Dream On

by Dai Smith

  And all the time, I have to say, as it all went on, I found I couldn’t get my mind off Richie’s big old body, all squashed into that bloody coffin. Shame. I didn’t feel tearful, well not then, at least. Just what a shame. Of course my thoughts were straying, I admit. A bit naughty, I know. Still I kept thinking of that body of his as I’d once known it. Couldn’t help it, and I may have swallowed a bit hard because Trev asked if I was all right and I wondered, oh God, he can’t know, can he? Usually slow on the uptake on things like that, Trev, but then again there was Myra, sitting just in front where I could’ve touched her and she must’ve seen me when she walked past, though she didn’t let on.

  For certain she knew I’d been going out with him when she first picked up with him, didn’t she? Don’t you think? Don’t know what Richie told her, mind, but she’d’ve been as slow as old Trev if she hadn’t known it, because, see, it didn’t exactly stop between Richie and me, for quite a time after that I can tell you, and there was that other time, later. He was a bugger for all that, mind. I thought to myself if there’s any tap-tapping coming from that coffin it won’t be his hands he’ll be using, I can tell you!

  It took six of the rugby boys from the club to carry him in on their shoulders. Two of his old pals in the middle and the other four at either end, from today’s team. Quite tasty-looking, they were. The young ones, I mean! I think I recognised one of the older ones, but I wasn’t sure. It might have been that Tiny Thomas he went drinking with after the games back then, before meeting up with me later in the Memo. Only, if it was, he was not only huge, as he was then, but fat and bald, so who knows, but I think it was, because he caught my eye and winked, the cheeky sod. Tried it on with me, only the once mind, when Richie was paralatic with drink. I let him try, to punish Richie, but can’t say I ever fancied him, even back then.

  Lots of old faces to clock all round, really, so I found myself giving little smiles quite a lot, not really knowing who the hell they were, or are I should say, though I kept, you know, respectful, sad, not wanting to give the impression I was enjoying it or anything. People get funny ideas, don’t they? Still, I’d decided not to go in black myself. I wore that silk-and-linen jacket-and-skirt in deep pink I got, you know, that white blouse with the stitching round the collar, and, to hell with it I thought, my cream-and-tan skyscraper heels. My legs are OK, love, even if the rest is starting to sag a bit! Not that Trev seems to notice one way or the other. Or, at least, not until lately he hadn’t. Seems to have got his second wind from somewhere, and I know where!

  It went on a bit, the service. One of those modern affairs, you know the ones where the minister is more like a master of ceremonies, or even a bloody bingo caller, than an actual vicar. This one called out the hymns by numbers, eyes down and page eight and all that, and off they went, between the tributes and the prayers, with “Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah”, naturally, and that other one they always sing, in Welsh, “Arglwydd Dyma something or other” and ending up with the anthem, all of the rugby boys bursting out of their blazers, all puce-faced and bellowing “Gwlad! Gwlad!”, exactly like as if they were at some international or other.

  Trev was as pop-eyed as the rest of them. The M.C., minister so-called, though he did, to be fair, say a few religiousy kind of things now and then, was bobbing up and down, cueing in this one and that one, usually from the club, to say all about Richie. Or Digger, as they all referred to him. Calling him that in front of Myra, so she must’ve given permission, because she never called him that either. It was him told me that. She’d told him, and no messing, that he was to be Richard from the off for her. So she was the one who must have decided to allow this familiarity from others. A bit late in the day. Every time they called him “Digger” I could see, well not actually see but, you know, sense, that tight little smile on her chops, and yes, I do admit, I always envied her those cheekbones.

  And then it was all about how he should’ve played for Wales more than just the once. One of them forgot himself in the pulpit and said it was “a bloody disgrace”, then said “sorry”, but there was a snigger all round and everyone was muttering approval. Of course I never saw him play, myself, well only the once, bored out of my mind and freezing to boot I was, but I could tell they were over-egging the hard-but-fair and never-a-dirty-player bit. That’s not what he told me; he positively relished being a thug, from what I remember, and his endless dirty remarks about how really, really hard he could be with me if I’d let him. Cheeky sod! They all said he was a team player and a one-club-man – not so far as the ladies was concerned, he wasn’t – and that we’d none of us ever see the likes of him again. I suppose that’s right if they meant we were all getting on a bit, but, no, they were building him up bigger than that, I can tell you.

