Polly Pilgrim

by Marie Joseph

  ‘He lost his wife recently,’ she told Edna. ‘With pneumonia. I don’t think he looks after himself properly.’ She nodded at the oven. ‘Men don’t make hotpots, not for themselves, and one more doesn’t make any difference to me. Winnie’s coming too,’ she added. ‘Gatty’s friend from the shop, so we’ll be six.’

  ‘He’s only got one arm, Gran.’ Martin looked up from his book. ‘Was it shot off by the Germans, Mam, or did he have it cut off because he got gangrene?’ The blue eyes glittered. ‘Has it got a hook on the end?’

  ‘No staring now!’ Polly began to slice the carrots, seeing, out of the corner of her eye, Martin holding an arm straight out in front of him.

  ‘Is it off there?’ Martin pointed with a forefinger above his pullover. ‘Or there?’ The finger moved down to below his elbow. ‘I wonder how he knots his tie?’

  Edna, at the window, nodded twice, moving her small head up and down. ‘Well, he’s coming, so you can ask him.’ She stood up in order to see better. ‘By the gum, but he’s tall! You wouldn’t get many like him in a packet of crisps!’

  To Polly’s dismay she felt her face flame. For the umpteenth time she asked herself, why? Why? What on earth had possessed her to ask this man to dinner? Even in the middle of the night she’d woken up searching her mind for the answer. He’d made her laugh. And she’d made him laugh, telling him about missing the job and having to fold raincoats all day. They’d exchanged names, family details, and she’d missed first one bus then another. People had walked past, hurrying home. It had begun to rain and still they’d talked, words bubbling out of them as if everything had to be told in a great hurry. He was like no man she’d ever known before. Softly spoken like Harry, yet with more of an air of authority about him. Robert Dennis wouldn’t suffer fools gladly – that much she’d realized even as they talked. Her mother was wrong. It was possible for a woman to have a friend who just happened to be a man. And, oh God, how she needed a friend. Someone without the air of defeat about them. Not Bella with her servile attitude to her cruel husband; not Gatty who treated her mother as if she’d come out of the Ark; certainly not Edna with her preformed ideas and deep distrust of men in general; and heaven knows, though she wasn’t a snob, not the young girls at the factory with their everlasting talk about film stars and crooners.

  Polly wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer the door, her smile as welcoming as the noonday sun bathing the hills in soft diffused light.

  ‘How d’you do?’ Robert Dennis held Edna’s hand for a long moment, his pale grey eyes steady and kind. ‘So you’re Polly’s mother?’ He gave a small bow. ‘It’s so kind of your daughter to include me in your family lunch. It’s a long time since I walked in the country on a Sunday. I’d forgotten just how desolate it can be at this time of year.’

  Polly held her breath, waiting for her mother’s sniff of disapproval, the cutting remark. Edna was a past master at putting people down, withering them with a glance, embarrassing them with some outspoken comment. She blinked in disbelief. Edna was simpering up at the tall man, a coquettish expression on her small wrinkled face.

  ‘Not at all, Mr Dennis,’ she was saying in an accent Polly recognized as the one she used when talking to the minister’s wife. ‘We always have a good lunch of a Sunday. One extra makes no difference. My mother had seven girls and two boys, but she could always make room for another pair of feet under the table. “Just chuck another few spuds in the pan and set an extra knife and fork”, she’d say.’

  ‘Ah, big families,’ Robert handed his overcoat over and sat down in the chair pointed out to him. ‘My ancestors were Irish Catholics, so I know quite a lot about big families, and extra tatties in the pot.’

  Polly closed her eyes as well as holding her breath, then opened them in time to hear her mother say in that strangely clipped accent: ‘I’ve known a lot of quite naice Catholics in my time, Mr Dennis.’

  And that was that. Panic over, order restored. When the meal was ready, Polly sat at the head of the table, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, heaping plates, passing them round, listening with half an ear to her mother telling Robert what a good job she was sure he was doing with education. Boasting about Martin’s winning of the scholarship, bemoaning the fact that she’d had to go in the mill as a half-timer at twelve.

  Gatty and her friend Winnie seemed to be sharing some secret joke, shaking with giggles, spluttering into their glasses of water, digging each other in the ribs and snorting down their noses when spoken to.

