Polly's Pride

by Freda Lightfoot

  Back in 1931 it had seemed the NUWM could do no wrong. The national membership had been strong and growing, and Joshua had believed he would go all the way to the top with it and find himself in Parliament. rubbing shoulders with the likes of Neville Chamberlain and Ramsay MacDonald, with him having a real say in the way the country was governed.

  Now he was facing the unpalatable truth that, for all it was one of the few organisations to stand up for the ordinary man in the street, it had failed to mobilise more than a fraction of the unemployed. Joshua made his feelings on the subject known to his colleagues in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Wal Hannington, our leader, blames the Labour Party and the TUC, but I blame you lot! It’s apathy,’ he accused them. He was doubly concerned because, little by little, the membership was dwindling, and with it his last hopes of glory.

  ‘We’re still here, aren’t we?’ one man shouted back to him.

  Joshua slammed his fist down on the lectern. ‘But there’s not enough of you. No one else must leave. It’s a disgrace. We must all stand together. We seem to spend far too much of our time campaigning for winter relief - of benefit to some perhaps but hardly worthy of our full attention.’

  If he wasn’t sticking a knife in some employer’s back, Joshua felt unfulfilled.

  Still without any prospect of employment, largely because of the prejudice of prospective employers who now viewed him as a trouble-maker, he could see no future for himself but a slow decline. The prospect served only to increase the bitterness he harboured against life in general and those going up in the world, such as his sister-in-law.

  It gave him enormous pleasure to have made her life such a complete misery since Matthew’s death. Now, his present circumstances hardened his resolve to make the Irish woman suffer even further. He resolved to find out exactly what she was up to and, if she was making money, to discover where it was she kept it hidden.

  He began to follow her. Day after day, with increasing persistence and dogged patience, he traced her steps as she went seeking carpets to buy, till he could have recited almost every street she had tried from St Andrew’s Square to Cheetham Hill Road, from Piccadilly to Miles Platting, neglecting his chapel and NUWM duties in order to do so. He would hide in a shop doorway or ginnel and watch as she knocked on door after door, feeling intense gratification at her continued lack of success.

  Yet instead of looking cast down and weary, Polly remained buoyant and elated. There was a glow about her that deeply troubled him. It would certainly pay him to keep a close eye on her, he decided. All he needed was to think of some way to upset her apple cart, for things were going a little too well for Madam. Even now, the fire in her dark hair seemed alive in the sunshine, bouncing on her shoulders with a vibrant life of its own, for she was almost running down the street with the kind of excitement usually reserved for meeting a lover. But how could she have a lover? She surely had no opportunity.

  Joshua turned the corner to discover that finally his patience had been rewarded as he saw her run into the arms of a man, and turn up her laughing face for his kiss. He watched with cold speculation as the man lifted her slender figure in his arms to swing her round, the naked joy on his face almost painful to see. Now he understood where she had been going, and the lies she had been telling. Not so innocent after all, but sneaking off to see this man, her lover, and take part, no doubt, in fornication.

  But who was this man? And then Joshua remembered the unknown visitor to his door more than a year ago. Of course. Charlie Stockton was the fellow’s name. How foolish of him to forget.

  Polly decided that her own immediate area was too poor for many folk to own big carpets. It was therefore time to search further afield. ‘We’ll try over towards Cheshire way. There’s more money round there.’ Benny was in school, and had been warned she’d be late home. Lucy was working on the tripe and trotter stall, and Charlie had promised transport.

  ‘You find ‘em, I’ll carry ‘em,’ he’d said with his cheeky grin. ‘And I’ll keep an eye out for something interesting too. No reason why I shouldn’t do a bit of buying and selling on my own account, is there?’

  It was wonderful sitting up on the high cart with Charlie, even if the horse was old and they could probably have walked faster. But the animal was strong and sure, and would come into his own when the cart was piled high with the carpets Polly hoped to buy. Inside her waistband was tucked the money that Eileen had saved for her; several golden guineas which Polly had guarded with great care.

