Faded Dreams (6 page)

   It came as no surprise to Florrie therefore, when on the day after the second air-raid he said, ‘Come on cock, be sharp and get you hat and coat on and we’ll take the kids downtown to have a look where that bomb dropped.’

    Florrie drew the line when it came to accompanying him to strangers’ funerals, but looking where the bomb dropped was different. She swore blind that the bombing last night was his fault in the first place. He’d been daft enough to open the front door during the blackout and now people had been killed and injured.

   He pushed his way to the front of the growing crowd on Ainsworth Street dragging the girls with him and leaving her to follow. And there it was, a five feet deep crater.

   ‘By God, what a bloody mess,’ he shook his head in disbelief making no attempt to conceal his excitement, ‘I wish Fred were here to see this lot Florrie…he’d have a bloody fit.’

   Florrie whispered that Fred had enough on his hands fighting a war without bothering his head about a five feet crater.

   A woman directly behind him dug her shopping basket into Joe’s arm, remarking scornfully that it looked to her like
some
folk revelled in all this, that it was a pity
some
folk had nothing better to do than gawp, and that it was a pity
some
folk didn’t spare a thought for them poor devils that had been killed and injured last night. Suitably chastened, Joe shifted uncomfortably and continued his inspection of the site in a more sombre mood.

*

   A couple of days before Christmas Joe brought home the best tree that money could buy. The only difference was, he hadn’t
bought
it.

   'God helps him who helps himself', he’d always told Florrie… and who was
she
to argue with God!

   He had ample opportunity between the warehouse and the shops of East Lancashire to 'help himself' to a side of bacon or a pat or two of best butter and yet he saw himself as an “honourable” thief. He would never steal from friends - or enemies for that matter - but when it came to his family he saw it as his
right,
nay his
duty,
to make sure none of them went hungry. And didn’t they deserve the finest of all trees at Christmas to lighten these dark, dreary days?

   And so, driving his empty van back from Ribchester with a few choice grocery items hidden under an old sack, he made a detour that brought him alongside a dense forest. The country road was empty apart from the occasional lorry or van with  no one to see his axe-wielding menacing figure jump down from the cab.  With a furtive glance from left to right he disappeared into the black, silent woodland and reappeared dragging a graceful sweet-scented fir, so tall he struggled to load it into the back of his van.

   Rubbing his frozen fingers together and grimacing with the pain of restored circulation, he rolled the door down shut, his heart racing at the thought of his daughters faces when they saw the tree.

   This Christmas was particularly exciting since Joe and Florrie had befriended a group of soldiers from the Bomb Disposal Squad billeted nearby.  Joe hoped a bit of their glory and glamour might rub off on him and had already made a big impression - or so he thought - on a serious-minded young fellow called Frank Neild.

   Frank was lucky to be alive, having been evacuated from Dunkirk with The British Expeditionary Force some months earlier. This was his second Christmas away from home and once more he was trying not to think of his wife, Janie, out painting the town red like she always did. It didn't seem to matter to her whether he was there or not. Luckily, the welcome  from the Pomfrets this year was helping to ease his loneliness.

   Joe Pomfret, with his never-ending stream of jokes and his comical and somewhat bizarre behaviour, was like nobody Frank had ever met before.

   On the other hand  he couldn’t help feeling sorry for Florrie who had more than her hands full trying to control that husband of hers.

   Early on Christmas Eve the finishing touches were put to the tree, its branches draped with  home-made paper-chains made by Betty and Ellen, and the celluloid fairy doll having had her annual wash,  proudly atop in her new white tissue frock.

   Joe rummaged in the back of the kitchen cupboard for the metal candleholders, clipped them to the tips of the branches, and lit the candles.  In a split second the tree was ablaze. Joe instinctively threw his jacket on to the flames to douse them, dragging at the beautiful festoons and frantically crushing them underfoot. It could have been worse had the tree not been rain-soaked to begin with.

   Disappointment clouded the children’s faces but only for as long as it took their father to bring back their smiles with a joke.

   ‘It’s all right, don't worry, nobody’ll guess we’ve had a fire…they’ll just think your mam’s been burning the cornflakes again!’

   He quickly tidied the tree, discarding the blackened charred branches and turning its undamaged side to face the room. The front door opened and then eight smart young men in uniform were in the parlour laughing at Joe’s tale.

   ‘Just look at me singed eyelashes,' he made a grab for his wife’s backside, ‘anyway, thank the Lord that’s all I singed, eh Florrie…or you wouldn’t have got that Christmas present I promised you!’

   A quick glance at Florrie's reddened cheeks told Frank Neild how much she resented the joke at her expense. He gave her a reassuring wink and a squeeze on her hand until she gently pulled away. He added a small bottle of Scotch to the crate of beer and cider on the kitchen table and then with Joe knocking out songs on the piano, the party was  in full swing.

   A nervous Betty watched as her father’s behaviour become more outrageous. while her mother flirted openly, paying particular attention to Frank Neild.

   Unperturbed by the goings-on, Ellen sipped from the glasses of booze as the soldiers cuddled her and danced her around the room.

   Towards midnight there was a change of tempo and Joe’s repertoire grew more sentimental -
There’ll Be Bluebirds Over The White Cliffs Of Dover
followed by,
When They Sound The Last All-clear.
And then with sombre faces and slurred voices they all sang,
We’ll Meet Again.

   Frank wasn’t the only one with tears dripping off his chin on to the rough serge of his khaki tunic. The alcohol that initially boosted their morale on this lonely Christmas Eve was no cure for the melancholy now sweeping over them.

