Polly's Pride (16 page)

‘You ask too much.’

‘It won’t be for long.’

‘I’m not waiting, Poll. Not even for a day.’

‘But I’m committed to this plan now. Can’t you at least give me time to make it work? Or better still, help me.’

He stabbed a thumb into his chest. ‘We should decide these things together, since we’re man and wife.’ Now the finger was stabbing the air inches from her nose, a furious energy in it. ‘But you don’t listen to anyone but yourself. You gave no hint, didn’t even ask my advice. And why? Because you knew I’d say no.’

Polly flushed, said nothing, bleakly aware that this was true. ‘We’ve faced enough turmoil in our married life already over you being a Catholic, without all of this.’

Polly managed a smile. ‘Don’t you mean because of your being a non-conformist?’

His voice sank to dangerously soft tones, as if she’d attempted to catch him out in a wrong. ‘I didn’t say this argument was about religion. You and me have never fallen out over that, though others have made it difficult at times for us. What I’m saying is, I’ve enough to contend with: a mixed marriage, my brother blaming me for summat that’s not my fault, not to mention struggling to find work - without all of this.’ He waved a hand despairingly about the empty room. ‘You could at least have asked me first.’

‘Maybe you’re right, and I was wrong not to tell you. I’m sorry about that, really I am. I thought you mightn’t let me, and it’s such a good idea.’

Polly dropped the piece of carpet she was stitching and went to him, sliding her arms about his waist and looking earnestly up into the face she loved so dearly. Gently she stroked his rigid cheek, tried not to notice the tightness of his jaw or the anger in his eyes. She felt he was a million miles away from her, for all he was here in her arms. ‘But it’s exactly because of all those things you’ve mentioned that I’m doing this. I want to help. Can’t you see - we could have our own little business? Once these carpet pieces are all stitched and sold, we’ll have made a good start. We might not be in profit right away. I’m no fool, I know we’ll need to buy and sell many more. For doesn’t it take time to build a business?’

He gave a snort of disgust as he pushed her away from him. ‘What do you know about running a business?’

‘I intend to learn.’

‘You’ve shamed me, Polly, before everyone. The whole bloomin’ street must be laughing up their sleeves to see us now, reduced to eating our dinner off the bare floors.’

‘We’ve the tin box.’ Her flippancy only served to inflame his anger still further. He flung a kick at it, the sound ringing hollowly in the empty room.

‘Put my house in order and I’ll be back.’

Perhaps it was the way he had attacked the box, filled as it was with her treasures, but something seemed to crack inside Polly then and all her Irish temper soared to the surface at last. ‘
Your
house!
Your
pride. Drat you, Matthew Pride, can’t you think of anyone but yourself? ‘It’s only a few weeks’ grace I’m asking, a month mebbe.’

‘No, Polly.’

‘But we can do it, I’m sure of it. Till then . . .’

‘Till then.. .’And he finished the sentence by picking up his bag and walking out of the house with a determination in the stiffness of his spine that told her he meant exactly what he said. Blinded by tears, and too far gone in despair and anger to control herself, she picked up his plate of broth and flung it after him. It hit the closed door, still quivering on its hinges from the slam it had received. and slid down to the bare stone where the plate split into two pieces, spilling its contents in a pool on the bare boards.

Polly stood as if she’d been slapped in the face. He had gone and she knew he would not be back unless she gave up her dream. Her kitchen had once been a cosy, happy place, full of life and laughter. Now it was grey and dull and desperately sad, a place with nothing in it but a pile of half-stitched carpet pieces, a few orange boxes and the battered tin trunk.

Polly could plainly see how rough and cracked were the walls, how badly in need of a coat of fresh whitewash. She could see the brown slop-stone sink with its draining board and clutter of dishes waiting to be washed, using water she would pour from the bucket that sat beneath. Even her glowing black range with its bright fire failed to warm her chilled bones as utter dejection threatened to overwhelm her.

Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks as, unable to bear her despair any longer, she sank to her knees and let the sobs come, felt them rack her fragile, hungry body with an anguish she could no longer contain.

