Polly's Pride

by Freda Lightfoot

Chapter Fifteen

  Eileen was frying chips for the children when Polly walked into her arms, laid her head against that grubby breast and wept as if the tears might never stop. The smell of the hot fat made her want to gag but, her mouth wide open like a child, heart-wrenching sobs came from some private place deep inside where the pain lived. Yet even these could nowhere near assuage the depths of her emotion. She was overwhelmed by grief.

  Nor did it get any better in the days following. How could Matthew be dead? At any moment she expected the door to swing open and to hear him walk in, the chink of his clog irons on the stone floor, the sound of his tuneless whistling filling their small home with his vital presence. But he did not come. The house remained silent, save for the intermittent sobbing of her children and the shifting of coals turning to ash in the grate; rather as her life had burnt away to nothing along with it.

  Afterwards she had no recollection of the funeral. There were crowds of people standing forlornly in the vast bleakness of the cemetery, but she could not have put a name to any of them. No doubt neighbours and colleagues had supported her, but Polly could only recall holding her children close to her side and managing, throughout that endless day, not to cry in front of them. Inside she felt dry and withered. Utterly spent.

  Now she lay on the bare mattress in the dark privacy of her lonely bedroom and stared into the emptiness of a grim future. Life without Matthew was impossible to envisage. It really didn’t seem to matter whether she had a future or not. Her ambitions for a business and the quarrels they’d had over it now seemed petty and cruelly unimportant, serving only to mar the last weeks of his life.

  Why hadn’t she listened to him? Why couldn’t she have told him she was content and satisfied with her lot, happy to wait until the economic tide turned and her husband was in work again? Why did she always have to imagine that she could fix things herself?

  Now everything was gone and her life was over.

  The tears came again when she realised how she had deprived herself even of the bed they had shared throughout the long years of their marriage. Selling all their precious belongings hadn’t mattered when she still had Matthew, or even the hope of his eventual return. Now she felt as if she had given a part of him away. She wept for the solid comfort of his favourite chair which reminded her so much of him; for the chairs and kitchen table around which they had shared so many joyful family meals; for the buffet and aspidistra and other bits and bobs which had made up their home. Most of all for the glossy mahogany sideboard that had represented the culmination of their efforts together as a couple. This above all else had mattered to Matthew, and she had deprived him of that comfort.

  Now she was deprived of his warm body beside her, not simply for the duration of a silly quarrel, but forever.

  ‘Nay, don’t take on so.’ Eileen had crept into the darkened bedroom. Wrapping her skinny arms about her friend, she cradled her like a child. ‘You have to stop tearing yourself apart, Polly. You’ll make yourself ill. Matthew wouldn’t want that, and Benny and Lucy need you.’ The two women looked into each other’s sad faces and wept together.

  ‘Oh, Eileen, what am I to do? It’s more than I can bear.’

  ‘We bear things because we must.’

  ‘But how will I manage without him?

  ‘Same answer. Here, I’ve fetched you some soup. Get yourself outside of that.’ Eileen set a tray over Polly’s knees and sat by her while she sipped it, making sure she drank every drop. ‘That’ll set you up champion,’ she said, but a warning note crept into her voice as she squeezed Polly’s hands. ‘I’m off home now. Lucy is seeing to Benny, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I shall expect you up and about when I come. No languishing in bed. Life goes on.’

  Polly nodded, knowing her friend was right, but inside an inner voice cried out in protest. Her life, in every respect that mattered, was changed for ever and the strength needed to endure it was more than she could manage to find, now or ever again.

  Joshua felt no such despair, nor any sense of remorse at his lack of action on that fateful day. Both his brothers were dead, and that was a cross he must bear with fortitude.

  Witnesses had fortunately confirmed his report that it had been a wretched accident. Matthew had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, poor man, though Tom Shackleton continued to sing his praises all over town. To have this brother, whom he had deemed a coward, die a hero was almost more than Joshua could stomach. Yet he must, for he wanted no further investigation of the matter, no questions asked about where exactly he had been at the time of Matthew’s ‘accident’.

