Dream On

by Gilda O'Neill

  ‘Sit down, Leila,’ Ginny said wearily. ‘I’ll get us a drink.’

  She went over to the cocktail cabinet and lifted the lid; the mechanical opening bars of ‘Secret Love’ came plinking out, as loud in Ginny’s head as a round of church bells. ‘Bugger! I forgot.’ She snapped down the lid and paused, listening for any sound of Susan stirring. ‘I’ll go in the kitchen and get us—’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed here,’ said a man’s voice.

  Ginny and Leila both twisted round to see a youngish man standing behind the sofa.

  Shit! She must have forgotten to lock the door when she’d let Leila in.

  ‘Remember me?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Try,’ he persisted.

  She really didn’t remember him and she was too preoccupied with trying to remember all the other things that Billy had told her she should do – apart from locking the door and not letting anyone into the flat – to bother playing guessing games with some punter who’d somehow found his way upstairs. She just knew he was about to beg her for a loan so he could play just one more game of chemmy, or to have an extension on his bar tab. She’d heard it all before.

  ‘Look, if you—’ she began, but then she saw the two policemen blocking the doorway behind him and a sickening realisation flooded over her.

  Of course she remembered him. He was a copper. He was Detective Sergeant Chisholm, the cocky young plain-clothes officer who’d raided the club; the one who had threatened all sorts – until Billy had got Doug Millson round to sort him out.

  ‘Leila,’ she said calmly, ‘would you mind going down and telling Billy, please.’

  Leila went to stand up, but Chisholm shook his head. ‘You’d only be wasting your time, Miss Harvey,’ he said, using Leila’s name as though they were old acquaintances. ‘Saunders knows I’m up here. Two DCs are keeping him company downstairs and I don’t think he should be disturbed. He wanted to have a word with DI Millson on the phone. But I told him, like I told you, he’d only be wasting his time.’ He sighed contentedly. ‘There’s no wriggling out of it this time you see, Mrs Martin. We’ve got everything we need. It’s as simple as that.’

  Ginny’s mouth was so dry she could barely speak. ‘What d’you want?’ she croaked.

  ‘Well, I’m not here for a cut of the gambling, or for free drinks, or even a free fuck for that matter. I leave that sort of thing to my older colleagues. I’m here to tell you that the body of Ted Martin, your husband, was found washed up in the tide on the Essex marshes earlier today. And from the rocks in his pockets it seemed that someone was trying to conceal it. Not very well, as it happened. Rather a rushed job I’d say. Or maybe an amateur’s attempt.’

  Leila’s eyes widened just a fraction, but she didn’t utter a word.

  ‘We found something else in his pocket,’ Chisholm continued, digging inside his jacket and pulling out a clear cellophane envelope. ‘This.’

  Ginny wouldn’t look at it, whatever it was. She shook her head. ‘I’ve been separated from my husband for years.’

  Chisholm took a step forward. ‘I’ve just noticed your face, Mrs Martin. ‘How did you get that injury?’

  ‘I fell.’

  ‘Your husband had quite a reputation for smacking women around, didn’t he?’

  ‘Did he? I don’t know. I’ve not seen him for I can’t remember how long. And—’

  ‘Do you recognise this, Mrs Martin?’

  Chisholm held up the clear packet so that she had no choice but to look at it.

  ‘What’ Ginny swallowed hard. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a business card. It was found tucked inside the torn lining of his jacket pocket. It’s a bit soggy from the river water, of course, but it’s quite obvious what it is if you look. It’s your card, Mrs Martin.’

  Ginny dropped down on to the sofa next to Leila, the taste of bile bitter in her throat.

  ‘I think we’d better continue this conversation down at the station, don’t you, Mrs Martin.’

  ‘But there’s a little girl—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ginny,’ Leila said. ‘I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, Chisholm, you have been a bit previous, haven’t you?’

  Chisholm was standing – standing! – stony-faced in front of DI Millson’s desk, while Millson, and Saunders, and Saunders’s fancy, over-priced West End brief sat looking at him as though he was something they’d just stepped in.

