Forgive and Forget (2 page)

‘Please, Mrs Halliday, will you—?’

‘’Course I will, lass. I’ll get the doctor to call. You leave it to me and get yarsen back home to look after yar mam and the bairns.’

Polly retraced her steps more slowly. She paused briefly outside her own house, but then she ran swiftly to the end of the street where it joined the High Street. She stood on the corner and gazed up at the cathedral sitting proudly on the top of the hill. She loved the huge building, but she’d never had the chance to attend services there; in fact she’d never seen the inside. One day, she’d always promised herself, I’ll walk all the way up the High Street, up Steep Hill and I’ll go and see it for mesen. Their own church was smaller but much nearer – only a few hundred yards away. Polly bit her lip. Come Sunday, she thought, she’d really have something to pray about.

By the time she returned home, her father had left for work, afraid too that he would lose his job on the nearby railway if he stayed away. The baby was howling, four-year-old Stevie was sitting wide-eyed beside the drawer that doubled as a cradle sucking his thumb anxiously and Sarah was calling weakly from the bedroom upstairs. Polly sighed, took off her coat and hung it behind the door. Then she patted Stevie’s dark curls, promising, ‘I’ll be down in a minute, love.’

The boy removed his thumb and nodded towards the baby. ‘I fink she’s hungry.’

‘No doubt she is,’ Polly remarked dryly and could have added, ‘we all are.’ But she turned away and climbed the dark stairway to the bedrooms above feeling as if she carried the troubles of the whole city on her slight shoulders.

She entered the front bedroom, the smell of vomit hitting her so forcibly that she retched. Her parents occupied this room, whilst the back bedroom had been partitioned by their father into two, so that Polly and her younger sister, Violet, slept on one side and the boys, Eddie and Stevie, on the other. The house was crowded enough now, Polly had thought resentfully when she’d first heard that there was to be yet another addition to the family. But Miriam was a sweet little thing, whom she’d adored at once. For the last few days since her mother had been taken worse, Polly had done everything for the tiny baby. She loved caring for the mite, but she didn’t want to do it for ever; she wanted to get back to work, to save enough money so that she could train to be a teacher. Despite being obliged to obey her father, she still hadn’t given up her dream, even though, so far, all her wages had been handed over to Sarah to help feed and clothe the family. Now, with all the missed days at work, she feared she’d even lose that job.

‘It’s typhoid right enough.’

The doctor confirmed their worst fears.

‘Now,’ he went on, turning to Polly standing fearfully beside the bed, ‘keep her warm and give her only fluids. Nothing solid. And make sure you boil all drinking water because that’s where this disease is coming from. The supply’s been contaminated somehow. And you must boil milk, too. You understand, child?’

Polly nodded, looking up into the man’s solemn face. Behind the round spectacles, his eyes were tired with a weariness caused by the weight of responsibility that rested on his shoulders. Dr Fenwick was in his early fifties, of portly build, with a balding pate and a bristling white moustache, which he stroked thoughtfully when considering his patients’ ailments. But there was no need to ponder today; sadly, the diagnosis was all too easy. Though highly respected, he was something of a figure of fun amongst his patients, for he always wore a black jacket and pinstriped trousers, with a brightly coloured waistcoat and bow tie. A gold chain attached to the watch hidden in his waistcoat pocket was looped across his broad chest.

Dr Fenwick struggled down the narrow stairs. He paused in the kitchen, eyeing the young boy and the crying baby. He nodded towards them and raised his voice above the noise to say, ‘If they fall ill, child, send for me at once. You hear me? At once.’

By nightfall Polly was exhausted. Though she was willing and capable, caring for a sick mother, a demanding baby and the rest of the family was a heavy burden. Her father tried to help when he came home, but never having been used to household chores he was less than useless, as Bertha Halliday would have put it.

At last, Polly got baby Miriam to sleep for the night and Stevie into bed. Violet argued with her sister that, at ten, she was old enough to help her and shouldn’t be sent to bed with the babies.

