Dream On by Gilda O'Neill

of brains see, birds ain’t.’ Ted tossed back the last of his drink and weighed his empty glass in his hand.
    â€˜Like another one in there?’ asked Al, rising from his chair.
    â€˜Why not? And you can get us a chaser an’ all this time.’
    At barely eighteen years of age, and not usually much of a drinker, Al was not exactly sure what sort of a drink a chaser was, but he would find out and Ted would have one if that was what he wanted. Al was determined to impress this new-found friend of his, because while he might not have known much about boozing, Al knew something very clearly: he definitely did not like the idea of being conscripted, especially now there wasn’t even a war to fight. And Ted, whom Al had met only a couple of hours ago – when he had tipped him the wink that he had better put his suitcase full of nylons back in his boot as a copper was heading his way – had been telling him all sorts of fascinating things.
    Ted had told him, for instance, that there were plenty of ways to avoid being called up and had even gone so far as to slip him a piece of paper with a doctor’s address on it, with the promise that it would come in more than useful when the dreaded buff envelope arrived. He’d told him, as easy as that, and just to repay him for his help in avoiding being collared by the law!
    After a few rounds of drinks, all paid for by Al, Ted had gone on to tell him that he too could earn enough money to have a flash motor and sharp-looking suits. But probably most important of all for a reluctant virgin such as Al, Ted had been generous enough to share with him the benefit of his experience with women.
    Ted had said, quite matter-of-factly, that after the cheapest of nights out, he should definitely expect a whole lot more than a quick fumble inside their blouses.
    This was music to Al’s ears. He wouldn’t have admitted it to someone as sophisticated as Ted, of course, but he had often spent the best part of the week’s wages he earned at his clerking job and had not even got as far as a serious kind of kiss, let alone a real bit of how’s your father.
    But then, according to Ted, the way that Al earned his living showed what a mug he was. In Ted’s book, anyone who worked for a governor was no better than a fool.
    Al put down the three drinks, his own half pint, Ted’s pint and a tot of whisky – the barmaid had been very helpful in explaining chasers, especially after Al had bought her a drink as well – and sat himself down next to Ted. ‘So, Ted,’ he said, raising his glass in salutation, ‘you was saying about this, what was it, working the tweedle? How does it go again?’
    Ted grinned; it was a while since he’d met a kid as innocent-looking and as trusting as this one. He was a real one-off. Particularly around the East End. He must have been brought up wrapped in cotton wool.
    Ted studied him across the rim of his glass. Maybe he could be of further service some time. All right, so he wasn’t exactly Brains Trust material, but a look-out with an honest face was always useful when you were on the creep around a warehouse. And anyway, it amused Ted to see the kid hanging on to his every word. He enjoyed a bit of respect.
    Patiently Ted explained the con one more time.
    â€˜I get it!’ A flash of understanding at last lit up Al’s baby face. ‘You have
two
rings. A real one and a fake one. And when you go back, you sell the jeweller the schneid!’
    â€˜Right. That’s it.’ Ted winked at the lad, then asked his usual question whenever he met anyone under the age of thirty. ‘Now, tell me about yourself; you got any sisters, son?’
    â€˜No, only brothers.’
    Ted paused. No sisters. Well, you couldn’t have everything. Then another thought struck him. ‘So how old’s your mum then?’
    â€˜Dunno.’ Al grimaced. ‘Just old, I suppose, like all