Polly's Pride (24 page)

Joshua’s brows met over his long lean nose so ferociously that she almost wished the words unsaid. ‘Do you imagine that I would soil my hands by touching what contributed to my own brother’s misery?’

‘That’s exactly why you would take them,’ Lucy retaliated, clenching her fists into fierce balls of fury.

‘I doubt there is any requirement for me to explain to you, a mere child, but I care little where they’ve gone. I am only glad that they have, since I need a place in which to do my work for the NUWM. The parlour will do very well.’

Joshua spent much of his time collecting funds for the cause, though
it
was proving amazingly difficult to squeeze even a penny or two out of the men. Of course he knew that money was tight, many of them already suffering from the restrictions of the Means Test, but he was frequently driven to point out that the situation would only get worse if they didn’t give what they could towards fighting this pernicious affliction. As a result of these efforts, his own percentage of the fund was growing nicely, but then he deserved it, since he was doing most of the work.

Lucy was saying, ‘It’s my mam’s parlour. She might have summat to say about that.’

There was a long silence during which Joshua studied the girl in silence. Then, smiling, he stepped closer to pinch Lucy’s chin beneath his finger and thumb. ‘A mettlesome little thing, aren’t you? I like a bit of spirit in a woman, though in a child it can prove bothersome. But then, you always were old for your age.

Something in the way he said this, in the hiss of his breath against her cheek, caused a cold shiver to run down Lucy’s spine, as if it stirred a memory she couldn’t quite capture. And then the sensation evaporated as the child in her became transfixed by the way in which his pale eyes seemed to move about in his eye sockets, rather like those of a watchful lizard. In that moment she hated him simply for being alive when her father was dead. For being in her house, let alone for his determined efforts to take over their lives.

But this wasn’t the moment for argument, she wisely decided, not while her mam was still poorly. Someone else would have to tackle him on the subject. It certainly wouldn’t be her mother, not in her current state. Nor Grandma Flo, who never had disagreed with any of her sons, in particular this one with his slow-burning temper that could suddenly erupt when you were least expecting it.
 

Lucy suddenly lost all appetite for battle. Hadn’t she lost two already in her efforts to resist attendance at chapel instead of her own church, and in losing the freedom to see her friends as regularly as she once did. But she continued to fret about the carpets. They represented the sum total of Polly’s sacrifice. Her mother must come out of her depression eventually, and how would she feel then to discover all her stock had been stolen?

Over the next few days Lucy was busy working at the market, but then she bumped into Eileen in the street and all was explained. Their neighbour had taken the carpets into her own protection.

‘I thought it’d be for the best.’

Lucy was eager to offer her help. ‘I could come and help, whenever I’m not at the market. It’s only a part-time job, so I could do a couple of days each week. How would that be?’

Eileen’s eyes lit up and, grabbing Lucy’s arm, she marched her off down a ginnel where they could talk more privately. ‘Could you manage to mind the childer at the same time? If you did, then I could take the barrow and stand in Oldham Street for Polly. That would at least keep things ticking over.’

Lucy was less enamoured of the thought of Eileen’s ruffian children than of carpet stitching, difficult though that job undoubtedly was, but she agreed to the plan, for Polly’s sake. To see her own mother kept in day after day, like a recalcitrant child, filled her with grave unease. She may be grieving, but she couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. Lucy supposed her uncle meant well, but it didn’t seem right. As she strove to explain all of this to Eileen, the older woman seemed to understand perfectly.

‘Aye, he’d turn t’milk sour that one, just by looking at it. I’d watch me step if I were you.’

They neither of them commented on what Polly should do.

Over the following weeks they put their plan into operation and it worked beautifully. Two days a week Eileen would go off at dawn with the hand cart laden with carpet rugs, and Lucy and the children would have the house to themselves. The minute Terence rose from his bed, which usually wasn’t until around noon, he made himself scarce, keeping well away from any threat of activity. So long as there was food on his table, the children were kept out of his hair and Eileen gave him a bob or two to enjoy his smokes and racing, he didn’t much care what his wife did with her day, so long as she didn’t go back to her old ways.
 

