Sweet Dreams

By Dave Jeanes

"SWEET DREAMS" is the sequel to, "EVERY WEDNESDAY FORTNIGHT". A story about what can happen when you get everything you want in life but are not too sure what to do with it...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781326983918

Book preview

Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams

Dave Jeanes

1. By Dave Jeanes

2. BEFOREHAND

3. MONDAY

4. TUESDAY

5. WEDNESDAY

6. THURSDAY

7. FRIDAY

8. SATURDAY

9. SUNDAY

10. MONDAY

11. TUESDAY

12. WEDNESDAY

13. THURSDAY

14. FRIDAY

15. SATURDAY

16. SUNDAY

17. AFTERWARDS

18. Music

1.By Dave Jeanes:

EVERY WEDNESDAY FORTNIGHT

Book one; Andrea’s Place

Available from: http://lulu.com/spotlight/davejeanes

THE GODS

Available from: http://lulu.com/spotlight/davejeanes

SWIPE

A city opera

Available from: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Swipe-City-Opera-Dave-Jeanes/dp/1848974736/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1400182175&sr=8-2&keywords=dave+jeanes

KING DAVID (& BATHSHEBA)

A Musical

Available from: https://www.smithscripts.co.uk

Pantomimes, Plays, & Scripts. Available from: http://www.lazybeescripts.co.uk/

DAVE JEANES – Singer/Songwriter

http://www.davejeanes.net

https://youtu.be/rtZ1IZAKt0Y

SWEET DREAMS is published by ONE2ONE Studios. New Cheltenham, Bristol. UK

www.one2onestudios.co.uk   *   [e-mail]   *   [e-mail]

2017

2.BEFOREHAND

Vincent stood on the cobbled street, shaded his eyes from the rising sun, and looked out over the harbour. The fishing boats had returned from their night’s work and the men were sorting the catch, occasionally throwing scraps and fry to the gulls who shrieked and wheeled overhead: Small, prehistoric creatures who, according to a boy Vincent had been at school with, exploded if you fed them pellets of baking soda; something to do with their digestive systems, said the boy. Vincent had never tried it. It didn’t seem a very nice thing to do.

He walked down the hill to the newspaper shop, - carefully. The cobbles could be lethal at this time of the morning; soaked with a salty, slippery sweat. The sky hung heavy with overnight mist; that peculiar colour between pink and green, waiting for the sun to disperse it and turn the little town into the seventh-heaven seaside resort they both loved. A place where time had not only stood still but had taken a long look at the future and then retreated several decades.

The tinkling of the little bell on the back of the paper-shop door was another reminder of times gone by. A comfort to Vincent who had still not quite got used to automatic doors that flew open as you walked past, inviting you in, almost commanding. Annoying.

‘Morning Vincent. Lovely morning again.’

It was more of a question really but Vincent nodded nonetheless.

‘Should be, Big Tom. Once the sun’s out.’

He selected a copy of the Sunday Times, - the usual pang of guilt at the waste of paper. Even though it was fifty per cent recycled, it was the other fifty per cent that bothered him. One of these days they would see the back of newspapers, he thought. He looked at Big Tom the shopkeeper. And then the back of shops like these, he supposed. He weighed progress against nostalgia once again in his mind. This place always did that to him. Big Tom gave him a big smile.

‘Your last day today, isn’t it?’ he said.

Vincent nodded gloomily. ‘Afraid so. New people coming this afternoon. Got to be out by twelve.’

‘We’ll miss you. Sorry to see you go.’ said the shopkeeper with unforced honesty. ‘Never seen a grockle better at table-skittles.’

Vincent grinned. ‘The Devil Among The Tailors. Funny name for it. Still, got to call these things something. All things have a name.’

‘Well put.’ said Big Tom.

Vincent thought about this. ‘Well put. Yeah, kinda like that.’ He handed the man a one-pound coin. ‘We’ll miss you too, Tom. But there's always next year.’

‘That’s what keeps you city people going, isn’t it? The thought of next year’s holiday.’

Vincent hesitated, ready to spring to the defence of his home. ‘Up to a point, yes.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t move down here, the pair of you.’

Vincent shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t be a holiday then. We’ve talked about it. We always do, - on the trip back. But, really, I couldn’t see us living here all year round. It’s alright in the summer but I imagine the winter’s pretty tough.’

