Faded Dreams (24 page)

   ‘Joe, this is my husband Bob, and this is my son Frankie. I named him after his father.’

   Dragging his admiring eyes away from her, Joe slipped back to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil, measuring a spoonful of tea into each of five tannin-stained mugs and setting aside the cracked ones for himself and his missus.

   Florrie offered a few buttered cream crackers firstly to Janie then to a ruddy-faced double-chinned Bob and finally to a ruddy-faced, double-chinned Frankie.

   This was never Frank’s son… never in a million years. The resemblance between him and Janie’s second husband stood out a mile. He was a “miniature Bob”.

   To begin with the conversation was fairly light, recalling their last meeting on that New Year’s Eve long ago. When Joe boasted of some of the tricks the lads and him had got up to, Janie asked if it was true that he had once used Frank’s rifle for target practice in the back yard.

   ‘Yeah that’s true enough,’ Joe said proudly, rising to his feet. He handed his pot of tea to Florrie before moving towards the parlour window to demonstrate.

   ‘Ee by gum Janie,
that’s
some years ago… I’d forgot all about
that.
Some of the lads put tin-cans on the backyard wall and gave me Frank’s rifle. I’d never even had hold of a gun in me life before… I hadn’t… honest to God, but I said I’d have a go.’

   ‘I stood  in yon kitchen and dropped the window halfway down… like
this
.’ With all eyes upon him he was re-enacting the incident,  ‘I rested the rifle on it to take aim… like
this...
and then, BANG.’ His acting was so realistic, the recoil of his imaginary gun caused his shoulder to jerk back. He rocked back on his heels, regained his balance in an exaggerated theatrical flourish and chuckled.

   ‘I never
did
get the hang of it but by God, when I think back it’s a wonder I didn’t shoot half The British Army dead, there and then!’

   ‘What about the policeman? Did the policeman come?’ a wide-eyed Frankie wanted to know.

   ‘Yeah, some nosey bugger telephoned the police but me and the lads were off having a pint by the time the rozzer got here on his bike. Poor Florrie had to stand here and swear it had never happened. Mad as ‘ell with us, weren’t ya Florrie? Do you remember
that
?’

   Everybody laughed except for Florrie who was nervously watching the charade and wishing he would just pipe down and stop bragging.

    In an effort to compete with Joe’s stories, Bob decided to join in with his own memories. He talked of the friendship he and poor old Frank had shared since childhood…they had been more like brothers than pals, he told them.

   The atmosphere turned sombre. Joe did some gulping and coughing and asked about the explosion that had killed Frank. With only the briefest of explanations that he had been defusing an unexploded bomb in Coventry and had been awarded a medal posthumously, Janie quickly changed the subject.

   ‘Oh Joe, ' she jumped to her feet, 'I must show Bob and Frankie your home-made air-raid shelter. It’s a
scream,
is it still there?’

   Joe walked through to the kitchen with everyone close behind. He flung open the door under the stairs to reveal a musty-smelling “glory-hole” full of useless junk, most of it  the spoils of his long and undistinguished career in pilfering; dismantled bicycles and wirelesses, partially dismembered religious statues, cardboard boxes overflowing with miscellaneous items that would never again lead a useful life. Florrie cringed at the sight.

   ‘Those were the days, weren’t they?’ Janie laughed. ‘I can’t believe Frank and me once slept in this tiny room,’ her twitching nose tilted towards the ceiling. ‘Why, it’s no more than a box!’

   Back in the parlour her frosty stare settled on Florrie. ‘You know Florrie, all those years ago I always wondered if there was something going on between you and Frank?’

Her crimson mouth split in two, lips stretched tautly against her lipstick-stained teeth in the same excuse-for-a-smile Florrie had known so briefly but remembered so well. ‘The way he talked about you and sang your praises.’ The measured words had lain dormant for a decade waiting for the exact moment to be uttered and were taunting, deliberate, rehearsed.  ‘The way he loved the time spent here with you in
this
house…’ she went on,  ignoring the sudden silence.

