Dream On (46 page)

Simon pulled up a blade of grass and sucked it between his teeth. ‘Tell me about your dreams, Ginny,' he said in a mock Viennese accent.

‘How do you know I've got dreams?'

‘We all have dreams,' he said continuing his bad impersonation of Dr Freud. ‘Whether it's buying a television. Owning a car like my father's. Or being the editor of a Fleet Street newspaper.' He rolled on to his stomach and touched her on the tip of her nose with the grass. ‘I bet I can guess one of your dreams,' he went on in his own voice, scratching his chin thoughtfully and staring at her through narrowed eyes. ‘I know. You dream of having a plush flat in Eaton Square and a pair of matching French poodles trotting by your side when you go promenading in the afternoon sunshine.'

‘You're wrong.'

‘How? Come on. Tell me.'

‘You're not really interested.'

He sat up, refilled her glass to the brim once again and laid his hand on his heart. ‘I am absolutely riveted.'

Ginny, feeling heady from the combination of drink and her choice of clothes in the sultry June heat, leaned back against the tree-trunk and closed her eyes. ‘There's this bus. The number 15. It goes along the Barking Road, up through Aldgate, along to Bank, then the Strand, then Oxford Street—'

‘So, I was right,' he crowed triumphantly. ‘East End to West End.'

‘No.' She opened her eyes and looked at him stretched out on the rug next to her. ‘What I imagine is staying on the bus, and it takes me right out into the countryside. You know, like going on a Green Line. And I go to a place, well, it's like this, really. Lovely fields and a river. But then I go round this corner and there's a massive, great big house. Just like Tara in
Gone With the Wind
 . . .' She swallowed the rest of her wine and held out her glass for more. ‘Hark at me, going on, you must think I'm a right fool. Trouble is, you're too easy to talk to.'

‘It's my job, getting people to feel at ease and talk. But I don't think you're a fool, I think you're wonderful. Hey! You nearly smiled then.'

He reached out and touched her cheek. ‘There, I knew you could do it.'

He pulled himself up so that he was kneeling in front of her. ‘You really are wonderful, you know, Ginny. Truly beautiful.'

Slowly he folded his arms around her, touched his mouth to hers and pulled her down on to the rug. ‘You must be so hot in those things,' he breathed into her ear.

Within moments, as a skylark trilled high above them and the moon continued on its inevitable journey that would plunge the brilliance of the glorious summer's day into darkness, Ginny lay naked beneath Simon's urgently thrusting body.

It was nearly a quarter to seven; too early, really, to leave for Piccadilly, but Dilys didn't want to hang around in case Ted turned up and spoilt her plans. And anyway, it'd be no hardship waiting a while for Chuck, he was more than worth it.

She pulled up her skirt to check her suspenders and, as she smoothed her stocking-tops she eyed her thighs appreciatively. ‘You're amazing, Dilys girl, d'you know that?' she said out loud to herself. ‘Look at them legs. No one would ever believe you was a mother – thank Gawd.'

She straightened up and hollered towards the open bedroom door, ‘Susan. Get that letter from behind the clock.'

Susan did as she was told, then hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Her mother's room was strictly off limits, unless she had been specifically told otherwise.

‘Bring it here then,' Dilys snapped impatiently. ‘I ain't got bloody rubber arms.'

Susan stepped cautiously into the room, knowing from experience that she was more likely to get a swipe round the ear than a thank you for her efforts.

Dilys ripped open the envelope and pulled out the contents: two sheets of folded paper and two five-pound notes.

Kissing the money before stuffing it into her handbag, Dilys tossed the rest on to the bed without a second glance. ‘If Ted turns up,' she said, as she took a final glimpse in the mirror, ‘tell him I've had to go round to see your Uncle Sid about buying you some new shoes 'cos I'm broke again. If he gives you anything, put it on the mantelpiece.'

Then, without another word, Dilys left her child alone in the prefab and went outside to run the gauntlet of her neighbours – Milly Barrington and her troop of apron-wearing harpies.

‘There'll be murders if he comes home and catches her going out looking like that,' offered one of the chorus, in a voice pitched deliberately loud enough for Dilys to hear.

