Forgotten Dreams (9 page)
‘Oh, Den,’ Louella had breathed. ‘Your name in lights! How proud we shall be, me and my baby!’
But there had been little opportunity for pride, for within a week Lottie had been born and Denham had died, and for a while life had been incredibly hard for Louella. Then the opportunity had come for her to join a touring company which consisted of a number of different acts, going from one small theatre to another. The conjuror needed an assistant, as did the knife thrower, and the manager told her that they always staged a melodrama or a comedy at the end of every performance. ‘We need someone young and pretty to play the heroine, so you see we shall keep you busy,’ he had said in a fatherly fashion, though the glint in his eyes as they roamed across her slender figure had been anything but fatherly. ‘You will get a great deal of much-needed experience, and a decent wage, I can promise you that.’
Louella remembered those days with nostalgia, for she had begun to enjoy her independence, and it was during that time that she had learned to repel unwanted attentions without giving offence. She had continued to do so, in fact, until she met Max. He was very like Denham to look at, being tall, well made and dark of hair and eye, and when she had applied for the position as his assistant he had taken her on at once. He was living at No. 2 Victoria Court with his son, but had not at first offered her a room in his house. Afterwards, he had told her that he wanted to be very sure they would get along before so doing, but it had not taken him long to decide that a house share would suit them both.
And so it has, Louella wailed inside her head. I’ve been happier sharing this house with Max than I’ve been since poor darling Denham died, and I know Max is happy too. He often gives me a kiss and a cuddle, he spends money on me and treats Lottie with genuine affection and warmth, yet he has never so much as entered my bedroom, let alone tried to share my bed. Of course I don’t want to fling myself at his head because I would just die if he repulsed me, but I’ve had quite a bit of experience with men and I know he likes me. If he’s still married to Baz’s mother, I realise we could not have a proper legal marriage, but what would be the harm in simply pretending? Everyone in the court thinks we’re married already – that’s why they call us Mr and Mrs Magic – and I’m sure everyone in the company thinks the same. So even if Max can’t actually ask me to marry him, he could suggest that we live together and pretend. I’m sure I’ve given him every sort of hint that I’d be willing and I do like him so much. Well, if I’m honest, I’m the sort of woman who needs a man, but Max makes all the others seem dull. Goodness, why can’t I be honest, even to myself? I love Max O’Mara and I want him for my very own.
Louella had been lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling while she thought, but now she leaned up on one elbow, took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table, lit it with the little silver lighter Max had given her last Christmas, and inhaled luxuriously. Her thoughts continued. If Max really was still married, what was wrong with divorce? She was pretty sure that his wife had run off with somebody else, but from what Max had occasionally let drop, it had happened soon after Baz’s birth, and Max’s son was eleven now. She knew all about the seven-year rule, and even if the first Mrs O’Mara had remained with her husband until Baz was two, that meant nine years had elapsed since the defection. Louella had never mentioned divorce for the same reason that she had never mentioned marriage, but now she thought she might just drop it into the conversation if an opportunity ever occurred.
Lying on her back, gazing up at the ceiling, she smoked the cigarette until it threatened to burn her fingers, then stubbed it out. She got off the bed reluctantly and went over to the mirror propped on the washstand, hearing as she did so the front door open and close, and footsteps approach the kitchen. Hastily she checked her appearance. She licked her finger and ran it over her eyebrows, then fluffed out her hair, straightened her blouse and slipped her feet into the soft flat sandals she wore in the house. She had promised Lottie and Kenny high tea when they returned from their trip to Seaforth Sands, and Max had said he and Baz would be sure to come home in good time with a parcel of chips to go with the very large meat and potato pie she had made earlier in the day. Max was very fond of her meat and potato pie, and of course all children love chips, so high tea tonight would be a treat for them all. Louella had made a bowl of jelly and another of blancmange which would do very well for a pudding, and would not involve more cooking. All I’ve got to do is put the kettle on and mash the tea, she thought happily. She let herself out of the bedroom and began to descend the stairs. She could hear Max’s deep voice coming from the kitchen, and even as she reached the last stair the door opened again and Lottie and Kenny burst into the hall.
‘We’ve had a wonderful day, Louella. We built a sand car – a car, not a castle – and Kenny taught me to skim stones properly. I skimmed eleven hops once and then we went to the rec and bought ice creams with the money you give us . . . are we in good time for tea?’