  People started crying. Men and all. Can you believe? I sneaked a look at Trev and he had tears squeezing out of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. He saw me looking before I could turn away, and squeezed my hand and whispered “A great man, Rita. A great man.” I was, I can tell you, more than a bit gobsmacked by that and I must’ve rolled my eyes, unintentionally, without meaning to look like anything was going on, but he gave me a very funny look, and I think maybe that’s what started off what came later, over these last few weeks. At the end the coffin sort of slid back on rollers, like it does and those heavy blue velvet curtains with the gold trim closed across it, and he was gone. It felt a bit like going to the pictures, like I said, only in reverse. You know, the end was the only bit we’d really come for.

  Everybody filed out, in turn, row by row, after Myra and her so-called family and the music they played was that cheesy Sinatra thing “My Way” when, if she’d’ve asked me, I’d’ve told her something by the Supremes was more his thing. “Baby Love”, he liked. He drooled over that Diana Ross so much the one time, he really annoyed me. The rain had stopped outside and Myra was there, real Lady Muck now, shaking hands and kissing people on the cheek. I kept away, in the back, let Trev do all that, and we’d filled the card in so she’d know who’d been there. I wanted us to go home after that, but Trev insisted we had to go back to the club.

  There were hundreds there too, most probably everyone who’d been outside as well as inside the crem. And, fair play, it was a proper buffet she’d laid on. More like a wedding party than a funeral wake. None of those turdy sausage rolls and curled-up sarnies and pukey cocktail sausages on toothpicks. Plates and knives and forks, and not plastic and paper neither, and proper slices of beef and ham cut off the joint by proper catering staff, and poached salmon and bowls and bowls of minted new potatoes and dressed salads, and rice with sweetcorn and red peppers. It was a proper spread. Caterers were from Cardiff, too, not up the Valleys, thank God. As much wine as you liked, oh and desserts, not that I had one of those, and a free bar until five o’clock. They had to wheel some of ’em home, no doubt. So, hats off to her, she pulled the stops out, though I suppose money’s no object for her, still, fair dos, it was a proper send-off, done proper.

  We had to bump into each other, didn’t we? She was polite enough and I said how sorry I was, which was true. Only, where we were standing, near the bar, and that was packed at the time, was, funny enough, made me shiver, almost exactly where he was standing when he first met her. I bloody well remember that because I’d gone to the toilet and when I came back he was chatting to her, chatting her up I could see, and I was not best pleased I can tell you. Turned on my heel. Plenty more where he came from, I thought. Only there wasn’t, not really.

  She went home with her father, old Bobby Braithwaite, that night, so he came looking for me in the other bar afterwards. I played it cool, of course, and then when he kept at it I was angry with him. Couldn’t help showing it, could I? But his line was that it was all about getting a job, he was fed up in the tax office, better wages to be had, and so on. Well, I wasn’t green but what was I to do? We kept seeing each other and I sort of pretended I didn’t know he was stringing both of us along for a bit after that.
Well, when I say stringing, I mean her, not me, me he was shagging the arse off! Wasn’t exactly a secret was it, when we’d disappear from the club or a dance after he’d had his hands practically all over me, down the nearest, darkest back lane. He even had a favourite back gate, set slightly deeper into the wall. He was my first, you know. Honest!

  And I did think, him loving shagging me so much, that he’d choose me in the end, above her, because, let’s face it, she was always a cold bitch and I know for a fact it was ages before he got into her knickers. And then it was all precautions, rubber johnnies, which I never ever liked, made you sore they did, and fumbling about. Whereas, it was, between me and him, “sweet and luscious”, his words not mine and, to be honest, I didn’t want to let him go, cos he was, let’s face it, bloody gorgeous.

