Dream On by Gilda O'Neill

here,’ she said, straightening up and kneading her knuckles into the small of her aching back.
    â€˜You could say that,’ Nellie snorted.
    Ginny refilled the kettle at the sink. Nellie put away more tea than anyone Ginny had ever known; and Ginny was expected to keep her well supplied. ‘So,’ she said, lighting the gas stove, ‘what gossip have you got for me then, Nell? I haven’t had much of a chance to catch up, what with all the extra hours I’m putting in.’
    Nellie paused for a moment, torn between pointedly ignoring Ginny’s attempts at pleasantness on the one hand and, on the other, the pleasure she would gain in passing on a story that would wind up the silly little cow like a watch spring.
    Nellie’s new-found fondness for malice against her dozy daughter-in-law won. But it was her own fault, Nellie reasoned; if only the girl had shown some spirit, Nellie would probably have left her alone – she might even have tried discouraging Dilys a bit – but Ginny was just too easy a target to resist.
    At one time, she had tolerated Ginny – just – but over the years she had started wearing down her patience more and more, and Nellie was beginning to wonder whether she should really start working on her and perhaps she’d bugger off and let Dilys move in. Not that Nellie was that struck with Dilys. But at least she made her laugh. Plus she was generous with the booze; and Nellie seemed to get through the hard stuff faster and faster these days. She’d have hated that little source of pleasure to dry up.
    â€˜You heard what happened to that stupid mare over the road yesterday, I suppose?’
    â€˜What, Dilys?’ Ginny asked over her shoulder as she rinsed out the teapot.
    Nellie was sorely tempted to say yes, that’s right, Dilys. She’s been over here schtupping your old man while you’ve been grafting all the hours God sends. That’d wipe the stupid smile off her face. It would do her good to hear a few home truths. But she didn’t. Not because she cared for her daughter-in-law’s feelings, of course, but because Ted wouldn’t have liked it if she’d grassed on him. Nellie had never really figured out why, but her boy seemed to like keeping her around the place, flapping about with her bloody dusters and irons. The more Ted had a pop at the soppy tart, the more she tried to keep the house looking like a flaming palace. It drove Nellie to distraction.
    Nellie looked her up and down as she walked back to the table, folded the ironing blanket and stuck it away in the bottom of the dresser. At least she had a decent figure, Nellie supposed, and her Ted liked that in a woman. So maybe she was good for something.
    â€˜I was talking to Pearl earlier,’ Ginny said amiably, ‘while we was both out scrubbing the street doorsteps. And she never said nothing about Dilys.’
    Nellie sighed theatrically. Huh! Pearl Chivers. Dilys’s flaming perfect mother and Ginny’s
special friend, who was always there if Ginny needed her.
She made Nellie sick. She was another one always cleaning and polishing. But at least Pearl could have a row and had a mouth on her like a docker when she let go. Nellie had to hand that to her: she wasn’t a mouse. Not like Dolly Day-dream, who didn’t seem to know what day of the week it was half the time, let alone how to stand up for herself.
    â€˜I don’t mean Dilys, do I?’ Nellie rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘And if you’d just keep your trap shut for a couple o’ minutes, and let me get a flaming word in edgeways, I’d bloody well be able to tell you who I mean.’
    â€˜Sorry, Nellie.’
    â€˜I should think so.’
    â€˜Well?’ Ginny asked, her voice small and coaxing.
    â€˜I was talking about Violet Varney.’
    â€˜What, she’s turned up, has she?’ Ginny asked hopefully, as she returned to the sink and filled a