To Dream Again

by To Dream Again (retail) (epub)

  Joey drew in his breath sharply, his attention caught not by the evidently fashionable clothes of the girl, nor by the fine house in the background. It was her face that made him gasp.

  ‘It’s incredible!’ he exclaimed. ‘It could be you! But look at the name - Blanche! It’s the Old Un, isn’t it? It must be. Wasn’t she pretty? And do you see that posh house behind her? You don’t think those stories of hers were true, do you?’

  ‘I think they might have been.’ Mercy smoothed the photograph with gentle fingers. ‘She does look pretty there, doesn’t she? And happy.’

  ‘And well off. I don’t know anything about fashion in those days, but she certainly isn’t dressed like a pauper, is she? I don’t think she’s standing in front of a workhouse, either. When you think of what she became… I mean, it makes you wonder what happened, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Whatever it was, it must have been terrible for her. Poor Grandmother.’ Carefully Mercy put the photograph back in the poetry book.

  ‘Thank you for bringing them,’ she said, her voice still husky with weeping. ‘They must have meant something very special for her to have kept them all these years, her last links with her old way of life. I’ll treasure them always.’

  ‘I knew you would, and so did Blanche. That’s why she wanted you to have them.’ Joey rose to his feet.

  ‘You aren’t going yet, are you?’ asked Mercy in alarm.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to give Queenie a hand with the suppers. It’s too much for her on her own, and her father’s so poorly he can’t help.’

  ‘Are you liking it in Paignton?’ Mercy knew few details about his latest job.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he replied, too heartily to convince his sister.

  ‘You haven’t told me when the funeral’s to be,’ said Mercy.

  ‘Ah yes, the funeral.’ Joey paused on his route to the door. ‘The thing is, she didn’t want any of us to go.’

  ‘Not to go?’

  ‘Yes, quite definite she was. “I am not having folks howling and bawling over me,” she said. “You will all be glad to be rid of me, and I shall be glad to go, so there is an end to it!”’

  ‘But we weren’t glad to be rid of her,’ protested Mercy. ‘At least, I’m not, and I know you’re not.’

  ‘I told her that, but she wouldn’t change her mind. “I will come back and haunt any of you who disobey my wishes,” she said, all la-di-da and precise to the end. The doctor was very taken with her. He said it was the most impressive deathbed he’d attended in a long time. Ma and Lizzie were scared out of their wits. You won’t get them within a mile of the cemetery on Wednesday.’

  ‘Wednesday… that’s when it’s to be?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Joey shuffled awkwardly. ‘Look, Sis, just because she doesn’t want us there, that’s no reason for her to have a pauper’s funeral. Could you see your way to chipping in with the cost? I tried getting some out of Pa, but you know what that’s like, and Ma and Lizzie never have a brass farthing between them, in spite of the money you send.’

  ‘Of course I will. I should have offered. I’m sorry.’ Mercy looked stricken.

  ‘So I can tackle the undertaker, can I?’

  ‘Yes, please. Make sure she has a decent funeral, one fit for the Blanche in the photograph. Don’t worry what it costs, send the bill to me, and the doctor’s bill, too.’

  ‘No, I’m paying my share.’ Joey was adamant. ‘I’ve enough.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll split the expenses, if that’s what you want.’ She smiled at him, still somewhat tearful. ‘Thanks for coming. You’ve no idea how good it is to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Sis. We’ll have to get together again soon, eh?’ His voice lacked conviction. Somehow he did not think he would be seeing too much of Mercy in the future. Although she had been back to Fernicombe Cottages of late, her visits had been fleeting and unsatisfactory. There was a brittleness about her these days which made her seem more of a stranger than ever. He did not dare ask her how she really was or if she was happy.

  ‘That would be lovely.’ She reached up and kissed him. ‘Take care,’ she whispered. ‘Give my love to Ma and Lizzie and everyone. Tell them I’ll come to see them soon.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised, giving her one last hug.

