Polly's Pride

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘My children are Catholics, like me,’ she said, the tone of her voice seeming to indicate that she was reminding herself of that fact, as well her brother-in-law. ‘Not Methodist at all.’

  He turned away as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Put on your coat, Benny, and don’t stand there dithering. It is ill mannered to be late for chapel.’

  Polly stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, a pensive frown creasing her brow. She stared at her brother-in-law as if seeing him clearly for the first time. ‘You know very well that I was brought up a Catholic, and for all my failings I’ve brought my children up to be the same.’

  His mouth twisted in contempt. ‘And why was that, I wonder? Because of the fine example your parents set, a worn-out ineffectual mother and a drunken father? I hardly think they were the best people to decide upon the well-being of your soul.’ His sardonic tones made Polly want to curl up and die.

  Joshua continued, relentless in his scorn. ‘No wonder you were anxious to marry into our family. Even your mother failed you by taking the easy way out into death. At least at Zion Methodist you will not be allowed to follow in their footsteps. Hard liquor is not permitted, nor is morbid self-pity. It will improve the state of your health, as well as the good of your soul if you put on your coat and accompany us. And get a move on, we haven’t all day!’

  If there was one thing Polly hated above everything, it was to recall that part of her life; a time when she’d felt powerless against the incomprehensible brutality of the adult world. Even now the memory of her childhood served only to resurrect an appalling sense of inadequacy, and she shrank a little inside. Yet she continued to outface him for another half minute. But as he thrust Benny and Lucy ahead of him out into the street and she heard her daughter’s protesting cry, saw Benny’s frightened glance back at her, Polly’s spine grew rigid as steel.

  ‘You can take a horse to water. . .’ she said, walking past him, head in the air, striving not to hear his stifled laughter.

  As she sat on the hard polished seat of the pew, the memory of her drunken father and dead mother a terrible vision clogging her mind, Polly remained steadfastly silent throughout every hymn and prayer. A small show of rebellion, perhaps, but the best she could manage right then.

  Seeing how Polly suffered, Lucy did her best to be equally obedient and not cause trouble, as her mother seemed to wish, but it was all most worrying. Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she had been to mass. Then one day she saw Father Donevan in the street and he tackled her on that very point.

  ‘And why have we not seen you in church recently, Lucille Pride:’ he demanded. He always called her Lucille, which Lucy hated. It wasn’t even her real name.

  She stared unblinkingly up at him, wondering how to explain. “Honour thy father and thy mother”, the Bible stated, but it said nothing about uncles, so far as she was aware. Yet like Benny and his wariness of Georgie Eastwood, Lucy had learned to be equally circumspect and cautious in the way she dealt with Uncle Joshua. Her earlier show of defiance had become somewhat muted, largely because her mother had become completely cowed by the new regime. And for all Lucy’s own hatred of him, which she didn’t fully understand or feel comfortable with since he was family, after all, something inside her shrank from standing alone against Joshua. Perhaps the priest could be an ally and supply the support she needed.

  ‘It’s an answer I’m waiting for, Lucille. Will you be telling me or must I go and have words with your mother?’

  Panic-stricken, the words tumbled over themselves in her urgency to prevent such an unspeakably awful development. ‘No, no, you mustn’t! Don’t go on at Mam. She’s enough on her plate right now. You’d have to ask Uncle Joshua, he’s the one in charge.’

  The priest nodded understandingly. ‘Indeed to be sure, but ‘tis you who are responsible for your own beliefs, Lucille.’ Why wouldn’t he understand? How could she explain the insidious power of her uncle and his dictates, seemingly so well meant and issued in such soft whispers, not least his endless little sermons, yet in reality taking no account of anyone else’s feelings or opinions. ‘He wouldn’t even let my mother get on a tram,’ she tried, thinking she could at least get some help for Polly, but Father Donevan only clicked his tongue in sympathy.

  ‘Joshua is indeed most protective of her. I understand and applaud such care and consideration.’

