Dream On

by Gilda O'Neill

  Ginny covered her face with her hands. For Christ’s sake, what was she doing? She should have telephoned the newspaper office yesterday evening – as she had almost done at least a dozen times – and told him she couldn’t go out with him after all. Anyone could tell him she was far too busy. She had responsibilities, a club to run. All sorts of things to do with her time.

  But she hadn’t called him. Instead, here she was, acting as though she’d nothing better to do than go running off to the country with the first handsome man who’d asked her for a date since Billy had left her.

  She was behaving like an adolescent kid. And all because she’d been hurt again. But that was no excuse. She was a grown woman. She should be used to pain by now.

  She would find Flora and get him to make up some story – that wasn’t exactly adult of her, but she saw no need to be rude to Simon. It wasn’t his fault she was an idiot. Flora could go out and tell him she was ill or something. She stepped back from the door and turned on her heel to go and find him.

  She didn’t have to go far; Flora was coming down the stairs towards her. ‘Look at you!’ he trilled, slapping the side of his face with the stubby fingers on one hand and thrusting a wicker hamper at her with the other. ‘Ava Gardner in a blonde wig. No. No, wait.’ He put his head on one side. ‘It’s not Ava Gardner, is it? Wait, it’s coming to me. I know! You’re Grace Kelly’s double! That’s what you are. All you need’s a row of pearls and you could pass for her twin sister.’

  Ginny waited for him to finish, then held up the basket. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I got the kitchen to knock you up a few bits for the journey. A nice wee picnic. Some ham, sausage rolls, a few pies, a bit of salad stuff, and I’ve set aside a couple of bottles of something special to wash it all down. I’ve even had a Thermos of coffee made up, in case it turns nippy later on.’

  ‘It was a kind thought, Flora, thank you. But I’m not going.’

  ‘Oh yes, you are, Miss Martin.’ Flora backed away from the hamper she was trying to return to him. ‘As if I’d let you throw away the chance of spending the day in the country with that gorgeous hunk of manhood. Have you seen him? He’s been waiting outside for you since ten o’clock, poor lamb. Now come on, it’s just what you need, a day out. Something to bring a bit of sunshine into your life and to put the roses back into those pretty cheeks of yours.’

  ‘The sun isn’t shining, Flora,’ she said lifelessly.

  ‘What a sourpuss! You see, you’ll have a lovely day. And don’t tell me you don’t deserve it. You’ve been working that hard lately.’

  Flora guided Ginny forward and, with all the skill of a collie herding a recalcitrant sheep, pulled open the door, eased her outside and down the steps to where Simon was standing, smiling fit to burst.

  ‘And don’t let me see either of you near this place till six o’clock at the earliest,’ he said, taking the hamper from Ginny and handing it to Simon. ‘Now go on, have a lovely day, and I don’t want a single crust left in that basket when you get back.’

  Ginny climbed into the car without a word, while Flora took Simon inside to collect the bottles and flask.

  ‘You will try and keep her out for a good few hours, won’t you?’ Flora said with a sad shake of his head, as he loaded Simon up with the drinks. ‘Honestly, she’s been that overworked, it’s about time she had a little bit of a treat. You’ll have to get her to relax, if you know what I mean.’ He winked extravagantly. ‘I know she’d be very grateful, so it’ll certainly be worth the effort.’

  Flora stood and waved until the car had pulled out of the alley, then he went back inside the club and picked up the telephone. ‘Gloria? It’s me, I’ve—’ He tutted irritably. ‘It’s Flora, you silly tart, who’d you think it is, Liberace and his magic flaming fingers? Anyway, I’ve got rid of the ice maiden at last, thank God, so the poker game’s on. Any more of her moaning and I’d be slitting my sodding throat. What?’ He listened impatiently. ‘Yes, of course I’ve fixed it all up this end. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves for a good seven hours. You let everyone know, and by the time they get here Casino Floriana will be open for business.’

  After they had left the East End far behind and the broad South London streets had narrowed into the hilly, winding lanes of Kent, the sun made an appearance from behind the bank of clouds that was at last breaking up in the soft, late-morning breeze.