‘Can be, can be. But it’s like everywhere else. It’s what you make of it, isn’t it?’ He rested his forearms on the counter. As is usual in the art of nicknaming, Big Tom was, in fact, only five feet two. That’s not to say he was short; not to his face.

‘You’ll be back, Vincent. The sea’s in your blood. I can tell.’

‘Cities are no place for seafarers, my friend. I know where to find the sea; that’s good enough for me. So long as there are chaps like you watching over it, we’ll all sleep safe and sound. No worries.’ Vincent folded his newspaper in half with some difficulty and waved it at the shopkeeper in a farewell salute.

Outside the sky was lightening, the sun breaking through overhead. He turned his attention to the fishermen again. Their blood-stained sweaters and weather-battered faces stirred something in him and he found himself humming, For those in peril on the sea as he made his way back up the hill. He stopped a little way from the cottage and looked at it fondly. Whitewashed walls and black painted sash windows and wainscoting, - all the buildings in the town had to be painted in the same way. Their cottage was special though. High up on the wall was a blue plaque announcing to the world that this was the cottage where Jane Austen had written Persuasion. There was some element of doubt amongst the locals in the Black Dog about that but Vincent was happy to believe it. It gave the place a secular romanticism which appealed to him and every year he would arrive with notebooks and pencils, just in case the muse took him and inspiration poured from his imagination. It rarely did; the beer in the Black Dog was just too good.

Maurice was different. His first task on arriving at the cottage was to kick off his shoes, pick up the Radio Times and carefully mark his fortnight’s viewing in fluorescent yellow marker. Then he would carefully position the television set so that the sunlight through the windows didn’t obscure the screen and settle back in his armchair. Vincent kept him supplied with chilled bottles of bier-blondes and a variety of seafood dishes, - Vincent’s culinary abilities were always stimulated by their visits to the cottage. Apart from that, their paths hardly crossed. Vincent spent his days walking and talking to the fishermen and his nights in the Black Dog, playing guitar with the locals, teaching them his songs and learning theirs. Maurice sat and watched the television and recharged his batteries. They weren’t allowed a television set at home; the house meetings had never ratified it, and, although some of the programmes were, frankly, dreadful, Maurice watched continuously, absorbed by his fellow man and the lengths that they would go to for five minutes of fame in the window to the world. An idiot’s lantern, his father had used to call it. But the excitement when colour came in! Colour! Maurice remembered it vividly. The World Cup in sixty-six. The red-shirted Englishmen and the impossibly green Wembley pitch. The jokes about the programmes that followed; Pot Grey, Trooping The Grey, United are the team in the darker bootlaces. The shame of admitting to your classmates that you were still on black and white. Suddenly everyone had one. The world was transformed into a colourful place. Everything was in colour. The past was monochrome and boring. Vincent, who was younger than Maurice, used to refer to the Second World War as, The black and white war. A joke, Maurice assumed. Although he could see that it was difficult to imagine the past in colour when it so obviously was not. After all, you couldn’t imagine Hitler in colour any more than you could Chaplin. Or Laurel and Hardy. Or Hancock. Or Bilko. It simply didn’t work.

With these and other thoughts sifting slowly through his mind, Maurice relaxed, unwound. His thumb on the remote control the only part of his body that he exercised. Easter had come early this year and he was glad. It had been a long winter, what with one thing or another. He needed this time alone. He had wounds to lick.

Vincent sat in the Black Dog and read the newspaper. In fact, everybody did. People sat at the tables poring aimlessly over broadsheets and tabloids, neglected drinks at their elbows, other halves ignored. The grandfather clock ticked in the Sunday morning silence, - in this town the church bells only rang to summon the lifeboat crew. Vincent looked around him at the other customers. He liked this place. It was open all day and all night too. Nobody seemed to mind. The fact that any approaching Police car could be seen clearly from a mile away up the hill as its headlights picked their way through the narrow, wooded lanes, made it impossible for the local constabulary to try and inflict licensing hours on it. Once, an intrepid new constable had tried to manoeuvre his patrol car down Timber Hill with all lights off: a cellophaned bouquet occasionally marked the spot where he had failed.

Maurice came through the door, blinking at the sunlight and looked around the room, his eyes accustoming themselves to the gloom until he found his friend.

Vincent gathered his newspaper up into an untidy bundle. ‘We off then?’

‘Yep. All packed.’

