Polly's Pride (19 page)

‘Oh, I reckon I could manage her very well,’ Joshua said in his quiet way. ‘Very well indeed. Given half a chance.’

Matthew shot him a fierce look, not much caring for his tone but nonetheless scornful of his brother’s confidence. ‘The
cry
of all bachelors - that they understand women - when we married men know it’s impossible. Fortunately your theory will never be put to the test.’

‘No, indeed,’ Joshua said. ‘You’re probably right. Women are a law unto themselves.’

Matthew’s face softened. ‘Polly might be stubborn, and with a mind of her own, but she came that way by watching her drunken father clout her mother once too often. Remembering what a lazy good-for-nothing lout he was makes her want to work all the harder to provide a better life for her own children. I’ve no quarrel with that.’

‘Only the way she goes about it,’ Joshua shrewdly remarked. ‘I could try to speak with her, if you wish? Tell her how unhappy she is making you.’

Matthew frowned, surprised by this sudden show of concern. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

‘Are we not brothers? She’s your wife, my sister-in-law, and as such what she does reflects upon us all. I agree she is a hard worker, thrifty and with a good, agile brain, but a woman can be too clever for her own good. She should never set herself above her husband as Polly has done, not even consulting your wishes. Give me the chance to explain all that to her, and she’ll soon see that a wife’s place is at her husband’s side, not selling his goods and chattels behind his back.’

‘She’d run rings round you.’ It might just be worth watching such a contest, for the fun of it, he thought, although he’d back Polly any day in a set-to with his brother.

‘We’ll see. Shall I try?’

‘I don’t want her upset, Josh. I just want our furniture back. My home the way it was, and a bit of peace in my life.’

‘Of course you do, and you shall have it. What do you take me for? I’ll
simply
remind her of where
her duty
lies.’

‘Right,’ Matthew agreed. ‘I suppose no harm can come of you having a quiet word. I’m sure
I’ve
got
nowhere. You see if you can do any better.’

Polly was too busy sewing and cutting her new acquisitions and dealing with her own problems to give much thought to political demonstrations or care a jot for her brother-in-law’s opinion on her duties as a wife. She had it clear in her own mind what must be done. It was vitally important that she make her business successful, to prove to Matthew that her actions had been justified. To give up now, before she had properly begun, would mean that all their sacrifices would have been for nothing. She was too far committed to turn back, and equally convinced that once Matthew saw how successful she could be, he would forgive her stubbornness and return to his home once more, the loving husband and father he had always been.

But it was not going to be easy.
 

Red Warren was, whose pitch she’d allegedly stolen,
 
was doing his utmost to make life as difficult as possible for her. Twice more she managed to reach the pitch before him but after that he was always there first and no matter where else she chose to settle, there too often seemed to be some sour-faced hawker objecting. On numerous occasions she was warned by a particularly nasty young policeman to be on her way, though she’d been there only a few hours and it was nowhere near eight o’clock when everyone was supposed to stop serving. Not that many obeyed this rule, most stalls still operating at midnight.

Polly had begun to suspect that Red was conducting a campaign against her. She wouldn’t have put it past him to slip the copper a bob or two to move her on. But she would dutifully pick up her barrow and walk it along to Stevenson Square, then
 
up Lever Street, down to New Cross and back down Oldham Street. By then her pitch would have been taken, once by a small fat man selling mufflers and handkerchiefs, another time by the organ grinder, and on several occasions by a grinning Red Warren himself.

Another day she left her hand cart unattended for less than three minutes while she went to get some hot water for a brew from a friendly shop keeper close by. The street was thronged with people all milling in and out of the many shops that lined Oldham Street. The sound of a pianola playing ‘
Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms
’ added liveliness to the busy scene; queues formed outside Jones for a sale they’d started that day; the butcher’s shop was packed and the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, making Polly feel hungry.
 