‘You’ll do as I say,’ Polly snapped, gripping the younger girl’s shoulder and marching her towards the stairs. ‘Till Mam’s better I’m in charge, so there.’

Violet paused and looked up into her sister’s face. ‘Is she going to get better?’

Polly blinked. ‘Course she is.’ But the slight hesitation had spoken volumes. Young as they both were, they knew that typhoid was a killer. Two people in their immediate neighbourhood had died and the funeral of a man further down their own street had taken place the previous day. And he hadn’t been old or infirm or already weakened by childbirth like their mam.

Polly bent forward, her face close to Violet’s, as she whispered, ‘We’ve just all got to do what we can and be good.’

Violet pursed her lips and glowered, but then she muttered, ‘All right. You win.
This
time.’

Then she stomped up the stairs until Polly called after her, ‘Quietly, Vi. Mam might be asleep. And don’t wake Baby. She’s in with us tonight.’

The footsteps quietened and Violet disappeared into the part of the bedroom they shared.

Polly went back into the scullery to finish washing the pots and to make a warm, milky drink to take up to her mother. Now there was only Eddie to deal with when he came in. He was late already and the girl knew that her brother, only fifteen months younger than her, was taking advantage of their mother’s illness to stay out playing with his mates. And he was banking on his father, in his anxiety, not noticing.

But Polly was not about to let Eddie get away with it. He might already be as tall as she was, and stronger, but she’d show him who was boss.

Oh no, Eddie wasn’t going to get away with anything, not while she was in charge of the household.

Eddie came in at ten o’clock, two hours after he’d been told to be home.

Polly was waiting for him. She grabbed him by the shoulder as he sneaked in.

‘What d’you think you’re doing staying out till all hours when our mam’s ill?’

‘Geroff. You’re hurting.’

‘I’ll hurt you, you little tyke. I’ll tell me dad an’ he’ll give you a leathering.’

Eddie smirked. ‘Him? He won’t raise a finger to any of us. You know that, Pol.’

‘More’s the pity where you’re concerned. Look, Eddie, if you don’t care about Dad or me, then think about Mam. If she gets to know you’re staying out, she’ll worry.’ Polly was pulling no punches as she added deliberately, ‘An’ it’ll make her worse.’

Eddie thrust his face close to hers. ‘It’s only while she’s ill that I can get away with it. Don’t you see?’

Their mother was the driving force in the household. Sarah was the one who administered the punishments and kept her children in line. And now that she was ill Eddie, and even Violet, were quick to misbehave. But they’d both reckoned without their fiery elder sister.

Through gritted teeth, Polly said, ‘I see all right, but you’re not going to get away with it, Eddie Longden, so you start coming in at the proper time, or else—’

‘Or else what?’ he sneered. ‘What d’you think you can do? You’re only thirteen.’

‘Fourteen in a couple of months. And as for what I can do – ’ she narrowed her eyes – ‘just try me.’

For a brief moment doubt flickered in the boy’s eyes, then he pulled himself free of her grasp and swaggered towards the inner door. ‘Go on, then, do your worst.’

Grimly, Polly watched him go, but she smiled to herself as she heard him tiptoeing up the stairs, his bravado giving way to thoughts of his mother’s wrath when she recovered.

Polly banked down the fire and followed her brother. Creeping into their half of the bedroom, she was relieved to see both Violet and the baby sleeping. Quietly, she undressed and slipped into bed beside Violet. An hour or two’s sleep was the most she could hope for before the baby woke to be fed . . .

But to her surprise and relief, Miriam slept until five o’clock, waking with what seemed to the bleary-eyed Polly to be an apologetic whimper. ‘There, there, little love,’ she whispered as she plucked the baby out of her cradle and carried her downstairs. Violet burrowed beneath the bedclothes and went back to sleep.

Shivering in the early morning air, Polly roused the fire and prepared the baby’s bottle. Just as she’d finished feeding and changing her, William appeared. Polly looked up at once.

‘How’s Mam?’

William yawned and stretched. ‘I reckon she’s a bit better, Polly. She’s asking for some breakfast. Tek ’er some toast up, eh?’

