Telling Dreams

by Linda Taylor

  Telling Dreams

  – LINDA TAYLOR –

  An environmentally friendly book printed and bound in England by www.printondemand-worldwide.com

  This book is made entirely of chain-of-custody materials

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  Telling Dreams

  Copyright © Linda Taylor 2012

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

  All characters are fictional.

  Any similarity to any actual person is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-178035-349-4

  First published 2012 by

  FASTPRINT PUBLISHING

  Peterborough, England.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the memory of Mum and Dad

  Louisette Alice Ossieur

  1920 – 1996

  ‘Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’

  Leonard Walter Bishop

  1909 – 1984

  ‘You are as good as the next man and better than most’

  By the same author

  Our Bread and Butter

  ISBN: 978-178035-076-9

  Life was crowded in the Guest House and fraught due to constant money worries. There were six competing children, one aging, interfering Grandmother, a sickly mother and six resident strangers, who came from such different backgrounds and could be demanding and eccentric. But children are resilient and fun could be found in the least expected places:

  Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,

  Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?

  Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!

  Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don.

  Translation:

  Brother Jacob, Brother Jacob,

  Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping?

  Morning bells are ringing! Mornings bells are ringing!

  Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.

  Chapter 1

  Ifirst met Daniel whilst on a coaching holiday to North Wales.

  My Aunt Grace had recently been widowed and in need of some company. She knew that I lived alone now and that I had not had a holiday for some time due to being made redundant by the Bank, who had off -shored mine and hundreds of other loyal employees jobs to India, for cheapness and avoidance of any union protection.

  It had been hell there the final year. We had been closely watched by Team Leaders keen to prove themselves to management and to witness any derogatory remark or action about the changes that were to occur, which would then be added to a file held on each of us and effect our settlements.

  Customers at the Bank had been given as little information as possible about the off-shoring, as the Bank didn’t want to lose them when they realised that the service level would be only as good as their bank balance. It was like being watched by a secret squad of police.

  I was glad to get out safely with my entire redundancy package and a small pension which of course I was too young yet to draw on.

  I guess it was cowardly not to speak out to the Press but I felt I had too much to lose to become a Scapegoat and willed any such brave disloyalty to the younger members of the team. Only one person had ‘let the cat out the bag’- she had nothing to lose having been there a mere year. She was reprimanded but little else happened to her, much to everyone’s surprise. I think the management feared she might just leave and then speak too openly to the Press. No doubt some extra financial arrangement was made to keep her quiet like the rest of us.

  All through my childhood, when my parents were too busy running their business to give me much of their time, this sweet Aunt had always been a good listener. On my finally leaving the Bank, she had listened to all my woes and suggested this break away. It was for only a week but how could I refuse, knowing she too needed company.

  Throughout their married life, my Uncle had led her a dance with other women and sadly also young boys. They had had money and status and he had lost most of it gambling, and on other women and men.

  She had stuck by him though; pulled through it all; brought up their three children only to lose her only daughter Jan at 16 and her youngest son David from a thrombosis at just 30.

  ‘‘It isn’t right to outlive one’s children, Lou,’’ she would say to me.

  ‘‘No, Aunt,’’ I would reply, ‘‘but I am glad you are still here despite the sadness of their loss.’’ I would give the old darling a big hug and it invariably brought a tear to her eyes.

  Aunt had also suffered several nervous breakdowns and despite this, I still took the support she offered me, but I also willingly gave her some back. It was a good relationship; she could tell me things and I could tell her things, that we could never have told a sister or a mother or even a close friend or partner. As a confidante and friend, I valued her higher than my Mother to be honest.

  She had fallen asleep on the journey to Llanberis. Llanberis, the gateway to the mountains. We had taken motorways of course to come this far. These were unavoidable and time saving. The hum of the engine and the notorious rainfall, well, what with the quarry slates - piles of the grey stuff and those dreary grey roads soon had her nodding off to sleep. I gently eased her head back from the slumped position it invariably took, to the pillowed head rest and she slept on.

  ‘You don’t mind dear, if I have a little snooze?’ she had asked, clasping my hand affectionately and I had smiled assent.

  Looking at her sleeping, I thought to myself, ‘‘what a lovely lady and why had life not recognised that and treated her better?’’ I couldn’t help but ponder the question. If there is a God, he really isn’t that just. But then someone else once said that we only get to carry the burden we are capable of carrying. Perhaps Aunt was a lot stronger than I realised.

  Suddenly the coach skidded to a halt and with a violent thrust forward. I believe we were on the Llanberis Pass. The light was fading into evening and we seemed to be the only vehicle on that road. Fortunately, Aunt and I were safely sat in the middle seats. Two ladies at the front were jettisoned into the bar behind the driver’s seat. It was then I saw two men rush to the front of the coach.

  One was an older man, grey hair down to his collar that yet suited him; thin spectacles, clean shaven, short medium build but with an air of confidence.