  Martin, as usual, was quiet, spellbound with fascination as he saw the way the one-armed man coped with his food. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Robert’s neatly knotted tie. Hotpot followed by rice pudding wasn’t really much of a test, unfortunately. . . . He glanced round the table. Gatty and her friend Winnie were whispering together, planning a quick get-away, he guessed. His gran was all right though. Old, of course, probably coming up to dying one of these days. And his mother . . . she was looking quite pretty for someone of her age. He hoped she wouldn’t die for a long time yet. Accepting a second helping, he surreptitiously dropped a morsel of food on to the floor for the dog waiting with longing eyes and slavering jaws.

  ‘No, I honestly don’t mind,’ Edna told them. ‘Off you go for a nice walk with Mr Dennis and Martin, dear, and leave me to do the washing-up. The fresh air will do you good.’

  ‘Why is Gran talking funny?’ Martin whispered as they left the cottage. Before Polly could answer he was off, streaking down the hill at breakneck speed, the dog lolloping along at his side, running pigeon-toed, throwing his cap in the air and whooping when he caught it again.

  Now and again he tripped, lunged forward, caught his balance and hurtled forward again. ‘I swear he could trip over the pattern on the oilcloth.’ Polly said. ‘He’s dying to ask you how you fasten your tie.’

  ‘By anchoring one end in a drawer,’ Robert said at once. ‘I’ll show him when we get back.’

  ‘That’ll make his day.’

  They walked on, climbing a stile, through a stubble field. Now and then Polly stole a glance at the man striding along by her side. He dressed to please himself, she guessed, and she wondered why, if his wife couldn’t have borne a child, they hadn’t adopted? He had the sure touch with Martin, talking to him as an equal, asking questions, then listening to the answer, as if the opinion of an eleven-year-old boy was of great importance. When they came at last to the river, they sat down on a fallen log and watched Martin skimming stones across the dark green water. The dog scampered to the very edge, hesitated, then barked loudly as if to make up for his lack of courage.

  ‘He’s a coward, I’m afraid.’ Polly smiled. ‘He can’t discriminate. If a burglar broke into the cottage, Jim would leap up and lick his hand. As a guard dog he’s about as much use as a day-old kitten.’

  Robert took off his hat and laid it down on the log in between them. ‘The boy’s like you,’ he said. ‘But Gatty? I take it she’s like your husband?’

  Polly nodded. ‘In looks, but not at the moment in ways, I’m afraid. She’s so contrary, if you know what I mean. Giggling at the table like that, almost hysterical. Just lately I’d have sworn her face would crack if she smiled, but put her with Winnie and, well, you saw. What did you make of Winnie?’

  ‘Sharp,’ he said at once. He was looking at her directly, eyes steady. ‘But they’re young. I wouldn’t worry.’

  ‘Who said I’m worrying?’

  ‘Well, something’s worrying you, love.’

  Polly looked away quickly, embarrassed at the unexpected endearment, and saw Jack Thomson loping along on the far bank of the river, flat cap pulled down low on his forehead, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket. Martin and the dog had moved back into the fringe of the wood behind them, so that it would look, Polly realized, as if she and the tall man were quite alone.

  To add to her discomfiture Jack stopped, faced them, head lowered, green eyes at that distance expressionless. For what seemed to P
olly like an eternity he stayed there, deliberately assessing, frankly staring. Then he laughed, a deep-throated chuckle carried to them across the river, shoulders shaking as if in some private amusement, before turning and walking on.

  Immediately for Polly, the easy familiarity she had felt sitting there in the soft October sunlight was gone. She shivered, turning up the collar of her coat. ‘I think we’d better get back,’ she said in a flat voice.

  ‘Must we?’ Robert turned and smiled at her. ‘You know something? I haven’t felt like this for a long time. At peace, I suppose.’ He touched the sleeve of Polly’s red coat. ‘You’re not cold? The sun’s quite warm down here. I was fancying I might get a bit of a tan.’

  ‘Well, all right, then.’ Polly lifted her face to the sun. ‘If I get one it’ll make a change. We once had a week’s holiday at Blackpool, and though I lay on the beach on a striped towel every day, really trying to go brown, all I got was a few freckles and the skin off my nose.’

