Faded Dreams (14 page)

   She fed her children and kept them clean, but all the while it seemed like they didn’t belong to her, they were helpless beings that had to be tended to, that was all.

   ‘Do you still love us Mum?’ the bewildered youngsters would ask.

   ‘Yes,’ she’d answer coldly.

   Night after night she lay like a block of wood in Joe’s arms, neither complaining nor compliant, as he satisfied his desires with a wife who felt nothing. He had no idea why she was this way but knew he couldn’t put up with it for much longer. He worked bloody hard and for long hours for her and the kids and needed a loving wife as much as the next man. And instead, he came home to a wife with a face like a sore arse.

*

   To alleviate his misery Joe found himself turning to Lily Rawcliffe who was at a loose end with her husband Arthur away at sea. She enjoyed the attentions of a steady stream of admirers, mostly either too old or too young to be called up but tall dark and handsome Joe was the one she really wanted.

   Many were the times he’d flirted and engaged in furtive fumblings with her, yet he always went home to his mousy little Florrie. Until one particular evening when he was hanging round the bar ignoring the banter and laughter of his fellow-drinkers and looking like he’d lost half a crown and found a shilling. Lily fussed over him till after closing time and they were alone.

   ‘Well? Have you no home to go to Joe Pomfret?’she purred.

   ‘There’s not a bugger of  ‘em at our house that’d miss me if I
never
went home.’

   Lily had never seen him look so miserable. She reached across the bar and squeezed his hand. ‘ Then stay here with me Joe,’ she whispered.

   ‘It’s all right Andy,’ she called to the landlord at the other end of the bar, ‘I’ll lock up down here after I’ve dried these glasses… you get yourself off to bed.’

   With the coast clear she smuggled Joe up to her attic bedroom and pulled the blackout curtain across the tiny window before pressing the light switch. The low light from the bare bulb that flooded the pitch-black room was barely enough for them to see each other, but no sooner had she locked the door than they were locked in each other’s arms searching for each other’s lips.

   ‘Take your clothes off, Lily,’ he breathed as he struggled out of his trousers. 

   She stood before him in her creamy cotton underskirt, hands on hips, shoulders pressed back accentuating the hardness of her nipples through the lacy bodice.

   ‘What about Florrie?’ she murmured half-heartedly, as they fell across the bed.

   ‘Bugger Florrie… I’m doing nothin’ she hasn’t done.’

   The following morning he climbed back inside his trousers,  already having some regrets. Lily lay back on the pillow, hands crossed behind her head, watching him and speculating how she could get him downstairs before Sunday opening-time.

   ‘What did you mean last night Joe? About not doing anything that Florrie hasn’t done?’

   ‘Hey, I don’t know Lily…happen I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ He concentrated on tying his shoelaces.
Dammit, he’d hoped Lily wouldn’t remember but now he’d no option but to come out with it. ‘I think…I think …she’s had another fella a few year back… in fact, I’m damn
sure
she has.’

   ‘What?’ Lily could hardly contain her surprise, that grey little mouse of his with
another fella! ‘Who was he?’

   ‘I never found out… could’ve been anybody.’ He rose to his feet, hitching his braces over his shoulders. ‘Did
you
ever see her with anybody, Lily?’

   ‘Well, I sometimes saw her across the road outside The Wheat Sheaf at turning-out-time with one or two different fellas, but she always walked off with Hettie after a few minutes.’

   Much as she wanted Joe for herself she couldn’t add to his anguish by lying to him. In any case, she knew that in future the most she could hope for would be an occasional encore of last night’s performance.

   ‘It’s driven me bloody barmy all these years Lily, I just wish to God I knew who the cheeky bugger
were
.’

   ‘What about one of them soldiers, Joe?’ she was trying to be helpful. ‘You
know
, one of the lads you were friendly with at the start of all this?’

   ‘Nay, it weren’t one of them, they were grand lads, the lot of ‘em…and anyway, she’s already told me it’s nobody I
knew.’