  ‘You’ve held Mrs Martin in custody all night, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I—’

  ‘Keep your trap shut, Chisholm. If you listened a bit more you might learn something.’

  Chisholm’s jaw was rigid with anger. How dare that bent bastard Millson tell him what to do?

  ‘Mr Saunders here has been, let us say, keeping company with Mrs Martin and she had not been out of his sight for three whole days. Gentleman that he is, Mr Saunders would like this to be kept quiet, of course, to protect the lady’s reputation.’

  Billy Saunders grinned happily at the now puce-faced Chisholm. ‘If you wanna do a proper bit of detective work, son,’ he beamed, ‘I can help you. Would you like that?’

  Chisholm managed a brief nod. He wanted to smash the bastard’s face in.

  ‘You take yourself down the docks. Anyone’ll do. The Royal, the Albert . . . And talk to some of them fellers down there. The ones in the bonded warehouses all knew Ted Martin. They’re the ones who reckon their stock keeps “disappearing”. They were business associates of his, you might say. I wonder if he owed any of them any money? You could ask ’em, couldn’t you? But you’ll have to watch yourself, son, they’re hard men down there.’

  Saunders leaned back in his seat and pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Tell you what, when you’ve finished down there, you can try talking to some of the girls round Soho. Ask them about him. They’ll be able to tell you all about his nasty little ways and what a no-good slag he was. There must be plenty of toms and their ponces who had the right needle with that piece o’ shit.’

  Chisholm stared determinedly in front of him. ‘Can I go now, sir?’

  Saunders knew full well he was talking to Millson, but he couldn’t resist. ‘Course you can, son,’ Saunders said. ‘And mind how you go. Some of them brasses can be right hard nuts.’

  As Chisholm left Millson’s office, Saunders’s laughter followed him like a bad smell.

  ‘Don’t you say a single word,’ Chisholm barked at an open-mouthed WPC who just happened to be walking past.

  Within ten minutes, Billy had shown his appreciation to Millson with a bundle of used notes, had paid his brief for his very expensive time – which hadn’t actually been required, but Saunders always liked to be prepared – and was now helping a deathly pale Ginny into the back of a cab.

  He told the driver where to take them and slid the glass screen shut. ‘Are you all right, girl?’

  She shook her head and stared down at the floor. ‘I can’t take any more of this, Billy. I can’t. I just don’t know what to do. I wanted to tell them it was me. But I was so scared for Susan, I—’

  Billy folded his arms around her and she buried her head in his shoulder.

  ‘Ssssh, girl, don’t get all upset, I’m here now and I’m gonna look after you.’

  Chapter 21

  July 1957

  GINNY LEANED BACK in the blue-and-white-striped deckchair, stretched out her bare, tanned legs and pressed her toes into the soft, cool grass. Maybe, when your life was so good, it wasn’t right to ask for more, but it wasn’t as though she was asking for herself. And it wasn’t as though she was asking for that much – just for Dilys to mention Susan in her letters. Then at least Ginny could show them to her. That would be something, some sort of contact with her mother. But no; not a word in any of them about anything other than how wonderfully Dilys was doing in America. It was as though her daughter had never existed.

  Ginny sighed and let the single sh
eet of airmail paper, and the two brightly coloured snapshots showing Dilys and a tall, handsome man holding a baby in his arms, fall into her lap. She would put this latest one with all the rest and maybe, when Susan was older, she would let her see them and try to help her understand.

  In the meantime she would write back to Dilys asking her, yet again, please to jot down just a few extra lines for Susan. Anything would do.

  Perhaps it was silly bothering, especially as Susan was so happy. She knew she was wanted, treasured and loved. That she was Ginny’s very special girl.

  But was that enough? Ginny sighed again. Love was powerful all right, but could it ever take away the pain of rejection completely? She could only hope so.

  ‘Mrs Saunders.’

  At the sound of the woman’s voice Ginny looked up, squinting into the bright sunlight at the neatly uniformed maid standing a respectful distance to the side of her chair.

  ‘Have I got to collect Susan already, Janette?’ Ginny asked with a concerned frown. She put her watch to her ear to check it was still working.