  Even the light was soft that afternoon. The river flowed sluggishly with here and there a flurry of white froth as the water gurgled over small boulders in its shallower reaches. The fields merged into the far distance, their summer green faded to a dull brownish yellow. Out of sight, round the bend, came the sound of oars splashing rhythmically, and the creak as they moved in their rowlocks. Jack Thomson was coming across, saving himself the walk down to the bridge, using the boat when he’d no right to, because it didn’t belong to him, and not giving a damn.

  Suddenly Martin appeared from nowhere, his face with its tell-tale expression obnoxiously smug. ‘Jack Thomson’s taken the boat again! Old Mr Bleasdale’ll give him what for if he catches him. He told me he’d have the police on him if he did it again.’ An expression of hope gladdened his eyes. ‘Do you think I ought to run round the bridge and tell on him? Or get in the boat and row it back, Mam? There might be somebody wanting to get across, ringing the bell for Mr Bleasdale an’ everything. Oh, go on, Mam! I can do it. You could watch me. Scout’s honour I could do it!’

  ‘We’re not interfering.’ Polly’s voice was firm. ‘For all we know they may have come to some arrangement between them. Hardly anyone uses the ferry these days, especially not at this time of the year.’

  ‘Mam . . . ?’

  ‘No!’

  Martin kicked out at a stone. ‘You’re rotten,’ he mumbled. ‘You won’t let me do nothing! Me dad would’ve. He wouldn’t have stopped me rowing that fiamin’ little boat across. I wish he’d come home. He’s not rotten like you!’

  ‘He’s quite a nice boy, really.’ Polly’s expression was so calm, her face so serene that Robert laughed out loud.

  ‘Do you ever lose your temper, Polly?’

  She seemed to be considering. ‘With Gatty often. With Martin hardly ever.’ She brushed a fallen leaf from her coat. ‘Martin said what he did because he’s missing his dad. When Gatty cheeks me she’s not thinking about anyone but herself. I read somewhere that adolescents have to go through a period of rejecting their parents in order to come out on the other side whole and independent. I just pray that’s true.’

  Robert was holding out his good arm to help her up when she saw Martin running from the wood, the dog leaping excitedly round his heels as if it were a game.

  ‘It’s Jack Thomson!’ Martin’s blue eyes were standing out with fear. ‘I was spying on him and our Gatty through the trees, an’ he was talking to her, then he pushed her over an’ she fell down. . . .’

  ‘Show me! Show me where!’ Polly had never known she could run so fast. With heart pounding, she kept up with Martin’s flying figure, her mind only half acknowledging the fact that Robert Dennis was right behind her. Her feet slithered on mounds of damp moss; a branch caught in her hair, tugging it viciously away from her scalp, but she ran on heedless of anything but the urgency of getting to Gatty.

  When they came to a clearing and she saw them, it was something of an anticlimax. Jack was holding an upright Gatty by her arm, keeping her by his side, his handsome face serious and intense, while Gatty, startled by their sudden appearance, turned to gaze at them mutely, dismay clouding her face.

  Or guilt. In that single moment it was the guilt that registered with Polly. ‘What’s going on?’ She heard her voice high and shrill. ‘For heaven’s sake, what is going on?’ She took a step forward. ‘Let go of her, Jack. Can’t you see you’re hurting her?’

  The sneer spreading over Jack’s face chilled her blood. Before she could intervene a small bundle of black fury hurtled past her.

  ‘Flamin’ ‘enery!’ Martin was beside himself with excitement as Jim’s sharp teeth buried deep into Jack Thomson’s trousered leg. ‘Give him what for! Go on, lad. Let him have it!’

  Pushing Gatty violently aside, the big man grabbed Jim’s collar. Before anyone could even think of moving, he swung the little dog round, bashing him hard against the horny trunk of a tree.

  ‘Bloody mongrel!’ Jack’s face was contorted with rage and pain. His throat, rising from the open neck of his striped flannel shirt, seemed to swell. Viciously kicking the dog aside as he lay yelping with fear at the foot of the tree, he glared at Polly, green eyes smouldering beneath heavy dark brows. ‘I’ll do for that blasted mongrel one of these days, see if I don’t, an’ for that daughter of yours, pestering a man on his way home from work.’