Eileen developed a good line in repartee with the customers. She’d take some of the carpet pieces to stitch between sales, and the rest she would work on in the evenings. Lucy did what she could on the days when she wasn’t employed by Dorrie Hughes on one of her black pudding or tripe and trotter stalls.

Both knew the plan had a limited duration. Once all the carpet pieces were sold, they weren’t sure whether they would have the courage to seek more out, as Polly had done so ably. But that was a worry for the future. For now they would mind the business and bring in what money they could, just in case she had need of it one day.

Big Flo continued to do most of the cooking and cleaning for them all, while Polly meekly carried out any tasks she was given, saying little and never protesting when Joshua told her it was time to eat, or to go to bed, sweep the hearth or make the beds; ordering her to do this, that or the other. It chilled Lucy to see that her mother wasn’t even allowed a trip to the corner shop by herself any more.

‘A breath of fresh air might do her good,’ she would constantly protest. But when he finally relented and allowed Polly to go to Connie Green’s corner shop for a pinch of tea, she wandered off and was found hours later in Whitworth Street, close to the spot where Matthew had been killed.

‘I remembered - that’s where I’ve been wanting to go for so long. I had to see where it was he died, to say goodbye,’ she explained, as if it had been some sort of pilgrimage, which in a way it had. Joshua made it clear that he was not pleased at this blatant flouting of his orders, and made her sit in silence for two solid hours to reflect on this act of disobedience. Wasn’t the man dead and buried. with every respect already paid to him? Treated like a hero no less. Much to Joshua’s private chagrin.

‘See where that silly idea led,’ he accused Lucy. ‘Would
you
accept responsibility if anything should befall your mother next time?

Put so bluntly, Lucy felt forced to back down from an argument, but it brought fresh worries. Was her mother truly ill? Would she end up in Prestwich? Or was Uncle Joshua only making out she was ill in order to keep her at home? But why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he want Mam to be happy and busy with her work again? She couldn’t grieve for ever. He was like that new man who had taken over Germany, somebody Hitler, who was being nasty to the Jews. Lucy felt decidedly uneasy, but there seemed to be little she could do about anything.

Christmas came and went without any attempt at celebration. A New Year dawned and the months of 1932 dragged endlessly by, each one as long as a lifetime. Driven near mad by grief Polly felt quite unable to cope, and saw no point in trying. She came to from her lethargy sufficiently to
 
manage everyday tasks about the house but showed no interest in resuming her work with the carpets. Her one concern was to care for her children and give them what comfort she could to ease their own grief, but she had so little energy.

Polly appreciated the care which Joshua took of her, even to getting sleeping powders from the doctor for her since she was exhausted from the nightmare of sleepless nights spent going over and over how the accident must have happened. It was months now since Matthew had died yet she felt the pain as keenly as if it were only yesterday. At least the powders brought blessed relief from her torment, and she did not object when he insisted she take one each dinnertime as well, so she could seek oblivion for much of the afternoon.

Sometimes, though, the urge to take action was almost overwhelming. She would put on her shawl or coat and go out of the door almost with a spring in her step as if there was something particular she must do, some place she must go. But then she’d forget what or where that was. In any case, Joshua would always waylay her before she got very far and bring her home again, cautioning her to stay safely by her own fireside.

‘You don’t want for anything, now do you?’ he would ask, and Polly would agree that she needed naught but her children and wasn’t she fortunate to be so well cared for? There were many who couldn’t say as much.

The dole was reduced, for those who could get any, and the number out of work soared to unprecedented levels. For all the excitement of Amelia Earhart s solo flight in May, spirits were generally low for there was increasingly alarming news from Germany regarding the formation of a new National Socialist Party. The autumn of that year brought yet more riots and hunger marches, followed by the first Christmas wireless broadcast by King George V, an attempt to bring a little cheer, which indeed it did if no long-term optimism.

