Faded Dreams (10 page)

   ‘Hush, don’t talk so loud, come on now, it’s time to go home.’ She urged her son past the weeping man with the bowed head then, on impulse, retraced her steps until she was in front of him.

   ‘Hey, are you all right mister… are you ill, or something?’

   He shook his head without raising it then covered his eyes with his palms. She sat down on the other half of the bench with no thought of what she would do next.  Perhaps she should have felt nervous - there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the park but the two of them - but she felt only pity for this stranger.  She moved inch by inch across the bench, closing the gap until her shoulder was touching his.

   ‘Hey, look here,' she tried again, 'I’m not trying to be nosey or trying to interfere but …do you need any help?’

   She gently pulled his left hand, moist with misery, away from his face and held it between her own hands. He didn’t draw away but flinched at her touch, his foot nudging the pillowcase resting against the bench. Out of it poured the life he'd left behind,  the chipped shaving mug, the crumpled shirt, the well-used hairbrush with it's flattened bristles, the tub of Bryllcream, his dad’s pipe; his worldly goods displayed there on the path .

   ‘You’ve left home, haven’t you?’ She patted his hand and went on talking, slowly, gently. ‘Believe me, I
know how you feel  but with a bit of luck, things’ll work out right for you in the end, you'll see.’ She got to her feet and rested a reassuring hand on his hunched shoulders, ‘I hope so, anyway. Keep your chin up.’

   ‘Thanks, love.’ It was the first time he had spoken and when he raised his eyes she was overwhelmed at the depth of sorrow in them. Calling her son to her side, she hurried along the path without a backward glance and was gone.

   Joe had never seen her before and would never see her again. Gathering up his belongings and re-packing his pillowcase he realised that the cold deep water was no answer to his problems. He wended his weary way around the path encircling the lake, down the Broad Walk, through the large stone gateway and off in the direction of Oliver’s house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

   Florrie flicked aimlessly through the tattered pages of ‘Woman Today’. A full-page advertisement for a sponge pudding
caught her eye. It asked,
“Can A Warden Be A Good Wife?”
and explained how a woman could help her country by serving as an Air Raid Warden, and at the same time provide a hot meal for her husband by boiling a ready-made tin of steamed fruit pudding. She allowed herself a cynical smile. Was
that
what made a good wife? A woman who knew how to leave a tin of pudding in a pan of boiling water for an hour? 

    A woman like herself, wouldn’t make a good wife that was for sure. A woman who went with a man who wasn’t her husband… had a child not knowing who it’s father was. How had she got herself in such a pickle?  She should have realised how lucky she was to have Joe at home with her, not like poor Hettie with her Fred away fighting.

   Hettie had always managed to keep herself to herself, even on Friday nights, and if a fella started any funny tricks she soon  put her foot down and sent him on his way. Hettie was a good wife, she’d never have let her Fred down like this, and what’s more, she’d even know how to boil a suet pudding for an hour!

   Mind you, Fred had always been a different kettle of fish to Joe.  Mild-mannered and gentle he was. A bit like Frank.  What would Frank make of all this, if only he knew?  Where was he now? Happen he was lying injured somewhere - or worse.  Jesus Christ she was in enough bother without thinking about Frank. Funny though, how only a few months ago she’d had the love of two fellas and now she had neither. Well, she’d just have to get on with it.

   It would be a struggle to make ends meet with two kids and another on the way, but by hell, hadn’t it had always been a struggle? A lot of money had gone on beer and fags but in all fairness to Joe … he hadn’t been the only one who’d supped and smoked.

   What with food rationing and prices doubling up, things would get even harder but she’d get her fair share of food like everybody else, and her mother would help out with little extras off the black market. And then there were the hens and vegetables in the back yard. Her and the kids wouldn’t starve, that's one thing she was sure of.

    It hadn’t been this peaceful at home in the eleven years since she’d walked out of her parents battlefield into one of her own. Her and Joe hadn’t had a lot of wedding presents at the time but if the daft bugger had walked out a bit sooner one or two might still be in the cupboard instead of ending up smashed to smithereens on the kitchen floor.

   And yet the house, although no longer rocking with hate and violence, seemed
too
quiet,
too
still; the children were moody and hard to manage, nobody laughed or sang any more.  It was as if that fiery sod she’d married had scooped up the sparkle, the very breath of the family, and dropped it in his pillowcase on his way out.

   The magazine fell from her lap. She leaned back in her chair and stared at the cracked, whitewashed ceiling. A silky cobweb occupied one corner with a spider going about his business. No, not
his
business…surely it wasn’t a
he
,
  most likely it was the
spider's missus looking after the home while her fella buggered off somewhere just like Joe.

   Joe would have made a right song and dance if he'd seen that cobweb, called her a fat lazy-arse and anything else that came to mind. Yes, she was definitely better off without him, she’d put up with his insults and tantrums for long enough, she was her own boss now.

   She undressed in front of the kitchen fire, Joe always like to watch her do that, and went upstairs. Betty was wide awake but Ellen was sleeping fitfully, occasionally drawing in her breath in a long, sad shudder.  She kissed them gently then climbed into her icy-cold bed, tucking Joe’s old jacket around her legs, drawing comfort from its familiar smell – petrol, cigarettes, sweat, even beer.

   ‘Mum, I can’t get to sleep,’ Betty's thin frame was silhouetted in the half-light. ‘Can I come in your bed?’

   Florrie peeled back the blanket and opened her arms, desperately in need of someone to hold, someone warm and loving.

   In the early hours, Ellen climbed in beside her sister, her mother, and her father’s old jacket, and snuggling close together the three of them went back to sleep.