  Clutching his thigh, he turned on his heel, limping away into the wood, muttering to himself, mouthing curses, the great width of his shoulders bowed almost double.

  It was unbelievable; it was a nightmare happening there in broad daylight. Gatty ran from them, pleated skirt swinging round thin legs, but Polly stood as if rooted to the ground, shame flooding over her in a warm tide.

  Martin cradled the little dog in his arms, turning a horrified face in their direction. ‘He’s broken Jim’s leg!’ he wailed, his young voice cracking with pain. ‘Look at it! He’s gone and broken Jim’s leg!’

  ‘The bastard!’

  Polly stared in amazement as Robert caught up easily with the man stumbling away into the trees. Polly saw him grip the back of Jack’s jacket, swinging him round, and even as she cried out in alarm she marvelled at his courage. Robert held Jack off with his good arm, his face dark with anger.

  ‘Little girls, and little dogs,’ he said from between clenched teeth. ‘What kind of a man are you, for God’s sake? If that dog’s hurt badly then you’re in real trouble, I can promise you that!’

  Polly felt rather than saw the derisive glance Jack gave to Robert’s overcoat sleeve hanging loose. In that moment she knew that if Jack Thomson had thought he was matching up to a man his equal in strength, he would have given in. Now the bully inherent in his disposition took over.

  ‘Trouble?’ he sneered. ‘From you and who else?’ Twisting his head he spat on the ground. ‘You want to get yourself another arm before you start threatening me!’

  Even as he spoke his knee came up, catching Robert in the groin, causing him to lose his grip, sending him rolling over, to fall with a thud against a black gnarled tree root, as hard and unyielding as rock.

  For the second time in a space of a minute Jack Thomson lurched away, but this time, instead of cursing, he was laughing, a low almost inhuman chuckle that ran a cold trickle of dread down Polly’s spine.

  So much for my happy family Sunday, Polly thought, as they went slowly back up the hill, Martin carrying the dog, and Robert walking by her side, grey-faced, but swearing his shoulder hurt hardly at all.

  He will think we are savages, she told herself; he will wonder whatever possessed him to leave his nice house in town and meet my family, not one of whom has behaved normally since he set foot over the doorstep. And that includes my mother with her fractured vowel sounds. He will be thinking we are like characters out of a Russian play, each one hiding dark secrets, as divorced from reality as if we’d been conjured up out of some writer’s tortured mind. The sun had gone in, while a cloud like a shroud now enveloped Pendle Hill, drifting
down towards them in curling tendrils of damp, cold air. He will never be my friend now, she told herself. I will never see him again after today.

  Robert’s emotions would have startled and surprised her. The pain in his left shoulder was a grinding ache. Only by cupping the stump in his right hand could he bear it without giving himself away. He suspected it could be dislocated, and guessed also that once back in the cottage Polly would want to tend it, would want to help him remove his jacket and even his shirt to persuade herself that no real damage had been done. And he couldn’t. Not at this stage. Biting his lips he trudged on. Up to meeting her he had been in cool command of his own life, even riding out his grief at his wife’s death with a calm equanimity of the spirit. Their childless marriage had been almost without storms, and he had been content to stay in that same safe harbour for possibly the rest of his life. Glancing sideways at Polly, he immediately sensed her shame.

  But was there any shame more abasing than the shame of a man who had failed to defend when put to the test? It was that tearing at him, not the pain running like molten fire down his left arm, into the hand that didn’t exist.

  ‘I’ll see to your shoulder when we get in,’ Polly said quietly, and he answered her abruptly with a firm shaking of his head.

  ‘There won’t be the need for that. I’ll be off home when I’ve looked at the dog. If he’s really broken a leg, then I’ll telephone the vet and have him come out to you. That’s unless you know one roundabouts?’

  ‘Harry always knew what to do.’ Polly spoke without looking at him. ‘He was good with animals and birds. He is good with them,’ she contradicted herself. ‘Everything seems to have gone wrong since he went away. He even had a lot of time for Jack, thought he was kind in spite of what people said about him.’ She shuddered. ‘Harry sees good in everyone, you see.’