Dream On (37 page)

In fact, they reminded her of how Ginny used to be, back in her sainthood days. Killing themselves just to ‘keep things nice'. It made Dilys shudder. Whatever her Micky and Sid had seen in them she couldn't begin to imagine.

At least Ginny had come to her senses and cleared off, once she'd got rid of the kid she was carrying. Dilys certainly didn't have the same hopes for her sisters-in-law. She could just see them once they started breeding. The thought was almost too horrible to contemplate.

There they'd be with their big, shiny, Silver Cross prams, suffocating under piles of hand-knitted, pearl-buttoned matinée jackets, struggling to get past the pushchairs and the rocking horses in the passage of number 11, a beaming baby covered in ribbons and lace under one arm and a bucket full of perfect, snowy white nappies under the other.

They were so stupid, they'd probably revel in the whole horrible business of motherhood and they'd make it a good excuse to spend even more of her brothers' wage packets. Not that they didn't already drain them every week as it was – the boys never had any money for her these days. Or time.

Dilys never saw them unless she went round there. And that wasn't very often, because having to watch those two witches keeping the boys just where they wanted them turned her guts.

Dilys propped her chin on her fists and puffed unhappily as she studied the faint lines that were beginning to form around her eyes and mouth, and the slight, but definitely visible, mauve smudges beneath her eyes. That's all bloody motherhood had done for her. Made her look old before her time.

Not for the first time, Dilys wished with all her heart that it had been her and not Ginny who'd gone to see Jeannie Thompson with her best yellow soap and her douching tubes. Getting herself knocked up by Ted had seemed such a good idea at the time. Where had it all gone wrong, she wondered? And, come to think of it, where had sodding Ted Martin gone an' all?

Dilys arched her back, so that she could reach into her pocket for her cigarettes.

Only two left? Wonderful! Now she was running out of fags on top of everything else. That was all she bloody well needed.

And there was hardly any milk.

She'd bet her sisters-in-law would never let themselves run short of fags. They'd never run short of anything. Not them.

She could just visualise the two polished and doilied sideboards, one in each of the flats in number eleven, and knew, as sure as night followed day, that there'd be a dinky little wineglass on each one, full of cigarettes for any ‘guests' who happened to pop in from the street party, so that they could help themselves while they were sipping a drop of port or a gin and orange. And there'd be more milk in their cupboards than in a flaming dairy.

And a dairy was where they belonged, because that's what they were, a pair of right rotten cows.

Dilys's lip curled in contempt, as she flicked her spent match on to the dressing-table. She'd done the right thing staying away.

Then again, maybe she should just nip round there for a little while. It couldn't hurt just to show her face. And she could help herself to some of their fags, have a few drinks, something to eat maybe, and still be out of there all within the hour.

But, tempting as it was to see what she could mump off them, there was no getting away from the fact that she bloody hated those two women.

With her resentment bubbling up to seething level, Dilys was now sure she had made the right decision about not going to Bailey Street. Fags or not, she had no intention of being within a mile of that pair if she could help it.

They could stick it. She'd find somewhere where she could have a laugh. Somewhere with a bit of life, where she'd be welcomed and appreciated, and not treated like the poor relation. Somewhere like the places Ted used to take her.

Bloody Ted.

She ground out her cigarette in the pickle jar lid on her dressing-table, snatched up her compact and began furiously powdering her cheeks.

She'd show Ted Martin she didn't need him to have a good time. She'd put on her war-paint and show the whole bleed'n' lot of them.

While Dilys was still dithering as to whether she should go for the Crushed Coral or the Peach Parfait lipstick, the Coronation do at Leila's flat was already well under way.

As with the one she'd put on for the girls at Christmas, Leila had ulterior motives for throwing a party for them. Again, she didn't want to be alone when everyone else would be celebrating, and doing business was out of the question. Men were expected to be at home with their families on such a special day, not out clubbing in the West End.