Oh, what had she done? If only she could go back and undo it all. Then she wouldn’t lose her temper and throw his dinner at him. She wouldn’t sell his lovely sideboard and his favourite chair. No, she wouldn’t. She’d do it all differently.

But would she? a voice softly enquired at the back of her head. Wasn’t it a fine idea that could save them all from hunger, given time? And as it came to her that she’d do exactly the same all over again, Polly cried all the more.

She knew why he had taken this line. Matthew thought she couldn’t bear to live without him, would do anything to make him come back, even to the extent of giving up on her silly dream. And in a way that was true. Life without her beloved husband didn’t bear thinking about. But if she gave in now, then all her efforts would have been for naught. And they’d have nothing left: no carpets, no furniture, nothing. If only he would show some patience and understand. If only he would help instead of condemn her, support her rather than leave, and have faith in her idea. But Matthew was too stubborn, proud by name and nature, daft fool that he was. And yet so dearly loved.

The last thing she wanted was to lose him but at the same time, if she did give up, wouldn’t a part of her always blame him for that? She believed in her plan. Otherwise she would never have taken such a terrible risk. The question was, could she achieve her ambitions and yet win her husband back?

A clatter of clogs and happy laughter interrupted her thoughts. Benny, coming for his supper, Lucy not far behind at a more sedate pace. Quite the young woman now that she was working, though she always seemed bone-weary at the end of a long day on the market. They’d both be hungry for it was past eight o’clock. Polly got up from her knees, wiped the tears from her eyes and quickly disposed of the smashed plate and spilt dinner. She rubbed the top of the tin trunk clean and reached for the pan of barley broth, ready to feed her family with a smile.

Chapter Eleven

Lace curtains twitched, doors stood open, and half the neighbours in Dove Street came out to view Polly’s hand cart, it being early evening and most of them at home. They particularly admired the way she had painted her name and the details of her business on the side.

It said:
Polly Pride, Best Carpet Rugs in Town.
She had no way of knowing whether this was true or not, but it sounded good. Eileen stood on her doorstep in her bare feet and grubby green frock, looking vastly impressed. ‘Well, I’ll go to Heaton Park! Who’d’ve thought it. You’re a businesswoman now, Poll.’

‘Not quite yet, but I mean to be.’

Since she could never hope to afford a horse or motorised van, she’d bought the small cart with its long cane handles from Joseph Malachi. It had been pawned more than a year ago and never redeemed, so he let her have it at a ridiculously low price.

‘It’s a soft fool I am, but how else will you repay the money, so. . .’And he’d shrugged and spread wide his hands, beaming at her in the way that he did. Polly had kissed and thanked the old man, and now she was bursting with pride at the result of her efforts.

Finally she draped a rug from each side of the cart and one at the front, so that the beauty of the pattern was on full display. Aware they were all the same, she rolled up the rest and stacked them on top, hoping one day to buy more carpets in different patterns.

‘By heck,’ Eileen was saying. ‘It’s that smart you could take it anywhere. Albert Square or even Piccadilly.’

Polly shook her head, laughing. ‘No, only the flower gazers with their big baskets are allowed on Piccadilly. Its Oldham Street for me, at first light.’

‘Should be Buckingham Palace, and nothing less.’ This from Bet Sutcliffe, nodding her frizzy head with a wide grin on her round shining face.

Vera Murray, leaving the blinds up on her toffee shop and the door standing open in case there should be one or two late customers, came over for a quick look. ‘By heck, what are you doing, you? Are you turning into a gypsy.’

‘Don’t talk soft,’ said Bet. ‘Its our Poll, hoping to make an honest bob, aren’t you, chuck? The three women stood considering the cart, arms folded over their pinnies, their curiosity plain. Polly’s heart was pumping. How she wished Matthew would come out too, to admire the cart and wish her luck. She was so keenly aware of him seated in Big Flo’s kitchen, it was as if she could see him through the walls.

‘What does Matt think of it then?’ Vera asked astutely, rolling her eyes in the direction of the closed door. Polly twitched her eyebrows and said nothing.

