Faded Dreams (23 page)

   ‘Mum, don’t shout at him,’ Ellen said weakly, ‘leave him alone, will you?’

   Abandoning Joe and Ellen side by side on the kitchen floor, her mother stormed out of the house and straight into The Quarryman’s Arms.

   Over a gill of mild she wondered how many more daft “suicide” attempts her fool-of-a-husband would make. Perhaps one of these days he’d let lucky, and
she’d
let even luckier, he’d make a proper bloody job of it and then they could all put the flag out!

1950

   Betty’s Polish boyfriend was coming to Sunday tea for the first time, but her mother’s hope of making a favourable impression with a roast beef salad and a home-made cake to follow had turned into a disaster. The juicy piece of beef she’d put in the oven on Saturday night and forgotten about, was still there the following morning reduced to a small hard black ball. A stomach-churning stench filled the kitchen.

   ‘Phew! Smells like some poor bugger’s just been cremated in ‘ere,’ Joe laughed, poking at it with the tip of a knife. ‘Is this all that’s left of him - ‘is head?’

   Florrie was used to her family’s teasing regarding her culinary skills, or lack of them, but this time she was in no mood for jokes. She shot him a look that dared him to go a step further.

   ‘Oh, never mind, cock, I’ll open a tin of corned beef instead,’ he gave her a reassuring hug, ‘wait a bit though, we’d better give this poor sod a decent burial first.’

   Next to his crop of carrots he dug a small “grave”. The next thing was a “coffin”.  He emptied the Oxo Cube tin on to the table, carefully laid the black lump inside, and sealed the lid.

   ‘You daft bugger, you go bloody worse,’ Florrie tried her best not to laugh.

   Taking her by the waist, he whirled her around the kitchen before plonking her high on top of the sewing machine.

   ‘Right, if you’re not coming to the funeral with us you can sit up there till it’s over.’ He put on his jacket and smoothed his hair. ‘Come on Betty, get on the organ and give us some funeral music.’

   The battered second-hand organ had never been smart enough to replace the piano in the parlour but stood in the kitchen alongside the treadle sewing machine
.
To the plaintive strains of ‘Abide With Me’ the procession began. Joe, solemn-faced and carrying the “deceased”, led the way with a giggling Ellen and Billy close behind.

   ‘How do, Joe,’ peering over the hedge Ben Sagar behaved as if this were an everyday activity. ‘Nice weather we’re having.’

   Joe offered a slight nod in the direction of next-door but kept his eyes facing forward. This was a sombre occasion, he couldn’t start chit-chatting at a time like this.

   Ben shook his head, tutting softly. If he lived to be a hundred he’d never be able to weigh up Joe Pomfret. There was something sadly wrong with him, he definitely had a screw loose somewhere. Better go indoors and see what Edie made of these latest goings-on, which to him looked for all the world like some sort of… funeral.

* 

   Joe came home from the pub to find Florrie chipping charred coconut cake from the bottom of the oven. It was her first attempt in years at baking and just like last time, the mixture had leaked through the base of the rusty old tin and turned into a rigid, inedible black pancake securely glued to the floor of the greasy gas oven.

   ‘Nay bloody hell Missus, I can’t leave you for
two
minutes, what have ya been doing now? Another burnt offering? It’s worse than being married to King Alfred. Well, we’ve already buried one poor bugger today and I bet our insurance policy won’t copper-up for
two
funerals. We’ll have to find some other use for your coconut cake.’ He chipped off a hard lump and hammered an imaginary nail into the back door with it, revelling in the amusement of Ellen and Billy.

   ‘Looks like that roast beef salad will have to be a corned beef salad, with a packet of custard creams to finish up with. But if it were up to
you
Florrie
,
we’d all be having “a cup of tea and a Cephos”… including our Betty’s new fella.’  

   Florrie threw the cake tin at him and burst into tears. He put his arms round her and ushered her into the parlour.

   ‘Here y’are, sit yourself down woman and have a fag while I make the tea.’ He threw her a cigarette.

   She was more than willing to let him do just that, and by the time Henri arrived the corned beef salad, the tinned pears and evaporated milk, and the custard creams were on the table. Observing the cold meal, the young man was left to wonder at the strong smell of charred food.

   Florrie was instantly taken with him. The way he sprang to attention and bowed his head when Betty introduced him; he certainly had his manners so that was a good start. He was taller than Joe, probably over six feet, but not handsome in the dashing way that Joe had been , still
was, she thought, warmly, glancing from one man to the other
. Henri was more distinguished, posher, and a good  bit older than Betty who was only 18. 

    Joe was fascinated by the young foreigner and even found himself unconsciously mimicking Henri’s clipped accent, yet it seemed odd how Henri changed the subject whenever he asked him about Poland. And another thing, it was a pity he was so serious, he must have been on the back row when God was giving out a sense of humour. Betty’s fella was a nice enough lad but even as they got to know him better, him and Florrie could never get to the bottom of him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

   Ellen too, had her reservations. Her sister’s personality had changed since meeting Henri. Her fiery spirit had gone and she seemed to be controlled by Henri...what she wore, what she did, where she went. There was something about him that Ellen didn’t care for, nothing she could put her finger on except that he seemed too worldly and too old for Betty, and nothing like her
own
boyfriend, Irish Johnny. In fact, the only thing both boys had in common was that they were both Roman Catholics but her parents didn’t seem to mind that.

*

   Ellen had first met Irish Johnny at the annual Police Ball in King George’s Hall. He stood out from the crowd with his tall, muscular, suntanned body, black curly hair, and dark blue eyes, Smiling Irish Eyes, just like it said in the song. Her friends thought he must be 24 or 25,much too old for her at 16, but he said he was only 20 and she took him at his word.