Inviting the girls round to the flat also presented Leila with an opportunity she couldn't resist. Having made damned sure that Ginny was coming this time – no excuses accepted – Leila was going to have another go at persuading her that taking the manageress's job in Billy's new club would be the best thing that could happen. And not only for Ginny.

During the past few months, Leila had become increasingly fixated on getting her to hang up her feathers and to leave the stage. The combination of Billy's –
her
Billy's – obvious admiration for Ginny's undeniable assets and Shirley's spiteful insinuations had convinced Leila that she had to get her working in a more sober role. She'd thought about trying to get her sacked, but she knew that was a non-starter – Ginny's act had become too much of a success and Billy had started seeing her almost as a talisman. Getting her promoted was the only way.

The trouble was, Leila wasn't having much success in persuading Ginny. She was reluctant even to consider the job.

That was why Leila was trying this new tack: she was going to give Ginny a taste of the good life and, when she compared the squalor of the sordid room in which she was living with the luxury of Leila's Mayfair flat, it might just get her thinking.

So the Coronation party had been planned, but Leila's scheme had almost fallen at the first fence.

The girls, like the majority of ordinary people in Britain, had initially been indifferent to the idea of even bothering to mark the event and were more interested in the possibility of just having the day off.

Who gave a toss about a church service with a load of toffs parading about in robes and silk stockings, was a typical comment. Especially when the average person in the street was busy coping with the day-to-day worries of overcrowded housing, the growing threat of their menfolk being shipped off to Korea and the ceaseless, grinding aggravation of the despised rationing system –
eight years
after the war had ended!

In fact, rather than being keen to throw parties to celebrate the crowning of one of their ‘betters', the general mood was more conducive to throwing bricks.

But then something happened: the excitement began to gather, slowly at first, like a snowball, then it suddenly seemed that soon no one wanted to be left out of the merry-making.

In no time at all it was as though everyone had wanted to have a party all along. Community collections were swiftly organised to fund the festivities, tasks were, as always, delegated and commemorative plates, mugs and dishes were ordered. Some families were even able to boast that they'd bought a television set in honour of the big day. Although ‘bought' was probably the wrong word as, unlike the little walnut number in Leila's sitting-room, most sets had been acquired with the spurious blessings of the never-never man.

Buying a television had actually been Leila's trump card in attracting the girls to her party, and it now had pride of place in the plushly carpeted room, where the girls were gathered, oohing and aahing in wonder and criticising the hairdos and hats of the female guests attending the ceremony.

Leila, as usual, was acting totally blasé. She left it to the others to behave as if they were a bunch of convent girls who'd been let out for the first time without the nuns, while she hovered at a discreetly refined distance.

‘I can't get over it. It's so clear.' Ginny shook her head in amazement as she stared, transfixed, at the bulging glass of the nine-inch screen, not even put off by the fact that it was dwarfed by its massive wooden cabinet.

The picture itself wasn't actually up to much, it was grainy and flickery – nothing like the Technicolor wonders to be seen at the cinema – but as Ginny stood behind the enormous silk brocade sofa, peering over Carmen's head at the grey and off-white moment of history being enacted in the cathedral before her, she was in no position to make rational judgements. Her critical faculties had been blown apart by her first sight of the eye-boggling marvel of Leila's sitting-room.

With her feet sinking into the soft wool rugs, Ginny felt like an actress in a glamorous motion picture about sophisticated couples leading their gorgeously urbane lives in Paris and Manhattan. It was so like a film set, in fact, that Ginny wouldn't have been at all surprised if Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire had come breezing into the room to whisk her away for a quick foxtrot across the parquet flooring in the hallway.

‘Let me take that for you,' said Leila, easing Ginny's coat off her shoulders.

‘What d'you think of the television then, Gin,' asked Carmen without taking her eyes from the set.

‘It's just like you're there,' Ginny said, as she watched the tiny figures processing along the aisle.

‘I know one or two people who
are
there, sweetie,' Leila whispered into her ear.