Certainly Benny didn’t feel like cheering. Life for him had a remarkable sameness to it. So when the New Year of 1933
 
came in on a flurry of snow which he knew would turn to slush by the next day, if previous experience was anything to go by, he determined to enjoy it while it lasted. Crisp white snow was a rare commodity in this city.

Together with his friends, he fashioned a sledge from a bit of old corrugated iron, punched in a couple of holes to tie a loop of string through and dragged it to the top of Stony Brow. Here they could all pile on and whizz down the steep hill, right into the timber yard at the bottom. It was great fun, whooping and shouting as they went.

They tried every position they could think of: backwards, forwards, lying down head first or feet first, sitting with their knees bent or legs spread, one boy seated on top of another, or several locked within each other’s knees. Speed and comfort varied, but the accuracy of their trajectory was constantly in doubt since the sledge could hit a stone, or the string break, and then career out of control in seconds. Nevertheless the Dove Street Gang was having great fun and wasn’t unduly worried about such details.
 

Until Georgie Eastwood turned up.

He seemed to have grown out of all proportion to the other Ancoats lads, apparently proving he had easier access to regular sustenance than most. His hands were big as bricks, brown hair sticking up around his bullet-shaped head, face set in a permanent glower beneath knitted brows. At fourteen, older than them by a couple of years as well as a known bully, Georgie no longer had to suffer the humiliation of wearing short trousers. So far as Benny and his gang were concerned, despite their earlier bravado, he was still not a person to argue with.

Now, as Benny climbed aboard the sledge for his next run down, he found Georgie had placed one heavily clogged foot against its front edge. ‘Gerroff’ he said, as succinct as ever.

Benny turned to stone. If he got up and let Georgie take the sledge, his friends would think him a coward and a cissy. Yet if he stubbornly hung on, he’d be belted into the middle of next week. Georgie was bad enough on his own, but from the corner of his eye Benny could see that he was not alone. All his henchmen were close by.

‘And if I don’t?’ He felt a surge of pride to hear he sounded much braver than he felt.

Georgie snorted derisively. ‘Then you’d be sorry.’

As if to emphasise the fact, he kicked at the sledge with one iron-tipped clog and the ringing sound it made brought to a halt all activity on the hill as children turned around to see what was going on. Within seconds they had melted away, just as surely as the snow would soon melt under the press of their feet. Benny found that he was facing the enemy alone, even his three friends had decided to strategically vanish. The Eastwood Gang closed in. It comprised Georgie’s two younger brothers, Bert and Mick, and a motley crew of hangers on.

With no effort at all, they picked Benny off the sledge as if he were no more than a flea and tied him with his own ball of string to the nearest lamp-post. Then they stamped and danced around him as if they were red Indians and he was the cowboy waiting to be scalped.
 

Benny felt quite certain that something equally dreadful was indeed about to take place, and wondered what Tom Mix would do in this situation. Shoot from the hip? Flick a lasso over Georgie’s head? Without the aid of either six-shooter or rope, he could only shiver in helpless misery. In the end they satisfied their malice by kicking snow at him, and stuffing snowballs down the neck of his jersey till he was soaked through. Then they went off, towing the stolen sledge behind them and laughing at their own cleverness.

Some time later Benny’s mates returned to rescue him, but he could barely look them in the face. He felt as if he had failed in some way by losing the sledge, and they too were embarrassed at having left him to his fate. Yet each was too proud to apologise or even express sympathy, and far too fearful to suggest retaliation. They’d long since given up on that score.

The situation was made worse by the thorough scolding Benny received when he got home. Not so much from Polly, who gave a vague sort of smile and cuddled him close, but from Grandma Flo because his clothes were soaking wet and he’d be sure to take a chill. She dosed him with Fenning’s Fever Cure just in case, which he loathed, and made him wear a layer of brown paper and goose grease plastered to his chest under his clothing for days afterwards.