‘Aye, well, chaps is like that,’ Bet commented, as if she’d spoken. ‘Here’s to you, lass. I’d do the same, if I had your courage.’ At that moment Big Flo ambled over in her carpet slippers to offer her opinion that the cart looked respectable enough. ‘Though I can’t imagine who would buy them rugs. Decent housewives can make their own, like I do.’

‘Not everyone has time,’ Polly pointed out with a wink at Eileen, who was only too eager to agree.

‘I certainly don’t, with the piece work I do making aprons for weavers. Not to mention four children round me feet all day, and a lazy, good-for-nothing husband to look after. I barely have time to eat and sleep.’

Big Flo said in her booming voice, ‘I had three sons to fetch up, though they’re grown men now and one gone to his maker. I managed to find time, then and now. For all I still have two to see to,’ she added pointedly, shooting Polly a hard glare. ‘I never heard of anyone buying a rug afore. But then, I’m speaking of decent folk, who aren’t afraid of hard work.’ And she gave that disapproving sniff of hers which was meant to speak volumes.

‘Ta very much,’ Eileen remarked.

‘Will you not wish me luck?’ Polly said. ‘I’ll be gone before you get up in the morning. You can’t book your spot so I have to get off early, queue up and hope for the best.’ And as Eileen hugged and kissed her, and Bet and Vera clapped her on the back, Big Flo merely sniffed, then turned on her slippered heel and shuffled off home without a word.

The hand cart wouldn’t fit through the front door so Polly had to unload the rugs again, wheel the cart down the entry and stow it in the back yard for the night. But it would be the work of moments to set it up each morning and be on her way. Polly had been forced to hand in her notice at the temperance tavern which of all the things she had done had frightened her the most. Now she had to make this work. Otherwise she’d have no money coming in at all.

She slept little that night, half hoping Matthew would come round and wish her well. Big Flo must’ve told him it was her first day tomorrow but he didn’t come anywhere near. If Polly wept tears into her lonely pillow, she made sure the children sleeping next door didn’t hear. Matthew would come home soon, she was quite certain of it. He must be missing her as much as she was missing him. He’d soon get over his sulks, and living with his mother again would drive him mad.

‘He’ll be miserable as hell, the daft galoot,’ Polly whispered into the darkness. And, believing this, finally fell asleep.

The rain was beating against the windows when she woke. The fire in the kitchen was nearly out for lack of a draught and had to be coaxed carefully back to life before it would boil a kettle.

Drat the thing! Just when I wanted to be well organised for once.’

She finally managed to brew herself a pot of tepid tea, prepared porridge for Lucy and Benny and
left
it simmering, on the hob. Benny had promised faithfully to make sure he got off to school on time since Lucy would be leaving for her own work before him.

Her packet of sandwiches made, Polly rolled a few tea leaves in condensed milk then wrapped several of these small balls in pieces of paper and stowed them in her blue enamel mug. With luck she’d get some hot water from somewhere during the day, to brew herself a mug of tea now and then.

That done, and with her small stock of carpet pieces in place on her hand cart, all she had to do was walk to Oldham Street and sell them. It was as she set out up the ginnel that she heard the familiar scrape of a clog behind her. Polly whirled around, and sure enough there he was, seeming to emerge out of the mists of the morning rain.

He dipped his head, as if acknowledging her presence.
 

‘Morning, Matthew,’ she said, and her heart hammered against her ribs. She prayed for him to wish her luck, even come to kiss her. He did neither, only continued to stand in the street, spine rigid, watching her, saying nothing. He looked so tall and strong, a stranger and yet so intimately dear to her she could barely tolerate the distance that separated them. When she finally accepted that he would make no further move, Polly returned his nod, gave a hesitant wave and, picking up the handles of her cart, set out on her adventure.
 

No further words had been exchanged between them. Perhaps there was nothing left to be said. Matthew, face set, stalked off in the opposite direction while at the kitchen window of his mother’s house, had he cared to look, he might have caught a glimpse of a grimly smiling face.