Polly's Pride
Page 14
‘Does this mean that you’ve giving up this daft business idea of yours?
Instantly her heart dropped. ‘No, of course not. But don’t you see? I’ve made some money. It proves that it’s a good idea, that I can make it work, given time.’
‘It proves nowt, except that our Josh is right. You’re a stubborn Irish woman who won’t listen to anyone else’s point of view but your own.’
The mention of her interfering brother-in-law inflamed Polly’s temper once again. ‘And you’re not stubborn, I suppose? I’m thinking you listen too often to that daft brother o’ yours. Big Flo says you were out with him at a meeting, when you swore you’d stay away.’
‘Perhaps I see now that he was right and I was wrong. I believe every man has the right to employment in order to keep his family; that he has to stand up for his principles and what he believes in.’
‘And why not a woman? Why can’t a woman stand up for what she believes in?’
Matthew flushed dark red, annoyed at leaving himself open to this sort of attack, yet frustrated that his own wife couldn’t see the difference. ‘She shouldn’t do so at the expense of her husband’s . . .’
‘Pride? Is that what this is all about?’ She fought to restrain her rising temper. Polly hadn’t meant to quarrel with Matthew, had fully intended to use her feminine wiles and charm. Why were these always lacking when she needed them the most?
Her husband’s face was ashen as he answered, jaw set rigid, and that thin white line of anger that rode his upper lip had become a sadly familiar sight. ‘I’ve kept this family from the workhouse. I’ve begged the landlord to give us time to catch up on the rent, stood for hours, days, weeks, in pouring rain, in the hope of an hour’s work. Yet all I’ve managed to hold on to is the one thing we had left: our dignity. Now you’ve thrown that away. Let me tell you, Polly, I’ll not have it!’ As he turned to walk away she grabbed his arm.
‘You’ll not have it. What about me? How do you think I feel, queuing for hours for a pig’s trotter or a pair of mackerel to feed my children, then having to ask for them to be put on tick?’
Even as the words poured from her mouth, a small voice at the back of her head warned her to stop, that they shouldn’t be tearing each other apart over something that was not the fault of either of them. Matthew looked older and thinner, which she didn’t wonder at. He probably wasn’t eating properly, wary of being a burden on his mother and brother. But then, they’d all lost weight through these trying times, including Benny and Lucy who didn’t have any spare flesh to lose. Tears were raining down her cheeks now and she could do nothing to stop them.
‘What about my hungry children? You made me give up a perfectly good job, yet I must do something to feed them. While all you do is go to blasted meetings!’
A long chilling moment ticked by before he answered, and when he did his voice was calm and oddly distant. ‘Aye, and I’ll go again to the meetings, if I’ve a mind to, for the sake of my children’s future. Someone has to make the government sit up and listen. I don’t like this situation any more than you do, Polly, but I’ll not have you bring shame upon us because of some fancy notion in your head to get above yourself.’
‘It’s not that at all, you know it isn’t.’
‘I know nowt o’ t’sort. You didn’t even discuss it with me. But I’ll tell you this.’ He wagged a finger in Polly’s face. ‘I’d stay away for ever sooner than see that happen.’ And with those warning words he swung about and strode angrily up the back street, his clogs sparking on the cobbles.
Polly stood stunned for a whole thirty seconds. As if to echo the bleakness of her thoughts, the rain started to fall. It drenched her hair in seconds, ran down her neck and soaked her to the skin, yet she paid it no heed as she ran after him, slapping at his broad stiff back, snatching at his coat in her desperate efforts to stop him. Matthew tried to brush her off as if she were an annoying fly, to walk faster and ignore her, but she held on, splashing through the gathering puddles, calling his name and several other less salubrious ones.
She was out of breath when finally he stopped and turned to her, but her green eyes were blazing. ‘Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you, Matthew Pride. At least I’m doing something positive. I can’t just sit at home and watch my children starve!’
He could no longer tell which were tears and which rain, but he could see the love she held for him in every line of her beloved face, in the way she pressed her small lithe body to his, as if begging him to understand and gather her close. Yet stubbornly he stuck to his principles, hardened his heart, knowing that if he gave in now she’d go on with this dratted carpet business, destroying the last remnants of his dignity by proving him incapable of supporting his own family, and making him less of a man as a consequence.
‘You think I’ve failed you? Is that it?’ His voice was so bitter, so cold and hard, it cut to the heart of her.
Polly struggled to hold on to her patience and calm her breathing. This isn’t the way, a voice at the back of her head warned. Tell him you love him. Tell him how you need him, that you’ll give up the carpet stall and stand by him. Instead, she said, ‘You know damn well I don’t think that at all. By heck, but you can be a stubborn old coot when you’ve a mind.’
‘And you’re not, I suppose, with the fire in your hair and your dander up?’ His eyes were upon her, and she saw a hint of something even at the height of his fury - admiration perhaps, desire , an echo of what they had enjoyed together through the years - and her heart instantly softened, temper diminishing as quickly as it had risen.
‘Aw, Matt, ‘tis awful hard living in an empty house. Will you not come home? I’d love to see you sitting in your favourite chair again. I’ve set it by the fire in the kitchen, exactly as you like it.’
