Follow Your Dream. Patricia Burns
sitting amongst them, was the most stunning girl he had ever seen.
‘My sister Wendy,’ Bob said.
She was a natural blonde, her hair in soft curls round her lovely face. Her eyes were big and blue and her lips were luscious, while her body was as alluring as Marilyn Monroe’s. She wore a pink jumper that showed off her magnificent breasts to perfection, and a wide belt emphasized her narrow waist. James was mesmerised. There was a general shaking of hands, during which James got to grasp hers.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he managed to say. He felt hot all over.
Wendy kept hold of his hand a few telling moments longer than necessary. ‘Likewise,’ she said with a cool smile.
James was horribly aware that she knew just what effect she was having on him and, what was more, she was enjoying it.
He sat on the dining chair nearest to where Wendy perched on the arm of her father’s seat. Around him, the two families were making polite small talk. The words buzzed about him but made little sense. Then he realised that Susan was hissing at him.
‘James!’
‘What?’ he asked, disorientated.
‘Mrs Parker is asking you a question.’
With difficulty, he focused on Bob’s grandmother. She was a grim-looking old bat, dressed entirely in black with a large cameo brooch at the neck of her blouse.
‘Yes, Mrs Parker?’ he said, trying to sound intelligent.
From across the room there came a snigger. James glanced over. It was Frank, a lanky young man of about twenty with a shadow of a grin on his face. He understood just what the problem was.
‘I asked what you did for a living, young man.’
James looked back at the grandmother.
‘I’m an apprentice mechanic at Dobson’s garage,’ he told her.
‘Hmm, well, it’s a good thing to have a trade. Our Bob has a position at the bank, of course.’
‘Yes, Mrs Parker,’ he said. Nothing on earth was going to make him sound impressed.
‘It’s such a comfort to have an office worker in the family. Bob takes after his grandfather. He has the brains of the family.’
There was a murmuring of agreement from the older members of the family.
James couldn’t help glancing at Bob. He was sitting there looking like the cat that got the cream, and there was Susan, gazing at him with her face glowing.
‘Susan has an office job,’ James pointed out. Nobody was going to make out that the Parkers were better than the Ker-shaws.
‘But not in a bank,’ the old bat stated. She shut her mouth in a tight line, to show that she had said the last word on the subject.
‘It’s a good job though, for a girl,’ James argued. Susan had let slip how Gran ruled the roost round here, but she wasn’t his grandmother and he wasn’t going to let her shut him up like she did the others.
Mrs Parker turned her stony glare on him. ‘When are you going for your national service, young man?’
‘July.’
Mrs Parker gave a satisfied nod. ‘That’ll knock the cheek out of you. You won’t know what’s hit you.’
‘Make a man out of you,’ Bob’s father said.
Bob and Frank both agreed. They had done their national service. They sat there with the superior expressions of those who had been through the mill and survived it. James was conscious of Wendy, sitting there watching the fun and waiting for his reaction.
‘I’ve been the man of our family since I was five,’ he said.
Gran made a harumphing noise in her throat and looked at Bob’s mother, who had so far said nothing.
‘Time to put the kettle on, Nettie. And you, Lillian, go and help her.’
Susan, her voice brittle with strain, steered the conversation into a discussion of the weather. Everyone seemed relieved when tea was ready and they could move into the next room. In the hallway, Susan caught hold of James’s arm.
‘How could you?’ she whispered accusingly.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Be so rude to Mrs Parker.’
‘I’m not. I’m being perfectly polite.’
‘James, please.’
He relented. She was his sister, after all, and she wanted to make a good impression on these awful people. ‘OK, sis.’
They went into what was usually the guests’ breakfast room, where the small tables had been pushed together to make one large one. Plates of sandwiches and dishes of shrimps and cockles and whelks were set out all along it. James made a beeline to where Wendy was sitting, but found himself outmanoeuvred. She was flanked by her father on one side and Frank on the other. The only spare seat was between Bob and the kid. James sat down, resigned to being bored.
Eating, making polite remarks about the food and discussing the best place to buy fresh seafood took up most of the meal. James let them get on with it, while he tried not to stare at Wendy. He was surprised to find Lillian speaking to him.
‘You work in the garage, then?’ she said.
‘Yup.’
‘So you’re good at fixing things?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Only I’ve got this bike, see. I bought it at a jumble sale but it won’t go properly.’
Despite himself, James was interested.
‘If someone’s sent it to the jumble, it must be pretty bad. How rusty is it?’
‘Quite a lot,’ Lillian admitted.
‘And do the pedals go round?’
‘No.’
From the other side of the table, Frank joined in. ‘It’s a heap of junk. Best thing to do with it is to give it to the rag-and-bone man.’
‘It’s not a heap of junk,’ Lillian said.
Frank gave that sneering grin of his. ‘Junk,’ he repeated.
‘Have you had a go at it for her? Given it an oiling or anything?’ James asked.
‘Got better things to do with my time, mate.’
‘Pig,’ Lillian muttered.
James felt sorry for her. It must be pretty grim having Frank and Bob as big brothers, and that old hag ordering her around all the time.
‘I’ll have a look at it for you, if you like,’ he offered.
Her sharp little face lit up. ‘Would you? Really?’
‘’Course. After tea, if you like.’
‘Oh—I got to do the washing-up.’
‘After that, then,’ James offered.
So he found himself half an hour later in the back yard. Lillian disappeared into a rickety shed and wheeled out a rusty ladies’ bike. James was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t as ancient as he had thought it would be.
‘It’s a Raleigh, and that’s good for a start,’ he said, trying the brakes, examining the chain. ‘The parts will be easy to get. You know what I think? This has been dumped in someone’s back yard for years in all weathers. The tyres aren’t very worn—see, there’s plenty of tread on them—but they’re cracked from neglect. There’s even quite a bit of wear in the brake blocks, once I get the brakes going again.’
‘They will