost a year now. Vera and Stanley had once called in to see her there, much to Debbie's annoyance. But Mr Hill, the owner, had made them very welcome and had given them glowing reports of how keen and helpful she was, and how she had an aptitude for the work in the garden and in the greenhouses. She would willingly do the more menial tasks, too, such as making the tea and running errands, which, as the junior member of staff, she was expected to do. Vera could have told him that it was more than she did at home, but she kept quiet.

Debbie, however, had not been pleased. ‘Don't come in again,' she said to her parents. ‘You made me feel a fool, checking up on me like that, as though I'm a little girl. It wasn't as if you really wanted to buy anything.'

‘Yes, we did,' said Stanley. ‘I bought some fertilizer for the tomatoes, and a new pair of shears. And I had a real good chat with Charlie Hill, all about greenfly and pest control. He's a real nice chap, and very knowledgeable. He gave me a good discount, too.'

‘Yes, he is very nice,' agreed Debbie. ‘But you know just as much as he does, Dad, about gardening and everything. You've been working in gardens longer than he has.'

‘Aye, well; he's had the brass to set himself up in business, hasn't he? And jolly good luck to him. Your mum and me, we just wanted to see how you were getting on, that's all. But we won't come again if you don't want us to.'

‘OK, then,' said Debbie, feeling relieved. ‘Actually, Mr Hill says you can have a discount anytime you want to buy anything. If you tell me what you want I can bring it home for you.'

Vera had guessed that it might not be entirely the work that was the attraction at the garden centre. When she and Stanley had called there Debbie had been in one of the greenhouses, watering the tomato plants whilst deep in conversation with a blonde, tousle-haired lad. He looked a little older than Debbie, but Vera had summed him up straightaway as a nice respectable sort of young man. That they liked one another was obvious from their smiling glances and laughter.

When Debbie had seen her parents she had almost dropped the watering can and the look on her face spoke volumes. ‘Mum! Dad! What are you doing here?' she cried out.

The lad walked away with a smile saying, ‘I'll leave you to your visitors, Debbie. See you later.'

‘Mr Hill told us where to find you,' said her father. ‘Sorry, love. We didn't think you'd mind us coming to have a look at you.'

‘Yes, sorry if we're interrupting your work,' added her mother with a sly smile.

‘It's not that …' Debbie shrugged. ‘You just gave me a shock, that's all. I wasn't expecting you.'

‘Yes, we can see that,' said Vera. ‘He seems a nice lad,' she added nonchalantly, nodding towards the retreating figure at the end of the greenhouse. ‘Who is he?'

‘That's Kevin,' replied Debbie, a trifle grumpily. ‘Kevin Hill. He's Mr Hill's son, actually.'

‘Oh well, that's good,' said Vera. ‘I'm glad you've got some friends here.'

That had been back in April. Now it was July, and Vera and Stanley had not gone to see Debbie again at her work, feeling it was better not to vex her unnecessarily. She was difficult to cope with as it was. They had, however, learnt a little more about Kevin Hill.

It was soon after their visit to the garden centre that Debbie had asked – she had, in fact, asked, rather than just telling them – if it was alright if she went to the pictures that night with Kevin. It was Saturday and she had been working all day. Because she had been polite and asked them nicely, they had agreed, and had not quizzed her overmuch. After all, she was sixteen; quite old enough to have a first boyfriend, they supposed. And he was the owner's son …