  He turned to us and explained ‘Ladies and Gents, I have just had a look and I am very sorry to tell you that the driver is dead, slumped at the wheel. He must have braked just in time. I am no Doctor, but would hazard a guess that the poor chap has had a coronary. God rest his soul,’ he made the sign of the cross at this juncture and some other people automatically did the same. Being a non-believer, I certainly didn’t.

  The coach of people all reacted as you would expect with ‘oh NO’ and ‘Poor man’ and ‘what shall we do now?’ One was heard to uncharitably complain that she was hungry and in need of the supper she was entitled to on our arrival at the hotel. She was simply ignored.

  The other younger man at the front of the coach was slim and tall with shoulder length, jet black, wavy hair, a small beard, long, feminine, soft features and wonderful brown eyes. I found myself gazing straight at them as he now took his turn and said his piece:

  ‘I agree with my companion and his conclusions. We must all keep calm.’

  My aunt had awoken and I quickly explained our new circumstances. She raised her hand, ‘what are we to do now? Can anyone else drive?’

  ‘I could, Madam’ replied the younger man ‘But as I would not be insured and these two ladies appear to have cuts to their faces and knees, I propose I walk and f
ind a telephone box or wave down a passing vehicle to summon some help. The driver appears to have no radio contact. The coach is rather an old one.’

  All on board readily agreed, except the one woman who had declared her personal hunger. She went on to express her disappointment at the package tour, complained that we should not have been given an old coach with no proper radio. No one responded to her. She was probably right but most of us could see that there were far more important problems to be sorted.

  Meanwhile, Aunt and I made ourselves useful by finding the first aid box and started to cleanse and swab some cuts on one woman’s brow and cheek. I also placed a lint bandage over a cut knee for the other.

  A couple came forward to offer some hot tea out of their vacuum flask and despite comments from our ‘hungry friend’ that hot tea is in fact bad for shock, the two injured readily and gratefully accepted the plastic cup and shared the tea between them.

  Daniel, which I later discovered to be the younger man’s name, walked swiftly along the lane and hailed a passing car. Someone looking out the front of the coach through the shattered front screen, informed us that he had waved down and gone in a car and was obviously bound for a phone and help would therefore soon be on its way.

  Being out in the Welsh countryside, we had to wait about half an hour until a coach pulled up at the side of us, with a police car, and ambulance. During that time, some well-meaning old soul had suggested we sing some popular songs to keep our spirits up, but no one had taken up the idea. Most of us climbed with relief into the newly arrived coach to continue our journey as dusk had now fallen.

  I saw our two’ heroes’ talking to the Police and they went off with them, no doubt to give statements. The two injured ladies, despite their protests that they were okay and willing to continue their journey to our first holiday stop, were lead into the back of the ambulance to be taken to hospital and checked out.

  So we journeyed onwards to Llanberis. The remaining company on board had grown quieter after this ordeal and some of the older people nodded off to sleep as if exhausted by the trauma.

  Aunt however was wide awake.

  ‘Did you see that man who got out and took a PHOTOGRAPH of the incident, Lou?’ she said with disbelief.

  ‘Yes, I did actually, Aunt. Bit sick of them really, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I despair of human nature, I really do. Fancy taking your holiday album out and showing those photos-’’’oh yes, and this is where we had an accident’-’ the highlight of the holiday for them, no doubt!’

  ‘Those two men were very good, keeping calm yet taking control. I wonder if they are related?’ I speculated.

  ‘They didn’t look much alike to me. And yet…’ she looked thoughtfully out of the window.

  ‘Um, maybe not. Still, we can always ask them-they should get back sometime to the hotel and maybe we’ll get the chance at breakfast,’ she suggested.

  The light was going quickly now and Aunt had swapped seats with me so that we each had a turn to sit by the window. I gazed out thoughtfully at the scenery. It was hardly cheering as we were passing mountains of grey slate; as we drove onward, nearing our destination, rods of rain began to pelt down, clattering noisily against the windows.

  Aunt, ever in tune with my moods, patted my shoulder.

  ‘Sad thoughts, Lou? she softly quizzed, turning her wrinkled face and furrowed brow towards me anxiously.

  ‘No,’ I lied’ Just tired love. Just tired.’

  ‘It’s a four star hotel. So it should be clean with comfy beds. Breakfast should be full English as well. I do so loathe those Frenchie breakfasts… bread and coffee indeed! How are they to sustain you through to lunch?’

  I smiled back at her and, satisfied that I was okay, she opened her magazine to carry on reading about the celebrities and their social events. We sped on and soon arrived at our hotel.

  She was right. It was a nice hotel and we slept well in the twin-bedded room on the first floor.

  Next morning, feeling optimistic at the sight of some Welsh sunshine, Aunt decided she would take the arranged trip to a garden and Stately home and I opted to take a walk into the nearby town and thereabouts. I saw no one and soon came back to rest in our room, reading a novel I had brought with me.