  ‘No, ma’am, that’s not for over an hour. And Mrs Taylor said she’d be dropping her off, if you remember.’

  Ginny relaxed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  Janette’s formality drove Ginny mad. ‘Who is it?’

  Instead of acting with her usual efficient primness, the maid pursed her lips and waggled her head with displeasure.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say who she was, Mrs Saunders. Said it was to be a surprise. I didn’t know what to do.’

  Ginny smiled thinly. It would be one of the local worthies after a donation for some charity or other, thinking she was being a real wag by aggravating the staff. She still hadn’t got used to the way of things in her new neighbourhood; in fact, it was like living in a foreign country at times.

  ‘It’s okay, Janette. Don’t worry. Just bring her out, please.’

  As the maid returned across the sweeping lawns with the surprise visitor in tow, Ginny leapt to her feet. ‘Leila!’ she yelled, running towards her with outstretched arms.

  ‘Sweetie, you recognised me!’

  ‘How could I fail to, with that bloody emerald-green frock coming across the grass?’

  Ginny saw the shocked expression on Janette’s face but she didn’t care. ‘It was like you was in flipping camouflage, girl!’

  Ginny filled Leila’s cup, sat back in her deckchair and took in a deep lungful of flower-scented air. ‘I might not be Grace Kelly, like Flora used to reckon, but sitting here drinking tea in the garden with my old mate, well, this’ll do me.’

  ‘Less of the old thank you, Ginny – but we’re still friends, are we?’

  Ginny smiled and tutted loudly. ‘Of course we are.’

  Leila avoided her gaze, picking at an imaginary thread on her skirt. ‘And you’re happy are you?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon I am.’

  Leila lifted her chin and Ginny winked at her across the rim of her cup. ‘D’you know, Leila, there were plenty of times when I never believed that poor little Ginny Martin would ever make it. But just look at me now, eh?’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘And how about you? How are you doing? ’Cos pleased as I am to see you, I’m dying to know why you’ve turned up out of the blue like this.’

  Leila didn’t answer her question; she took her time breathing out a long plume of lavender smoke, then said: ‘Strange, isn’t it? Who knows what’ll become of any of us? What’ll happen in our lives. The twists and turns.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say, Leila.’ Ginny held her hands to her heart, stared dramatically towards the horizon and gasped in her best southern belle’s drawl, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’

  Leila clapped her thigh. ‘God! I remember that. It’s from that old film.’ She flapped her hand. ‘Don’t tell me. You used to drive us all crazy going on about it. And that woman in it. The one with all the dreams . . .’

  Slightly shamefaced, Ginny grinned. ‘Gone With the Wind. Scarlett O’Hara. And they were my dreams too, if you don’t mind.’

  Leila shook her head and smiled, remembering. ‘That brings back some memories.’

  ‘I still dream, you know. When I’m sleeping, I mean. All about this place I knew a long, long time ago.’

  ‘What place was that?’

  ‘The street where I used to live. I see the rooms in that house as plain as day. It’s a strange feeling. And all the neighbours, I see them too. There were some really decent people there once, back in the old days. And some right old cows.’

  ‘You get those everywhere.’ Leila laughed.

  ‘It’s all been knocked down now. Nothing left but a big patch of bare earth. Slum clearance, they reckon.’ She paused. ‘You know, it never seemed like a slum. Not back then. Still, things have to change, I suppose. And now they’re talking about putting up one of them big blocks of flats. Well, that’s what I heard.’

  ‘And is Billy still in the property business?’ Leila asked casually, suddenly fascinated, apparently, by the ash on the end of her cigarette.

  ‘Yeah. And he’s doing very well.’

  She nodded. ‘So I can see. This place is fantastic.’

  ‘Not bad, is it?’ Ginny looked about her, taking in the solidly respectable seven-bedroomed red-brick house, set in its four landscaped acres. ‘And very well thought of he is nowadays. Works with this bloke. Peter. And talking about slums, that’s what they do. They buy up slum property; terrible old places, all over London. Then, when the tenants move out, Billy’s firm does them up.’