*

   A few weeks on Oliver’s lumpy couch was enough to make Joe  have second thoughts. He hadn’t confided in a soul, not even Oliver, how could he when he was overwhelmed with shame and disgust at what Florrie had done?

   Still, he couldn’t help worrying whether his little girls were having enough to eat. Although he hadn’t been near Florrie since the day he'd walked out, he'd sent Oliver round with most of his wages every Saturday.

   He didn’t want her telling lies about him, telling folk he didn’t care if they all starved to death. Her mam would have had plenty to say about him leaving them in the lurch but Florrie wouldn’t have dared tell her the proper reason.

   He’d tried to convince himself that a bachelor’s life was the thing for him, that it was grand with no nattering wife to answer to any more. He could go boozing when he liked, come in when he wanted, even  take advantage of Lily’s generous favours with no surly bugger to play hell with him when he rolled home drunk with crimson lipstick on his stiff white collar. 

   And yet something was missing. As time went by he began to realise just how much he had lost. After years of secretly envying Oliver, he had come to realise that Ollie’s was a lonely existence. This was Ollie’s life, not his.

    His thoughts focused on his family.  Ellie, the way she looked adoringly at him, always trying to please him...please everybody, in fact.  He even missed Betty, that defiant little sod who thought she knew it all but who wouldn’t have been half as much trouble if Florrie had let him chastise her from the beginning.  Florrie had always said it wasn’t surprising Betty had a temper on her - she was just like him, and just as bloody awkward. She could have been right about
that
.

   While he had been at Oliver’s he'd tried not to dwell on Florrie and how she’d let him down, but lately she’d been coming into his mind a lot, especially when he was cuddling Lily in the doorway of The Old Bank.

   Why had it all gone wrong?  He’d done his best to be a good husband  and a good dad to his kids, always brought his wage home to Florrie, well most of it anyway, made sure the kids had food on the table, even cooked most of it himself. That was because Florrie was limited when it came to cooking a good meal - she didn’t take after her mam in that respect.

   He’d done his share of keeping the house clean and tending to the kids and, above all, he’d fussed over Florrie and told her he loved her time and time again.

   And what had he got in return? Well, for a start, he couldn’t remember the last time she’d told him she loved him, must have been years ago while they were still courting. Well, they’d been wed more than twelve years but right from the beginning it had always been  up to him to show affection. Hell, he only needed a couple of pints and he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

   He’d tell her how bonny she was, with her green eyes, and how he’d never love anybody else, but more often than not she’d push him away, tell him it was ‘beer talking’, that if he
meant
what he said he’d have come home sooner and sober.

   Until now, she’d been a good enough  wife and kept the kids nice and clean. It didn’t matter that her mam bought  their clothes off the second-hand stalls in the market. By the time Florrie had washed and ironed them and altered them the best way she could, they looked brand-new.

   With him out of the way her mam would be sticking her big nose in more than ever. Since she got work at the gas-mask factory in Garden Street she had to walk straight past his house on her way home…except  that she never
did
walk straight past. The old bugger was there, causing trouble and putting ideas in Florrie’s head every night when he walked in from work. By God, she’d a lot to answer for when it came to upsetting the apple cart.

   He should be at home right now with his family now that Christmas was coming up, master in his own house instead of moping about in Oliver’s. He patted the breast pocket of his jacket searching for a cigarette and searching for the answer to his heartache.

   ‘Give us a fag, Ollie.’  Oliver handed him one and leaned forward to light it with his own half-smoked stub.

   ‘Do us a favour, Ollie. Nip round to our house and tell her I’m coming back home on Saturday as soon as I’ve finished work.’

   ‘About bloody time too!’ Oliver moved towards the door. ‘You’ve been like a bear with a sore arse ever since you left her. I’ll be glad to see the back of you.’

*

   Joe opened the front door and heard the familiar noises of Florrie pottering about in the kitchen yet as he joined her he saw nothing familiar about her. He drew in his breath sharply.

   He’d remembered her as slim, even skinny, but the thickening around her waist was all too obvious. He dropped his pillowcase on to a chair, carefully lowered his accordion from his shoulder to the floor then with one stride he was across the kitchen his tears merging with hers as they clung together.

   ‘I’m sorry Joe, I’m right sorry.’ She brushed his wet face with her fingertips and overcome with shame at the misery she’d caused him, buried her face in his chest. The love she’d thought dead was still as strong as ever, her Joe was home with her where he belonged.

   Just at that moment Ellen opened the back door. ‘Dad, Dad, have you come back for good?’ she squealed. ‘Don’t go away again, Dad… promise?’

   He swung her high in the air and twirled her round. ‘Aye, I’m back for good, have you missed your old fella then, cock? There’ll never be another Joe, y’know.’ He smothered her face with kisses and threw her on to the couch where she lay giggling. Turning to his eldest daughter, he held out his arms, ‘Come on Betty, your turn next.’

   Betty stared coldly at him, shrugged away his outstretched arms and returned to the backyard. Her rejection was like a slap in the face, his knees went from under him and he sank on to the floor. Ellen joined her sister outside.

   ‘What did you have to do that for when he was just trying to make friends?’ she asked angrily. ‘ He’s crying now,  he might leave us again…why did you have to start him off after he’s only just come back to us?’

   ‘Shuddup… I hate him… I wish he’d die,’ the 9-year-old forced the words through clenched teeth.

   By the time they went back inside in the hope that tea would be ready, all was quiet. Their father had taken their mother off to bed.

   Content to be in his
own
home in his
own
bed with his
own
wife, Joe shared a cigarette with Florrie. By God, she'd been more willing than she’d been for years, which was grand. Now, he just had to talk some sense into her and things would get back to normal once and for all. Pulling up his trousers he walked to the window and watched his chickens scratching about in the dust below.