(published 'Eastern Rainbow' 1994)
Orlando Blueman dreamt that he was walking lost around an unknown Northern town, searching for the car he had parked hereabouts before he fell asleep.
He could have sworn it was down this street. No. Or that...
He then cane across a cobbled wayfare which reminded him of somewhere he could not quite put his dreaming finger on. The pub on the corner. The supermart. A thin woman in curlers peering quizzically at him from the doorway of one of the shabby two-up-two-downs. The dark entrance to a railway bridge...
It all came back to him in a rush, as he saw an ex-serviceman type staring his eyes out, from the community centre. But what’s this? The Graffiti Club. He could not remember that bit. But dreams could never get everything right, could they? If they did, they would be real life, wouldn’t they.
A factory. Baldwin’s Fashions. Yes, a loud-mouthed harridan was arguing the toss of the day with a toff in a smart overcoat. That all seemed to fit in.
Better pay a visit to the pub. Ask the way to his car. That sort of thing. The Dreamer’s Return, it was called. It couldn’t be him, of course, but never mind.
It had a homely interior, snug and comforting. A rotund lady was politely smiling: “‘Ey up, a customer for a change, Bet.”
A blonde bint came in from the back, a bit long in the tooth and even deeper in the bosom, lightly manhandled her hairset and said: “Yes, sir? Ain’t see you in these parts often.”
“You must be mistaken, I’ve never been here before. My car is lost, you see.”
“Have a drink with me, while you’re here then. Though, I could have sworn I seen you somewhere.”
A rough and ready character had just appeared from the Gents toting a crate of beer bottles, sweating two to the dozen. It was surprising that a bloke like him was even allowed in a place called the Gents. “Blimey, Guv!” he said. The accent did not quite seem to jell. “You’re the geezer who’s in that there soap opera called ‘Foreigners’ on the telly, aint yer? You’ve just lost your missus in a road crash and is about to wed the woman in the corner shop called Mavis ‘Blind’ O’Riley. No, no, you had a nervous breakdown, didn’t yer? It is ‘im, aint it, Betty?”
He turned to the rotund lady, who just kept on saying “Luv” between hiccupping laughter. Evidently this was her way of talking.
Orlando Blueman was only a dream name, he decided, with a frisson. He ran from the pub, now desperate to find his car so that he could escape the dream. If indeed that was what it was. Perhaps he’d better find his bed instead, which may be parked on double yellow lines, for all he knew.
As he turned the corner, he came upon a recent road accident in Rosamund Street. A lady had been badly mutilated. Despite that, her face looked almost familiar in the relentless lights of pulsing blue.
