Faded Dreams (34 page)

   The deckchair, with the rightful owner’s name BLACKPOOL BOROUGH COUNCIL emblazoned across its striped twill seat, would never again see the light of day. Hidden from public view, it had been left to rot along with everything else.

   The value of the booty was unimportant to Joe, he was a magpie going about his business, picking up items and returning them to his nest.

   After the general inspection of the shed and the accompanying jokes it was back to the parlour and the fancy-cut triangular roast beef sandwiches.   

   The sight of the roast beef reminded Betty and Ellen of a different sort of funeral. Butting in on each other they told how they had sung hymns in the backyard while their father conducted the ceremonial burial of a blackened Sunday joint. Some were crying with laughter by the time they had finished.

   ‘By gum,’ Lizzie murmured, ‘he were
right, weren’t he?
There’ll never be another Joe, will there?’

   'Sure there will, 'said Ellen, now with a Trans-Atlantic accent, 'we have our Betty's boy now. And Little Joe will be just as special as his granddad.'

  
Little Joe.
Betty wondered what had made her put her foot down so firmly with Jeff and insist their son be named after the father she hated. Had she subconsciously been trying to win his approval, or was it because some stronger emotion other than hate was buried deep inside her? Some day she would work through her feelings for her father, but not now.

   Bill rejoined the group and delved into his inside pocket for the two photos he'd rescued from the shed. One of his father, his arm slung affectionately around the shoulder of Frank, the fresh-faced young soldier.

   'What've you got there, Billy?' His Aunt Lizzie asked. 'Does it say anything on the back?'

   Bill flipped it over and read the inscription out loud, “1940. This is me and my old pal
Frank, the best mate in the world.”

   The photo was dated two years before he was born. There must have been a special bond between the two of them if his dad had treasured this picture for over 20 years.

    He read the words again. A vague childhood memory came back to him of the day he’d walked in on an argument after a family of strangers had been to see his parents. Frank...that same name had been bandied about and his dad had screamed at him like it was his fault, but by the following day it had blown over and his dad had been as right as rain. He looked at the second picture; a change of subject was needed.

   ‘Hey look at this, it’s dad in his lion-tamer’s weskit…we’ve just been talking about his tale of him being a lion-tamer’s assistant.’

   The photo was circulated and everyone smiled and admired the young handsome Joe in his top hat and frock coat.

   ‘
By God Billy,' Nellie said, 'you’
r
e
the
double
of our Joe, if it weren’t for you
r sandy hair.  Just have a good look at him Lizzie, he’s got our Joe’s nose  as well.'

   'Aye, it’s just his hair that’s different,’ Lizzie agreed.

   No, thought Bill, it isn't just my hair, it's my smile, my eyes; he almost wanted someone to recognise this likeness between him and Frank Neild.

   He turned away from where everyone was still laughing at “Joe, the lion-tamer” and put his arm around his mother’s shaking shoulders.  

   ‘Who was Frank, mum?’ he asked gently. ‘What happened to him?’

   ‘Oh he were just a soldier we  knew during the war,’ Florrie whispered, trying to sound casual, ‘he got killed right at the beginning of it.’

   ‘Wasn’t Frank the fella that dad thought was sweet on you?’ Ellen had overheard her brother's question.

   ‘Well if he
did
… he were wrong.’ Florrie put a hand to  her trembling lips. Good God, she could do without talk of Frank Neild on a day like today. 

   ‘Hey wait a minute,’ Hettie came to the rescue as everyone went quiet. ‘Now let’s get this tale straight once and for all.  It were
me
that Frank Neild were sweet on. He thought he had a chance with my Fred being away in the war and all, but he were one-off. I had more than enough with
one
fella, thanks very much.’

   She laughed, as if at the memory of it all, then went on,  'Frank’d have been wasting his time going after your mum so it was no good him even trying.  Still…you know what an aggravating devil your dad could be, he was in his element if he was tormenting her about him or some other fella.’

   'I knew Frank Neild,' said Uncle Walt, 'I remember him well. He were a bloody hero, that lad. Blew himself up defusing a bomb.'

   Bill felt a surge of pride in the father he had never known but also in the man who had raised him, given him his name and a chance to make something of himself. One day he would talk to his mother about Frank Neild, ask her about his life and death, maybe about how much they'd meant to each other all those years ago. But not today; today was for his dad.

   Across the parlour a good-natured argument had broken out between Joe’s sisters who were tugging the photograph of the assistant lion-tamer from one to the other.

   Betty stood to the right-hand side of the piano she had shared with her dad since she was three years old, her finger-tips lightly caressing the yellowing keys that were scorched and mutilated by a lifetime of her father’s smouldering cigarettes.

   Why hadn’t she tried to understand this complicated father of hers and make allowances for him, just like Ellie and Billy had done? She'd had a last chance to forgive him on his deathbed but had drawn away, had even felt a mild satisfaction at hurting him, as he had hurt her. Had he sensed her rejection or had he been too drugged to care? She would never know the answer but would have to live with her conscience.

   ‘Come on Betty, what are you waiting for?’ Auntie Sally gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder. 'G
ive us a tune to cheer us up, you
r dad would’ve livened us all up in no time if we hadn’t just buried him.’

   Sally waited till the various reactions to her aunt's odd statement, a hearty chuckle here...a half-stifled sob there, had melted to a murmur then tried again.

   ‘Come on then, love, play us something we all know on your dad’s Old Johanna  for old times sake.’ 

   Betty sat on the well-worn stool, its once brightly coloured padded seat now faded to a murky, mucky mauve. Long ago her dad had lifted her on to this very stool, leaned over her shoulder, helped her tiny fingers...sometimes impatiently, but always lovingly...to find the right notes.

   And now he was gone, her crazy complicated father was gone. She stared down at the piano keys, imagining his long fingers poised ready to play; work-worn nicotine-stained fingers with a ring tattoo as black as his fingernails circling his right index one. It all seemed like yesterday...

   Family and friends barged into her thoughts, humming or singing and  drowning out each other with a few bars of her father’s favourite tunes.

   She blinked away her tears and picked out a few single notes to begin with, then with a smile and a determined nod of her head she began to play a melody from long ago… “Somebody Stole My Girl”.