  She felt as light-hearted and happy as a young girl on a first date with her young man. She half glanced up at Charlie, loving the way his hair grew tousled in the wind, the curve of his lashes upon his cheeks, the gentleness of his fingers curled about the reins. Everything was perfect, even the weather. The sun was shining, birds were singing. It was a soft spring day with the promise of summer ahead and, as they left the city behind them, it was even possible to see the sky turn blue, with streaks of pink and white cloud.

  ‘Did you ever see such a lovely sight?’ said Polly, sighing with pleasure.

  ‘I see a lovelier one every day.’ And as he pulled her close to his side, she blushed, for there was no doubting the compliment was directed at herself.

  They rode along quiet country lanes before coming to a small village, but Polly insisted they keep going. This wasn’t the place to find second-hand carpets. In truth, she would have been content to drive all day with Charlie and not even think about business. At this time of year she would once have been thinking of the Whit Walks, but there were more important things to occupy her now. She had Charlie to think about, and her living to earn. She was also desperate to find a home for her family. Somehow she had to save her children from Joshua’s tyranny.

  ‘Where does he think you are today?’ Charlie asked, intuitively reading her mind. Polly shrugged.

  ‘Who knows what he thinks? Isn’t he a law unto himself.’

  ‘You don’t reckon he’d follow you, do you?’

  She looked at him, wide-eyed with shock. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’ It was something she’d never considered, yet as she did so now, she felt a chill creep over her as if his eyes were indeed upon her. ‘The man is capable of anything if it serves his purpose. But I hope not,’ she added more thoughtfully, then snuggled closer to Charlie’s side. ‘Lets not talk about Joshua, or even think about him today. Let’s pretend there’s just you and me in the whole wide world. Wouldn’t that be grand?’

  ‘It’s what I want more than anything,’ Charlie said, and trusted the horse to lead them while he kissed Polly so thoroughly she was in no doubt of his sincerity. ‘It’s time you got out from under his jurisdiction altogether.’ Charlie wished he could ask her to marry him there and then and have done with it, but what could he offer her? Nothing. He was earning little, and she less. Besides, her heart was set on this business and he knew her for an independent woman, not one to be rushed.

  ‘Oh, I mean to leave all right, just soon as I get my business going. That’s the most important thing right now,’ Polly agreed, and he subsided into silence.

  By ten o’clock she was knocking on a door. It was to be the first of many that morning but with no success. Most of the householders were dismissive, some downright rude. Nobody had a carpet to sell, though one or two seemed almost regretful, perhaps more ready for quick cash than they liked to admit. ‘We’re wasting our time,’ Polly mourned.

  ‘Not necessarily. We’ll mebbe strike lucky in the next street.’ Unfortunately the next proved as bad as the first and yet foolishly, unreasonably, they were happy.

  They stopped and ate their sandwiches amongst a carpet of bluebells beneath a spreading horse chestnut tree, pink with buds. The smell of the flowers was heady and magical; such a romantic setting that Polly almost didn’t care if she found no carpets at all. Wasn’t she having a lovely day out with her man?

  For a while they lay quietly on the sun-warmed grass together, feeding each other crusts of bread an
d cheese, biting into crunchy apples. Then they lay in the sun and slept for a while, Charlie with his arms about her, stroking her hair with the tips of his fingers. Polly’s eyelids grew heavy and languorous even as a new excitement burned within. She wanted him. More than she could ever have thought possible. She lifted her face and touched his lips with her own.

  ‘Would you take me, Charlie Stockton, if I asked you to?’ She felt his arms tighten convulsively about her. ‘That’s not fair, Polly. You know I want you. But we aren’t wed, have no hope of getting married until we’ve a decent income coming in and a home of us own.’

  She sighed. ‘The trouble with Lancashire folk is they’re far too practical for their own good. A little Irish romance wouldn’t go amiss, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘I agree, but romance doesn’t pay the bills.’ He laughed softly in her ear. ‘Don’t I love every little bit of you, Polly Pride? We’ll make it come right, I’m sure of it. While you’re building yourself a fine carpet business I’ll find myself a job, or do a bit of trading on me own account. Then I’ll find us a house and marry you like a shot. Won’t I then take you to my bed with joy?