‘You got time for a quick one?’

Maurice shook his head. ‘Better not. We're going back to civilization and all that entails; speed traps and breathalysers.’

Vincent nodded and stood up. ‘Well, cheerio all.’ he said. ‘See you next time.’

A chorus of goodbyes and good lucks rang out around the bar. They stepped out into the street. The hired car stood, loaded with their bags, at the side of the road. Vincent took one last lingering look at the sea.

Maurice jangled the keys in his hand. ‘You know; I’m quite looking forward to getting back.’

‘I’m not.’ said Vincent gloomily.

‘Yes, well, you never are, are you? I don’t understand you. It’s hard enough to drag you away in the first place but when I do you never want to go home again.’

‘Well, you know us English. We love to travel. Find new, interesting places and people.’

Maurice remembered the old joke. ‘And kill them!’ he said, as he took the wheel. ‘Come on, get in.’

Vincent continued to stare at the sea. A new melancholy sneaking over him again. ‘Somewhere over there...’ he began.

Maurice recognized the signs. ‘Hey! Snap out of it. Come on. Let’s go home.’

Vincent sighed. ‘Yeah, might be a postcard from her or something.’ He got into the car, slammed the door and fastened his seatbelt. ‘Have we got everything?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Vincent. Why do you always have to ask that? Why would I leave anything behind?’

‘Have you got my guitar?’

Maurice re-applied the handbrake. ‘Ah. I felt sure there was something...’

Roger looked out of the kitchen window, brooding. He wondered why Maurice didn't think to advertise the fact that the nurses next door sun-bathed topless. He could sell tickets...

Two slim brunettes and an overweight blonde. They exchanged varieties of cream products and laughed and giggled as though they were doing something perfectly natural. Roger couldn’t imagine men behaving that way. Men were different. Clearly. Still, Roger reasoned, if that was what the powers that be had planned, who was he to argue? He remembered again, the workforce back at home. Similar types doing similar things. Abject subjects, it seemed to him. There’s your life; get on with it! they seemed to have been told. He turned from the window. Well, not him. Not now. No way. There were other prospects now. More important ones.

The court case had dragged on and on, bewilderingly. There was nothing that Roger hadn’t known. Immediately afterwards, the festive season was upon them and Roger witnessed at first hand, behind the Bar at The Bridge, the excesses that time of year allows. In all that time, she was never far from his thoughts.

He had spent the last two weeks looking for clues. He had the house to himself. A lot of the time he had spent in her room wondering why they hadn’t heard from her. It was as though she had disappeared off the face of the Earth, - surely she could have dropped them a line? Just to let them know she was alright and had arrived safely; wherever it was that she had arrived to?

Nobody knew. She had never told them where she was going. He had gone through all the files on her computer, searching for some tell-tale sign. And then finally, this last week, he had forced the lock on her desk drawer and found a pile of floppy disks. His heart had leapt when he found one marked, Innermost Thoughts but he couldn't bring himself to look at the contents. It was like spying. He told himself that was silly; he'd already broken the lock. But what if it contained secret stuff about herself? About him? He’d never forgive himself. He would have betrayed her. His love would then mean nothing, and he didn’t want that.

He washed his solitary plate and cup in the sink and sighed. Through the kitchen window he could see the vegetables that they had planted, starting to grow towards the available sunlight. The garden was walled and not the suntrap that next-doors’ was. In the eastern corner, almost hidden away, the hazelnut tree was putting forth tentative buds; a pinch of white or green showing through the last year’s growth.

Maurice and Vincent would be back tonight. With tales of holiday romances and friendships forged, no doubt. He doubted they would be interested in what was becoming the same old subject. He had spent the last six months waiting for her to contact them. Once he knew where she was he would go to her; that was the plan. He had let her down, he felt. He would explain, - try to explain… What happened had happened. That was that. In life, he reasoned, there are many parts to play; yours, mine, this, that, the other. He had done what he’d thought right and best at the time. Which was all anybody could ask or expect. Like, at games, there’s always a goal scorer or a wicket taker; everybody else has their part to play. Otherwise, nothing makes sense.

He dried his hands again, feeling that a tendency to over-complicate issues was beginning to cloud his judgement. If she was actually here, he continued to reason, that would be different. He would take her in his arms, shower her with kisses, profess his undying love… he realized he was kneeling on the kitchen floor and his knee was now wet. He stood up and put away the imaginary engagement ring.