  Only as he walked away from his sister’s house did its magnificence register with him. He could only bring her sitting-room into sharp focus, but that was enough. The tasteful furniture, the pictures on the walls, the modern gramophone standing open, its records strewn casually on the table. Above all, it was the sense of space and the clean smell of everything which impressed him. No hint of stale cooking and bad drains, just polish and fresh flowers. He liked that.

  The contrast between Mercy’s way of life and his existence with the Dixons cast a gloomy shadow over him. As he made for the tram back to Paignton his depression deepened so much he almost forgot to call in at the undertaker’s. The result was that he had to retrace his steps. By the time he returned to the lodging-house he was late and in a bad mood.

  Queenie was in the kitchen when he arrived. Her plain face was crimson with the heat as she frantically peeled a small mountain of potatoes. Her air of harassment made him feel guilty. Peeling potatoes was one of his jobs.

  ‘There was no need for you to start those. You knew I’d come. I’m only a bit late,’ he snapped.

  ‘Just thought I’d make a start to help you out.’ She turned and stirred at something on the stove, pushing a strand of hair from her perspiring brow as she did so.

  She looked tired, and her gentle uncomplaining response filled him with remorse.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Sorry I bit your head off. I missed my tram and - well, you know how it is.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She gave him a quick smile of sympathy. ‘Things can’t be easy for you at the moment. The kettle’s nearly boiling, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘No! Give me a minute to change and I’ll make you one. And leave those danged tiddies alone. I’ll do them.’ He stopped and gave a grin. ‘Lor’, my sister would give me a thump round the ear if she heard me calling them tiddies. My apologies, Miss Dixon! Leave those potatoes alone, if you will, and I will give them my undivided attention when I return.’

  ‘You gurt fool!’ he heard Queenie laugh as he hurried upstairs.

  In record time he was back in the kitchen. He made the tea and, placing his hands on Queenie’s stout waist, he pushed her gently but firmly away from the potato stack.

  ‘Sit down!’ he ordered, ‘and drink your tea while it’s hot!’

  ‘You tell her, boy. She might take some notice of you.’ Stan Dixon shuffled in, one hand clutching at the doorpost for support. He looked more grey and ill than ever. ‘How’re things going?’

  ‘Everything under control,’ replied Joey.

  ‘In that case I think I’ll go and have a lie down for a few minutes. If you need me just give a yell.’

  ‘We will!’ Joey assured him.

  It was a nightly ritual, this offering of assistance. Stan was far too sick to do any work, and they all knew it. Joey’s promise to call him if necessary had been a polite fiction. However, it seemed to satisfy Stan’s pride for he gave a nod of his head, and turned, painfully slowly, to leave the room.

  Queenie watched his progress, her eyes full of concern.

  ‘There’s a fresh pot of tea here, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring you in a cup.’

  Stan was having to concentrate too hard on moving to turn his head.

  ‘That would be grand,’ he said.

  Joey, too, watched Stan’s movements anxiously. In the short time he had been with the Dixons the older man’s health had deteriorated. It did not seem right for a decent man like Stan to suffer so. Suddenly the whole world seemed tinged with gloom. He picked up the vegetable knife. If it were true that hard work drove away the miseries then he had an assured cure waiting for him in the form of the heap of potatoes.

  The remedy wa
s only a partial success. The visit to Mercy’s house had unsettled him far more than he had expected. He could not help comparing her existence with the way he lived now. Both he and Queenie worked like slaves, yet somehow the place never seemed clean. Life was one unending battle against dirt, vermin and the grime of poverty. It was a long way from the gracious living at the Villa Dorata, or even the Devonshire Hall. The place was too dingy and squalid to be called a boarding-house. It was a common lodging-house!

  At that moment Joey came to a decision. Running a lodging-house was not the sort of future for him. He wanted something more. Mercy had always encouraged him to better himself, and so had old Arthur. They must have thought he had some special quality that would make him get on in the world. Well, he would prove they were right. He would look for a new job!

  ‘Am I getting a cup of tea today or next week? I’ll be dead of thirst by the time you get round to pouring it!’ demanded an aggrieved voice.

  Joey came out of his reverie with a start. One of the lodgers was waving a battered enamel mug under his nose.