Her nearest neighbour on this occasion was a young girl selling imperfect lengths of cotton that had flaws in the weave, or dye that had gone wrong. The girl declared herself happy to keep an eye on things for Polly while she went in search of tea and a sandwich. On Polly’s return she found the girl in tears, rugs scattered all over the street, soaking wet as they lay in muddy puddles, and the handles of the cart had been snapped clean in half.

‘I tried to stop him but he threatened me too,’ the poor girl whimpered. Several of the other barrow holders offered sympathy and assistance, including Dorrie Hughes, who left a queue at her black pudding stall while she helped pick up carpet pieces.

‘I did warn you he’d choose his moment to retaliate.’

‘If he thinks he can bully me he’s picked the wrong woman,’ Polly said to Dorrie, gritting her teeth with fresh determination as she stacked her dripping stock back on the barrow. ‘I’m not one to give up easy, even when pushed.’

‘Particularly when pushed, I’d say,’ Dorrie agreed with a grin,. She admired this plucky girl enormously. ‘You stick to your guns, lass, but watch your back. Red Warren ain’t one to give up either.’

Polly had no choice but to go home early that day, dry off the carpet pieces, nail new handles on to her cart and hope to do better next time. She certainly wasn’t admitting defeat.

Over the following days, she searched out one or two more small carpets but was finding it impossible to be in two places, let alone three, at once. She couldn’t be buying carpets, sewing and selling them, all at the same time. To her great disappointment, Big Flo obstinately kept to her word in refusing to help any further with the cutting and sewing.

‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I must stand by that lad o’ mine, and so should you.’ No amount of argument would make her change her mind so Polly was forced to accept her decision with as much good grace as she could muster. Eileen, however, proved to be her salvation.

‘I may not have much in the way of brains, but there’s nowt wrong with me sewing hand. I’ve made more aprons than most weavers have had hot dinners,’ she cheerfully informed Polly. ‘If you can pay, I can sew.’

‘Oh, I’ll pay you right enough,’ Polly agreed. ‘If you can sew, I’ll find and sell the rugs. We’ll make a great team, so we will.’ And beaming with delight, the two women hugged each other.

Chapter Thirteen

Polly felt she had exhausted the spoils of St Andrew’s Square and the area around the Horsfall Museum, so Benny was given a new role to add to that of chief coal merchant. It became his task to keep his eyes open and his ears to the ground-or to people’s back doors - and to search out any other likely source of new stock. This was heady stuff for Benny. It certainly made a change from delving in the mud of the Rochdale canal whenever the locksmen lowered the level of the water, to sift out coal that had been spilled by passing barges.

Now he would swagger about the posher streets of the city, sometimes as far as Piccadilly Gardens or the streets around Philips Park, pretending to be Sexton Blake as a change from Felix the Cat, hiding round corners, eavesdropping on conversations at bus stops. What he would really have liked was a disguise, but failing that all he could do was pull the blue peaked cap down over his ears and hope for the best. Whenever he heard a couple of gossiping old matrons, he’d shadow them like the great detective himself, hoping they would let drop some titillating piece of information, or lead him to yet more parlour cast-offs. So far he hadn’t struck lucky, but he lived in hope, and certainly the search was proving to be fascinating. Who knew what other delights he might discover?

He chanced to catch sight of his Uncle Joshua on his way down Wesley Street one day. Benny called out to him but he didn’t hear, and before the boy could reach him he’d vanished, perhaps into one of the houses, though whose it was Benny hadn’t noticed.

In fact Joshua had not gone into a house. He’d knocked on the familiar door as usual, which had been opened by an Irish navvy, of all people. The man told him that the previous occupant, Joshua’s latest conquest, had done a moonlight flit, taking her snotty-nosed children with her.

Joshua was annoyed. He wouldn’t particularly miss her for she’d never been an exciting companion, putting no effort into pleasing him. Nor had she shown any sign of that element of subservience which so elated him. Nevertheless it was inconvenient, a blow to his pride, and extremely frustrating even though there were any number of other possibilities he might try. He really shouldn’t trouble himself over one none-too-clean widow when he had other fish to fry. And wouldn’t he enjoy the eating?