  ‘Goodness, if we’ve all of that to go through then we’ve really no time to waste, kissing and canoodling,’ said Polly, kissing the lobe of his ear and sliding her mouth along the line of his jaw, in spite of her words.

  As he reached for her, she pushed him playfully away to run from him, squealing with delight, leaping over tree roots, skipping through the bluebells deep into the woods so that he had to chase and catch her. Only then did she let him kiss her and roll her amongst the flowers, becoming intoxicated by their scent and his closeness so that it was hard for her to think, let alone resist him. And because he couldn’t help himself, he wasted a good half hour returning her kisses with a new fierceness whilst struggling to keep a tight hold on his emotions. It wouldn’t do to let them run away with his common sense, not just yet. What would happen to Polly if she took trouble home? He didn’t care to think.

  Some time later she sat up, tidied her hair, dusted off the grass and petals, and smiled into his eyes. ‘Come on, laddy. We’ve work to do.’

  Charlie set out on his own quest for household items to sell. He hoped one day to buy a horse and cart. Might even buy this one off his pal. It would come in handy if Polly were to make a success of the carpets, as well as be useful for selling his bits and pieces. He’d done well lately, chopping and selling firewood. He’d even managed to buy some boxes of early strawberries which he’d sold at a good price to the ice cream makers. But it wasn’t a regular income, which was what he desperately needed, for all of this brought in barely enough to cover the cost of his lodgings.

  Perhaps it was his cheeky charm which appealed to the housewives but today he struck lucky. He bought several items which he felt sure he could sell on at a profit. An old iron mangle with wooden rollers, a pram, even a fancy bird cage amongst other practical items. He stowed them aboard the cart and went on his way, whistling.

  Polly too had finally been successful.

  ‘Yes, dear, I’ve an old bedroom carpet I’d be glad enough to see the back of,’ came the much hoped for reply at last. ‘Perhaps I can persuade my husband to buy me a new one then.’

  For a moment Polly was so surprised at this positive response that she found herself suggesting the woman’s husband may not care to be deprived of it, but the woman only laughed, declaring he’d been promising her a new carpet for years. ‘All he needed was a kick up the backside, as you might say. What would you give me for it? I’d want at least five pounds.’

  ‘It’s not worth thirty bob,’ said Polly, shaking her head and looking suitably glum as she viewed the carpet. Inwardly she was delighted by its size. The house was a large Victorian villa, the bedroom large enough to take the whole of her own modest dwelling, and the carpet, though at least as old as the house, was thick and substantial. ‘The colours have faded. Can’t sell it as it is, of course. It needs cutting and stitching.’ And a good clean, though she didn’t like to say so.

  She drove the woman down to one pound fifteen shillings and counted the coins into her hand before she could change her mind.

  Later, when Charlie had rolled it up and stacked it on the cart, he expressed his admiration. ‘Thirty-five bob for a carpet that size? You’re a hard bargainer, Polly Pride.’

  ‘No, just meaner than her poor husband, who’ll find himself with a large bill for a new replacement.’

  This success filled her with new hope, and perhaps the fact that they now carried a carpet gave them credibility, for their luck improved. They found two more willing sellers and later, as they unloaded their booty in the warehouse, discovered they’d accidentally rolled up a chamber pot with the bedroom carpet, by mistake.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ll start a new line. It can go with the bits and bobs I’ve found. It’ll all help to make our fortune, Polly lass.’ Then he pulled her into his arms to kiss her again by way of celebration at their success, right in the middle of all the rolls of carpet and general clutter.

  Finally breaking away, all pink-cheeked and flustered, Polly said, ‘You’ve a wicked way with you, Charlie Stockton. I worry over me own daughter getting into trouble, and here I am behaving like a loose woman. Our Lucy has more sense than I have.’