He stood gazing down at her, considering. ‘And our bed? Is that exactly where I like it?’
After a tellingly long moment, she gave a small shake of her head.
He pursued his point, as if needing to inflict yet more pain upon himself. ‘The table and chairs? Sofa and buffet? Everything we own? Have you got those things? And our sideboard?’ Matthew looked into her silent, pale face and this time, when he walked away, she let him go.
There were a number of localised demonstrations and protests against the Means Test in and around Manchester in the weeks following Joshua’s meeting. He and a loyal band of followers were usually present. One of the most serious was in Salford where Chapel Street was completely blocked by the marchers. Their attempt to reach the Town Hall, however, was prevented by police who charged upon the peaceful demonstrators with batons, whereupon the marchers retaliated and mayhem ensued.
‘We’ll not give in,’ Joshua assured his listeners. ‘Next month we walk to Albert Square. Thousands will take part and we’ll be amongst them.’ Why shouldn’t his own small band of men make their voices heard and take part in this historical event? He handed over his bowler hat, which he always wore to meetings, to be passed around while grim-faced men searched near empty pockets for a coin.
‘Aye, we’re with you, Joshua.’
‘Count us in.’
The swell of opinion and support was strong in the hall. They’d make an impression on stubborn bureaucracy this time, he was sure of it. When the hat was returned Joshua was well pleased with the collection. He and his mother would eat for another week. He would, of course, have to order leaflets and posters for this next, most important demonstration, but he’d squeeze a good price out of the printer. Couldn’t have one working man making too much profit out of his fellows. Unless it was himself, for all the extra work and effort he was putting in.
When the last of the stragglers had gone, Joshua and Matthew walked home together by way of the canal towpath.
‘You’ll come too, brother.’ Joshua issued the words as if they were an order. Then, with a wry smile that brought a flood of angry colour to Matthew’s neck, added, ‘If that wife of yours will allow it.’
‘I’ll be there. I care as much as you about the plight of the unemployed. Why would I not?’
Joshua snorted with derision. ‘At least I am doing something positive about it. While you are so ineffectual you cannot even control your own wife. She behaves like a loose bobbin. You should pull in the thread more tightly, brother. Keep her in check.’
Matthew almost laughed at the very idea. ‘You try controlling Polly. She’s a wilful woman, with a powerful Irish temper.’
‘Oh, I reckon I could manage her very well,’ Joshua said in his quiet way. ‘Very well indeed. Given half a chance.’
Matthew shot him a fierce look, not much caring for his tone but nonetheless scornful of his brother’s confidence. ‘The cry of all bachelors - that they understand women - when we married men know it’s impossible. Fortunately your theory will never be put to the test.’
‘No, indeed,’ Joshua said. ‘You’re probably right. Women are a law unto themselves.’
Matthew’s face softened. ‘Polly might be stubborn, and with a mind of her own, but she came that way by watching her drunken father clout her mother once too often. Remembering what a lazy good-for-nothing lout he was makes her want to work all the harder to provide a better life for her own children. I’ve no quarrel with that.’
‘Only the way she goes about it,’ Joshua shrewdly remarked. ‘I could try to speak with her, if you wish? Tell her how unhappy she is making you.’
Matthew frowned, surprised by this sudden show of concern. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’
‘Are we not brothers? She’s your wife, my sister-in-law, and as such what she does reflects upon us all. I agree she is a hard worker, thrifty and with a good, agile brain, but a woman can be too clever for her own good. She should never set herself above her husband as Polly has done, not even consulting your wishes. Give me the chance to explain all that to her, and she’ll soon see that a wife’s place is at her husband’s side, not selling his goods and chattels behind his back.’
‘She’d run rings round you.’ It might just be worth watching such a contest, for the fun of it, he thought, although he’d back Polly any day in a set-to with his brother.
‘We’ll see. Shall I try?’
‘I don’t want her upset, Josh. I just want our furniture back. My home the way it was, and a bit of peace in my life.’
‘Of course you do, and you shall have it. What do you take me for? I’ll simply remind her of where her duty lies.’
‘Right,’ Matthew agreed. ‘I suppose no harm can come of you having a quiet word. I’m sure I’ve got nowhere. You see if you can do any better.’
Polly was too busy sewing and cutting her new acquisitions and dealing with her own problems to give much thought to political demonstrations or care a jot for her brother-in-law’s opinion on her duties as a wife. She had it clear in her own mind what must be done. It was vitally important that she make her business successful, to prove to Matthew that her actions had been justified. To give up now, before she had properly begun, would mean that all their sacrifices would have been for nothing. She was too far committed to turn back, and equally convinced that once Matthew saw how successful she could be, he would forgive her stubbornness and return to his home once more, the loving husband and father he had always been.
But it was not going to be easy.
Red Warren was, whose pitch she’d allegedly stolen, was doing his utmost to make life as difficult as possible for her. Twice more she managed to reach the pitch before him but after that he was always there first and no matter where else she chose to settle, there too often seemed to be some sour-faced hawker objecting. On numerous occasions she was warned by a particularly nasty young policeman to be on her way, though she’d been there only a few hours and it was nowhere near eight o’clock when everyone was supposed to stop serving. Not that many obeyed this rule, most stalls still operating at midnight.
Polly had begun to suspect that Red was conducting a campaign against her. She wouldn’t have put it past him to slip the copper a bob or two to move her on. But she would dutifully pick up her barrow and walk it along to Stevenson Square, then up Lever Street, down to New Cross and back down Oldham Street. By then her pitch would have been taken, once by a small fat man selling mufflers and handkerchiefs, another time by the organ grinder, and on several occasions by a grinning Red Warren himself.
Another day she left her hand cart unattended for less than three minutes while she went to get some hot water for a brew from a friendly shop keeper close by. The street was thronged with people all milling in and out of the many shops that lined Oldham Street. The sound of a pianola playing ‘Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms’ added liveliness to the busy scene; queues formed outside Jones for a sale they’d started that day; the butcher’s shop was packed and the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, making Polly feel hungry.
Her nearest neighbour on this occasion was a young girl selling imperfect lengths of cotton that had flaws in the weave, or dye that had gone wrong. The girl declared herself happy to keep an eye on things for Polly while she went in search of tea and a sandwich. On Polly’s return she found the girl in tears, rugs scattered all over the street, soaking wet as they lay in muddy puddles, and the handles of the cart had been snapped clean in half.
‘I tried to stop him but he threatened me too,’ the poor girl whimpered. Several of the other barrow holders offered sympathy and assistance, including Dorrie Hughes, who left a queue at her black pudding stall while she helped pick up carpet pieces.
‘I did warn you he’d choose his moment to retaliate.’
‘If he thinks he can bully me he’s picked the wrong woman,’ Polly said to Dorrie, gritting her teeth with fresh determination as she stacked her dripping stock back on the barrow. ‘I’m not one to give up easy, even when pushed.’
‘Particularly when pushed, I’d say,’ Dorrie agreed with a grin,. She admired this plucky girl enormously. ‘You stick to your guns, lass, but watch your back. Red Warren ain’t one to give up either.’
Polly had no choice but to go home early that day, dry off the carpet pieces, nail new handles on to her cart and hope to do better next time. She certainly wasn’t admitting defeat.
Over the following days, she searched out one or two more small carpets but was finding it impossible to be in two places, let alone three, at once. She couldn’t be buying carpets, sewing and selling them, all at the same time. To her great disappointment, Big Flo obstinately kept to her word in refusing to help any further with the cutting and sewing.
‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I must stand by that lad o’ mine, and so should you.’ No amount of argument would make her change her mind so Polly was forced to accept her decision with as much good grace as she could muster. Eileen, however, proved to be her salvation.
‘I may not have much in the way of brains, but there’s nowt wrong with me sewing hand. I’ve made more aprons than most weavers have had hot dinners,’ she cheerfully informed Polly. ‘If you can pay, I can sew.’
‘Oh, I’ll pay you right enough,’ Polly agreed. ‘If you can sew, I’ll find and sell the rugs. We’ll make a great team, so we will.’ And beaming with delight, the two women hugged each other.
Chapter Thirteen
Polly felt she had exhausted the spoils of St Andrew’s Square and the area around the Horsfall Museum, so Benny was given a new role to add to that of chief coal merchant. It became his task to keep his eyes open and his ears to the ground-or to people’s back doors - and to search out any other lik
ely source of new stock. This was heady stuff for Benny. It certainly made a change from delving in the mud of the Rochdale canal whenever the locksmen lowered the level of the water, to sift out coal that had been spilled by passing barges.
Now he would swagger about the posher streets of the city, sometimes as far as Piccadilly Gardens or the streets around Philips Park, pretending to be Sexton Blake as a change from Felix the Cat, hiding round corners, eavesdropping on conversations at bus stops. What he would really have liked was a disguise, but failing that all he could do was pull the blue peaked cap down over his ears and hope for the best. Whenever he heard a couple of gossiping old matrons, he’d shadow them like the great detective himself, hoping they would let drop some titillating piece of information, or lead him to yet more parlour cast-offs. So far he hadn’t struck lucky, but he lived in hope, and certainly the search was proving to be fascinating. Who knew what other delights he might discover?
He chanced to catch sight of his Uncle Joshua on his way down Wesley Street one day. Benny called out to him but he didn’t hear, and before the boy could reach him he’d vanished, perhaps into one of the houses, though whose it was Benny hadn’t noticed.
In fact Joshua had not gone into a house. He’d knocked on the familiar door as usual, which had been opened by an Irish navvy, of all people. The man told him that the previous occupant, Joshua’s latest conquest, had done a moonlight flit, taking her snotty-nosed children with her.
Joshua was annoyed. He wouldn’t particularly miss her for she’d never been an exciting companion, putting no effort into pleasing him. Nor had she shown any sign of that element of subservience which so elated him. Nevertheless it was inconvenient, a blow to his pride, and extremely frustrating even though there were any number of other possibilities he might try. He really shouldn’t trouble himself over one none-too-clean widow when he had other fish to fry. And wouldn’t he enjoy the eating?