Polly's Pride (8 page)

Polly reminded herself now of her embarrassment on that occasion, as Eileen had abandoned the washing-up to rush around, gathering up crying children, while Terence continued with his litany of demands for a fresh mug of tea and a jam butty.

‘And mend this fire while yet at it! Look sharp, woman, I’m fair starved.’

It was Polly who flinched at the belligerence in his tone, and very nearly reached for the coal scuttle herself to save Eileen from lifting the weight of it, but a warning glance from her friend kept her in her seat. Instead, she strove to lighten the atmosphere by making conversation. ‘Are your girls going to walk in the procession?’ she asked, trying not to watch as Eileen rushed from task to task.
 

Finding the coal bucket empty she’d rushed off down the back yard to refill it. Rosie and Agnes drifted after her while the twins’ wails increased in volume. Polly tried to signal to Eileen to stand up to her husband, to speak her mind and tell him to fetch the coal himself for once, and help with the children.

‘Procession?’ said a voice from behind the paper. ‘We’ve no money to waste on daft things like fancy frocks.’

‘Oh, but everyone will be wearing them. I’m sure the girls would love to walk in the procession. Except for Meryl and Beryl, of course, who can’t yet.’ She tickled one of the eight-month-old twins under the chin, not certain which it was, and waited for a chuckle. When none came she looked up helplessly at Eileen as she returned with the laden bucket, but she didn’t seem to notice this lack of response from her child. ‘I was just saying that Rosie would love dressing up in new clothes, and so would Agnes. We could nip down the market now, find a bit of fabric. I’d help you sew them up.’

‘She has better things to do with her time. And we’re not looking for charity.’

Polly was appalled by his attitude, but struggled not to show it. ‘I wasn’t offering it. I was simply being neighbourly. It’s an old Manchester custom.’

‘Aye, well, no doubt you’re in a hurry to get off home, Mrs Pride. We won’t keep you.’

Unable to avoid the hint, and feeling personally responsible for the man’s ugly temper, Polly cast an apologetic glance in her friend’s direction. Three-year-old Rosie, dirty knickers hanging round her knees, was at that moment reaching for a pan handle on the hob and Polly just managed to stop her before she pulled it over. Eileen simply looked anxious as she wiped her hands on a tea cloth and made for the door.

‘Where are you going? growled her husband.
 

‘To see Polly out.’

‘I reckon she can find the way herself, since she found her way in.’

Eileen stopped in her tracks and looked longingly at the door, as if it represented escape to a world of freedom only Polly was permitted to enter. ‘Ta ra, chuck. Thanks for calling.’

Polly said goodbye, smiling sympathetically, and after whispering urgently under her breath for Eileen to call on her the next day, quietly let herself out of the house. She heaved a sigh of relief as she closed the door on the fetid atmosphere and breathed in the relative freshness of the air in Dove Street, then returned to her own home as gladly as if it were a palace, for by comparison it surely was. What a lot she had to be thankful for.

Eileen was back in number twenty-three the next day, asking if Polly had meant what she’d said about helping her sew some dresses for her girls.

‘You’re right. Meryl and Beryl wouldn’t be able to manage taking part in the procession, but our Agnes is nearly six, and Rosie too would love to dress up and walk. Trouble is, I can’t afford to buy them anything.’

‘I’ll see if I have something we could cut down.’

A thorough search produced a length of unbleached cotton and some scraps of satin left over from Lucy’s dress. They bleached the cotton, drying it in the sun to make it all fresh and white. Then, after damping down and ironing it with a hot iron, they cut out two tiny dresses for the little girls, trimming the edges with the satin and making a matching sash of the same fabric for each dress. They looked like doll’s dresses, turning out much better than either woman had expected.

Eileen was so thrilled you’d have thought she’d been given a fortune. Tears ran down her cheeks as she told Polly that never had she had such a friend before, in all her life. ‘Nobody’s ever given me owt, except a clout round the lughole and these blessed childer. Eeh, and won’t they look a treat? I’m that pleased, Polly, I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘There’s no need. It’s God we’re thanking at the Whit Walks, for His goodness in giving us such fine healthy children.’ And the two women beamed with their shared joy and pride.