Ginny twisted round to face her. ‘You don't mean . . .?' she breathed.

Leila put her finger to her lips and nodded.

‘I feel like I'm dreaming.' Ginny turned her head so that she could take a full sweep of the room. ‘Honestly, Leila, I've never seen such a lovely place in all my life. It's even better than that hotel you took me to that time.'

‘You're very kind.' Leila smiled graciously and took Ginny's coat outside to hang it up.

‘You should see the kitchen,' Carmen muttered from the sofa, her mouth stuffed full of canapes from one of the trays of food dotted around the room on the ivory and glass side tables. ‘I saw it when I come here at Christmas. It's out of this world. There's all tiles on the walls, and a fridge and a food-mixing thing, and . . .' She shrugged. ‘Everything.'

She tapped the arm of the sofa. ‘Come on, Gin, park yourself next to me. Make yourself comfortable.'

Ginny couldn't bring herself to do it; perching on the pale beige arm was unthinkable. ‘I'll be fine down here,' she said, lowering herself on to a squashy tan leather pouffe, tooled with patterns in red and gold.

Carmen, her gaze still fixed on the screen, held out one of the trays of food.

Ginny took a little square of melba toast spread with cream cheese and topped with a curl of smoked salmon.

‘D'you reckon she'd let me have a look round later, Carmen?'

‘Course she will. She gave Patty the full tour just before you arrived. She missed out at Christmas, like you. You ask her. Go on.'

When Leila returned, Ginny did exactly that and Leila happily obliged.

As they stepped into the hall – a wide oval, decorated in tastefully understated regency strips and with a classically inspired painting covering the whole of the high ceiling – Leila explained that two of the rooms in the flat were locked. They were what she called her workroom, and the maid's room – the maid's room! – but, if Ginny was interested, she was welcome to see everything else.

Leila had pitched it just right. Ginny was more than interested. She followed Leila around, her eyes taking in one wonder after another, walking as carefully and respectfully as if she were in a church, or the sort of art gallery where you knew without asking that the price of a single picture would be more than a lifetime's wages. And, with its sumptuous furnishings, its luxurious decoration and its up-to-the-minute gadgetry – there was even a telephone in the main bedroom! – it was actually more like an art gallery than anywhere Ginny had ever set foot in before.

That someone could live surrounded by such elegance and beauty was a revelation to Ginny. There were rooms everywhere and, to Ginny, every one of them was magnificent. It was all so bright and airy, and even though there were things – exquisite things – everywhere, there was still so much space and light, real room to breathe. And not a damp patch, or a rusting, dripping pipe in sight.

The thing that surprised Ginny most of all was that Shirley had her own room in the flat, with a full bedroom suite where she could keep her clothes and shoes and things. It wasn't that Shirley sometimes stayed overnight, Dilys had often bunked in with Ginny when she had been living at home with her mum and dad before she had married Ted – that's what friends did – but it was having a place that was big enough to keep a whole room for a friend, just in case she wanted to stay.

While Ginny stared about her in slack-jawed rapture, Leila chatted away, pointing out her favourite ‘little pieces', as she called them: things of which she was particularly fond, or that had an amusing story behind them. Mostly they were gifts from men, but not one, Ginny noted, seemed to be a gift from Mr Saunders. Well, not that Leila mentioned. ‘You like my little flat then, Ginny?' she asked as they came back to the hall.

‘I think it's the most smashing place I've ever laid eyes on,' Ginny said, meaning every word, as she stared in awe, yet again, up at the painted ceiling. ‘Gloria said you had a nice home, but this is . . . Well, it's . . .'

Leila noted that Gloria had been opening his big mouth. What was he after? But she'd worry about that later. Now she had to focus on Ginny. ‘You could have a place like this yourself one day.'

‘How?' Ginny asked with a little laugh, tearing her gaze away from the artist's vision of nymphs and goddesses. ‘Rob a bank?'

‘I'm serious. If you take this club manager's job, you'll be earning very good money, Ginny. Very good.'