  Lucy wanted to protest that her mother didn’t need protecting, not in that way. Her father’s accident had happened over a year ago and she could sense her mother was striving to pull herself out of this terrible depression. But how to explain all of that to a stranger? How to secure the help her mother needed?

  She became aware that the priest was still speaking. ‘She has always been stubborn, has Polly, although indeed she suffered a terrible blow losing your father in that shocking way. But you could all gain great comfort from the church, if you would but try. Perhaps your uncle has not quite understood how necessary it is for you to attend mass regularly. You must explain.’

  And as Lucy opened her mouth to ask if he wouldn’t come and do that task for her, she felt a hand grip her arm. ‘Ah, there you are, Lucy. Your mother and I were wondering what had happened to you.’

  Something in the way he said ‘your mother and I’ chilled her, as if he was not only caring for Polly in her grief, but that in some way they formed an alliance against her, Polly’s own daughter.

  ‘I was only talking to Father Donevan,’ she protested.

  Joshua offered the priest what might pass for a smile. ‘Not saying anything untoward, I hope? I trust you explained what good care I’m taking of you all.’

  The old priest found himself nodding. ‘She was indeed. I was wondering if perhaps we might see a bit more of her at St. . .’

  ‘Dear me, is that the time? You must forgive us but Polly is not herself at the moment, as you will appreciate, and gets into quite a panic when Lucy is late. We must talk some other time. Good day to you.’ And Joshua strode briskly away, his hand still firmly clasped about Lucy’s wrist.

  The old priest watched them go with troubled eyes. He recalled many fierce arguments in the past with Polly Pride during her rebellious years when she’d married outside the Faith, but she’d never refused its blessings for her children. It surprised him that she did so now.

  Father Donevan had not been blind to the veiled implication that he was interfering in matters which did not concern him. Nothing in Joshua Pride’s words had been in any way rude or disrespectful, yet he’d felt a disdain there, a sardonic disregard for the true Church, and for the child in his care. But then, Joshua was a Methodist and outside Father Donevan’s jurisdiction, so perhaps the man had a right to object. It would be a pity to lose two fine young people like Lucy and Benny, but perhaps this wasn’t the moment to interfere in family matters. The children were clearly being well fed and taken care of, which was achievement enough in these difficult times.

  Having salved his conscience and convinced himself he should do nothing to interfere at present, the old priest turned his attention to what his housekeeper might be producing for his supper and went on his way.

  Back in number twenty-three Joshua gave Lucy a stern lecture about not gossiping to strangers about family business.

  ‘But Father Donevan isn’t a stranger. He’s my priest!’

  ‘He was your priest. But since you have developed such a taste for religion, we can put it to good effect.’

  Lucy faced him with an expression of outraged defiance on a young face so like Polly’s in that moment, that Joshua’s temper increased tenfold. He slammed the Bible down on the table before her. ‘You can learn the entire Book of Samuel. That should teach you not to tittle-tattle.’

  Lucy bridled, blue eyes flashing with matching anger. ‘If it’s a penance you want from me, then I’ll do my own, thanks very much. “Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” There,’ she said, on a high note of defiance, ‘that’s a penanc
e!’ Whereupon she stuck out her tongue in a childish show of temper and stormed from the room.

  That night, as Lucy lay beside her mother in the big brass bed, she told her what had occurred, unable to disguise a very real sense of exhilaration. Polly listened carefully then cradled her daughter close, worrying over how this had all come about, even as she worried over how she could put things right. Although she might chide Lucy for lack of respect to her elders, for disobedience and not showing suitable gratitude to the uncle who had fed and clothed them, inside she was tormented by a growing anger. How dare he treat her precious child in such a way, simply for wanting to worship in the way she believed? Who in God’s name did he think he was, lording it over the lot of them?

  Lucy echoed her own thoughts, whispering fiercely into her ear, ‘Mam, can’t you see what he’s doing to us, to you in particular? He’s punishing you, determined to control every step we take, and make our lives a complete misery. You’ve got to stop taking any more of those powders. You have to get better.’