  Without taking his eyes from the road, Simon handed Ginny a pair of diamanté-studded, butterfly-wing sunglasses. ‘Try these for size.’

  ‘I’m all right, thanks,’ she said, balancing them on the polished walnut dashboard in front of her.

  ‘I thought they’d make you smile.’

  ‘Look, Simon, I don’t mean to be miserable, but I don’t feel much like smiling. Okay?’

  ‘Do you know that apart from the dismal-sounding hello that you just about managed to bark at me earlier, those are the first words you’ve uttered since you got in the car?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t even mentioned what you think of the motor,’ he said, reaching out of the window and giving the car roof an affectionate pat.

  ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Nice? This is more than nice. This, Ginny, is a Jaguar. It was meant to impress you.’ He flicked his eyes sideways and flashed her his cheeky boyish grin. ‘My father’s Jaguar, admittedly, but it’s still a Jag. I keep telling him he’s too old to drive it and he should give it to me. But he won’t listen. What do you think? Should he give it to me? He can certainly afford to.’

  ‘It’s up to him.’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  They drove on in a silence broken only by Simon’s shouted ‘thank you’ to a roadside AA man who saluted them, and his occasional strange pronouncements on interesting features he spotted in the passing landscape. Then, without warning, he stopped the car in a layby next to a five-bar gate.

  ‘Look, Ginny, I could talk for a living if I had to, but even I can’t spin out a phoney commentary on oasthouses and hop gardens and cherry orchards for more than an hour. It’s wearing me ragged. You’re going to have to help me a bit. Even if it’s only to note what a good-looking sort of a devil you think I am.’

  Ginny stared down at her hands. ‘Okay. Where are we going?’ she asked eventually.

  Simon looked about him. ‘We’re sort of here, really. I thought we might get out and enjoy the fresh air. There’s a river over there. What do you think?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said flatly.

  ‘And if we’re lucky, we might see the eclipse. This is a special day, you know, Ginny. One for the old headlines.’ He pointed at the windscreen, as though composing the front page of a newspaper. ‘Wednesday, 30 June 1954. Solar eclipse over Britain. Ginny Martin amazed!’ He put his head on one side. ‘Well? Will you be amazed? Are you looking forward to witnessing this extraordinary event?’

  ‘I did see something about it.’

  ‘Did you? Where?’ he asked, trying to encourage her. ‘In my paper, I hope.’

  ‘No. On the television.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about getting one of those. Do you think I should?’

  ‘If you want one.’

  Simon nodded briskly. ‘Right, tell you what, let’s have that picnic.’

  Simon ferried the picnic hamper, Thermos flask and bottles, a fringed tartan travelling rug and a black leather case that he tucked carefully under his arm, to the far side of the field. There, he set out the rug on the river bank, in the shade of a massive chestnut tree. He then went back to the Jaguar for Ginny, who had shown no interest in even getting out of the car, never mind any enthusiasm for a nature ramble through a wheat field.

  Gently, Simon pushed her down on to the rug. ‘You have a choice,’ he said, filling two glasses with deep-red wine. ‘While we dine on these fine morsels, so kindly supplied by Flora, you can either listen to me telling you all about myself – how I’m going to get the biggest series of scoops ever kn
own in Fleet Street and how my great success will mean that they’ll have to make me an editor before I’m thirty-five. Or I’ll play you my clarinet.’ He held up the black leather case. ‘And that will show you why, instead of editing The Times, I might become the best jazz clarinettist who’s ever been born this side of New Orleans.’ He pulled a face. ‘Although, even I have to admit I just might need a tiny bit more practice on the old licorice stick before that happens. But with my good looks, maybe they won’t notice the duff notes.’

  ‘You really reckon yourself, don’t you?’ Ginny said, wondering why she’d let Flora bamboozle her into this.

  He looked up from ferreting through the hamper. ‘Me?’ He sounded shocked.

  ‘Yeah. You.’ She could have added, just like almost every other man I’ve ever met in my life, but she didn’t have the energy for a row. Instead she took a gulp of her drink.