  Breakfast was indeed full English and, with pleasure, I watched my Aunt enjoy her eggs and bacon. Despite the signs of good weather and being on holiday, I had no appetite that morning, so had only toast and marmalade. Aunt decided that this was a delayed reaction to yesterday’s accident. I didn’t disagree, although I knew what really lay behind my lack of appetite.

  Chapter 2

  Next day, with Aunt firmly on course for another National Trust property visit, I headed, on foot, back towards the small town to take a look at the gift shops. They had been closed the previous day. I still kept contact with colleagues from the Bank and would send a few postcards and maybe buy the odd token gift. Two colleagues were also in their ‘gardening leave’ from the Bank and we would meet up for coffee and chat and discuss what we thought we might try to do next , the prospects of training for something else, and finding some work.

  I come from a small seaside town that has no heavy industry and not much light industry either, so I knew I would have some serious decisions to make shortly on my return from this break away with Aunt. I had no intentions of letting her help me financially, despite the kindness of her genuine offer, to take me in. She had little savings. She would have loved to help me, I knew. But I had to keep my pride, feeling that if I could keep that at least intact, all would not be lost. It would have been too easy to let Aunt help and even give up my flat and move in with her. She so wanted company and I too often felt lonely. I was determined that this would not happen. I had no wish to jeopardise our special relationship.

  I walked on for a mile or more until I came to a small beach. There were cliffs surrounding it and I couldn’t see any people on the pebbles or anywhere nearby.

  Maybe I had stumbled on a secret beach. There were no signs saying ‘PRIVATE, KEEP OUT’, so I ventured down the cliff side via some steps to take a few photographs and have a good look around. I have always loved the sea and always managed to live close to it.

  City breaks and working in cities were okay for night life with good theatres, clubs and restaurants but I could never live in a city or move too far from the sea. It never failed to soothe me. It couldn’t cure the sadness that lingered within me since Richard, my one-time partner and I had parted. I knew that nothing but my own effort and the passage of time would or could do that.

  It was quite breezy here and although the air felt damp and a shower of rain seemed imminent, I didn’t care too much about that. I pulled up the hood of my waterproof and walked on.

  I found I was thinking again about Richard and I. We had seemed to be so much in love. Then he had been offered this marvellous contract in America and asked me to go with him. Marriage had never been mentioned and although some might think me old- fashioned, I was hurt that he had not considered it. I decided I wasn’t prepared to ‘up stakes ‘and follow him like a good little doggie. If he cared, he would come back when the job was finished and I could wait.

  Richard’s contract was completed a year later; a whole year of diminishing contact- fewer phone calls, shorter letters that stopped altogether. Then I met his colleague in a restaurant one Sunday. Just to add insult to injury, it was my birthday then too and Gina, a colleague from the Bank, was with me as we celebrated. She had just moved in with her new girlfriend so it was a double celebration. But that was not to last for long. Paul came over to join us. He had worked with Richard for some time but not proved as successful as Richard. It seems he and Richard had had a weekend together in San Francisco on a boozy boys’ night out. I had heard nothing of this up until he told us that day.

  It was Paul who broke the news to me then; he had obviously had too much to drink. Richard was with another woman, he said, and as she was American he was determined t
o stay there, in the U.S.

  Gina could see my face no doubt growing ashen, for I could feel the blood draining away from me, at hearing this.

  ‘Come on Lou. The show’s over Paul. We’re moving on.’

  She came behind my seat and gently persuaded me into my coat and took me out of there.

  The memory of that meal and its outcome still replays in flashbacks even now after two years. The hurt just doesn’t seem to stop. It merely buries itself until something comes along to disturb the fine layers that lie over it.

  So I was feeling glum as I walked all alone along that beach. The rain had started. The sea was growing wild. I turned back to climb the cliff steps and make my way back the same way I had come. It was then that I heard voices carried on the growing wind. I dived under a laurel bush, hoping no one would see me and that they would pass on. I was in no mood for idle chit chat. I could see them standing on the shore. It was Daniel and the older man from the coach. The older man was talking loudly- ‘I asked you Daniel. I asked you,’ he kept saying in a dominant, almost angry voice. I couldn’t hear Daniel’s response as the wind was now quite strong, taking the rain away fortunately but also his response; of course I had my hood up over my ears.

  Then I witnessed Daniel kneel down before this man. More muffled words, tossed about in the wind. The older man then put his hand on Daniel’s head, where his dark hair was blowing about. He seemed to be smoothing his head, almost caressing it.

  I was intrigued. They moved on, their bodies separate but both bent against the wind.

  I waited in hiding for ten minutes or so to give them time to be out of sight of me and then quickly marched back to the town. I caught a bus just as the Welsh rain took hold of the day and got back to the hotel in time for tea with my Aunt.