‘Leave off,' Milly corrected her at the same volume. ‘What would he care if she went out in her drawers? He's never there.'

‘Probably got some other old bag tucked away,' chipped in one of the others. ‘His sort have always got their feet under someone's table.'

‘I've heard he still lives with his mum,' Milly said with a sneer. ‘Fancy, a man of his age! Over Grove Road way somewhere, they reckon. Near the Roman.'

‘With his mum!'

‘That's what I heard.' Milly craned her neck to watch, as Dilys dodged across the street in front of a motor bike and side-car that had to swerve to avoid her. ‘You know I'd lay money that kid's not his,' she shouted by way of a final parting shot as Dilys disappeared round the corner to find a cab – with ten pounds spare cash in her pocket she could afford such luxuries.

As she watched her mother from the prefab window, Susan heard Milly Barrington shouting that Ted wasn't her father and knew she was wrong. Her mum was always going on at her about it and saying how it was her fault that Ted hung around the place all the time.

Susan didn't really mind Ted. He wasn't like most of her little friends' dads, but when he was there he was quite nice to her and even brought her presents sometimes, ones that he made sure her mum let her keep. But for now, Susan was more interested in her aunt than her father.

Having dodged back into her mum's room, Susan retrieved the envelope and paper from the bed and settled herself down on the half-moon rug in the front room, where she was slowly working her way through the latest letter from her ‘Auntie' Ginny.

She smiled happily to herself as she read the kind, loving words and wished, as always, that she could see her auntie again – or at least know a place where she could write back to her. It would have been hard, writing a whole letter, but Susan would have tried her very best.

There was something that Milly Barrington
had
been right about: Dilys really had no need to worry about Ted turning up. Although he wasn't at his mother's.

In fact, Ted hadn't seen Nellie for weeks; he was too scared he'd be spotted by Dilys's brothers to venture anywhere near Bailey Street. Dilys had been spinning the boys some sort of a line about how hard done by she and Susan were and the last time he'd gone to see his mum they'd threatened to knock nine kinds of bells out of him until he'd handed over every last penny he had on him to buy new summer dresses for the kid,
and
a pair of shoes for sodding Dilys.

He'd had one good hiding off them – when the silly cow had finally admitted that he was the kid's father – and he certainly didn't fancy another. They were a right handy pair of buggers. He'd tried talking his way out of it, explaining that he'd already given Dilys money for the self-same things only the week before, that the kid had dresses coming out of her flaming earholes and that Dilys had enough shoes to open a stall, but they wouldn't listen to him. They'd just kept on and on about what an arsehole he was. If it hadn't been for their big-gobbed wives dragging them indoors – because they hadn't wanted to be shown up by their husbands indulging in something as common as a street fight – Ted would probably have come off even worse than he had.

But, all that aside, Ted was the first to admit he didn't exactly look after Dilys – she didn't deserve looking after – but he always made sure the kid wanted for nothing. Well, most of the time he did.

Anyway, rather than risk another beating, Ted kept well away from that pair of nutters, dividing his time between ducking and diving in any pub where he thought he could pull a scam and with Shirley in her pigsty of a room in Soho.

That particular evening, Ted had just left the Three Greyhounds in Greek Street, after selling a slow-talking yokel type – up in London on business for the day – a camera he had earlier ‘found' in the nearby Coach and Horses. He was now letting himself into Shirley's room, more than pleased to be fifty bob richer for absolutely no effort whatsoever. But his smile soon faded when he saw Shirley lounging on the bed flicking listlessly through a magazine.

‘Why ain't you out working?'

‘I'm tired,' she answered, flipping over the page.

‘Pissed again, you mean.'

‘And where would I get the money to spend on booze? You steal every single penny I earn.' She tossed the magazine aside and leapt to her feet. ‘We don't all run—' She shut her mouth as though it were a spring-loaded trap. Christ! She'd nearly let the cat out of the bag about Ginny's.

‘We don't all run what?'

‘Nothing.'

Ted swung back his fist and smashed it into her stomach. ‘That'll teach you to be lippy.'