  ‘Sorry, Arnold, I was miles away,’ he said, filling the mug from the large teapot he still had clutched in his hands.

  ‘Well, before you drift off again remember to have a look round for those of us who want a refill,’ replied Arnold, more amenable now he had got his second cup of tea.

  ‘I will,’ promised Joey.

  ‘What was all that about you going somewhere?’ asked Queenie, as together they collected up the dirty dishes.

  ‘It was only old Arnold having a moan because he wanted more tea and I was daydreaming.’

  ‘Thank goodness! For a minute I thought you were leaving!’

  He should have told her then. It was the ideal opportunity to let her know he was planning to leave, but somehow he could not. The anxiety in her voice when she thought he was going had been so unmistakable, and her subsequent relief so obvious that it had brought him up sharply. How were the Dixons going to manage when he had gone? He owed them a lot. There was no way he could leave them in the lurch. He would have to make sure Queenie and Stan were all right before he quit.

  * * *

  When Wednesday came Joey went home for his grandmother’s funeral.

  ‘I’ll be glad when ’er’s gone, honest I will,’ said Lizzie, shuddering as she looked at Blanche’s coffin, balanced on its trestles, in the parlour. ‘’Er shouldn’t be in ’ere, not in the room where us ’as to eat. ’Tidn’t right.’

  ‘You’re getting fussy in your old age, aren’t you? You always eat in the kitchen anyway,’ Joey pointed out brusquely.

  ‘Tis a nice coffin,’ remarked Ma conversationally. ‘Lovely polish on the wood. Must have cost a pretty penny.’

  ‘Well, us all knows who’s footing the bill, don’t us?’ said Lizzie waspishly. ‘Lady Muck! She only comes ’ere to look down on us. Now ’er’s flinging ’er money about again.’

  ‘I notice you don’t object when she flings it in your direction,’ Joey observed. ‘And as you seem interested and since you aren’t willing to pay your share, Mercy and I are dividing the costs between us.’

  ‘What money’ve I got to waste on fancy funerals? I’ve got two childer to keep…’ began Lizzie, spoiling for a fight. Fortunately, before she could say any more the clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the lane outside announced the arrival of the hearse.

  ‘’Tis yer!’ cried Ma unnecessarily. ‘Where’s your pa? Oh where’s your pa?’

  John Seaton appeared from the garden, silent and taciturn as ever. For once he was absenting himself from the Oak long enough to see his mother’s coffin carried from the house. How Blanche had ever managed to produce such an oafish and self-centred son was a mystery to Joey. True, she was not the easiest of women, but having seen her early photograph, he was certain she must have had just cause for being cantankerous. There was no denying that her life – all their lives – would have been much easier if only his father had been a bit more amenable and had utilized some of his undeniable intelligence. He guessed the unknown man who was his paternal grandparent had a lot to answer for!

  The whole family stood at the gate to watch the hearse depart on its short journey to the village churchyard, the black horses going at a sober pace, the plumes on their heads dipping and swaying in time with their hooves. No villagers followed the funeral carriage as they usually did. Blanche had not been popular. Instead they stood at the roadside or looked on from their gardens as her coffin passed.

  Joey found the sight of the black-draped coffin going on its last solitary journey incredibly moving. It looked so forlorn. He opened the garden gate and stepped out into the lane.

  ‘Don’t say you’m going after ’er!’ exclaimed Ma in horror.

  ‘Only as far as the churchyard.’

  ‘’Er said ’er’d come back if anyone did. Bain’t ’ee afraid, boy?’

  ‘Blanche didn’t frighten me when she was alive. She certainly doesn’t frighten me now she’s passed on,’ replied Joey.

  He spoke with an airy assurance which remained with him until they entered the churchyard gates, then it evaporated. To his shame he found himself observing his grandmother’s interment from behind a convenient hedge, hardly close enough to hear the intoning of the vicar’s voice. He told himself he was abiding by Blanche’s last wishes, he refused to admit he had given way to any stupid superstitious dread. Nevertheless, when the vicar finally closed his prayer-book, and Matt Nethercott, the sexton, began shovelling the earth into the grave, he was glad he had stayed to say goodbye to the old girl.