   Her eyes flashed around the parlour leaving nothing unnoticed as if to emphasise that nothing in this modest room had changed since 1941.

   The colour rushed to Florrie’s cheeks, beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and the back of her neck and then Joe came to her rescue.

   ‘Yeah they all liked coming here for a knees-up Janie… a few jars of ale and a sing-song  round the Old Johanna,’ he threw his arm round his wife’s shoulder, ‘we had some bloody good times in them days, didn’t we cock?’

   Janie and Bob exchanged a scornful glance at the term he’d used  and by the time they left in their swanky car both couples knew they would never meet again. They were barely out of sight before Joe swung Florrie round to face him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

   ‘Well, what’s all
this
about? Is it true what she said about you and Frank? About him fancying ya?’

   Billy’s unexpected appearance at the back door  fuelled his anger. ‘Ya nosey little sod,  piss off, and don’t come back till teatime.’

   Billy slammed the door and ran down the yard.

   ‘For Christ’s sake Joe, don’t take it out on
him
,’ Florrie pleaded, ‘what’s it got to do with our Billy?’

  ‘Bugger our Billy. What about you and Frank Neild? Did he have his eye on you all them years ago?’

   ‘Did he hell, you barmy sod,’ she scoffed, trying to keep her voice even,

   ‘Looks like I’ve been a barmy sod  all me bloody life then.’ The distrust, the doubts, the humiliation, the memories of her unfaithfulness, all came rushing back.

   She put her arms around his neck. He would never forgive her for going with Frank, of all men. She had to convince him, once and for all.

   ‘Take no notice of Janie, the daft bugger, she’s nothing but a trouble-maker. And anyway,
she’s
no room to talk about bothering with other fellas. Look at that kid of hers… he’s
never
Frank’s lad… never in a month of Sundays. He’s the spitting image of
that
Bob, Frank’s
so-called
best
friend.’

   She slid her hands on to his shoulders, squeezing them vigorously, feeling the tension leave his body.

   ‘Now come on, Joe… there was nothing between me and Frank Neild so shuddup and for God’s sake let’s forget about it once and for all.’

   Joe needed a few minutes to think, but the nearness of her was making him think of how much he wanted her.

   ‘I’m sorry sweetheart,’ he crushed her to him, ‘I should know better than to think poor old Frank would do a thing like that to
me
… his best mate. Come on upstairs then.’

   Florrie, uncomplaining and passive as ever, allowed herself to be bundled upstairs. It was important that his suspicions were squashed, and only by taking her to bed could his fragile self-confidence be restored.

   She was hardly out of her dress and corsets before he pushed her gently onto the bed. Neither pleasured nor repulsed, she was busy thanking her lucky stars that Billy had not returned ten minutes earlier. What conclusion would that bitch Janie have come to if she’d come face to face with Billy? His shyness, his sweet freckled face, his sparkling brown eyes, his rich auburn hair… so much like Frank’s.

   She sniffed repeatedly, her eyes threatening to overflow. Joe rolled on to his back with a deep sigh of satisfaction followed by a bout of painful coughing. He rubbed at his wheezy chest with one hand and gently patted her bare thigh with the other.

   ‘It’s all right lass, don’t upset yourself, I’m sorry I shouted  at you and our Billy. I’ll make it up to him, you’ll see. I’ll take him to Derby with me tomorrow, he will be suited about that, won’t he?’ He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and kissed her hair. ‘Give over fretting now… we love one another…me and you… and that’s the only thing what counts, isn’t it?’

   She blinked away her tears and nodded. He was always the same, shouting and bawling at her and the kids and then believing he could get round them with a bit of “soft-soaping”. He would never change  but he was right, if they didn’t love one another they wouldn’t have stuck together all these years.  She had always thought  maybe
one
day, just
one
day, she’d decide she’d had enough …

   Tucked up in bed that night a puzzled Billy said, ‘Mum… my dad doesn’t like me, does he? Why not?’