When Whit Week arrived, Polly had the pleasure of seeing Lucy preen herself in the new white frock, walking tall and gracious as a princess as she held the ribbons of the Sunday School banner.

‘A real beauty she is,’ Polly said, heart swelling with love and pride for her daughter.

‘Just like her mother,’ Matthew agreed. They smiled warmly at each other, united as always in their shared love for their family.

Benny was less happy since he’d been prevailed upon to wear a white shirt instead of his usual grey, which he thought girlish, and a blue and grey striped tie to match the hated cap. The only good thing about his outfit were the new boots and the belt he’d been allowed to wear in place of his braces. He hadn’t wanted to walk in the procession at all and had repeatedly asked to be excused, but to no avail. He didn’t fail to notice that Georgie Eastwood wasn’t walking.

‘I don’t care if I’m still paying for that dress till Kingdom come, it was worth every penny,’ Polly insisted.

A shadow crossed Matthew’s face, but he kept it turned well away from her. ‘Aye,’ was all he said.

It was also worth her efforts to see the two eldest Grimshaw girls decked out in their little frocks, faces shining clean for once. ‘Like little fairies they are,’ Polly said. ‘Did Terence object?’
 

Eileen shook her head, eyes twinkling, proud as punch as she stood on the kerb watching her children walk by, the twins draped about her neck as usual. ‘Not a word. Mind you, I told him that my mam had made the frocks, and he daren’t argue with her.’

It was indeed a glorious family week. The Protestants walked on Whit Monday, the Catholics on the Friday, and a string of other churches in between, including Zion Primitive Methodist to which Matthew’s family belonged. Matthew himself did not walk but Joshua, straight-backed and solemn-faced, was one of the bearers carrying the banner.

Big Flo led the group of matriarchs who met regularly on a Thursday evening at the chapel, not simply to gossip and read the Scriptures together, but to discuss their personal responsibility for the provision of tea and buns at special chapel functions such as New Year’s Day and the Sunday School Anniversary, a task which necessitated considerable organisation. The feast, if that was the right term for the one potted meat sandwich and single bun after the procession, was likewise their responsibility.

The streets were crowded as far as Albert Square with people eager to catch a glimpse of the walkers; the banners festooned with ribbons and flowers and statues bearing the words ‘Ave Maria’; the dark-haired Italian girls in their long skirts, pretty blouses and waistcoats; and the men and young boys in fine white shirts carrying the Calvary. Last came the magnificent plaster Madonna decorated with dozens of flowers. Music filled the air, and everyone was happy and excited. All those long evenings of planning and preparation in the Green Dragon seemed to be paying off.

The men of Dove Street got their suits out of hock especially for the occasion, wearing boots, if they were lucky enough to possess a pair, and bowler hats instead of caps. The women set aside their shawls and clogs and wore their best Sunday frocks and hats they’d made or trimmed themselves, though the breeze was brisk and demanded they be well skewered down with hatpins. The children too looked smart and pretty in their new clothes, no sight or sound of clogs amongst them.

Even the milkman’s shire horse had its mane and tail plaited, just as it did on May Day, with coloured bows and ribbons woven in. And what a glorious sight it was, with its already glossy coat groomed and brushed till it shone like new paint.

The brightly coloured banners flapped ferociously in the wind, one or two almost breaking loose so that the strong men who took turns to carry the poles were nearly lifted off their feet. But there were no real disasters and everybody had a grand time. It was like a holiday for a community who had little opportunity for such pleasures.

There was a good deal of drinking, and rowdiness, but excuses were made with even the police turning a blind eye in view of the occasion. Late each evening the Salvation Army band would beat their drums and play their bugles as they led the inebriated down Ashton New Road, along Every Street and Junction Street to the Mission Hall where they could sleep it off till morning.

