Dreams Must Come True
2nd October, London
I tied my silk scarf a little closer under my chin and pulled my gloves higher, enjoying the brisk air of autumn as I wandered through the streets of London. Leaves were turning gold and crimson, each tree transformed as if a distracted artist had spilt paint across its branches. The pavements bustled with shiny new cars and purposeful people rushing about their business. What a comfort to think that everyone had something to do, somewhere to be.
I paused in front of shop windows, their lights dazzling and tempting. Each looked like its own tiny stage, set and ready for a play. I never ceased to marvel at how the world had changed, how London, once scarred and blackened by war and fire, had become unrecognisable: lighter, hopeful.
Really, how long had I, Margaret Plumridge, been living on this earth? It beggars belief. Why had the Lord seen fit to leave me here, taking my parents and so many others Ive loved?
To give us Sarah. And then she had Sam, came George’s voice, my late husband, in my mind.
Youre probably right, I replied, smiling at an empty sky. Someone had to carry on.
I wasnt in a hurry. Id done my runningschool, then my plans for university, exams already takenall cut short when the world went to war. Instead of going up to Oxford, I took a job at the factory. I survived the Blitz, barely, a walking skeleton with jutted collarbones and hollow cheeks, unrecognisable even to old neighbours. After the citys liberation, like everyone else, I scrubbed and built anew the weary but unbeaten London Ive always loved.
What helped me survive those darkest times? My dreamssimple, foolish, hidden ones.
What did I wish for? You wont believe it: coffee.
Yes, coffee! My father, an architect, would drink strong, freshly brewed coffee every morning, always with one spoonful of sugar and never any cream. Id sit at the table across from him, legs swinging, while Mum made my porridge in the shared kitchen and listen to the soft tick of the wall clock, the slap of the window panethe sounds all muffled, really, because Father was having his coffee.
It was a morning ritual for all of us: Mum rising before dawn to brew it in the special pot, Father splashing water on his face and pulling on his jacket, lest he be late for work or, heaven forbid, his coffee went cold. I loved this ritual more than anything.
Father wasnt much for talking, but he was endlessly fascinating to watch. Id hold my mouth in my hands so he wouldnt hear me giggling as he read the Times, pulled faces, raised his eyebrows in indignation at the headlines, puffed his lips as if to say, Utter nonsense, what they print these days! Now and then hed smile and Id beam back, or hed sip his coffee and wrinkle his nose, as if the news stank of boiled cabbage. It was a performance, and I never missed a show.
So quiet today, my little scamp? hed catch me out eventually. Fetch my case, off I gogrand deeds await!
Id fetch the battered brown case, hed kiss my hair, and dash off to change the world. That little cup, blue and white porcelain, sat cooling on the table. Thered be nothing left but the grounds. Auntie Lena, the neighbour, claimed she could read fortunes in the dregsmostly fibs. She foretold Fathers promotion, predicted a baby brother. Neither came true.
The morning the bombs fell, the cup stood there all the same, untouched, Father vanishing off to his office, as if determined to get a head start on whatever nightmare lay ahead.
Because of Auntie Lenas foresight, making us stock up on food months before, the Plumbriges managed better than most at first. Despite the blackouts, ration books and fear, Mum stubbornly made Father his morning coffee, and I watched every drop.
Rumours said wed be evacuatedbureau staff and families shipped off for safety. Any day now, everyone insisted. It was all so fast.
I stopped beside a park bench and sank down. Nearby, a young tabby flicked amongst the leaves. I nodded to her. Life everywhereeven cats. During the Blitz, the cats all vanished.
So did my father. The little porcelain cup stayed on the table; Mum never cleared it awaywe dashed to shelter as the sirens wailed. Father never came home. Not even his case was found.
They told Mum and me almost at once. Olive went pale, aged years in a shock, lips a thin bloodless line, hands knotted tight.
Now Mum just held me, squeezing so hard I could hardly breathe, but I enduredit was what you did.
I, Margaret, nearly a university girl, couldnt make sense of fathers death. Hed harmed no onenone of us hadand yet people everywhere were lost, every day. Why? The unfairness was suffocating.
Helplessness when Mum fell ill, as the heating failed, the food ran out, everything numbed me. I tried to keep strong, as Papas little rascal, but sometimes it was impossible.
In those moments, Id fish out Fathers coffee cup, with the ancient dried grounds, never let anyone wash it. Id bury my face in the cold porcelain and breathe in, trying desperately to remember.
