Can Dreams Come True?

by Oliver, Marina

  'The fire went out,' Jeannie explained tearfully, 'Gran hadn't made it up and I dain't like ter try and light it again, in case it set fire ter summat.'

  'Never mind, love. Here, go and get us some fish and chips, that'll warm us all.'

  She set to, relaying the fire. It was so cold it must have gone out mid-morning, so where had Hattie been all day? And why hadn't Sam come home after work? When they'd eaten the fish and chips she sent the children to bed, and sat up waiting. She was coldly furious, and when she finally went to bed at midnight she thought it was perhaps as well for Sam that he hadn't returned. By tomorrow perhaps her fury would have died down, and been replaced by worry about what had happened to him.

  Hattie must have gone off wandering again, and Maggie felt no sympathy with her mother. If she hadn't the sense she was born with, and kept on doing this, she deserved all she got. Except, Maggie thought wryly, that if Hattie were ill it was Maggie who had to nurse her, with all the extra work and expense that meant.

  In the morning, when she woke alone in her bed, she began to worry about Sam. Had there been an accident? If so, surely someone would have come to tell them, the police or from a hospital? Unless he was so badly hurt he couldn't tell them where he lived. Was he with another woman as he'd occasionally threatened? Had she driven him to that with her constant refusals? But he'd have crept home, she was convinced, not stayed out all night. He'd be too wary of her to brazen it out. Maybe he was lying drunk in a gutter somewhere? If so, he could stay there.

  As she raked the kitchen fire and blew the embers into life she wondered whether she ought to do something, but she did not want to leave the children alone another whole day. Jeannie had told her last night that Hattie had left soon after she had gone herself for the bus, and Sam had not been seen since he went out to work.

  The church bells were ringing before she heard a sharp rat-a-tat on the front door. It sounded official, somehow. Not like one of the neighbours. Slowly, not wanting to hear bad news, Maggie went to open it, the children crowding at her back. Outside stood a couple of policemen, both tall, but one with a bristling moustache.

  'Mrs Pritchard? We have to search your house.'

  Before Maggie could protest or ask why they were inside. One stayed with her while the moustached one, who seemed to be a senior rank, made his way straight through the kitchen and out of the back door into their small patch of garden.

  'What is it? What do you want?' she demanded of the other.

  'Come and sit down, Missus. In the parlour,' he suggested, opening the door to Maggie's bedroom with one hand while he grasped her arm with the other.

  'We don't have a parlour! What are you doing here? What have we done?'

  Having glanced into the front room he steered her into the kitchen, and she sat down with a thump into one of the chairs.

  'Send the kiddies to play upstairs,' he said, and his voice was suddenly kinder. 'Got kiddies meself, and they'd be best out of this.'

  'Out of what? If you don't tell me soon I shall scream!'

  'Now then, let's be having no hysterics. You are Mrs Pritchard, married to Samuel Pritchard?'

  'Yes! Where is he? Is he hurt?'

  At that moment his colleague came back, shaking his head. 'Nothing out there. Your husband, Mrs Pritchard, has been arrested on suspicion of theft.'

  Maggie's breath left her lungs and she struggled to breathe. 'Theft?' she managed. 'What? Where?'

  'Either theft or receiving stolen goods,' she was told. 'That's why we have to search, to see if he has any hidden here.'

  'Where is he? I don't understand!'

  'You soon will. Stay here with her, Bert. We don't want her running off to warn his pals.'

  'What has he – is he supposed to have stolen?' Maggie demanded. She was quite prepared to believe Sam would filch small, easily concealed items if he saw them lying around, and in Birmingham he'd had some dubious friends, and had spent his time and money in pubs and gambling on the horses and dogs, but she'd never suspected him of the sort of theft these men were talking about. That, she thought, trying to suppress her rising fury, would take more guts than Sam possessed.

  'We can't say.'

  'Then where is he? Can I see him?'

  'He's at the station for now. They might let you see him before he's taken to prison.'

  This was getting worse. If Sam were in prison he wouldn't be earning, he couldn't go to fetch Hattie back whenever she disappeared, and what on earth was she to tell the children?