  Polly might well have thought differently in the weeks following, had she witnessed her daughter tossing the red shoes over the back yard wall each Saturday evening. She did guess that Lucy was not going to chat with her friend Sal quite so often as she claimed, but was in fact walking out with Tom Shackleton. Polly could only hope that Joshua was not quite so wise to the antics of young girls as a mother was. So long as he didn’t suspect, there was really nothing to worry about. But then, she didn’t see Lucy walking off to the Palais dressed in a polka dot dress that would have given her grandmother a heart attack.

  Lucy always came back down to earth from the excitement of these expeditions with a rude bump as she shinned over the back yard wall; thereby avoiding the risk of clicking the latch on the gate. It also allowed her time to strip off the party frock in the lavatory and pull on the skirt and blouse she’d hidden there earlier. Shivering with cold and the residue of delight from Tom’s kisses, she would wrap the dress and shoes in a brown paper parcel, carefully stowing it away in her secret hiding place behind the ash pit. Finally dusting herself down, and checking that she’d wiped off every trace of lipstick, she would saunter casually into the kitchen. usually empty at that time of night, and scurry upstairs to bed.

  On one particular night she found Uncle Joshua sitting at the kitchen table reading a paper. He looked up when she entered, then pointedly took out his watch from his waistcoat pocket to consult it. ‘And what time do you call this? I told you to be home by ten. It’s ten minutes past.’

  ‘I’m sorry. We got talking and forgot the time, Sal and me,’ Lucy said, sticking to her story.

  ‘Talking girlish nonsense, no doubt.’

  She couldn’t resist trying to score a point over him. ‘As a matter of fact we were talking about Father Donevan, and how upset he is that I no longer go to church, as I have done for years.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘He’d like me to go and have a chat with him, at the presbytery, to explain. I said I would.’ The whole story was largely a fabrication, though she justified it by thinking that Father Donevan would indeed love to have her back in the fold, as she would love to get one over on her uncle. Lucy was enjoying the way he was scowling, for she knew how he hated to be bested by anyone, most of all a Catholic priest.

  ‘Go to your room. You’ll come to my study before breakfast and I’ll set you some scriptures to learn on the subject of obedience. That’ll teach you for staying out late, and satisfy this sudden craving you have found for religion.’

  Lucy experienced such a surge of loathing towards her uncle that she pummelled her pillow till she was utterly exhausted, only wishing it were his sanctimoni
ous face. She had expected her mother to be there in the big bed, ready- to offer comfort, but Polly still wasn’t back from her trip to Cheshire. Moments later she did arrive home but was so obviously tired Lucy said nothing as she slid between the sheets, and within seconds was deeply asleep.

  Sleep refused to come for herself, although she was by now outwardly calm. Lucy marvelled that Uncle Joshua couldn’t feel the heat of her anger through the bedroom wall. She felt as if she were walking a tight-rope, and he was just waiting for her to fall off it. She vowed she would take whatever he threw at her without complaint, so long as he didn’t find out about Tom. She was hoping to win her mother round to her side before her uncle discovered the truth. Polly liked Tom Shackleton, and since Dad had died saving his life, surely she would approve.

  Downstairs, in his draughty cubby-hole under the stairs, Benny shivered and worried in private, subdued by deep pity for his sister and only too thankful it wasn’t he who had to face Uncle Joshua in the ‘study’ tomorrow. He wondered if bravery was something you acquired more of as you grew older. He’d be thirteen this September. Would that help?

  But by morning all Lucy’s good intentions had evaporated and she didn’t even hang around for breakfast, let alone meekly present herself at her uncle’s study. She quitted the house shortly after five-thirty and consequently arrived at the tripe stall an hour early, much to Dorrie’s surprise.

  ‘By heck, you’re an early bird.’

  ‘I swear I mean to spend as little time as possible within the four walls of that house, even if it is me own home. How dare he treat me like a child? He’s not even me father, only an uncle. He’s no right to tell me what time to come in or go out.’