Before Louella could answer, Kenny was in full voice. ‘That were a grand carry-out you give us, missus. We ate the lot,’ he announced. ‘But I dunno how it is only we’s starvin’ again, ain’t we, Lottie? I ’spec it’s because we ran all the way from the station ’cos you said to be in for high tea by five, and the station clock said quarter to the hour when we got off of the train.’
‘You couldn’t have arrived at a better time, Kenny,’ Louella said, pushing open the kitchen door. ‘I’ll just put the kettle on . . . ah, I see Max has already done it. Thank you, Max. You’re very thoughtful.’ She beamed at him. Max was laying out plates whilst Baz fetched salt, vinegar and Flag sauce from the pantry. ‘I was going to heat up the pie but I see the fire’s almost out, so what say we have it cold? After all, the chips are still very hot indeed.’
Lottie, who had wandered over to the dresser, gave a squeak of excitement at this point as she peered into the two china bowls on the surface before her. ‘Red jelly and blancmange! Oh, Louella, you’re the best mam anyone ever had.’ She turned to beam at Max. ‘And Baz has the best dad in the world, I reckon. Don’t you think so, Baz?’
Baz grinned. ‘Don’t you go givin’ my dad a swollen head or I’ll use
my
magic trick and gobble up all the chips before you kids have so much as smelt ’em,’ he said. ‘C’mon, everyone, dig in.’
my
magic trick and gobble up all the chips before you kids have so much as smelt ’em,’ he said. ‘C’mon, everyone, dig in.’
They all had a hearty meal, even though at first Lottie was worried in case she filled herself up with pie and chips and could not eat her share of the jelly and blancmange. However, her worry proved groundless, and by the time she and Kenny had washed up whilst Baz put away, she found herself quite anxious to climb the stairs and get into her own little bed.
‘It’s been a grand day but I’ve ate too much,’ she sighed as she let Kenny into the court. ‘See you tomorrow?’
‘Aye, of course you will. Monday’s washday,’ Kenny reminded her. ‘Your mam will get all the stuff she wants washed made up into a big bundle and I’ll come round to collect it. My mam likes to get to the washhouse early so she can bag the best lines for hangin’ out. Of course, if it don’t rain she can use the line in the court, but if it does – rain, I mean – there’s always a rush to get the one nearest the door ’cos the women reckon linen dries quicker in a bit of a draught.’
‘I’ll come along and give you a hand,’ Lottie said eagerly. She loved the washhouse in Lime Kiln Lane, with its rows of stone sinks crowned by huge brass taps, the big mangles at one end and the lines criss-crossing the long, high-ceilinged room, but most of all she loved the atmosphere of goodwill and jollity which always prevailed. The washhouse was open all week, of course, but it was busiest on a Monday, and though the women were quite willing to help one another, it would save Mrs Brocklehurst a good deal of time if Lottie and Kenny went along to wring, rinse, fold and mangle.
‘Oh, all right,’ Kenny said rather reluctantly. ‘I meant to go down to Lime Street station with me pal Hugh to collect engine numbers. I ain’t got a notebook yet but I’ve picked up some odd scraps of paper and a stub of pencil so’s I can write the numbers down. Still, I can do that another day, I suppose. When’ll your mam have her stuff ready, d’you suppose?’
‘Early,’ Lottie said positively. ‘I’ll explain that you and me are going to take it round to the washhouse and we need to get away immediately after breakfast. So if you come round about eight o’clock . . .’
‘Right,’ Kenny said. ‘See you then, queen.’
Lottie stood on the doorstep until Kenny had disappeared through his own door, then she turned back into the house and headed for the stairs. She really was very tired indeed and wondered whether she had been foolish to suggest that Kenny should call for the laundry at eight o’clock. Suppose she overslept? She decided she would not pull her curtains across so that the light might wake her and then, having climbed between the sheets, she would bang her head seven times upon the pillow. This time-honoured action had been successful in the past in waking her at seven o’clock so she hoped the magic would work next morning.
For a while she lay in bed, her mind too active for immediate sleep, tired though she was. It had been such a lovely day, starting off with the train journey, then the fun they had had on the beach and ending with a high tea so glorious that Kenny had scarcely spoken a word throughout the meal. But gradually Lottie’s lids grew heavy and presently she slept.