  ‘Well, I know I used to get upset when I was a child and the other kids at school called me big-head,’ he said, topping up Ginny’s glass. ‘But d’you know what my mother always said?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘She’d say, don’t let them upset you, son. You just go down to the fruit and vegetable shop and get me fourteen pounds of potatoes in your cap.’

  Ginny stared at him blankly. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘If I’m such a comedian, then how come you look so sad?’ He found a pork pie in the basket and took a large bite, giving her the chance to say something, but all she did was sip fitfully at her drink.

  ‘Is it something I’ve said, Ginny? It wasn’t meant to be like this, you know. We were meant to have a lovely day. And you were meant to—’

  ‘Simon, I’m sorry,’ she broke in. ‘It’s not you. It’s just that . . . I’ve not had much to be happy about lately.’

  He aimed the half-eaten pork pie into the middle of the river, sending up a gentle plop into the still midday air. ‘But you’ve got so much. You’ve got the club, and you’re—’

  ‘I know. I’m luckier than most people. In lots of ways. But that doesn’t mean . . . Aw, I don’t know.’

  Simon pulled up a blade of grass and sucked it between his teeth. ‘Tell me about your dreams, Ginny,’ he said in a mock Viennese accent.

  ‘How do you know I’ve got dreams?’

  ‘We all have dreams,’ he said continuing his bad impersonation of Dr Freud. ‘Whether it’s buying a television. Owning a car like my father’s. Or being the editor of a Fleet Street newspaper.’ He rolled on to his stomach and touched her on the tip of her nose with the grass. ‘I bet I can guess one of your dreams,’ he went on in his own voice, scratching his chin thoughtfully and staring at her through narrowed eyes. ‘I know. You dream of having a plush flat in Eaton Square and a pair of matching French poodles trotting by your side when you go promenading in the afternoon sunshine.’

  ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘How? Come on. Tell me.’

  ‘You’re not really interested.’

  He sat up, refilled her glass to the brim once again and laid his hand on his heart. ‘I am absolutely riveted.’

  Ginny, feeling heady from the combination of drink and her choice of clothes in the sultry June heat, leaned back against the tree-trunk and closed her eyes. ‘There’s this bus. The number 15. It goes along the Barking Road, up through Aldgate, along to Bank, then the Strand, then Oxford Street—’

  ‘So, I was right,’ he crowed triumphantly. ‘East End to West End.’

  ‘No.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him stretched out on the rug next to her. ‘What I imagine is staying on the bus, and it takes me right out into the countryside. You know, like going on a Green Line. And I go to a place, well, it’s like this, really. Lovely fields and a river. But then I go round this corner and there’s a massive, great big house. Just like Tara in Gone With the Wind . . .’ She swallowed the rest of her wine and held out her glass for more. ‘Hark at me, going on, you must think I’m a right fool. Trouble is, you’re too easy to talk to.’

  ‘It’s my job, getting people to feel at ease and talk. But I don’t think you’re a fool, I think you’re wonderful. Hey! You nearly smiled then.’

  He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘There, I knew you could do it.’

  He pulled himself up so that he was kneeling in front of her. ‘You really are wonderful, you know, Ginny. Truly beautiful.’

  Slowly he folded his arms around her, touched his mouth to hers and pulled her down on to the rug. ‘You must be so hot in those things,’ he breathed into her ear.

  Within moments, as a skylark trilled high above them and the moon continued on its inevitable journey that would plunge the brilliance of the glorious summer’s day into darkness, Ginny lay naked beneath Simon’s urgently thrusting body.

  It was nearly a quarter to seven; too early, really, to leave for Piccadilly, but Dilys didn’t want to hang around in case Ted turned up and spoilt her plans. And anyway, it’d be no hardship waiting a while for Chuck, he was more than worth it.

  She pulled up her skirt to check her suspenders and, as she smoothed her stocking-tops she eyed her thighs appreciatively. ‘You’re amazing, Dilys girl, d’you know that?’ she said out loud to herself. ‘Look at them legs. No one would ever believe you was a mother – thank Gawd.’

  She straightened up and hollered towards the open bedroom door, ‘Susan. Get that letter from behind the clock.’