   He’d said enough about Florrie, more than enough. He crept from the room before Lily could question him further and walked slowly home.

   If only Florrie loved him enough to ask where he’d been or why he’d been out all night. He shot her a furtive glance but there were no questions, no recriminations, no nothing. The haggard young woman hugging her elbows and rocking to and fro in abject despair was a stranger to him.

   He’d have given anything to have his old Florrie back, to hear her playing hell with him, to see her chucking his dried-up dinner on the table, to be able to worm his way back in her good books with a bit of flattery and a few laughs. That was what gave him the greatest pleasure after a barney, making her smile again, taking her in his arms and squeezing her till she was breathless.

   He put Lily to the back of his mind. It was no good feeling guilty now, the deed was done and couldn’t be undone. He’d just have to be patient now and wait for Florrie to come to her senses.

*

   His long-distance driving job gave Joe some relief away from whatever it was that was troubling Florrie and causing all her moodiness, though he had come to dread going home.

   One particular Wednesday morning he left the British Celanese Factory in Derby and by midday had reached Hazel Grove. It was commonplace to see servicemen of all nationalities thumbing a lift but he could see from the rear-view mirror that today’s hitch-hiker was a Yank. He pulled over to the side of the road and when the soldier turned to face him wondered if he should have driven straight on.

   ‘How far are’ya going pal?’ He forced his face to remain expressionless.  

   ‘Manchester, sir,’ the young man said, climbing in beside him and shaking his hand. ‘Private John James Franklin, my buddies call me Frank.’

   His voice was straight out of Hollywood! Joe knew he’d have to try and talk a bit posh and not drop his aitches all over the show if he were to have a conversation with the American.

   ‘Pleased to meet you Frank, I’m Joe.
My
buddies call me “Joe, The Sheik Of Cow-heel Row.”’

   Frank, whose part of the world was unfamiliar with cow-heel, looked puzzled then decided there must be a joke in there somewhere and laughed politely.

‘I once had a best mate called Frank,’ Joe went on, ‘never saw him again after 1941, blew himself up defusing a bomb, he did.’

   It occurred to him that apart from them both being in the army, Private John James Franklin had nothing at all in common with Frank Neild. He pulled a picture of him and Frank from the pocket of his boiler-suit and handed it to his passenger then blew his nose loudly into an oily rag and wiped away a tear.

   The American turned the picture over and read aloud, “1940. This is me and my old pal  Frank, the best mate in the world”.

   ‘Gee that’s tough Joe, to lose a friend like that,’ he said.

   They lapsed into silence for five miles or so until Joe spoke again.

   ‘Where are you from, Frank?’

   ‘Chicago, Illinois, sir.’

   ‘You don’t say! My mother’s brother emigrated to America years ago, around 1895, I think. Settled in Rhode Island, New England. I remember his name now… Andrew Currie?’ he half-expected Frank to recognise his uncle’s name. ‘Chicago you said? Is that anywhere near Rhode Island?’

   ‘Not unless you reckon a thousand miles or so is near.’ Frank laughed but not unkindly.

   The stranger from another world was handsome in an unusual sort of way with teeth that were the straightest and whitest that Joe had ever seen. As the countryside sped by and conversation between them became easier Frank produced a tattered photo from his wallet. ‘This is Sadie, my girl back home. I’m aiming to marry her after the war… that’s if she’s still waiting.’

Joe took his eyes off the empty road and looked at the picture. The girl, about 19 years old with teeth as white and as perfect as Frank’s, was smiling shyly.

   ‘By gum, you’re a lucky bugger Frank, she’s a good-looking tart, if ever I saw one. But married life’s not easy, you know, cock…there’s never enough money to go round and it doesn’t matter what you do for your missus it’ll never be good enough  for her.’

   The two had learned a lot about each other and even exchanged addresses by the time Joe’s lorry ground to a standstill close to the centre of Manchester.

