Polly's Pride (22 page)

Surely her lovely husband would be proud of her now?

She quickened her step. ‘Joshua, have you seen Matthew?’ But he did not reply to her question. Nor did he hurry to meet her. Instead he stopped dead in the middle of the street and as the other men melted swiftly away, she frowned with puzzlement.
 

Why did he always have to make even the smallest request for help or information into a major event? Sighing with irritation, she skipped off the pavement and ran across the street towards him. It was only when she was a step or two away that she faltered, for it was then that she saw the blood. With a start, she looked up into his eyes and what she saw there drenched her in a new fear, so chilling she swayed on her feet, as if her own life blood were draining away.

Matthew lay in the hospital bed, his face bleached almost as white as the pillows. It was small comfort to Polly to have heard the full story of her husband’s heroism from Tom Shackleton’s lips. The boy thought him a hero. Safely sheltered by the doorway, he had been in no danger when the crowd had surged by. Without doubt, Matthew had saved his life.

Joshua had said only that it had been a terrible accident. Unforeseen. Tragic. Matthew got caught up in the crowd and had been dragged underfoot.

Now Polly clung to his hand and prayed to every saint she could think of with a desperate fervour she had not felt in years. He did not move. He did not even open his eyes to acknowledge her presence. Yet he must know she was here, she was certain of it. He could surely feel her presence and her pain, as deeply as she felt his. She willed him to do so.

How long she sat thus, Polly couldn’t have said. In her mind she was reliving every year, every month, every day of their life together. She remembered the loving days of their courtship, their simple wedding, the belief that nothing, not even the differences of religion, could divide them. She recalled the birth of each beloved child and the happy years that had followed of
joyful
family life.

She was also regretting every wrong word, every foolish quarrel, every show of Irish temperament; wishing desperately she’d never thought to sell all their furniture in order to buy a stupid carpet; never sold that dratted sideboard; never hurt him in any way.

If only she could turn back the clock.

Polly knew why he had gone to the demonstration despite his promises not to do so. It had been in retaliation for their quarrel, to prove he was still a man, even though he had no job and no means of supporting his family. He needed to prove to himself, as well as to her, that he had some control over his own destiny. It was his way of retaining his dignity. Polly rested her forehead against his limp arm and wept silent, bitter tears.

At last she lifted her head, struggling to pull herself together for this wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. She mustn’t weep. Didn’t he need her to be strong? She’d take him home and nurse him, make him well again. Wouldn’t she devote her life to his care?

She smiled brightly at the still figure, wrapping her arms lovingly about him. ‘Come on, you daft galoot. Stop frightening the life out of me like this. Will you not open your eyes and give me one of your daft winks?’

She became aware of hands on her shoulders, hands that dragged at her, attempting to draw her away. She tried to shake them off.

‘Mrs Pride. Come with me, Mrs Pride.’

‘No. I must be here when he wakes. I must be.’

Again the grip tightened and Polly resisted it. ‘Mrs Pride. Come and have a cup of tea. It’ll do you good.’

‘No, no. Matthew might wake while I’m gone.’

‘My dear, your husband is not going to wake. I’m sorry to say that he has passed away. He is in a better place now, safe from all pain and trouble.’

Polly stared at the woman, slowly registering her nurse’s cap perched on top of a tightly scraped-back bun. She was old and wrinkled with whiskers sprouting on her upper lip. What did this woman know about love, about Matthew? ‘No, you don’t understand,’ Polly carefully explained. ‘He always looks like this when he’s asleep. He’ll start to snore in a minute.’

‘I’m sorry, love, but he won’t. Come with me, Mrs Pride. Wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea?

‘No! Leave me alone!’ Polly fought with all her might. She shouted and screamed to make the silly woman understand, but another nurse came and the pair of them dragged her away from her beloved Matthew. Polly knew then, deep in her heart, that it was over. She knew she had lost him.

Chapter Fifteen

Eileen was frying chips for the children when Polly walked into her arms, laid her head against that grubby breast and wept as if the tears might never stop. The smell of the hot fat made her want to gag but, her mouth wide open like a child, heart-wrenching sobs came from some private place deep inside where the pain lived. Yet even these could nowhere near assuage the depths of her emotion. She was overwhelmed by grief.

Nor did it get any better in the days following. How could Matthew be dead? At any moment she expected the door to swing open and to hear him walk in, the chink of his clog irons on the stone floor, the sound of his tuneless whistling filling their small home with his vital presence. But he did not come. The house remained silent, save for the intermittent sobbing of her children and the shifting of coals turning to ash in the grate; rather as her life had burnt away to nothing along with it.

Afterwards she had no recollection of the funeral. There were crowds of people standing forlornly in the vast bleakness of the cemetery, but she could not have put a name to any of them. No doubt neighbours and colleagues had supported her, but Polly could only recall holding her children close to her side and managing, throughout that endless day, not to cry in front of them. Inside she felt dry and withered. Utterly spent.

Now she lay on the bare mattress in the dark privacy of her lonely bedroom and stared into the emptiness of a grim future. Life without Matthew was impossible to envisage. It really didn’t seem to matter whether she had a future or not. Her ambitions for a business and the quarrels they’d had over it now seemed petty and cruelly unimportant, serving only to mar the last weeks of his life.

Why hadn’t she listened to him? Why couldn’t she have told him she was content and satisfied with her lot, happy to wait until the economic tide turned and her husband was in work again? Why did she always have to imagine that she could fix things herself?

Now everything was gone and her life was over.