The dream started at once. Lottie was lying on her back in something which looked like a basket. It was some sort of woven material at any rate, wicker or reed, and though it surrounded her she could see out. She was aware at once of being gloriously safe and wonderfully comfortable, yet she knew she was not lying in her own bed, for there was no ceiling above her but only the blue arch of the sky, and as she watched she realised she was gently moving, for now and then the branches of a tree appeared and disappeared, and a small white cloud scudded across the blue.
Am I in a boat, Lottie wondered. She thought she caught the sound of lapping water, but then her attention was distracted, because a face appeared. It was not a face she recognised, yet in the dream she knew and loved it well. She smiled up into eyes dark as damsons and a face brown as a walnut, and the woman smiled back and spoke, her voice full of love and gentleness, though Lottie could not understand one word.
This might have been frightening – should have been frightening – but somehow it was not. The feeling of warmth and security which had surrounded Lottie was with her still, and remained even when the woman’s hand came out, smoothed the hair from her forehead, and then went round her and picked her up.
Goodness, I’m a baby, Lottie thought, astonished. Well I never did! She tried to look around her but could not focus on anything beyond the woman’s face, and now she could no longer see that face because the woman was cradling her close to her breast and then she was pushing something against Lottie’s lips, and Lottie found her mouth opening eagerly to accept a rubber teat. She began to suck and warm, sweet milk filled her mouth and was gulped down with such enthusiasm that presently the teat was pulled gently away and she was laid across the woman’s shoulder. A hand rubbed her back until a huge burp emerged, and then the baby that was Lottie was replaced in what she now realised was a cradle, a soft knitted blanket was tucked round her, and, though she tried to fight it, very soon she slept.
Lottie woke to find the room flooded with light and realised that she had slept the whole night through, though she was sure the dream had only lasted a matter of minutes. She had no idea of the time but guessed that it must be around seven o’clock when she heard sounds coming from the next room. Baz had a newspaper delivery round and set off to fetch his papers from the corner shop at around seven, so she had best get a move on. She washed quickly, pulled on a faded cotton dress and slid her feet into ancient plimsolls; no point in dressing up to go to the washhouse. Then she brushed her hair vigorously and set off down the stairs. Whoever was up first would start making breakfast, Lottie dealing with the porridge whilst Baz riddled the fire in the stove and made it up with fresh fuel.
Today, Baz had clearly got up earlier than usual and was in a good mood. The fire burned up brightly, the loaf had been sliced and Baz was squatting in front of the fire with a piece of bread on a toasting fork held out to the flame. A couple of slices, already toasted, were propped up near the stove, whilst the lid of the kettle was beginning to hop as it reached boiling point. Baz’s newspaper bag, full to bursting with the papers he would presently deliver, sat on the floor by the kitchen door.
Baz looked round as she entered. ‘You’re early. Make the tea, will you?’ he said gruffly. ‘Too hot for porridge; besides, I hate cleaning out the pan afterwards and there’s plenty of toast. How many pieces can you eat?’
‘Two please,’ Lottie said promptly. ‘I think I’ll take Louella a cup of tea in bed. It’s Mrs B’s day for doing our laundry, and Louella promised she’d put it out so Kenny and I could carry it to the washhouse for his mam.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘But it doesn’t seem to be here, does it? So if I take her a cuppa she can tell me where she’s put it. The washing, I mean, not the tea.’
As she spoke, Lottie was pouring boiling water on to the tea leaves in the big brown pot. She gave it a few vigorous stirs, then carried it over to the table and plonked it down. ‘Is there any fresh milk left?’ she said hopefully. ‘Louella loves fresh milk in her first drink of the day, though if there isn’t any she’ll have to put up with conny-onny.’
Other books
Kiowa Trail (1964) by L'amour, Louis
Down Among the Gods by Kate Thompson
The True Father by Steven Anderson Law
Extraction by Turner, Xyla
Consumed By Him (Obsessed With Him, Book Three) by Ford, Hannah
Sleeper Of The Wildwood Fugue (Book 7) by Charles E. Yallowitz
Seducing Chase by Cassandra Carr
LooseCorset by Christine Rains
A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan
