Polly's Pride

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘There, won’t that fill you up grand? And there’s apple pie for afters.’

  ‘No turkey?’ queried Benny, and earned himself a kick from Lucy under the table as a reward for his lack of tact.

  ‘Praise the Lord,’ said Big Flo. ‘From whom all blessings flow.’

  ‘And may He send a few more next year,’ Matthew said, earning himself a reproving glare from his mother, and a stern lecture on respect and humility from Joshua.

  ‘You are far too light-minded, brother. I seem to recall you always were, even as a boy; believing you could be as pig-headed as you pleased and still have everything fall easily into your lap. It will get you into a deal of bother one day.’

  ‘Meaning from you, by any chance?’

  ‘Meaning that if you want to enjoy the advances achieved by your fellow men you should help to bring them about.’ Joshua was still annoyed with his brother for refusing to have anything to do with the NUWM meetings. His own ambitions as an orator were growing by the day, and he’d been asked to speak on two separate occasions which was gratifying. He’d expected his brother to be there to support him.

  ‘Enough,’ Polly said. ‘No family squabbles today. A Happy Christmas to you all.’

  ‘A Happy Christmas!’

  Despite the fact there’d been little more than a tangerine and a few chestnuts in each child’s stocking, it was indeed a happy day. And if there was less food on their plates than they would have liked, at least the fire roared halfway up the chimney for once, which meant they could have great fun roasting the chestnuts. Benny received much praise for his efforts in this department.

  ‘Did you open yer own pit, lad?’ Big Flo asked, punching the child jokingly in the chest. Benny only grinned, not owning up to how he’d deprived the London and North Western Railway Company of a good hundredweight of coal, little by little, over the weeks. He basked in the role of hero, resolving to ensure that further accolades would come his way in the near future.

  Living by his wits was coming naturally to Benny these days. He and his mates had never again managed to dupe Daft Betty into giving them her jam jars since her sister Nellie had locked them all away, but they picked up the odd one here and there, not least from the cemetery where they’d find them full of dead flowers. What was the point of that, they’d think, when money was so desperately needed by the living? So they’d swap the jars for pennies and go to the flicks to watch Our Gang or Buster Keaton. They’d take their seats on the front benches then under cover of darkness go off to the Gents and slip into the more comfortable ninepenny seats at the back on their return. If they were lucky; and the manager was otherwise occupied with his lady friend. they’d get away with it. On other occasions he’d nip them by the ear and fling them out into the street.

  Sometimes they’d wander down Oldham Street, or even along Piccadilly or Deansgate, and offer to clean windows for the shop-keepers. They could earn as much as a shilling that way.

  Life was far from easy for anyone, but Benny often felt that he suffered the most from their increased poverty. At school he was made to stand on his chair to show that he was entitled to free school dinners, as his father was unemployed. He then had to line up with other boys and girls, collect a ticket and be marched in twos through the streets to the Mission where kind ladies provided them each with a basin of soup and a hunk of bread. Thankful though he was for the food, he hated the humiliation he had to go through to get it. And it gave Georgie Eastwood even more ammunition to fire at him.

  ‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ the loathsome Georgie would call out whenever Benny passed by. He’d throw lumps of coal or dog muck at him, and Benny would have a devil of a job cleaning it off before he dare go home. Or Georgie would accuse Benny’s father of not being a proper man. ‘Can’t feed his own family. My dad can. My dad don’t depend upon any silly old ladies at the Mission. He’s clever is my dad.’

  ‘So’s mine. It’s not his fault he can’t get a job,’ Benny would cry, dreading the tears that stung his eyes because that would only make the bullying worse.

  ‘Great soft babby! Does he want his dummy then?’ And Benny wouldn’t know whether to stay and fight and risk yet another bloodied nose, being so hopelessly outnumbered, or turn tail and run and suffer being dubbed a coward as well.