‘Doctor said only fluids, Dad.’

‘She’s hungry. That’s a good sign, in’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ Polly agreed reluctantly, the doctor’s instructions still ringing in her ears. ‘Anyway, I’ll go up an’ see her and ask her what she fancies.’

The young girl bit her lip, debating whether to tell her father about Eddie’s lateness the previous night. She didn’t like telling tales and maybe her brother would mend his ways when he heard that their mother was improving. It wouldn’t be many days now before Sarah regained her strength and he’d feel the back of her hand if he was late home.

Polly decided against saying anything and bustled about the scullery and kitchen preparing her father’s breakfast; bacon, eggs and fried bread. The children had porridge, but William’s job in the railway goods department was a cold one in winter. So, however short money was, Sarah always minded the man of the house was well fed. And Polly knew she must do the same.

With the baby quiet and her father tucking into his meal, Polly went upstairs.

‘’Morning, Mam. How’re you feeling?’

Sarah lay weakly against the pillows. Her face was blotchy, her eyes dark hollows, her lips dry and cracked.

‘Better this morning, love.’ She sniffed the air. ‘My, yar dad’s breakfast smells good. I could just eat a plateful.’

‘Doctor said no solids, Mam. You heard him. I don’t think you should—’

‘I’m hungry, love. Ravenous. You make me bacon and eggs. There’s a good girl. And don’t forget the fried bread. I love a bit of fried bread.’

Polly bit her lip, but didn’t like to argue. It must be a good sign that her mother wanted to eat, she argued with herself. After days of being sick and having nothing but water, no wonder she was hungry. But the doctor had said . . .

Resolutely, she pushed his words out of her mind and hurried downstairs. Mam was on the mend. She’d soon be up and about and she, Polly, could go back to work.

Not that her work at the glue factory was so wonderful, but to the young girl it was a start. After a year or so, she fully intended to look for something better.

Oh yes, Polly promised herself, once her mother was better, she’d never miss a day’s work. She’d build up a good reputation for being a reliable worker. And perhaps when she was older – she hardly dared to hope – she could even become a teacher just as she’d always wanted.

And then, maybe, Leo Halliday would notice her too.

‘That was lovely, Polly.’

Her mother almost smacked her lips as she finished the breakfast Polly had cooked for her. Sarah lay back against the pillows and sighed. ‘I think I’ll have a little nap now, love. Can you see to the baby?’

As if I haven’t been doing for the past week or more, Polly wanted to shout, but instead she picked up the tray and said meekly, ‘Yes, Mam. She’s a good little thing.’

But already Sarah’s eyes were closed.

The baby had been fed, washed and dressed and was back in her cradle sleeping. Eddie and Violet, after much protesting, had gone to school. Stevie played quietly with his wooden bricks, building towers and then knocking them down, smiling happily to himself as he did so. Polly washed up the breakfast pots, mended the fire, swept the floors and sorted out the washing. Several times she crept upstairs to check on her mother, but Sarah was sleeping peacefully.

As she peeled potatoes for her father’s meal when he got home in the evening and prepared dinner for herself and Stevie, Polly was humming softly to herself.

Everything was going to be all right. Her mam was getting better and no one else in the family had got the disease. Soon she’d be able to go back to work. Though she knew Mr Spicer’s warnings were not idle ones, she didn’t think he’d sack her. Not now, not whilst the city was so badly hit by this dreadful disease.

Roland Spicer was a kindly man who still lived with his widowed mother. Polly couldn’t understand why he’d never married. Admittedly, with mousy hair and pale, hazel eyes he wasn’t handsome, not like Leo Halliday, but he was – now what was the word her mother had used to describe him? Personable. That was it – personable. Maybe Mr Spicer was shy when it came to women. Polly smiled to herself. But he wasn’t shy with the women and the girls who worked at the glue factory. He laughed and joked with them, yet he still managed to maintain his foreman’s position if firmness was needed or there were orders to be given.

And he was always very nice to her. Some of the other women teased her. ‘I reckon our Roland’s sweet on little Miss Polly.’