Whats wrong, Maggie? Aunt Lena would ask, worried. Go fetch water, love. Someones got to wash your mother!
I remember pushing Mums hands gently away, coaxing her, Just a quick wash, Mum. Then Ill fetch a doctor, promise. A little hot water for you, then back to bed
But she shook her head. She didnt want a doctor, only for it all to end.
Go away, Margaret. Leave me. Call Lena. Please, she murmured, wrapping the sheet around herself.
The room was stiflingI’d fed the rest of our dining table to the stove for warmth. Wed burned everything; books, wallpaper, even exercise books, but Id saved the table as long as I could. That battered old table. Id sit at dawn, listening to Mums breathing, before I had to race off to the factory. The coffee cup once sat there, right next to the tablecloth. When it finally broke, just before New Year, I felt a bit of my heart go too.
I obeyed and fetched Aunt Lena. She muttered and tutted as she cleaned Mums back and shoulders. At times her son, Michael, would come round. Wed sit by the hearth, worn old coat beneath us, dreaming of how it would all end, how wed stuff our bags with sweets from the local shop, as many as we could carry.
And Ill buy coffee! Ill brew it just like Mum used to. Let me show you, Michael! Id dash to the cabinet for our old Turkish coffee pot.
Mum told me to barter it for food, but I refused. Never! It smells of life before this, cant you see?
There wont be any more of that good life, Maggie. Best to get you and Michael fed, she triedbut something in my face shut her up, and she cried instead.
When Mum passed, Aunt Lena begged me not to hold it against her. Olive was always delicatelooked after your father, kept house. Music school, then you, your birth… All this ruin, she gestured to the soot-caked window, battered furniture, she couldnt manage. Cut-glass, piano, booksthat was her world. What about you, dear?
Sometimes I pictured Father emerging from the courtyard arch, straightening his cap, jacket immaculate, smiling and waving, Hello, scamp! Got you an ice cream! I nearly lifted my hand to wave back.
Aunt Lena, Michael and I all moved in together, sharing a smaller but somehow warmer room. While Lena and I worked the factory, Michael stayed home, flipping through the same old battered aeroplane book, waiting for us.
Rations came on our cardsLena always gave Michael a bit extraand after shed dozed off, wed sneak into my old family room. The place was stripped bare, all gone for kindling, but we could still lean on the wall and whisper about the futurerebuilding London, new bridges, giving everyone ice-cream, just for the joy of it.
My mums not fond of ice cream, sore throat, Michael protested, but his eyes gleamed. What does she like?
Coffee. Your mum would grind the beans and Id watchsmelt odd, but now… Now I miss it.
I wished I could go back and share more with them, but too late. So we dreamt together, keeping each other alive with want and hope.
When the old coffee pot vanished, I was heartbroken. Lena had exchanged it for food in sheer desperation. Rations, potatoes, tinned beef, look at you, how could I not? she pleaded as I sobbed, shoulders shaking.
Even as Michael tried to comfort me, I wailed for what wed lostthe tiny links to before.
The doctor came just once, brisk and grey, a shadowed wartime man. Exhaustion, the boy will be evacuated when we can manage it. Be readymust take our moment.
What about you? Lena murmured, voice raw.
Ill head for the field hospital, its whats needed. Dont fret, love. Things will work out. He squeezed Lenas shoulder gently, smiled at Michael, and offered treatsbread, sugar cubesjust for us.
Hide them! Lena hissed, but he waved her off with gentle teasing. Anything you wish for? Speak! Im a fairy godfather now.
Michael, eyes huge, mumbled, A camera, please.
And me a coffee pot. The last ones gone. No matter, theres a war on, I shrugged.
He nodded quietly.
I peered through the larder door at his farewell to Lenathere was a gentle kiss, I think. Michael slept on, future unknown, as did I, and the world.
More people vanished, before it was over. I always wondered: how many must go before the light returned?
When, at last, we were evacuated by plane, it was terrifying but exhilarating. The engines droned, pilots winked and shouted, Chin up! across the hold. Then, warm foreign sunthe heat of Cyprus, fig trees and rock melon, bread from the ovens, milk. How Id forgotten the taste.
And there was coffee. Our hostess, Lydia, took out a grinder, poured fragrant grounds, brewed it over the stove. Eyes wide, I inhaled, ready to call for Michael, but the scent was all wrongno longer home. My old life slipped away then, not forgotten, but accepted.
Lena and Michael stayed in Cyprus, but as soon as I could manage, I went home to London. Soon, those of us whod survived trickled back. None of us the same.