  He watched his mother grieve in stoic silence and felt a stirring of reluctant admiration for the old woman. Big Flo had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, and she did not do so now.

  Any indications of her distress in the long bitter days following her son’s death, she shared only with her Saviour, her great friend. Joshua could hear the subdued mumble of her voice in the bedroom above as he sat by the fire each evening.

  She would be on her knees on the cold linoleum by the high brass bed, praying for strength and thanking Him for the blessing of so many joyous years with her son. In chapel she sang as heartily as ever, ‘What a Friend we have in Jesus’, giving no indication to onlookers of her inner pain. There were times when even he envied his mother her simple, unshakeable faith.

  For his sister-in-law he had less patience. He would give her a week, two at most, and then he would insist that she pull herself out of her self-imposed depression. There were decisions to be made, changes to be put into effect. This was no time for self-pity. He would see to it that she did not shirk her duty as a mother, nor as a member of this family.

  He told himself that women were no mystery to him, they were merely selfish, physically demanding creatures, born with sin on their soul that needed to be rooted out by the superior male.

  He waited five days then went to Polly and told her that it was not fitting for her to live alone.

  ‘Not fitting?’

  ‘As a widow with two children to care for and nourish, it’s not possible for you to manage on your own. Besides, it would seem as if we, your family, were neglecting you.’

  Polly struggled to take in exactly what he was saying to her, but as so often these days her brain refused to function properly. She could barely remember to get out of bed each morning, or eat breakfast when she did. Once, during the first endless weeks following Matthew’s death, she’d followed Eileen’s instructions and tried standing with her barrow as usual on Oldham Street. The other hawkers and stall holders, having learned of her loss, were sympathetic and supportive, but they could not run her business for her. She had lost all hope or interest in taking on a shop. Now she couldn’t even manage her market barrow.

  Customers came, made their purchases as usual, but at the end of the day Polly had little money to show for her efforts. She’d not had the energy to barter or haggle, accepting the first price they offered. Even in her bemused state she was aware she’d lost money. She did not go again.

  Just stepping out of the door to visit the corner shop filled her with panic and confusion. She’d stand at the counter wondering why she had come. Connie Green, ever sympathetic, would put some item of food in her hands -‘There y’are, chuck. That’ll keep the wolf from the door’- and send her on her way, assuring her she could pay when she’d got herself sorted. And Polly would do as she was told because thinking was too great an effort. Now she gazed into her brother-in-law’s stern face and nodded.

  ‘Whatever you say, Joshua.’

  He was surprised, having expected a protest, but then he smirked, reminding himself of what he’d always believed. He’d often remarked that Matthew was too soft with the woman, perfectly certain he could manage her much better; and here was the evidence in the way she calmly acceded to every decision he made. She had only wanted a man to take a firm hand.

  The next day Joshua had all the furniture moved from number thirty-one int
o number twenty-three because Polly’s house was the larger of the two. Big Flo was packed up and carried along with it, protesting vociferously all the while for, rather like an aspidistra without its pot, she swore she’d wither and die away from her own fireside. Joshua didn’t even trouble to respond to his mother’s complaints. He was the head of this family now, and the women would do as he said.

  The bright autumn days of October changed into a wet November and Polly seemed suspended in a state of shock. Lucy too was having a hard time. Tom Shackleton’s life had been saved by her father. She realised now that she still loved Tom, was relieved and happy that he’d survived the dreadful baton charges that day, but in order for him to do so, her own father had died. How could she show her happiness over this without seeming to disregard the loss of Matthew? Tom once asked her out, to take a walk over to Platt Fields or in Philips Park, but she’d told him she couldn’t go. It was too soon.

  ‘In a month or two maybe,’ she’d said. ‘When things have settled down.’ And he’d nodded sagely, understanding that the family needed time to grieve.