  *

  Kate lay on the small sofa, the covering so rough it chafed her skin where the inadequate blanket Walter had found for her, which she had wrapped round herself, didn't completely cover her.

  They'd escaped from the kitchen to the cackling laughter of old Mrs Thomson. Walter had thrust her into the front parlour, and stood looking at her, a bemused expression on his face.

  'Is it true? You'm having a babby? That was what she meant, weren't it?'

  Miserably Kate nodded. There was no point in denying it. 'I don't know what to do. I just hope Maggie won't throw me out.'

  Walter sat down suddenly on one of the small armchairs either side of the hearth, scratching his head. 'Gals who get inter trouble has ter marry the father,' he said slowly. 'Why don't he help yer?'

  'He – he won't.' She couldn't bear to repeat what John had said.

  'Gran thinks it's mine.'

  'Oh, Walter, I'm so sorry! That's dreadful. If I'd thought anyone would guess I'd never have let you bring me here.'

  A slow grin spread over his face. 'Kate, yer knows I've allus liked yer. If he won't do the right thing by yer, we could wed.'

  'You and me?' Kate exclaimed.

  'Why not?' He looked bashful suddenly. 'I've never had a sweetheart. I'd like ter wed you, Kate. And I'd not tell folk the babby ain't mine.'

  Suddenly bashful, he'd left the room, brought back a blanket which he'd thrust at her without another word, and vanished again. Kate had heard loud arguments in the kitchen some time later, and knew they were about her, but no one came into the parlour, so eventually she rolled herself into the blanket and tried to sleep.

  She had no wish to marry Walter. They'd been in the same class, and he'd been kind, but she had no feelings for him apart from mild liking and gratitude. She didn't think of him in the way she had thought about John. The very idea of sleeping in the same bed with him, doing what she had done with John, made her shudder with distaste. And yet, he was kind, it would solve the important problem, give her baby a name and a father.

  Did she want her child acknowledging Walter as its father? Living in a house like this, in a spacious clean suburb, would be better than the crowded slums where she and Maggie had grown up. Walter had a good job, no doubt they'd soon be able to find their own house and not have to live with his family.

  Perhaps she ought to meet that family first, before she decided. It might not be what she'd hoped her life would be, but she could make something of it. She owed it to her baby to do the best she could for it, and no other solution presented itself. Kate finally dropped off to sleep, but woke some hours later, her eyes wet with tears, from a dream where Robert held her in his arms as they both stared adoringly at a baby sleeping in a crib.

  *

  Paris in Springtime was as joyful as Robert remembered from previous visits. The girls all wore light dresses, the pale shades of pink and blue, green and yellow echoing the flowers and blossom which were everywhere. Daphne was full of the delights of the Côte d'Azur, and the new factory had begun production with no more than a few minor problems which were easily resolved. And then, a few days before the Coronation of George VI, he received the cable.

  'Come at once, Father seriously ill. Mother.'

  He had time only to return to his hotel, leave a note for Daphne who had been meeting him that evening, and catch the boat train. In Birmingham he found his father's entire family, brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces, plus his senior managers, in the house. He f
eared the worst.

  'Robert! Thank God you've come in time!' his mother greeted him, struggling to suppress her tears.

  'How is he?'

  'No worse, the doctor says. Maybe seeing you will help. Come straight up.'

  His father lay in the big bed, looking pale and gaunt. The dressing table which had previously held his mother's silver-backed hairbrushes, her combs and perfume bottles, was now covered with dark brown medicine bottles, measuring spoons, bowls and glasses.

  'Robert?'

  The voice was faint, nothing like the booming tones which had carried from one end of the factory to the other.

  'I'm here, Father. How are you? How long have you been ill?'

  'He suffered a cold a few days after you left,' his mother put in. 'It turned to pneumonia, and then some other infection. The doctors are useless!'

  'I'm not dead yet,' Mr Manning wheezed. 'And I'm all the better for seeing Robert. Perhaps he'll get rid of those vultures downstairs.'