   ‘Well, all the best of luck to you Frank, you’ve been grand company. But do you know what? It’s the first time I’ve ever picked up a…’

   ‘Nigger?’ Frank finished softly. ‘It’s okay Joe, no need to feel uncomfortable.’

   ‘No…you're right, I’ve never met a darkie before but I was going to say it’s the first time I’ve ever picked a
Yank
up on my travels.’ Suddenly embarrassed and not knowing why, he tried to lighten the moment, ‘and I’ll tell you something else Frank… it’s the first time anybody’s called me “sir”.’

   The American gripped Joe’s greasy-black hand and smiled that broad white smile of his.

   ‘An’ do
you
wanna know somethin’ else, Joe? It’s the first time anyone’s called
me
“cock”!' He gave a great roar of laughter.  'You’re a swell guy Joe and I appreciate the fact that you pulled over for me. I’ve sure enjoyed riding with you and talking with you.' He rummaged  in his pocket 'Here, take these cigarettes for Florrie and some gum and candy for the little ones.’ Sliding open the heavy door, he jumped effortlessly from the cab.

     Unaware that the next few months would see the arrival of many more Black Americans in his hometown, Joe was reluctant to see the back of his fascinating new friend. But Frank, carefully setting his cap on his closely cropped head, gave a smart salute of farewell and marched swiftly out of his life.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

   ‘Guess what, Florrie?  Joe tried to penetrate the shell Florrie had built around herself. 'I give this Yank a lift just outside Manchester… talked like a bloody film star, he did. And look what he sent for you and the kids.’ 

   He threw a pile of Hershey bars and three packets of Lucky Strike on to the table. Taking her in his arms he slid his hand down the front of her frock until it rested on her soft warm breast then as her whole body stiffened he drew back, his face bathed in the misery of rejection. He ran his fingers through his hair and reached for a cigarette.

   ‘What the hell’s up with you again, Florrie? I’m buggered if
I
know. I’ve been away from home three bloody days and this is the welcome I get. Come on…what’s up
now?’

   ‘Nothing,’ she said flatly.

   ‘Nothing? Nothing?’ his voice rose. ‘Well stop buggering about like this. I’ll tell you summat Florrie, you’re driving me bloody crackers shoving me away like this every time I come near you. I work damned hard, on the bloody road for days on end, and then when I come home it’s like lying in bed next to a corpse… nay, there’s folks in Blackburn cemetery that’s been dead six months that have more life in them than
you have
.'

    His frustration was getting the better of him now. 'Some of them lads down at The Old Bank…’ he shoved his clenched fist inches from her face but got no reaction,  ‘they reckon I should give ya a bloody good hiding and knock some sense in you,' he dropped his arms to his sides, 'well I might be
at my wit’s end, but you know I could never do
that
to you.’

   She looked at him with dull, lifeless eyes then turned away.

   ‘I still love ya, but I don’t know what to make of you any more,’ he said sadly, ‘come on tell me, what
is
it Florrie? You’re not still thinking about that other fella, are ya?’ 

   Florrie, unmoved by the tears running down his face, wasn’t thinking about anybody. His patience finally ran out.

   ‘You’ve no feelings, that’s
your
trouble. You care bugger-all for nobody but yourself…you might as well just piss off and leave us all.’

   He came home from the pub and found her gazing into the distance sitting exactly where he had left her, a narrow band of white cotton sheeting swathing her forearm.

   ‘What’s been going on? What the hell have ya done now?’ He was already removing the home-made bandage to reveal a large, raised blister on top of an angry-looking red swelling.

   ‘Nothing,’ she murmured.

   ‘What’s happened, Florrie?’ he screamed, shaking her roughly by the shoulders, ‘go on,
tell
me… do you hear? Tell me what you’ve done.’

   ‘You said I had no feelings,’ she was almost whispering, ‘so I boiled the kettle and poured it over my arm to see if you were right… to see if I had any feelings…to see if I
could
feel anything…and I
can
.’