   Florrie was brought down to earth by the sight of her youngest daughter staggering towards her. ‘What have you been giving her, you stupid buggers?’ she raged. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, the lot of you, giving a 7-year old kid
cider?’

   Turning to survey the commotion, Joe almost fell off the piano-stool.  He couldn’t have Florrie embarrassing his friends, shouting and swearing at them and showing herself up like that…they might not want to come again.

   ‘Aw shut your gob Florrie.  What’s up with you?’

   ‘Our Ellie’s drunk, you silly sod,
that’s
what’s up with me.’

   Lunging forward he reached for the child and laughed, ‘Well I’ll go to buggery…our Ellie’s pissed! Come here to your dad…you’re all right, aren’t you cock?’

   Ellen screamed hysterically, the room was spinning faster than the painted wooden top her dad had made for her birthday. Brushing him aside, her mother scooped her up and staggered out of the room. Frank caught up with her at the bottom of the stairs.

   'Here, Florrie, let me help you with the kids.'

   'I can manage,' she muttered over her shoulder.

   She hauled a sobbing Ellen upstairs with Betty, pasty-faced but still dry-eyed, following close behind.

   Joe was back at the piano and the mood had lightened by the time Florrie returned to the parlour. Drunken voices were belting out,
How’re Ya Gonna
Keep ‘em Down On The Farm After They’ve Seen Paree
followed by,
You
Made Me Love You, I Didn’t Wanna Do It.
And then Joe’s particular favourite,
Somebody Stole My Gal,
which he played three times in response to shouts of “Encore!”

   Edie and Ben Sagar tried to ignore the pandemonium seeping through the thin walls. They put the finishing touches to their children’s Christmas stockings and quietly prepared for bed.

CHAPTER SEVEN

   It was just before dawn when Betty nudged Ellen back to life; on the bottom of their beds sat two bulging pillowcases.

   ‘Wake up, Ellie, he’s been! Father Christmas has been!’

   Still queasy after last night, Ellen  clambered slowly down the bed and dug deep with both hands.  Father Christmas hadn’t brought everything on her list, but then he never did.

   Every year she asked for a doll’s pram just like her cousin Doreen’s, but he never brought one. She’d learned to be grateful for whatever he could manage – it was like her mum said, he couldn’t make enough prams for every little girl in the world and for all she knew, it could be
her
turn next year. By holding their gifts towards the window in the semi-darkness and feeling their shapes they could identify them, identical presents differing only in colour or style.

   Rag dolls, fashioned by their mother from a piece of blackout curtaining, with  brown woolly hair and smiling embroidered faces, their pretty frocks cut from Granny Sefton’s cast-off underskirts, pink for one and white for the other.

   Florrie wasn’t much of a seamstress and the silky dresses would probably fall apart before long, but she’d tried to make a better job of the dolls. Prams were out of the question, but two shoeboxes covered with shiny paper were transformed into doll’s cots complete with tiny pillows, blankets and a different coloured quilt for each one.

   For his part, Joe had nailed and glued pieces of firewood together to build doll’s house furniture, a dining table and chairs and two small beds all painted red for Betty, a couch and two easy chairs and a piano, all painted brown for Ellen. Hand-sewn miniature cushions and bedding completed the sets.

   Delighted as their daughters were, they couldn’t help wondering why Father Christmas hadn’t brought the longed-for doll’s house to go with the lovely brand-new furniture. But never mind, it would look posh enough once they’d set it out in the sectioned wooden box he’d brought last Christmas.

   An apple, a bag of chocolate gold-covered pennies, a few toffees and a thin story-book were retrieved from each pillow-case and finally, what every wartime child desired, their very own small, slim flashlight, Betty’s orange, Ellen’s green.  Now they could light their way to their friends’ houses or down the long back garden to the lavatory.

   The smell of fried eggs and bacon told them morning had arrived.  They hurried downstairs with their pillowcases bumping on every step to find their father making breakfast for Frank and two other soldiers who had stayed the night.

   There were always plenty of fresh eggs from Joe’s hens and in the weeks leading up to Christmas he’d made sure there were ample supplies of bacon too. Florrie brought some from the wooden meat-safe outside the back door and with  one hand pinching her nostrils, whispered, ‘Joe, is this bacon
off
?’

   Plunging his nose into the top slice Joe sniffed deeply then meticulously went through the pile before discarding two slices that were crawling with maggots.  He was puzzled.
It should have been all right in this cold weather but happen some of it had been at the back of the safe for months.  Christ, he must be thieving it faster than the missus and kids could eat it. Well, them  young soldiers wouldn't  turn their noses up, it wouldn’t take ‘em long to polish off  some nice eggs and bacon. 

   ‘It's all right now, Florrie. There's nowt wrong with
it, I've sorted it out
.’

   After breakfast he leaned against the front door as they left, giving each one a warm handshake.

   ‘Thanks a lot, Joe. And you too, Florrie,’ said one.

   ‘Damn good party last night.’ said another.

   Frank Neild made his way to the kitchen where Florrie stood gazing at the greasy plates in the sink.

   ‘I just wanted to say sorry about last night, Florrie.’

   ‘What d’ you mean,
sorry?
’She kept her back to him and tried to hide the tremor in her voice.

   ‘I mean little Ellen, and all that.’

   She swung round to face him, leaning back against the sink, ‘It wasn’t just
you
Frank, you were all as bad as one and other.’

   She looked defenceless and weary and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed before how pretty she was with her fair hair and the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. Taking her gently in his arms he brushed her cheek with his lips. She sank into his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world, resting her head on his chest, then quickly drew away. God, what was she thinking...Joe might have walked in any minute.

   ‘Merry Christmas, Florrie,’ he murmured, and then he was gone.