   Florrie often found herself talking to Billy in a confidential manner that she didn’t use with the girls. They were either out gallivanting or at work, and now that Ellen was training to be a Nanny she had her head stuck in a book, more often than not. Yet Billy, young as he was, seemed to be in tune with her feelings, able to sense her unhappiness.

   ‘To tell you the honest truth Billy, there’s times when your dad doesn’t like
any
of us.’

   It wasn’t the reassurance he was looking for. ‘But why does he not like
any
of us, mum?’

   Absent-mindedly she ran her fingers through his soft, shiny hair, unrealistically expecting the child to have the understanding of an adult.

   ‘God only knows. He’s always
were
a quick-tempered sod  that never knew when he’d gone far enough… your Granny Pomfret warned me often enough about that,’ she lowered her voice almost as if she were talking to herself, ‘one of these days when all of you have grown up, I’ll “sling me hook”. I’ll be out of here like a shot and nobody’ll find me. I’d have gone long since if it weren’t for you kids.’

   ‘That’ll not be for ages, will it mum? I’ll…I’ll… do some ironing for you tomorrow if you’re tired.’

   ‘Get to sleep, that’s a good lad.’

   In the darkening room Billy was still worrying that his mother would sling her hook
before
they had all grown up when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He cowered as his father approached the bed, expecting another tongue-lashing but this time he had no need to worry. His father’s rough unshaven face brushed against his own soft cheek, his strong work-worn hands pressed the bed covers snug against his trembling body.

   ‘Are you warm enough, cock?  I’ll put me jacket across your feet. Now then Billy, if you’re a good lad, and if you can be up by the crack o’ dawn tomorrow, I’ll take ya to Derby with me. How’d ya like that?’

   Billy nodded vigorously. His dad was a good dad, he’d always known that, so it must be
his
fault for causing all this trouble.
He’d just have to try a bit harder not to get on his dad’s nerves… but then what if his mum changed her mind
anyway
,
about waiting till he’d grown up before she slung her hook?

*

   ‘Wake up Billy, ya’ll have to look sharp if your coming to Derby.’

   Billy rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the back of his fists. ‘Is it the crack o'dawn yet, dad?’

   ‘Aye, it’s 10 minutes
past
the crack o’ dawn already,’ his father chortled, ‘now, don’t waken the whole bloody house up or they’ll all want to come with us. Get your clothes on, have a quick swill to waken yourself up, and we’ll get on our way.’

   The lorry trundled towards Manchester with Billy, bobbing up and down in the high cab, a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

   ‘Dad, dad, can we stop at Mucky Mick’s for our breakfast like last time?’

   ‘Aye if y’want to, cock.’

   Joe was trying hard to make amends for upsetting him the night before. It didn’t matter how many times him and Florrie fell out, it always seemed to be the lad that finished up at the sharp end of it all.

   At  4 o’ clock in the morning the warm brightly lit transport café was teeming. A carpet of snoring lorry drivers stretched almost to the counter; the smell of petrol-splashed overalls, together with the  odour of men who toiled hard and bathed rarely, hung in the air. A few down-at-heel individuals who had drifted in to escape the chilly night were hunched beneath ragged coats.

   ‘How do Mick?’ Joe greeted the greasy man wielding the greasy pan, ‘Give us egg and bacon twice, a plate of bread and butter and two pots of tea, please.’

   They sat at the nearest table pushing aside the dirty plates left by its previous occupants. Joe slapped a bacon rasher on to a thick slice of bread, dipped it in his egg-yolk and handed it, along with the hand-rolled half-cigarette he’d stored behind his ear, to the nearest huddle of humanity. His simple kindness and the way he brushed off the gratitude it generated did not go unnoticed by his young son.