   He worked on building sites and lived in lodgings near Preston. At weekends he was too busy working overtime to take her out so she had to settle for seeing him a couple of evenings during the week. Though he often turned up late or missed coming altogether, he only had to smile and take her in his arms and she would forgive him anything. For the first time in her life she was in love. Unfortunately for Ellen, marriage seemed to be the last thing on his mind and even the engagement of Henri and Betty wasn’t enough to encourage him.

    The engagement was announced in The Telegraph after Henri had formally asked Joe for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Little did he know that a week later his future son-in-law would drop a bombshell.

*

   Henri greeted them with his usual stiff, unsmiling politeness but refused Joe’s offer of a chair.

   ‘No, I must speak first… of things I have spoken of with Betty already…and then you must decide if you want me in your house and in your family.’

   ‘Well come on then,’ said Florrie. ‘What is it? Spit it out.’

   With hands clasped tightly behind his back, eyes fixed on a point directly above Joe’s head, he explained that although he spoke Polish fluently and had been accepted in the close-knit Polish community in Blackburn as one of their own, he was not Polish.

   ‘Not Polish? Joe sprang to his feet. ‘What d’you mean, not Polish? What the hell are ya if you’re not Polish?’

   ‘I am… German,’ he tilted his chin, his eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and defiance. ‘My name is Manfred, Manfred Viertler. From the start I am not truthful and I am sorry.’

   Speaking in short bursts he said that his family had been devout Roman Catholics and had not been supporters of the Nazi regime. He had fought on the Eastern Front, indeed was wounded there. He had concealed his nationality to avoid encountering anti-German feeling when he had made a new life in Blackburn only 5 years after the war. For once in his life Joe was stuck for words; Jesus Christ, this latest tale of Betty’s fella was even more interesting than the first!

   ‘Well Henri… or whatever you call yourself now,’ he said at last, ‘it’s not your fault you’re a German, ya can’t help
that any more than you can help being a Catholic
.’

He hesitated, taking his time to ponder again the dramatic revelation. ‘Um, a Catholic and all…a
German
Catholic.’

    Betty cringed but he ignored her and glanced at his wife whose expression gave nothing away.  

   ‘Well, me and Betty’s mam’ll not hold
that
against ya, lad. You’re only human, same as we are…you’ll still be welcome in our house.’

   With an audible sigh of relief Manfred stepped forward, clicked his heels, and shook Joe by the hand. ‘I promise Mr Pomfret… you and Betty I will never let down.’

   ‘Nay, you’d better not do either… what’s your name again? Manfred, is it? Well, if I’m gonna start calling you Manfred, we’ll have less of the “Mr Pomfret” and you’d better start calling me Joe.’

*

   With Irish Johnny becoming more evasive Ellen’s romance was far from running smoothly. Time after time she waited in vain beside Queen Victoria’s statue on The Boulevard with little or no explanation or excuse from him. Very occasionally she would get a letter but never with the address of his lodging house so that she could reply. And it was after one of these prolonged breaks in their courtship that she got his final note:

     
Dear Ellen,

      Sorry I can’t meet you any more. I’m going back to Ireland next week.

      I have a wife and children over there in Dublin. Sorry.

      All The Best, Johnny.

   She should have seen it coming, she was an idiot for letting herself be taken in by him and his Irish “blarney”. Heartbroken and disillusioned, she spent the following day crying into her pillow. Her mother was sympathetic though she’d told her all along that 16 was too young to be “tying herself down”. According to her there were plenty more fish in the sea.

   It was true there were plenty more fish in the sea, not that she’d be fishing ever again, the last thing she wanted was to pull out another slimy lying fish like Irish Johnny, and if Betty had her head screwed on the right way
she’d
chuck that German Manfred back in the sea as well.

1951

   The short flabby man in a suit two sizes too small but loud enough to frighten an elephant swung open the door of the Ford 8 with an exaggerated flourish. A boy of about eight scrambled over from the back seat and tumbled on to the pavement, a smartly dressed woman followed and  managed a more elegant exit.

   ‘Remember me, Florrie?’ she said brightly.

   For a split second Florrie was rooted to the doorstep. ‘It’s… it’s Janie, isn’t it? Well don’t just stand there… um…you’d better come inside, all of you.’

   She waved them into the parlour, bitterly aware that her humble home, her well-laundered but shabby clothes, her broad Lancashire accent were, after almost a decade, as recognizable as ever.

   ‘I always thought  I’d like to look you up again after the war was over,’ said Janie. ‘This is my husband, Bob, and this is my son, Frankie...I named him after his father. Where’s Joe?’

   ‘He’s out back… trying to get sunburnt.’

   Janie moved quickly in the direction of the yard. ‘I’ll go and give him a surprise.’

   Shielding her eyes from the strong sun she glanced around the long garden. It had changed; the two piglets Joe had been fattening up during the war were long gone,  the vegetable garden had given way to a large glasshouse.

   Joe was nowhere to be seen until she pushed open the greenhouse door and found him sprawled on the floor, surrounded on three sides by tomato plants with grapevines overhead, fully dressed  in suit, shirt and tie and sweating like a pig in the sub-tropical temperature.

   ‘Well Joe Pomfret! You never change, do you?’ She burst out laughing. ‘Whoever
else
would think of sunbathing in a greenhouse?’

   ‘By God…if it isn’t Janie Neild! I’d know that voice anywhere.’

   He jumped to his feet and swept her into his arms, trying to pull her close. His kiss landed in mid-air as she turned away from his scorched face with its stinking coating of malt vinegar and olive oil, home-made sun-lotion . Still laughing, she led the way back to the parlour.