Anyway, and then what? What would she say? What would he do? It had been nearly half a year; a lot can happen in that amount of time. He, himself was alarmed at the time he had seemingly wasted, waiting around for any sign of her. She had proved she could live without him. That she didn't need his love...

And yet. It wouldn’t go away, that feeling that he had for her. Maurice had suggested that he waited for a while; no sense rushing after her and confusing her when she's trying to make a new life for herself. But as time went on it had become clear to him; Maurice truly didn’t know where she was. He had assumed that she would have told him, at least; Maurice was the nearest thing to a family that she had; her father-figure, and Roger had thought that, eventually, Maurice would tell him where she was. But if even he didn’t know...

He thought about the disk again and made his mind up. No-one would know. Except him. And if he could live with that then, fair enough. Over and above everything else, he had to find her.

Vincent re-tuned the car radio.

‘I was listening to that.’ protested Maurice.

‘That?’ echoed his friend. ‘You call that singing? If she made a noise like that during sex, I'd kick her out of the van. Anyway, I want to listen to the local station. See how the lads are getting on. You know it’s like falling off the planet being down there. I was reading the paper this morning and there’s all sorts of things going on around the world that I knew nothing about. I mean. What exactly is a hedge fund?’

‘Exactly what. Good point. We don’t know. Still, that’s the attraction of the place. You’re right. It’s like falling off the planet.’

Vincent gazed around him at the familiar buildings and streets wondering how he could be right when he had not actually said anything. Maurice did that sometimes, it reassured you.

‘Tis good to be back actually.’

‘Tis?’ said Maurice. ‘You want to watch that, mate. We don’t talk like that up here.’

Vincent looked thoughtful. ‘Did we get him a present?’

‘Who?’

‘Us.’

‘No, I mean, him who?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you mean, what do I mean? What do you mean?’

‘Did we get Roger a present, that’s what I mean. It’s not hard.’

‘You mean; did I get Roger a present while you were sat in the pub enjoying yourself?’

‘Well, I've been doing all the cooking and cleaning, haven’t I? Those newspapers and magazines don’t buy themselves. It’s only fair.’

‘Yes, and I paid for the cottage. That’s why you had to do all the housework.’

‘That’s not the point. I do all the running around and you do the packing. That’s the way it works.’

‘Well, alright. But packing doesn't include picking up souvenirs for flat-mates, does it?’

‘Well, I don’t see why not. It’s the least you can do. After all he has been looking after the house for us. Chances are, he’ll have finished the landings and be halfway down the stairs.’

‘I’m not disputing that, Vincent. I just think it’s a bit rich you expecting me to do it, that’s all. In any case, why did you wait until we’re three streets from home before you suggested it?’

Vincent pointed. ‘Tell you what. Pull in at that petrol station over there. I’ll nip in and get him something.’

‘Captain Morgan's Rum.’ read Roger.

Maurice looked at Vincent and shook his head.

‘Speciality of the region, mate. We must have got through half a dozen bottles of the stuff; I can tell you.’

Roger peeled the off-licence sticker from the bottle, absent-mindedly. ‘Well, thanks anyway. You shouldn’t have. I didn’t expect anything. Really, I didn’t.’

Maurice began to empty a black bin liner of clothing into the washing machine. ‘How’s everything been, anyway?’ he asked. ‘No problems? No replacement windows fitted? Listed building, as you know.’

Roger shook his head. ‘No. Nothing at all. No post; apart from the junk mail. No calls. No-one’s been ’round.’

‘See the paintwork’s coming on.’

‘Or down.’

‘Yes, thank you, Vincent. Or down.’

‘Goes on and on, doesn’t it? Never seen so many stairs in a house. Makes you feel sorry for the builders.’

‘The buildings were supposed to impose. I need hardly tell you that. They weren’t built strictly for the view. After all, all they could see from here was the poor. Who wants that? More to the point, the poor could look up at this fantastic place and realize…’

‘The slave-traders that controlled their lives.’

‘Yes, yes, thank you Vincent, once again. One way of looking at it, I’m sure.’ He smiled to himself. ‘First thing she said about the place; Hundreds of stairs!’ Maurice peered out of the window. ‘Yes,’ he said, appreciatively. ‘Looking good. What’s that green patch in the corner?’

‘Weeds, I think. Aren’t they?’