  Susan did as she was told, then hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Her mother’s room was strictly off limits, unless she had been specifically told otherwise.

  ‘Bring it here then,’ Dilys snapped impatiently. ‘I ain’t got bloody rubber arms.’

  Susan stepped cautiously into the room, knowing from experience that she was more likely to get a swipe round the ear than a thank you for her efforts.

  Dilys ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents: two sheets of folded paper and two five-pound notes.

  Kissing the money before stuffing it into her handbag, Dilys tossed the rest on to the bed without a second glance. ‘If Ted turns up,’ she said, as she took a final glimpse in the mirror, ‘tell him I’ve had to go round to see your Uncle Sid about buying you some new shoes ’cos I’m broke again. If he gives you anything, put it on the mantelpiece.’

  Then, without another word, Dilys left her child alone in the prefab and went outside to run the gauntlet of her neighbours – Milly Barrington and her troop of apron-wearing harpies.

  ‘There’ll be murders if he comes home and catches her going out looking like that,’ offered one of the chorus, in a voice pitched deliberately loud enough for Dilys to hear.

  ‘Leave off,’ Milly corrected her at the same volume. ‘What would he care if she went out in her drawers? He’s never there.’

  ‘Probably got some other old bag tucked away,’ chipped in one of the others. ‘His sort have always got their feet under someone’s table.’

  ‘I’ve heard he still lives with his mum,’ Milly said with a sneer. ‘Fancy, a man of his age! Over Grove Road way somewhere, they reckon. Near the Roman.’

  ‘With his mum!’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’ Milly craned her neck to watch, as Dilys dodged across the street in front of a motor bike and side-car that had to swerve to avoid her. ‘You know I’d lay money that kid’s not his,’ she shouted by way of a final parting shot as Dilys disappeared round the corner to find a cab – with ten pounds spare cash in her pocket she could afford such luxuries.

  As she watched her mother from the prefab window, Susan heard Milly Barrington shouting that Ted wasn’t her father and knew she was wrong. Her mum was always going on at her about it and saying how it was her fault that Ted hung around the place all the time.

  Susan didn’t really mind Ted. He wasn’t like most of her little friends’ dads, but when he was there he was quite nice to her and even brought her presents sometimes, ones that he made sure her mum let her keep. But for now, Susan was more interested in her aunt than her f
ather.

  Having dodged back into her mum’s room, Susan retrieved the envelope and paper from the bed and settled herself down on the half-moon rug in the front room, where she was slowly working her way through the latest letter from her ‘Auntie’ Ginny.

  She smiled happily to herself as she read the kind, loving words and wished, as always, that she could see her auntie again – or at least know a place where she could write back to her. It would have been hard, writing a whole letter, but Susan would have tried her very best.

  There was something that Milly Barrington had been right about: Dilys really had no need to worry about Ted turning up. Although he wasn’t at his mother’s.

  In fact, Ted hadn’t seen Nellie for weeks; he was too scared he’d be spotted by Dilys’s brothers to venture anywhere near Bailey Street. Dilys had been spinning the boys some sort of a line about how hard done by she and Susan were and the last time he’d gone to see his mum they’d threatened to knock nine kinds of bells out of him until he’d handed over every last penny he had on him to buy new summer dresses for the kid, and a pair of shoes for sodding Dilys.

  He’d had one good hiding off them – when the silly cow had finally admitted that he was the kid’s father – and he certainly didn’t fancy another. They were a right handy pair of buggers. He’d tried talking his way out of it, explaining that he’d already given Dilys money for the self-same things only the week before, that the kid had dresses coming out of her flaming earholes and that Dilys had enough shoes to open a stall, but they wouldn’t listen to him. They’d just kept on and on about what an arsehole he was. If it hadn’t been for their big-gobbed wives dragging them indoors – because they hadn’t wanted to be shown up by their husbands indulging in something as common as a street fight – Ted would probably have come off even worse than he had.

  But, all that aside, Ted was the first to admit he didn’t exactly look after Dilys – she didn’t deserve looking after – but he always made sure the kid wanted for nothing. Well, most of the time he did.