  Deciding he’d had enough, he called a special meeting of the Dove Street Gang, now that he was a fully paid up member ever since that first jam jar collection. ‘We must take action,’ he announced, waving one fist in the air like a general addressing his troops, and they all vowed their support. ‘Georgie bloomin’ Eastwood is going to get what’s coming to him! He’ll wish he’d never been born by the time we’ve finished with him.’ This was greeted with loud cheers all round.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ Liam agreed. ‘We’ll pulverise the lot of ‘em, eh?’

  More cheers. There wasn’t a boy present who hadn’t suffered at Eastwood’s hands so they were only too willing to bring his gang down, great bullies that they were. If only they could work out the way to do it.

  It was the day after Boxing Day that Benny made his greatest discovery, one that was to make this Christmas special above all others, for inadvertently it changed the fortunes of the Pride family for ever.

  He’d been following the Eastwood Gang, spying on them as part of his campaign to find a way to pay Georgie back for his bullying. He’d still not worked out an answer to that problem but followed them everywhere, like Felix the Cat, not exactly with his hands behind his back but walking bravely through the very worst streets, then on to the better houses in and around St Andrew’s Square.

  Carefully tucked behind an entry wall, Benny watched as the gang rooted in the rubbish bins that stood in the yards behind each house. At first he was disgusted, then he became filled with curiosity as he saw them lift out parcel after parcel, examine the contents then run off with them, as if carrying some great prize.

  When he was sure they’d gone, he slipped out to take a peep himself. Most of the bins revealed nothing more than ash and the usual collection of rubbish. He’d almost given up hope when he crept into the last house on the corner, lifted the lid and made his discovery.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘You found it where? Whatever made you think of doing such a thing?’

  The turkey carcass sat on the deal table, almost defying Polly to object to its presence in her kitchen.

  ‘I don’t reckon you’d best ask him too closely, lass,’ Big Flo warned. ‘He might tell thee. Sounds like he came by it legal, anyroad, if from no very edifying place.’

  Polly could scarcely believe what her eyes and ears were telling her. ‘D’you mean you just took it into your head to root in someone’s bin?’ Had they sunk so low?

  Benny protested, ‘It’s no worse than you getting them books from the Dolly Varden man.’

  ‘This isn’t books. This is food you expect us to eat.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s clean. It were all wrapped up, see, in newspaper. It’s not been touched by anything, nor been there very long. And it were a posh bin, from them good houses on St Andrew’s Square.’

  There was a long silence while everyone considered this. Matthew and Joshua were both out looking for work, as usual, which was a blessing in a way. It was up to the womenfolk to decide how best to deal with the matter.

  Big Flo said, ‘It’s providence, that’s what it is. No one need know. And it’d make a fine stock for a stew if nowt else.’

  ‘And there’s plenty of bits o’ meat still hanging on it,’ Lucy added, licking her lips.

  The two women looked at each other, all too aware of the hunger gnawing at their own stomachs, let alone the naked agony in the children’s eyes. The newspaper seemed clean enough, as did the turkey, Polly decided. But should she risk it? ‘We might all catch some dreadful disease from it. What then?’

  ‘Or we might die from starvation,’ Lucy prompted. ‘Aw, come on, Mam. I’d take the risk.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ben
ny agreed. ‘I’m that hungry.’

  ‘By the time the carcass has been boiled, there’ll surely be no danger of any disease from it,’ Big Flo pointed.

  This sounded so reasonable that hunger won. The turkey carcass was indeed thoroughly boiled and scraped till every ounce of goodness had been extracted from it. Then they added chunks of potatoes, carrots and onions to the juicy portions of meat and well-seasoned stock. Big Flo took home a basinful for herself and Joshua to share, while Matthew, Polly and the children sat down to the finest feast enjoyed by man or beast. It was like Christmas all over again.

  Even Georgie Eastwood won’t be eating any better, Benny thought, once more relishing the sensation of being the hero of the hour.

  It was only when they were all replete and sat back to rub distended stomachs, unused to so much rich food, that he thought to mention the rest of his news. He’d had to be sharp about it, for even as he’d reached for the parcel he’d heard voices coming from the kitchen door. ‘Some folks must be really rich,’ he observed aloud, filled with a sense of his own importance. ‘It wasn’t the only thing they were throwing out. I heard the woman say she wouldn’t have it in the house another day. "It has to go or I will," she said.’