  His wife sniffed, said she'd see about a meal for Robert, and left the room.

  'She panicked, and they're all expecting a share in the business. But that's all coming to you and your sons. Tell me about Paris.'

  His voice had dropped to a whisper with the effort of speaking, and his eyes closed. Robert knew he was not sleeping, though, and he gave his father a more detailed report of what was happening in the Paris factory than was normally required. The occasional sharp question convinced him his father was in full control of his wits, and encouraged him to believe the older man would soon regain control of his body.

  Some time later the doctor arrived, and Mrs Manning drew Robert out of the room.

  'I've had a meal laid for you in the breakfast room. You must be starving.'

  'I ate enough on the journey,' he reassured her, recalling how she was never convinced that he ate properly, at school or Cambridge or at any time he was away from home, and had always pressed a huge meal on him the moment he entered the house. 'How is he, really?'

  'Worse than I've ever seen him. The doctor says he has to take more care. Oh, Robert, I was sure he was dying, and even now I can hardly hope he'll recover. He's never been really ill before, not like this.'

  'He's tough,' Robert tried to reassure her. 'Why is everyone else here? It seems to be fretting him.'

  'What was I to do? I thought he was dying, and the Mannings would never have forgiven me if I hadn't told them. Your Uncle Edward has always been jealous, he never forgave your father for not making him a partner, and if he saw a chance he'd try to take over the business, before you were here to stop him.'

  Robert knew that was true. Edward Manning had worked for a few years as one of the departmental managers, but had resigned in a huff when Robert himself, aftter a couple of years gaining experience in larger concerns, had joined the firm and been promoted above him. He hugged her. 'Of course you had to tell them, but they can go now. He didn't seem on the point of dying, and now I'm back they can leave it all to me. I'll go and talk to them when I've spoken to the doctor.'

  The doctor came in soon and confirmed that his patient was on the mend. 'He's asking for you, and seeing you is better than a tonic. You can stay for a few days?'

  'As long as I'm needed. I've a good man in Paris.'

  His father was looking a little less grey when Robert, having reassured his relatives that they need not stay, and ushered them out of the house, went back upstairs.

  'Have they gone?'

  'Yes, with some grumbling and dire predictions, but they've left.'

  'Good lad.' He was silent for a while. 'They'll pester you to death when I'm gone,' he said suddenly. 'Don't let Edward have any control. He'd ruin all I've built up.'

  'Don't worry, I saw enough of his bumbling when he worked with us.'

  'I built it for you, Robert. I was always sad we had no more children. I wanted more, but there's only you. And you've shown no sign of settling down and giving me grandsons. Isn't there any girl that would make you a good wife? That little Carstairs wench for example. She's always looking at you with sheep's eyes when she comes here. Has been for years. Have you seen her in Paris?'

  'Occasionally, Father,' Robert admitted. Looking back he realised how often he did in fact see Daphne, take her out. But that had been because he felt she might be lonely.

  'Don't leave it too late for me to see my grandsons.'

  Soon afterwards he slept, and Robert went away to his own room. He thrust away the remembrance of a beautiful girl with a violent father, who seemed to have vanished from his life. He'd made no progress in finding her, despite making enquiries in Coventry.That had always been an impossible dream, and he ought to try to forget it. Even if he could find her, what basis for thinking a happy marriage could follow from one party and a drive into the country? Besides, his parents would never accept her, they set such store by breeding and social connections. When his father was so ill how could he distress him?

  *

  Kate struggled up the hill, her shopping basket heavy with the potatoes and swedes, the flour and sugar Gran had sent her for. It was warm, a lovely day even for May, so why did the family insist on eating heavy stews and thick, indigestible pastry? The child she carried in her womb kicked, and Kate winced at the sudden pain in her back. She stopped for a moment, bending over to ease the ache which always seemed to be with her.

  'You OK, lass?'

  She looked round and saw a young woman not many years older than herself following her up the hill, her arms swinging loosely, twirling a small parcel round her fingers. She was fashionably dressed, her skirt short and her fair hair under the small straw hat curled at the ends.

  'Just a sudden ache,' Kate said.