  Polly knew that she was right. ‘Sleep, m’cushla. It’ll be fine, I promise you. He’ll not hurt you while I have breath in me body. And won’t I tell him so first thing?’

  The following morning Polly left Lucy getting dressed while she went downstairs to confront him, fists clenched into her narrow waist, mouth pursed upon the tightness of her anger. Inside she could feel her heart beating twenty to the dozen, yet this time she’d not stand down. Wouldn’t she fight for her children to the death?

  It’s to the Catholic Church we go next Sunday, like it or not, Joshua Pride. D’you hear me now?’

  He cast her a glance of scathing contempt. ‘I hear you, Polly Pride.’

  ‘You can tell us what to eat, when to get up, go out, come in, even when to wash our daft faces, but you’ll not tell us how to pray to our God. D’you mind what I’m saying to you?

  Without a word, he simply smiled. Then, walking past her up the few wooden stairs, turned the big rusty key in the bedroom door, leaving Lucy firmly locked inside.

  Shaking with shock and fury in her own kitchen, Polly railed at her brother-in-law while upstairs she heard her daughter’s scream. ‘Mam, Mam! The door’s stuck. I’m locked in. Someone help me. Please. Mum!’ But even as she called, her throat drying with fear, Lucy knew that despite the brave show of defiance; her mother could do nothing. Uncle Joshua was still very much in control, and there was no one in this house strong enough to stand against him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was one day at the end of May that Charlie came to the house. Disturbed by Joshua’s handling of Polly at the tram stop, he’d quietly followed them home, watching from street corners as she was marched along, itching to intervene but instinct telling him it would only make matters worse for her. He hated the way the man had forced her almost to run to keep up with him. Charlie didn’t like that. In his world men showed respect and consideration to women, not treated them like chattels.

  Besides this very real concern, she’d looked so lovely, so fragile with her heart-shaped face and big greeny-grey eyes, that he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind ever since. It was daft of him, he knew, they’d only just met and spent no more than a few minutes together, but in truth he’d fallen for her badly. He was glad of any excuse to look her up again.

  Charlie had never been short of women in his life, but nor had he ever wanted any of them to stick around. This one, he felt, would be different. What he couldn’t quite decide was how to go about it. He’d stood on street corners and watched the front door of the small terraced house for weeks on end when really he should’ve been looking for work. All in the hope he might spot her when she came out to do a bit of shopping. But not once, in all this time, had she ever emerged, and his worry increased by the day.

  Was she ill? Had she left the area? Neither thought brought him comfort so, in the end, without a plan of any kind in his head, he strode across the road with his sailor’s rolling gait, and knocked on the door.

  He prayed she would answer. Or perhaps a child. He assumed she would have children. A child answering the door would be perfect. He was good with children. It was opened by a large woman, with fists the size of hams.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, in a voice which said she was ready to deal with all time-wasters in a flash, or with one flick of her brawny arms. Charlie swallowed, wishing desperately he’d learned the young woman’s surname, then he could ask more politely. But he hadn’t.

  ‘Is Polly in?’ he ventured, feeling very much like a school boy asking a favour of a sweetheart’s mother. But then she wasn’t his sweetheart, was she? Not yet, anyway.

  ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘A friend.’

  Big Flo considered this. She’d heard of no friend, certainly not a young Jack-me-laddo like this one. ‘I suppose you have a name?’

  ‘Charlie Stockton, ma’am.’ He stood to attention, very nearly saluted. If he’d been in uniform he probably would have done. The old woman’s tone reminded him very much of his commanding officer. ‘I’d just like a quick word.’ To ask her to spend the rest of her life with me, a voice in his head murmured. Charlie struggled to ignore it. ‘If she has a minute to spare.’

  ‘I’ll ask,’ the old woman said. ‘But keep them mucky boots off my clean doorstep. And Charlie found the door slammed shut in his face.