  Polly was laughing at her son. ‘What would have to go?’

  ‘Happen her husband,’ Matthew chortled, happy since his belly was full at last, despite yet another disappointing day.

  ‘Nay, it was a carpet. These two chaps were measuring up for a new one, which they promised to fetch tomorrow. Fancy wanting to chuck out a perfectly good carpet.’ Benny had never actually seen a carpet, let alone one which was about to be discarded. But he looked pleased with himself for dispensing this bit of tittle-tattle about what went on in better-off houses.

  ‘What a waste,’ Lucy said. ‘Some people don’t know when they’re well off.’

  ‘It’s one law for the rich, another for the rest of us,’ Matthew agreed, wiping up the last of his gravy with the tip of one finger. Polly tapped his hand, pursing her lips at his lack of manners. But she was unusually quiet as she cleared away the dishes that night. She didn’t even speak when it was time for the children to go to bed, except to wish them goodnight. She wrapped the two hot bricks in their respective cloths, handed them over in a distracted sort of way, hugged her children but didn’t offer to tell them a story, as she so often did.

  ‘Mam . . .’ Benny began, but Lucy frowned and shushed him into silence, dragging him away up the stairs to the room they shared. Their mother had been busy enough today, what with the agonising over the turkey carcass, and the boiling and scraping of it, so no wonder she was tired out.

  Her guess seemed to be correct when Polly volunteered to go to bed too, without enjoying the usual half hour of peace with her husband.

  ‘Aye, you go on up, love, if you’re tired,’ he said. ‘I’ll bank up the fire and see to everything. I’ll be up in a minute.’ Polly pretended to be asleep when he slid in beside her, because for once she had no wish to talk. Crazy thoughts and ideas were whirling about her head, making her feel dizzy, and she wanted to give them time to settle before she voiced them out loud, even to herself.

  By six o’clock the next morning, when she stuck the poker in the black belly of the fire to give it a good riddle and liven it to a flame for the first brew of the day, she felt a slow burn of excitement. Polly thought she could very well have the answer to all their problems.

  It was a daring, reckless, some might say completely mad idea, since it involved a considerable amount of risk. If she was right, and her idea worked, Matt would forgive her, she was certain of it. If it all went wrong, then he might never speak to her again. All she had to do was find the courage to carry it out.

  First Polly must find the right house. Over his breakfast porridge, she carefully elicited the information from Benny. Next, she sounded out her idea with Eileen.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ her friend warned, sounding unusually concerned. They stood shivering on the doorstep, speaking quickly in hushed tones, fearful they might be overheard. ‘No man would wear it. Your Matthew certainly won’t.’

  ‘But it’d be worth it, in the end. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘I can. You can. But will he? No, I wouldn’t risk it. Poll-. Think again.’

  ‘I have thought, all bloomin’ night! It’s the only way. ‘It’s starvation otherwise.’

  ‘You’ll get by, as we all do. Think some more. He’ll skin you alive.’

  Polly did think. Her morning’s work at the temperance tavern seemed to drag on endlessly. She served the soup, washed bowls out afterwards and filled them up for the next customer, then when everyone was served, ran a damp cloth round the tiled ledge that surrounded the room. But still she couldn’t get the idea out of her head. She wanted more from life than simply to get by. She wanted her children to fly free of this place, not live their lives in the same cramped, overcrowded, damp conditions that had been their lot so far.

  There’d been rumours of rehousing for the people of Ancoats, but so far that was all they seemed to be - rumours. And with the need for work becoming desperate, she could see no real hope of improving their condition. Now, suddenly, Polly could see a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Wasn’t it worth the risk?

  By the time her shift was over, her mind was quite made up. She strode off down Ancoats Lane in the direction of the goods yard, turned right along Adair Street and finally into St Andrew’s Square which was close by Helmet Street Park where there was a recreation area and bandstand.