The tears came again when she realised how she had deprived herself even of the bed they had shared throughout the long years of their marriage. Selling all their precious belongings hadn’t mattered when she still had Matthew, or even the hope of his eventual return. Now she felt as if she had given a part of him away. She wept for the solid comfort of his favourite chair which reminded her so much of him; for the chairs and kitchen table around which they had shared so many joyful family meals; for the buffet and aspidistra and other bits and bobs which had made up their home. Most of all for the glossy mahogany sideboard that had represented the culmination of their efforts together as a couple. This above all else had mattered to Matthew, and she had deprived him of that comfort.

Now she was deprived of his warm body beside her, not simply for the duration of a silly quarrel, but forever.

‘Nay, don’t take on so.’ Eileen had crept into the darkened bedroom. Wrapping her skinny arms about her friend, she cradled her like a child. ‘You have to stop tearing yourself apart, Polly. You’ll make yourself ill. Matthew wouldn’t want that, and Benny and Lucy need you.’ The two women looked into each other’s sad faces and wept together.

‘Oh, Eileen, what am I to do? It’s more than I can bear.’

‘We bear things because we must.’

‘But how will I manage without him?

‘Same answer. Here, I’ve fetched you some soup. Get yourself outside of that.’ Eileen set a tray over Polly’s knees and sat by her while she sipped it, making sure she drank every drop. ‘That’ll set you up champion,’ she said, but a warning note crept into her voice as she squeezed Polly’s hands. ‘I’m off home now. Lucy is seeing to Benny, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I shall expect you up and about when I come. No languishing in bed. Life goes on.’

Polly nodded, knowing her friend was right, but inside an inner voice cried out in protest. Her life, in every respect that mattered, was changed for ever and the strength needed to endure it was more than she could manage to find, now or ever again.

Joshua felt no such despair, nor any sense of remorse at his lack of action on that fateful day. Both his brothers were dead, and that was a cross he must bear with fortitude.

Witnesses had fortunately confirmed his report that it had been a wretched accident. Matthew had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, poor man, though Tom Shackleton continued to sing his praises all over town. To have this brother, whom he had deemed a coward, die a hero was almost more than Joshua could stomach. Yet he must, for he wanted no further investigation of the matter, no questions asked about where exactly he had been at the time of Matthew’s ‘accident’.

He watched his mother grieve in stoic silence and felt a stirring of reluctant admiration for the old woman. Big Flo had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, and she did not do so now.

Any indications of her distress in the long bitter days following her son’s death, she shared only with her Saviour, her great friend. Joshua could hear the subdued mumble of her voice in the bedroom above as he sat by the fire each evening.

She would be on her knees on the cold linoleum by the high brass bed, praying for strength and thanking Him for the blessing of so many joyous years with her son. In chapel she sang as heartily as ever, ‘What a Friend we have in Jesus’, giving no indication to onlookers of her inner pain. There were times when even he envied his mother her simple, unshakeable faith.

For his sister-in-law he had less patience. He would give her a week, two at most, and then he would insist that she pull herself out of her self-imposed depression. There were decisions to be made, changes to be put into effect. This was no time for self-pity. He would see to it that she did not shirk her duty as a mother, nor as a member of this family.

He told himself that women were no mystery to him, they were merely selfish, physically demanding creatures, born with sin on their soul that needed to be rooted out by the superior male.

He waited five days then went to Polly and told her that it was not fitting for her to live alone.

‘Not fitting?’

‘As a widow with two children to care for and nourish, it’s not possible for you to manage on your own. Besides, it would seem as if we, your family, were neglecting you.’

Polly struggled to take in exactly what he was saying to her, but as so often these days her brain refused to function properly. She could barely remember to get out of bed each morning, or eat breakfast when she did. Once, during the first endless weeks following Matthew’s death, she’d followed Eileen’s instructions and tried standing with her barrow as usual on Oldham Street. The other hawkers and stall holders, having learned of her loss, were sympathetic and supportive, but they could not run her business for her. She had lost all hope or interest in taking on a shop. Now she couldn’t even manage her market barrow.

Customers came, made their purchases as usual, but at the end of the day Polly had little money to show for her efforts. She’d not had the energy to barter or haggle, accepting the first price they offered. Even in her bemused state she was aware she’d lost money. She did not go again.

Just stepping out of the door to visit the corner shop filled her with panic and confusion. She’d stand at the counter wondering why she had come. Connie Green, ever sympathetic, would put some item of food in her hands -‘There y’are, chuck. That’ll keep the wolf from the door’- and send her on her way, assuring her she could pay when she’d got herself sorted. And Polly would do as she was told because thinking was too great an effort. Now she gazed into her brother-in-law’s stern face and nodded.

‘Whatever you say, Joshua.’

He was surprised, having expected a protest, but then he smirked, reminding himself of what he’d always believed. He’d often remarked that Matthew was too soft with the woman, perfectly certain he could manage her much better; and here was the evidence in the way she calmly acceded to every decision he made. She had only wanted a man to take a firm hand.

The next day Joshua had all the furniture moved from number thirty-one into number twenty-three because Polly’s house was the larger of the two. Big Flo was packed up and carried along with it, protesting vociferously all the while for, rather like an aspidistra without its pot, she swore she’d wither and die away from her own fireside. Joshua didn’t even trouble to respond to his mother’s complaints. He was the head of this family now, and the women would do as he said.

The bright autumn days of October changed into a wet November and Polly seemed suspended in a state of shock. Lucy too was having a hard time. Tom Shackleton’s life had been saved by her father. She realised now that she still loved Tom, was relieved and happy that he’d survived the dreadful baton charges that day, but in order for him to do so, her own father had died. How could she show her happiness over this without seeming to disregard the loss of Matthew? Tom once asked her out, to take a walk over to Platt Fields or in Philips Park, but she’d told him she couldn’t go. It was too soon.