  'Here, let me take one of those. You live with the Thomsons, don't you?' she chatted as they walked on. 'Married to Walter, I heard. I live in the next street, I'm Phyllis Brown.'

  'I've seen you before at the shops. I'm Kate.'

  She couldn't admit to this friendly girl that she and Walter had not yet married.

  'Why bother?' his father had said when Kate had met the rest of the family that first Sunday. 'Yer can't afford it, lad, and yer don't need to. She's given yer what yer wanted already.'

  He'd agreed that Kate could stay, however, but he was the only one apart from Walter who had wanted her.

  'Walter works late, in the markets, doesn't he. You must miss him. I do my chap, he works over in Walsall, like I did, and I only see him Sundays. I'm only back here while I get ready for the wedding. I'll be glad when we're wed. Why don't we go to the flicks one night? The Odeon has some good programmes.'

  'That odd-looking building?'

  'Yes, but it's plush inside. They say they're going to build other picture houses the same style. So's everyone can know what they are, I suppose,' she added. 'Well, will you come?'

  'I'd love to.'

  She had some money, which Walter had given her, warning her not to let anyone else know. 'They'd grumble, they expects me ter hand over all me wages,' he'd said. 'Lucky I don't get paid with a sealed envelope, like our Derek at the factory. But yer'll need things.'

  She agreed to meet Phyllis that evening, and went home with a lighter heart. At last there was something to alleviate her hard, dull life with the Thomson family.

  None of them liked her, and sometimes she thought even Walter had turned against her. Derek and Charlie had protested furiously when Mr Thomson decreed that they were to move out of the small bedroom they had shared with Walter, and sleep in the parlour. Mrs Thomson resented her prized parlour, which gave her more status than she'd ever had before, being snatched from her. The little girls, twins of ten, took their cue from their brothers and cheeked her unrelentingly when Walter was not there to protest. All of them mocked and mimicked her accent and her more educated speech. Kate, in a spirit of defiance, refused to give in to them and broaden her speech. She knew they would regard it as a triumph.

  Gran was the worst of all, though. With the rest of the
family out of the house all day she ruled. When Kate had suggested she might get a job in one of the shops which were springing up to serve this new suburb, she had cackled and pointed at Kate's stomach.

  'Who'd want ter tek on someone who's in the club?' she sneered. 'Yer can 'elp me. There's more'n enough fer one old biddy ter do.'

  Kate willingly undertook the shopping and cleaning and cooking, while Gran sat watching and criticising. There was a small garden which Mr Thomson had begun to dig over to plant vegetables, but he had soon lost interest. Gran sent Kate out with a spade and watched her from the kitchen window. Whenever Kate paused to rub her aching back Gran would knock on the window and screech at her to get on with it. When Kate's limbs were heavy with exhaustion Gran would find her other, usually difficult tasks like scrambling up onto an old stool to clean the already sparkling windows.

  She was kept busy from the moment she emerged from the small bedroom she and Walter shared, to the time Gran went to bed. This, to Kate's relief, was early, so she had some respite, and rather than endure the sniping of the rest of the family, crowded into the kitchen, she usually went to bed too.

  That displeased Walter. They had initially tried to share the narrow bed he had once had to himself, but when, on the first night Kate had been forced to share the room with him and Walter had tried to take what he considered his rights, it had been a disaster.

  She had cringed away from him, dreading this but knowing that she had no choice. It was his kindness that had rescued her, could give her child a father, and he promised that one day, perhaps after the child was born, they would be wed.

  The bed was narrow and lumpy, and Walter had been rough, kneading her breasts and climbing on top of her the second he'd joined her on the bed. Then, despite all his efforts, the pounding and heaving which made Kate feel sick and squashed, he had been unable to perform.

  He'd rolled off her at last, and she'd felt a tear drip onto her face, but his rolling had taken him too far and deposited him on the floor. He'd blamed her for both.

  'Why dain't yer try?' he'd demanded in a fierce whisper. The house, though new, did not have solid enough walls to muffle all sounds. 'Why'd yer push me off?'