Doubled over with pain and gasping to catch her breath, something in Shirley snapped. Sod it, why not? She'd tell the rotten bastard. And maybe it'd get him off her back.

‘You think you're so clever, hitting and punching, and doing poxy little deals, but you haven't got a clue.' Still winded, she grasped hold of the bed head to steady herself. ‘You don't even know about your own wife.'

‘What about her?'

‘She's earning a fortune, that's what. You're sleeping in this rat hole and she's running a club.'

‘She's what?'

‘You heard.'

Ted eyed her suspiciously, he trusted no one, but especially not toms. She was talking shit as usual. Fantasising. Like they all did. ‘Why didn't you tell me before?'

Shirley shook her head and laughed wildly. ‘If you can believe it, just for a while – a very short while, mind – I actually didn't want you leaving me to go back to her. Then, when I couldn't give a damn who you were with, it was too late. If you'd have found out I'd known, but hadn't told you, you'd have gone raving mad.'

He was right, she was making it up. She was rambling like a lunatic. ‘Where is it then, this club?'

‘How would I know?' Shirley lied. ‘You'll have to ask around.'

‘So how come you know about it?'

‘I bumped into one of the girls. From the club. She told me,' she improvised, then added hurriedly, ‘but I didn't bother with the address. I mean, I'm hardly going to go round and visit her, now am I?'

Ted was torn. Should he waste precious time beating Shirley until her teeth rattled, or should he set off straight away to find his wife instead? He could certainly do with a few quid, and if Ginny
was
running a club she must be worth a fortune. And he'd be entitled to his share. He was her husband, after all.

But then again, Shirley was really getting on his nerves . . .

Simon pulled the car into the kerb outside the club. ‘Before you get out, Ginny, there's something—'

‘Look, Simon, I thought I made myself clear, I need time to think. I don't wanna talk, all right?' Talk? She couldn't even look at him, she was so angry with herself at what she'd let him do. Maybe it was revenge, a way of getting back at Billy Saunders for leaving her. But whatever the reason, she'd let it happen and wished with all her heart that she hadn't, because, much as it hurt, she was still in love with Billy.

‘Please, Ginny—'

‘I'll talk to you later.' She grabbed hold of the door handle, but Simon stopped her getting out.

‘I've gotta open the club.'

‘Ginny, please, I know I don't know the form about these things, but I'd like to give you a little present.'

‘Don't, Simon. Please.'

‘I want to.'

With his free hand, he reached inside his sports jacket and took out his wallet. ‘What's the rate?' he asked.

‘I don't understand.'

‘When Welsh Davey told me about you and the girls, he never mentioned how much—'

‘He what!' Ginny stared at him. ‘Everybody knows what a bloody liar that bastard is.' She shook her head in disbelief. ‘I never had you down as an idiot, Simon.'

‘I'm sorry, Ginny. I didn't—'

‘Leave it, Simon. Do us both a favour.'

‘But I swear—'

‘I mean it, Simon. Please. Just leave it.'

‘Does this mean you won't see me again?'

‘Just go.'

She grabbed hold of the car doorhandle, but again he stopped her. ‘No, I won't. Not like this. I've been clumsy and stupid, and I've insulted you. Promise me you'll see me again, Ginny. Please.'

‘Simon—'

‘But I've got to see you. And it isn't just about what happened back there. I told you, Ginny. I think you're the most wonderful . . .' He looked away as his eyes filled with tears. ‘Please,' he begged. ‘Give me another chance.'

A shudder racked through Ginny's body. She had to get away. ‘Call me in a few days.'

As Ginny climbed up the steps of the club, she too began to cry. Was this what it had finally come to? Was it true what they said? No matter how you told yourself you'd got out of it, it was still obvious to everyone what you really were. Once a brass, always a brass.

She shoved open the door and let the hamper fall from her hand on to the tiled floor.

If whoring was all she was fit for she might as well do it right this time. Not like she did in Frith Street. She'd put a proper price on herself. Simon seemed a decent enough bloke and it looked like he had a few quid. Maybe when Billy got rid of the clubs, Simon could be her solution. He could give her a decent life; the kind of life she'd dreamed of . . .