Now, the shared kitchen in our old building hummed againpots steamed, someone had managed to find fish somewhere, the radio played Vera Lynn, and the window glass glittered with promised sunlight.
Chin up, Maggie-girlthings are brighter! chuckled old Ted, the neighbour, now entirely white-haired. I wished I could comfort him, but neither of us really knew how.
I entered university, determined to rebuild my fathers city, to call Michael to London one day, and maybe wed
Dreams.
One afternoon, racing in for water, I stopped in my trackson the stove, my mothers old coffee pot. No mistakethe dent from Mums clumsiness, the handle skewed just so.
Whose is this? How?! I gasped, unable to comprehend.
Its mine, said a voice behind me. An older woman in a proper wool jacket, its lace collar peeking out, extended her hand. Mary Gavel, pleased to meet you. Just moved in next door.
Butthats our pot! Mums coffee pot. How on earth?
Oh, now, no fuss. The thing made its way to me from a doctor, an Igor Ford, I believe. He treated my nephews during the war, out in some country village. He left us your pot, and a camerahang on, Ill fetch it.
And she did, the same camera Michael had wished for. We marvelled at it together.
If the pots yours, Im glad I could hand it back. Have a cup with me? Mary offered. Theres only chicory, but Ive got a small loaf and a bit of butter. A bun with butter is happiness, Maggie.
Her eyes shone with a joy that reminded me of Michaels wide-eyed longings. Even if the coffee wasnt true coffee, and the cup wasnt blue enamel, I was gratefuleven more so for having someone to share it with. We all had our dreams; sometimes, they really did come true.
Six months later, Lena received a letter from Igor Ford in London. I answered, sent news of our life. Another three months, an impossibly cheerful Cypriot arrived, sweating under crates of melon and grapes. A gift, he grinned, from Igor. Safe and well, wife and Michael together!
I passed the camera along for Michael.
Life rolled forward. The road was rough and crowdedme, Mary Gavel, her own miraculously found husband, Michael, now moustached and dark with sun, my own husband, Williama skinny, bespectacled man with soft, loving eyes a bit like my fathers.
William somehow procured a bag of real coffee, just a little, for me. And when I was pregnant with Sarah, the smell, once so longed for, made me race for the loo. Afterwards, I cried for missing it.
But things change. Sarah came, precious and warm, clinging tight and laughing in my arms, bright as the sun. The world spun byfamily, houses, tea, clouds. I poured William coffee in the mornings; he gulped it in haste, barely pausing for a kiss. Not my fathers slow ritual, but it didnt matterI brewed for someone of my own.
Thanks, Margerymust dash! hed shout, dashing off.
Take care, Id murmur, though peace had come and nothing threatened us anymore. Still, I couldnt stop myself hoping everyone would always be safe.
William passed away last yearhis heart, after all hed seen through the war. Sarahs taken the children to Cornwall for September sun, and I walk daily through these streets I helped to rebuild. I never did manage the new bridges of my childhood dreams, but our road, once dark and shabby, is now bright with neat, colourful houses stacked like wooden blocks. Some say Londons still dreary. They only see what they wish. This is my citymy father and mothers spirit lives here, and Michael, now older, limping on his stick, calls me every Sunday for a walk.
There he is, coming up the avenue, grinning at the girls who pass. The old charmer.
All right, Maggie? he says, lowering himself with care onto the bench. Shall we go for a coffee? Our usual?
Of course. Our favourite little cafésmall, dim, but cheerfulstill serves coffee in dainty cups just like Fathers. Now, there are machines that hiss and bubble, and though the taste is never quite the same, I love it.
Michael sips slowly, paying me complimentsmy eyes are gorgeous, my smile lovely.
Oh, stop, Michael! Lets get the biggest ice creams in the shop instead, I laugh.
He winks. Remember how we dreamt of handing them out to the whole city?
I do remember.
And sometimes, at a nearby table, I almost see Father, reading his paper over a tiny blue cup, sugar but never cream, Mum beside him, happy in a neat Sunday dress.
I blink away the memories and nod to the waitress bringing our ice creama dear girl, her whole life ahead of her. May it be nothing but joy, all the sweetness I ever wished for wrapped in love, dreams, kindness, and Fathers familiar: All right, rascalfetch the case! Great deeds await us!
Theres always so much left to do. Life and wishes pile up like newspapers on the kitchen table, ready to be sorted. What matters is to carry on, and let yourself carry on in someone else, too. Thats how dreams come true.