  But it was much more than that. Though not quite to the same degree as her mother, Lucy felt her freedom slipping away. Whenever she stepped out of the door, Uncle Joshua demanded to know where she was going. She always told him but gradually, little by little, began to resent having to do so. She’d never needed to before, for Polly had always trusted her to be sensible.

  Lucy wouldn’t be fifteen till next March, which seemed half a lifetime away, but once that day arrived, she vowed to go out with Tom. And nobody, certainly not Uncle Joshua, would stop her.

  Benny was struggling to be a man. He knew he wasn’t supposed to cry because his dad had once told him only babies and girls cried. But sometimes as he lay in bed at night, the pain in his chest hurt so much tears did come in spite of his opening his eyes as wide as he could to try and stop them. They trickled down into his ears and soaked his pillow but he didn’t dare make a sound in case Lucy should hear. He felt shame at this display of weakness. He only hoped that his dad wasn’t watching from heaven.

  Once, when he was at the flicks with Liam, Joe and Don, they’d seen a film called Outward Bound which was about a liner full of people who acted as if they were alive but were really dead. A man came on board, he was the pilot, and it was his job to decide who could live and who would be left dead. Benny had wished real life was like that film and he could pilot his dad back to life again. It had been a boring film but to his horror, under cover of darkness, several tears had rolled down his cheeks and plopped on to his jersey. He’d been so scared of anyone noticing, he hadn’t even dared put up a hand to wipe them away.

  Worst of all was that his mam didn’t seem to notice his unhappiness. He understood why that was, but he longed for her to smile again, to chuck him cheekily under the chin, even to nag him about not wearing his cap. He’d happily wear the awful thing forever, even wash twice a day and never get into a scrap ever again, if only his dad could come back, and his mam could be happy again. But since that wasn’t possible, he needed her to do something, anything other than this pained silence. He hated to see her with purple bruises under her eyes, cheeks all sunken and her lips pinched.

  Benny and Lucy would talk about the problem in hushed whispers before they went to sleep.

  ‘She misses Dad so much.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I miss him too.’

  Benny had no wish to express the depth of his emotion, not to his sister.

  Lucy said, ‘We have to help Mam get through this.’

  ‘How?’

  Neither of them could find an answer to that, and then Uncle Joshua and Grandma Flo moved in and everything got worse instead of better. Benny didn’t mind Grandma Flo, She was old and grumbled a lot, but she’d slip him an extra biscuit at tea time when no one was looking. She took up residence in the back bedroom, complaining it was little bigger than a cupboard; Lucy moved into Mam’s room, while Uncle Joshua took over theirs. Benny was given one blanket and a pillow and told to sleep under the stairs. He was appalled. Only really poor people did that, and they weren’t that poor, were they?

  ‘Mam?’ he appealed, begging her with wide shocked eyes to prevent this outrage. But she only smiled distractedly and handed over his father’s greatcoat for extra warmth.

  Benny knew it must be a sin, but he didn’t like Uncle Joshua one bit. He saw him as a stern, sour-faced man, with never a good word for anyone, least of all Benny himself. He was quite sure that, given time, he could have been the man of the house and looked after his mam and sister without any help whatsoever. The new regime also meant that he and Lucy had to hold their private conversations in whispers while they washed and prepared for bed. There was no other time when they were alone.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll start telling us what to do all the time, do you?’ Lucy hissed through the soap suds as she delicately lathered her face. Benny watched with interest, noting how she smoothed it over her skin with great care, as if afraid of doing damage to it.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘You know, bossing and ordering us about, and making us read the Bible and learn scriptures and stuff?’

  This was exactly what Benny feared too and they looked into each other’s faces, horrified at the thought, for they were well aware what a tyrant Uncle Joshua could be, particularly when it came to imposing his own brand of religion. And it was perfectly clear to them both that their mother was in no fit state to protect them.