  He was about to leave when a sudden movement caught his eye. A young woman, dressed in black, moved out of the shelter of the opposite wall and began to walk away. He had no difficulty in recognizing Mercy. He ran to catch her up. Too late, only the roar of a motor engine receding along the lane betrayed that she had ever been there. Joey was pleased she had come. He understood why she had not called at the cottage: sorrow and the quarrelsome atmosphere at home went very ill together. He and Mercy genuinely mourned the passing of the old lady. They had both loved her. Somewhat belatedly, he hoped Blanche had realized it.

  Thrusting his hands deep into his pockets he turned round and headed home to say goodbye to Ma. Then it was back to the Dixons.

  ‘Glad to have you back, boy.’ Stan clapped him on the shoulder as he shuffled past.

  ‘I’ve only been gone since breakfast,’ grinned Joey.

  ‘All the same, we missed you. Don’t know how we’d manage without you, and that’s the truth.’

  Joey’s conscience gave a nasty twinge. He was glad Stan did not know that in his coat pocket he had both the Torbay News and the Directory, bought for their ‘situations vacant’ columns.

  His plans for the future turned out to be purely academic. He could not find another job! The trouble was that he was reluctant to cause the Dixons any distress by admitting he was looking for other employment, which meant he could only follow up likely adverts in his scant free time. By the time he got there, not surprisingly, the jobs had gone. It looked as though he would be working at the lodging-house for the rest of his life.

  He was hurrying along Palace Avenue one day when a familiar voice hailed him.

  ‘Joey Seaton! I don’t believe it! It can’t be!’

  ‘Ted Cox! Of all people!’ He stared at the cheery, towheaded fellow with disbelief. Then in a trice they were both laughing, and slapping each other on the back and talking at the same time.

  Ted Cox was a couple of years older than Joey, a seniority which had entitled him to be a waiter in the table d’hôte room at the Devonshire Hall Hotel, where they had met. That is until Ted’s career, like Joey’s, had come to an abrupt end thanks to the efforts of Mr Bell, the under-manager.

  ‘What’re you doing here in Paignton?’ Ted demanded.

  ‘I work here. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I don’t need an excuse, I was born here,’ Ted grinned. ‘So where are you working, then?’
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  ‘At a place in Church Street.’ Joey was loath to admit he worked in a lodging-house. ‘You’re looking very spruce and prosperous, you old devil.’

  ‘It’s the sea air and good living!’ Ted patted his stomach, which was already showing a tendency to bulge beneath his waistcoat. ‘I don’t know why we’re standing here like this when we could be catching up on the news in comfort. How about a quick one in the Globe?’

  ‘A very quick one,’ said Joey. He had come out to fetch some medicine for Stan and he did not want to be away too long.

  Soon they were sitting in the bar parlour, regarding identical glasses of old and mild.

  ‘So, how’ve you been getting on since you and old Mabel parted company?’ asked Ted, after half of the cool liquid had slid down his throat.

  ‘Not so bad. Could be better, though.’

  ‘You want to try a life on the ocean wave, like me. Transatlantic liners, and all that.’ Ted took another swig at his beer.

  Joey stared at him. ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ he asked.

  ‘It certainly is. New York to Plymouth, Plymouth to New York, on the White Star Line.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Same as I did at the Devonshire Hall, only, now I do it with a nautical air,’ Ted grinned. ‘Why don’t you give it a try? I could get you a job.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ .

  ‘Of course I am.’ The cheerful grin faded from Ted’s face as he leaned across the table. ‘They’re always on the look out for properly trained blokes. The living conditions aren’t up to the Devonshire Hall, naturally; and the chief steward’s a bit of a tartar, but he’s fair. I’d sooner have his sort than old Mabel’s any day of the week. Into the bargain, you see something of the world. And the people you meet! You would not believe some of the folks I’ve served. I used to think the Devonshire Hall was classy, but it’s nothing compared to on board ship, especially working in the first-class dining room.’ Joey was dazzled. He had never thought of going to sea.