He’d spoken to his sister-in-law, just as he’d promised Matt he would, and her response had been entirely as expected. She’d absolutely refused to listen, revealing her character as nothing less than a headstrong termagant, a shrew of the first order.
 

‘Keep your prying nose out of my personal affairs,’ she’d shouted at him. Words she would live to regret.

In addition to Benny’s efforts, Polly continued to ask around on her own behalf and thus came to hear of a once well-to-do family now suffering financial hardship due to the Wall Street Crash. Bob Reckitt, the Dolly Varden man, had put her in the way of it. She took a tram to the house, according to his directions, and was shown the brown and gold carpet, drawing-room size, in need of a thorough cleaning but otherwise in good condition. She made an offer but the owner forced the price up higher than she could afford to pay and she reluctantly conceded defeat. Instead she bought an even dirtier grey one from a dreadful old woman who lived in a huge Victorian house in Collyhurst.

‘I reckon that was the last time it was cleaned,’ Polly said, scattering tea leaves with abandon over its dingy surface. ‘When Victoria was a girl.’

‘It stinks of moth balls and cat pee,’ Eileen said, holding her nose, and Polly laughingly agreed, privately thinking it must indeed be bad if her friend complained.

She and Eileen spent hours crawling over the carpet in Polly’s front parlour as they scrubbed and brushed and finally cut it into several rectangular pieces. Their fingers were red raw with blisters by the time they’d finished. They were not assisted in their efforts by Eileen’s children who seemed to think that crawling about on a dirty carpet was some new sort of game.

‘I’d leave the daft buggers at home only Terence doesn’t like having them under his feet,’ she mourned.

The two women were cutting lengths of edging braid when Benny bounced in through the front door, bursting with excitement as his diligence had finally paid off.

‘I’ve heard of a good one. I followed two old crones from Union Street nearly as far as Openshaw. They were talking the whole time about an old picture house that was to change into a dance-hall, and wouldn’t that be a grand thing? They liked a bit of a dance, they said, but what a shame to rip up that lovely red carpet.’

Polly listened to the tale entranced, then wrapped her arms about her son and gave him a suffocating hug. ‘What a treasure you are, Benny,’ she said, making him beam with delight.

She didn’t even stop to think that this would undoubtedly mean Matthew’s chair would have to be put in hock again. But since he’d refused to return home and sit in it, she’d rather it went than stand in her kitchen, a silent reminder of the troubles between them. Polly had only recently redeemed the deal table and four wooden chairs as well, but they too would have to go again, along with anything else she could lay her hands on. A cinema carpet? Too good an opportunity to miss.

Eileen agreed to give Benny his tea, since Lucy didn’t get home till after eight. She was only too glad of any opportunity to escape the dingy confines of her own home, and in particular the constant demands of her lazy husband. When he wasn’t lounging on the corner of the street, drinking or gambling money he didn’t have with his cronies, he was flopped in his armchair reading the
Manchester Evening News
or
Sporting Chronicle,
in between issuing orders to his wife. His other favourite occupation took place beneath the bed covers, every night if he got the chance. Eileen had to make sure that he didn’t.

The last thing she wanted was to start another baby and to that end had used every excuse under the sun, from a simple headache, to overtiredness, a bad cold, even having the curse last far longer than human nature would normally allow. He’d be bound to lose patience eventually, and then she’d be off again, she knew it. If only she could pluck up the courage to go to that clinic Polly had mentioned. but it didn’t seem quite safe. If she took the risk, Terence would be sure to find out and then there’d be hell to pay. He’d report her to Father Donevan at the very least.

‘I’ll get started on sewing this lot. By heck, Polly, at this rate you’ll make a fortune afore you’re done.’

She grinned. ‘And you with me, Eileen.’ Then, having received directions from her son, and urging him sternly to be ready for bed by the time his sister got home from the market, she grabbed her shawl and hurried away through the darkening streets just as the lamplighter set out.