  ‘We won’t let him bully us,’ Lucy declared, before dipping her head and splashing her face briskly with cold water.

  ‘No.’

  She came up for air and Benny handed her the towel. ‘We’ll stick together.’

  ‘Aye.,

  It sounded so grand, like an army with its back to the wall or the Three Musketeers perhaps, that Benny cheerfully agreed, even felt a surge of optimism. What could his uncle do against such a united front?

  The first challenge came sooner than they expected. The very next Sunday Joshua took it into his head to insist they all attend Zion Methodist, instead of their own Catholic Church.

  While Benny chewed on his lip, wondering how he could wriggle out of this unpleasant duty, he watched his sister’s face flush to a dark and dangerous crimson. Didn’t he know that colour well? ‘You can’t mean it?’ she stormed. ‘We’re not Methodists, we’re Catholics!’

  ‘You were Catholics. Now it’s time for you to change. Your family are all Primitive Methodists. Your father was a Methodist. It’s your duty to honour his memory by following in his footsteps.’

  ‘Dad hadn’t been to chapel in years, except at Christmas,’ Benny put in and then wished he’d kept his mouth shut when he felt the full force of his uncle’s glare.

  Big Flo judged it wise to intervene at this point. ‘That does not mean he didn’t believe, or wouldn’t want you to,’ she said, sniffing her disapproval. Flo had no wish to think ill of the dead, but she’d often had ‘words’ with her son over his refusal to attend chapel, yet not once had she won the argument. Perhaps with his children she’d be more successful. The Catholic Church had too much power over its people, in Flo’s opinion. She didn’t hold with too much power, nor anybody holding sway over others, let alone a church; not recognising the very same thirst for power in her own son. She played what she considered to be her trump card. ‘Our Matt never turned to become a Catholic, now did he?’

  Lucy shot a glance of appeal at her mother but as usual Polly was staring mindlessly into the fire. Nevertheless, in desperation she decided to make a stand. ‘Maybe not, but Dad always said everyone should worship as they please. He was entirely tolerant in that respect and wouldn’t have tried to make us do something we didn’t want to do. So thank you for the offer but we’ll stick with our own way of worship, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘But I do mind. Your well-being is my responsibility and you’ll do as I say.’ Joshua was telling them that he was master now
, and while both children itched to argue further, something in his manner advised caution.

  Lucy again looked frantically to her mother, but Polly laid back her head with her eyes closed, hands lying loose in her lap. There were times when Lucy had an urge to shout at her, shake her out of what seemed like a long confused sleep. But perhaps it was too soon. She’d no wish to hurt her. Perhaps Polly needed this time in which to grieve. If it meant they had to put up with a few difficulties meanwhile, so be it. Although it went against the grain, Lucy swallowed her protests. Rolling her eyes briefly heavenwards, she sent Benny a warning glance to keep quiet too.

  Polly, unaware that her daughter had just fought a losing battle for control over the free expression of her soul, was engaged in fighting her own devils, with a deep burning anger that seemed to consume her.

  When ordered to do so she, like the rest of her family, dressed in her best and meekly followed them to chapel. Joshua ushered them all into the pew for which he paid a weekly rent. By paying the small sum he ensured it belonged exclusively to himself. As did the pew’s occupants, in his opinion.

  Lucy and Benny stood close to their mother. Grandma Flo was beside them in her best black hat with the long hat pin, singing loudly about God being our help in ages past and sheltering us from the stormy blast. Benny could only hope it was true, for he could sense many storms ahead and felt in need of a bit of shelter right now.

  Eileen was outraged. Never had she heard of such Draconian treatment in all her life. Not that she would have used the word ‘Draconian’, being more familiar with earthier words, which she struggled to avoid using when talking to Polly.

  She’d made no comment when Joshua and his mother had moved in, largely because she considered it none of her business, but she didn’t much care for it all the same. Joshua continued to attend his meetings, and perform his powerful oratory on Sunday afternoons in Stevenson Square.