  Leila’s eyebrow rose very slightly. She knew all about the slum landlords and their scams: acquiring occupied properties on the cheap, then terrorising the tenants until they got out. In fact, she’d put on enough private parties for them during the last few years to be able to write a book about them and their influential friends. But she said nothing. She’d never been able to figure out whether Ginny really didn’t know what was going on half the time, or whether she just chose not to see what was right in front of her.

  Well, it wasn’t any of Leila’s business. Not any more.

  She closed her eyes for a brief moment, then, flashing her lips-only smile she said, ‘This really is a glorious garden, Ginny. And I’d love to see around the house.’

  ‘You’re on, girl, but the guided tour’ll cost you half a crown.’

  ‘I’ll pay willingly, darling, and I’ll bet it’s every bit as wonderful as . . . What was Scarlett’s place called again?’

  ‘Tara,’ Ginny replied without a second’s hesitation.

  ‘That’s it. Tara. I should have remembered.’ She tapped her chin with an exquisitely manicured fingertip. ‘Well, Ginny, my love, it looks as though you’ve got your Tara at last.’

  ‘And it’s just right for a family.’

  Leila stared at Ginny’s flat stomach and frowned. ‘You mean you’re . . .’

  Ginny shook her head – more to dispel the visions of Jeannie Thompson and her best yellow soap than by way of an answer. ‘No, I’m not pregnant,’ she said evenly. ‘I’d like to be, but it just hasn’t happened. Anyway, I’ve got my daughter. We adopted Susan.’

  ‘Susan? Not that lovely little girl you were caring for?’

  ‘That’s my Susan. You’ll be able to see her later, when she gets home from her riding lesson.’

  ‘You’re a lucky woman, Ginny.’ Leila’s voice caught as she spoke.

  ‘I know. And when you think how things could have turned out. When you think of Shirley and some of the others.’ She took a moment to top up their cups. ‘Poor Shirley, eh?’

  Leila showed no sign of what her thoughts were about Shirley, she just took a dainty sip of her tea. ‘So, where’s Billy?’ she asked as matter-of-factly as she could.

  ‘Out wheeling and dealing as usual. Entertaining some bloke. A politician, if you must know! They’ll be in some club somewhere I suppose.’

  This time L
eila raised both eyebrows and made sure that Ginny saw her questioning expression.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. It’s probably some very respectable gentlemen’s club for all I know. But to be honest, I don’t have anything to do with the business side of things any more. I’ve got all I want right here.’

  ‘I think you have.’

  ‘Tell me, Leila. It’s something I’ve always wondered. Why did you help me out that time? Looking after Susan when the law took me away.’

  Leila hesitated before she spoke, then, staring down into her cup, she said: ‘I had a child myself once. A little girl. She must be, what, twenty-two. Almost twenty-three.’ She held up her hand. ‘And before you say anything, I was a child myself when I had her.’

  They laughed uneasily, as old wounds opened for both of them.

  ‘The trouble is, she’s ashamed of me. Won’t even see me.’ Leila raised her head and looked at Ginny. ‘She was adopted. By a very nice couple. Friends of the doctor who delivered her. Actually, he was the same doctor who made me pregnant in the first place.’ She pinned her smile back on. ‘Aren’t some men absolute shits?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Leila. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, no one does. I don’t even know why I brought it up.’ She gave Ginny a cigarette and lit it for her. ‘And anyway,’ she went on, screwing up her eyes against the smoke as she lit one for herself, ‘that was then. At the time it was all I could do to get by from day to day. You know, just clinging to the wreckage and hoping for the best. But things got easier. Over the years.’ She laughed carelessly. ‘Well, when I saw your face as that little creep said he was taking you down to the police station, I had to stay with her, didn’t I? How could I have done otherwise?’

  ‘But you were so upset with me.’ She considered before adding: ‘You know, about Billy. You could have got one of the others to stay over.’

  ‘Ginny,’ Leila said, her chin jutting, ‘there was a child involved. I’m not a monster.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I never . . .’ Ginny looked at her, at her expertly made-up face and her elegantly dressed hair. It was like talking to a lovely mask. ‘There’s so much we don’t know about one another. I’m really glad you came today and that we’re talking like this at last. Tell me, Leila, how are you? How are you really?’