  All this, going through my mind, well you can’t help it, can you, as I was standing there looking at Myra and nodding, and wondering why they hadn’t had any kids whilst Trev, who was all right in bed early on, nothing adventurous mind, had given me three without hardly trying. Perhaps it was Richie after all, not her, because he banged me often enough, when I was only seventeen and eighteen, and oh, that once or twice I told you about later on, without me ever missing.

  I didn’t linger. Not much to be said that could be said, was there? She just said it was very sudden – the heat and a bit of bother on the motorway or something, and she’d found him at the pool. The pool. Had to get that one in, I suppose. The pool. We had an Indian after all that: me, Trev, and some of the boys and their wives, from the old days. She didn’t come. I couldn’t eat much. When it came down to it, I was more upset than I thought. But, I have to be honest, was it for him or for me? All that time gone. He was a couple of years older than me but we were both so young, weren’t we? Couldn’t get enough of each other, really. It was mutual. God! That time I told you about in his mother’s front room. He’d taken all my clothes off, he loved doing that, and licking me all over, and telling me it was all right, because I was shy, believe it or not, and then slipping his cock, no plunging more like, into me, his big arse whacking it in, and God it was lovely, and his mother rat-a-tat-tat-ing on the door, asking why it was locked when it was never supposed to be locked, and me wriggling to get free from under him, but he wouldn’t let me, oh God, till he was finished. And then I had to put my hand over his mouth. He was always a groaner. Even years later, must be twenty years ago now, when I’d met him by chance in Marks and Spencer’s, not looking my best I can tell you, and my knees were wobbling to see him and, well, you know, I told you, we had a drink and he drove us to Cardiff, to the Angel, and we just fucked all afternoon. I can’t say it was as good as back then but it was the thrill, the risk, of being found out I liked, and he was still, you know, appreciative.

  He didn’t talk too much about him and Myra, though he did say, perhaps he was making it up for me, that they didn’t make love too often anymore, and that was years ago, mind. He’d say things like that, Richie, “making love” rather than a cruder word, though he liked me to be naughty, as he’d say. We just stopped again after that, after a few times. He’d seemed interested in my kids – names and whatever – but I didn’t detect any regrets of his own not having any. You know what, I think he actually did go after her with a job in his mind. And, you’ve got to say, he did well enough out of it. No struggling on a primary teacher’s wage like Trev, and even when I started back in the tax office again, that didn’t make a big difference. We’re OK now, house paid and some money after Trev’s old man, and that bachelor uncle in Swansea, so no complaints, but I wouldn’t have minded a few bob when I was younger. So I can see where Richie was coming from.

  But what I couldn’t see, then or now, was all this hero worship of him. I read the notices in the papers, Cardiff as well as local, and name of God, you’d think he was a superstar, or something. He was, they said, “the embodiment of the gutsy spirit of the valleys” and that he played “like a man possessed for his own people”. What the hell did that mean? The best one was that “Richie ‘Digger’ Davies came off the terraces onto the field of dreams straight out of the people, and when he hung up his boots he re-joined his butties”. Trev cut that out, and his photo, and pinned them to the board by the phone. He was obsessed with him, talking about him all the time, how he’d always say “Shwmae” and have a pint, and how he was “the best of his generation”, to look up to, as Trev, my age not Richie’s, did whenever he saw him playing or walking down the street, usually with a girl on his arm in those days, everybody gawping. Before me, and Myra.

  Our memories of Richie were stirring, alive as we were to him in our different ways, and maybe it was all that which set Trev off the way it did. He was leafing through the team photographs in some old club history over breakfast and he suddenly looked up at me and he said, “Rita”, he said, “You went out a bit with Digger, didn’t you?”

  “Oh”, I said, “You know that, Trev, couple of years before we met. You know, dances and discos, and that. Casual.” And he gave me a very strange look and he said, “Richie Digger Davies didn’t do anything casual, Rita. If he went out with you it’s because he wanted to.”

  So I said, well what else could I say, “Yeah. I s’pose so.”