  She found the house easily enough, not half so grand as she had imagined but better than her own by far. Polly stood for a long time considering the enormity of what she was about to do. There was the roll of carpet, propped up by the back door, clearly waiting for the Dolly Varden men to take it away. The opportunity was too good to miss. She knocked gently and a maid appeared, a girl of little more than fifteen.

  ‘Yes?’

  Polly cleared her throat and asked to see the lady of the house. ‘You mean Mrs Eckersley?’

  ‘If that is her name.’

  The maid sniffed, gaze moving over Polly as if she very much doubted her employer would allow such a scruff into her nice clean house. She seemed about to close the door until Polly stepped closer. ‘It’s very important.’

  ‘Wait ‘ere.’

  After a long wait, Polly was shown into a neat parlour twice the size of her own. It was the finest room she’d ever seen in her life and Polly made a vow, there and then, that one day she’d have one exactly like it. Only not in Ancoats, near to a railway line, but somewhere really grand, where her children could have a big garden to play in, see green fields or a park out of the window. She drank in the sight of creamy lace curtains so thick that barely any daylight crept through to damage the fine mahogany furniture or the antimacassars on the winged armchairs, nor to dry out the aspidistra on its three-legged stand, or more importantly fade the colours of the splendid new carpet.

  Polly looked down at her boots, which she’d elected to wear as more appropriate for visiting than her workaday clogs, and wished now that she’d taken them off at the back door. The woman was looking her over, making judgements as to Polly’s fitness to stand in her front parlour. She was dressed in her cleanest, no, her only dress, which fortunately had not been returned to the pawnbrokers this week. On her head was the hat she had worn at Whitsuntide, skewered firmly in place with a hatpin. She looked as clean and respectable as she could make herself, in the circumstances. Mrs Eckersley’s gaze had now returned to the battered boots but she made no comment beyond a sharp, ‘Well?’

  Polly cleared her throat yet again and quickly gathered her thoughts. She’d worried a great deal about what she should say. It certainly wouldn’t do to admit that her son had been delving in this woman’s rubbish bins and that Polly’s entire family had dined on the remains of her leftover turkey. Nor would it be a good idea for Mrs Eckersley to learn that her conversation had been overheard by
a small boy. But seeing the carpet by the back door had solved all her problems.

  Polly meant to pass herself off as a hawker, for in a way that was what she would be if she pulled off this deal. And wasn’t it what her own good mother, and her less than useless father, when he was sober, had done before her? Hadn’t her parents once travelled the roads of Ulster, buying and selling whatever they could lay their hands on, in order to feed their brood before giving up and coming to Lancashire? She’d been the youngest, Mary Ann Shaugnessy, fondly dubbed Polly for short. Since so many childhood memories had been blocked out as too painful, this was as far as she ever let herself think.

  ‘I beg pardon, ma’am, for interrupting you, but I’ll not take up too much of your time. Good manners, Polly recalled her own mother telling her, would get you anything. The woman was now sitting ramrod straight with her hands as tightly clasped as her lips.

  ‘I can give you five minutes, not a second more.’

  ‘Indeed so, ma’am.’ Polly took a breath and launched into her prepared speech. ‘I was looking around, the square being a bit more top-notch than the rest of this area, hoping as how I might chance upon a bit of business. I buy and sell, d’you see, but only from well-bred people such as yourself. I never touch rubbish.’

  She had no money to buy anything as yet, but that was a problem Polly would attend to if this meeting went well. Mrs Eckersley’s brow was creased by a frown, but it was more pensive than disapproving.

  ‘And what sort of items would you be looking for? I think there’s an old chest of drawers in the kitchen we no longer need.’ Polly adopted a sorrowful expression. ‘To be honest with you ma’am, I don’t have the space for storing furniture and such like in my - my premises. I deal only in carpets.’ She found herself beginning to perspire beneath the woman’s searching gaze, as if Mrs Eckersley could see how close to an untruth she was straying, since she didn’t have premises of any kind, and had never come near a carpet in her life.