The street sellers did a roaring trade, selling such delights as hot pies, black peas, or muffins. Mr Ruggiere, with his waxed moustache and fancy waistcoat, was kept busy selling the finest ice cream in the world from his beautifully decorated hand cart. There was even a man selling song sheets. The residents of Dove Street, as ever, knew how to enjoy themselves, popping in and out of each other’s houses on the slightest pretext, besides the usual borrowing of a pinch of tea or drop of milk, then staying on nattering for hours, revelling in the unaccustomed freedom.

There was no smoke coming from Dove Street Mill for five whole days. What a treat! If some considered this as much a cause for concern as jubilation, no one was saying so out loud.

During the festive atmosphere of Whitsuntide, Eileen’s cheeks almost bloomed, Polly noticed, as she fed her toasted currant teacakes with just a dab of margarine, not forgetting the ever-present and greedy trail of clinging children. Polly quite lost count of the number of teacakes, barm cakes and arrowroot biscuits she baked that week, every one consumed by various neighbours and family members who popped in. Benny and his cronies were constant and regular visitors to his mother’s kitchen. Even Joshua unbent enough to praise her culinary skills.

‘Matthew is a fortunate man to have so talented a wife,’ he told her as he accepted a barm cake, well buttered for once, and stuffed thick with ham.

‘My word, I’d like you to tell him that,’ she said, flushing with pleasure at the unexpected compliment.

‘Generous to a fault she is,’ Big Flo said, but Polly only laughed.

‘Sure and if you can’t feed a few friends in Whit Week, when can you? And don’t we have it to give?’

‘It’s a pity you aren’t so generous over more spiritual matters,’ Joshua commented.
 

Casting a quick glance at his face, which looked as if he’d supped a pint of sour milk, for once Polly refused to be overawed by him. ‘Oh, Joshua, will you leave over blathering about religion. There’s other things in life.’ She caught a glimpse of fury in his face and almost apologised for her outburst,
it
being Whit Week, but decided against it. Instead she turned to her husband, sliding one arm possessively under his as they all stood together on the pavement, enjoying the latest procession of white-clad witnesses. The gesture was meant to remind Joshua that he had no control over her for she was not his wife but belonged to Matthew. Had she but known it, this was a fact which rankled with him, no matter how often he spoke slightingly of her.

In the days following everyone knew that ‘Uncle’ Joseph, the old pawnbroker who occupied the corner shop on Dove Street, would be kept extra busy as the locals handed back suits, boots and Sunday frocks, for a few essential coins to pay off some of the debts accumulated during the festivities. For a while, money would become an even rarer commodity.

‘Aw, but wasn’t it worth every penny?’ Polly insisted.
 

Matthew said nothing, simply swallowed his growing fear and nodded in agreement.

Chapter Six

The next Sunday, thinking that perhaps she’d overstepped the mark in a few directions recently, yet grateful for the joy of the processions, Polly decided to pay a visit to one of the churches in the city, taking a penny tram ride in order to do so. She may be a lapsed Catholic, she told herself, but a little healthy contrition now and then was good for the soul.

It was a cool, rather damp morning for June as she caught the number 25 that ran down Bradford Road, past McConnell’s Mill, on to Ancoats Lane and Millers Lane then to the terminus at Victoria Station.

‘Hey up,’ said the conductor. ‘Warm up thy pennies. Winter’s back.’

Sitting on the hard seat of the tram as it jerked and rattled along the tracks, grateful to be in the dry while the poor driver at the front was getting a terrible soaking, Polly had ample time to confront the worries gathering in the back of her mind. Matthew wasn’t at all himself. He’d barely spoken a word to her since Whit Week was over, nor to the children for that matter.

The white dress now hung on a nail in Lucy’s room, and Polly could tell he was still sensitive about it because when the child anxiously sought reassurance that they wouldn’t need to pop it, he’d turned his face away and refused to give her the assurance she needed.

It had been Polly who’d done that. ‘Of course we won’t pawn it, love. You can wear it for Sunday School this summer, if you like.’ Matthew didn’t say a word, making the excuse of some urgent business he needed to do out of the house.