  Big Flo marched back through the parlour, where Joshua was painstakingly making notes for his next speech, and into the kitchen. Polly was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. ‘There’s a young chap at the door, wants a word. Says he’s a friend o’ yours.’

  Polly turned, a frown knitting her brow. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Charlie Stockton, he says.’

  Joshua, who had come to stand in the doorway to listen to this conversation asked, ‘And who might he be, Polly’ The expression on his face was glacial, making her shiver.

  Polly realised instantly who it was, though it must be several weeks since their meeting at the tram stop. How had he known where she lived? If Joshua had forgotten meeting the young seaman, she certainly had no intention of reminding him. Seeing her own daughter locked in her room for the better part of a long day had distressed her greatly, even though Polly herself had castigated Lucy for disrespect to her elders. Joshua’s behaviour was deeply troubling, as if there were more to it than simple bad temper on his part, like some sort of vengeance he was inflicting upon them both.

  ‘I think he’s one of the hawkers from Oldham Street,’ she said, pulling the idea out of the air, quite certain Joshua would recognise it for the lie it was. But he only stared at her through narrowed eyes as her heart started to race at her own recklessness. ‘I expect he’s come to ask how I am.’ She started to wipe her hands on a cloth but Joshua held up one hand to stop her.

  ‘I’ll see to him. I won’t have you troubled by riff-raff.’

  ‘Oh, but he’s not. It’s no trouble, I . . .’

  ‘I said I’ll see to him, Polly.’ His tone was so authoritative, so tinged with suppressed hostility, that she could do nothing but bite her lip and keep silent, praying Charlie wouldn’t start any trouble.

  In the event, Joshua opened the door on to an empty street, returning to announce with some satisfaction that her so-called friend had not even troubled to wait. Dipping her head so he did not see the disappointment in her face, Polly went back to peeling vegetables.

  Charlie, alarmed by the length of time it was taking the old woman to relay his message, had withdrawn to the corner of the next ginnel. From here he could see the front door of number twenty-three without being seen himself. When he saw the man step out, he recognised him instantly as the one who had marched Polly off that day. He sighed with relief at his own foresight. But there was something about this set-up that he didn’t like one bit, and Charlie made a decision, there and then, to keep a close watch on the comings and goings at number twenty-three.

  Later that same evening Joshua addressed P
olly in the tone of voice he might use on a half-wit child. ‘Isn’t it time you went to bed?’

  She lifted her head and met his gaze with calm defiance. For all his efforts to make the Irish woman’s life not worth living, he saw in that look that she was in no way defeated. But she said not one word. It was in fact Big Flo who answered.

  ‘Aye, it will be soon enough, but I’ve to fill this bath first. It’s Friday remember, bath night. You’ll be off out as usual, I suppose?’

  Joshua felt a niggling irritation that he’d somehow been put in the wrong as he sat and watched the two women struggling to carry the large zinc bath tub from the back yard and start to fill it with hot water from the two kettles on the hob.

  He hadn’t believed her lie about Charlie Stockton being a hawker. Did she take him for a fool? What he needed was to find some way to cure that wandering spirit of hers. Maybe he knew the very thing.

  A further pan of hot water stood waiting. Towels had been warmed, and a drop of Dettol was ready to put in the bath water, together with a bar of soap and a pumice stone. Cleanliness being next to Godliness, in his mother’s view, this was the normal ritual of a Friday evening. ‘I’m off out,’ he said, reaching for his bowler hat.

  Thinking he had gone Polly began to unbutton her blouse but, pausing in his stride, Joshua took a step back into the kitchen to cast one last lingering glance over her, smiling sardonically as her fingers froze and he caught sight of a glistening strip of bare flesh between her breasts. His eyes said clearly that she was a fine figure of a woman, no doubt about it, and that he could curb her defiance whenever he chose.

  In that moment Polly felt no hint of the laughter she had once shared with Matthew at the thought of his brother with a woman. Instead, a shiver rippled down the length of her spine, leaving her chilled and more disturbed than she cared to acknowledge.