  Only he didn’t leave it there. We were lying in bed, reading, when he propped himself up and he said: “Rita, I want to know, and I won’t mind, honest, I want to know, if, you know, you ever slept with Digger.” I bloody well started then, I can tell you. But he went on, “I mean, I know you went with that Johnny Williams and got engaged, and you told me, fair play, you weren’t a virgin or anything, when we met, and I said, fair enough, and neither was I, though there was only that English girl in training college as I told you, and that we’d never mention the past again. And I haven’t, have I? But I need to know, now, Rita. I can’t explain it, but I can’t help it either. You see, Digger, stands for so much. Means so much. To me. To all of us.”

  I’m telling you straight, I thought he’d flipped his lid. But not a bit of it. He made this long speech about how special Digger had been, and how special that made any bond between him and us, and I thought what d’you mean “us”, it was me he was shagging, not you? He just wouldn’t stop – Trev, I mean. Had I? Ever? More than once? He didn’t mind. It made me, in his eyes, even more special, too. All a bit crackers. And bloody persistent. So, after he’d gone on and on at this, one day I’d had it up to there and I told him, it was all in the past, none of his business really, what I did before we met, and, just to shut him up I thought, I said, yes, there were a few times. With Richie. Christ! It was that “few” which did it. Set him off again. How few did few mean? How many did few mean? Funny thing is, I wasn’t, you know, worried. More surprised. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t want to rake over what was long riddled through. And that was my mistake again, because when I fed him a few details, to authenticate it, so to speak, how he’d been a bit forceful the first time, didn’t believe I was a virgin, and I’d cried, and how he’d made it up to me and I thought we’d get married, I let him again, a few times, well, Trev, was like a dog with a bone. He wanted more, not less! What was I wearing? Was it in the kitchen? Were we standing up in the lane? Did we do it in Digger’s van? What was he like? And he meant his cock, I’m telling you, not his personality. I made it a bit romantic and lovey-dovey rather that what it actually was, you know, and he was on that like a flash. “No. The real thing, Rita. I only want true stories.” True stories? True stories? Right, you bastard, I thought. I’ll tell you. Or some of it anyway. So I did. And, thing is, when I looked at him a bit sheepish, he was more aroused than I’d seen him in years. You know, playing with himself. So I laughed and I said, “Oi, you don’t want to waste that!”, but he said, “No, keep going. We’ll do it, together, later. Now, for now, tell me about you and Digger doing it, holding your arse and fucking you.” After that there was no end to it. Not so far anyway. He doesn’t seem to care, so long as it’s about Digger and me. I tell yo
u, I’m running out of stories and he spots any made-up bits and makes me tell him the ones he’s already heard over and over. Mind, our sex life, not just his wanking, is better than it’s been for years. He makes me dress up for him, and all, and sometimes I have to call out Digger’s name, only I say “Richie, Richie”, which somehow excites and upsets him more. I don’t know where, or when, this is going to end. Sometimes I think about whether I’ll tell him about later on with Richie, or maybe not, or about that lush Italian I met with you in Corsica when we went away from the men for a week, or perhaps not, eh? But since the funeral, I’m telling you, who’d have thought it, eh? my Trev is just filthy, gone.”

  A Talking Point

  It was strange, now that he was gone, finally gone and reduced to speckled ash in a bronze urn and plonked on her mantelpiece, that she could only think of him as “Digger”. It was the nickname she had avoided, with some distaste, when he was alive. Yet it was everywhere now he was dead. It was literally unavoidable. In the press. On the radio and television, even. On the lips and in the letters of friends, his not hers, and acquaintances, mostly hers, expressing sympathy with cards and phone calls. It was used in all the formal tributes and underneath all the photographs in the papers. She heard it whispered, sotto voce, as she pushed a trolley down the aisle of a supermarket. She was “Digger’s Widow”. That was how she was seen and talked about, and the perception sat on her shoulders as squarely as his ashes sat above the empty fireplace in the house he’d knocked through for her. In reply to enquiries she found herself using the nickname as if it were the most natural thing to do, and, worse, it was how she began to think of him in her own mind. Not her Richard anymore. Certainly not someone else’s Richie. Digger. There it was. He had become again what in his prime he had been, a talking point. And the reference was undeniably to the one and only “Digger” Davies, her late husband and the town’s last, true working-class hero.