Polly's Pride

by Freda Lightfoot

  He walked back along Dove Street with a positively jaunty step.

  Later in the week, as Polly prepared to move, he made not a single protest. He actually smiled to himself as he listened to her excited talk about how she and the wonderful Charlie had decided against a Christmas wedding, agreeing not to tie the knot until the following spring.

  He studiously ignored the troubled glances shot in his direction by her pestilential children, even his own mother. If they were surprised that he made no comment, curious as to the reasons behind his apparent complacency, let them wonder. Joshua refused to respond. He was content to bide his time, to wait and watch how this romance would survive echoes from the past.

  He may have suffered a setback but the battle wasn’t over yet and he meant to win. He would teach that woman a lesson she would never forget.

  Polly placed the tin trunk containing all her most prized possessions in pride of place in the bedroom which she hoped one day soon to be sharing with Charlie. It seemed strange to remember a time when that trunk had been all she had possessed in the world; to recall how she’d sold their furniture and been content to live on orange boxes. How devastated poor Matthew had been! He’d found it quite impossible to cope with the shame of living on bare stone floors. And although Polly did think in retrospect that perhaps she should have discussed it with him first, knowing he would have disagreed and that she would be forced to defy him, how could things have worked out differently? How else could she have raised the capital for her business:

  Her sacrifice was now paying off. She was doing well, could afford to rent a home of her own, one for which she had bought brand new beds and mattresses, even a large commodious double bed with a feather bolster for Charlie and herself to share when they were man and wife. She purchased new sheets and pillow cases, fluffy blankets and an eiderdown for each of them. What delights!

  Despite a thorough search of all the likely shops and markets, she had found no trace of Matthew’s beloved sideboard. Perhaps it was just as well. It was time to put the past behind her and begin anew.

  She and Lucy scrubbed the little house from top to bottom. Then she paid Stanley Green to paint every room with white distemper, and finally black-leaded all the grates and the big old range herself, thrilled by how clean and fresh it looked when they’d finished.

  Together, she and Charlie had great fun choosing furniture from the second-hand market stalls for the parlour and live-in kitchen. Polly naturally provided carpet rugs to cover all the flag floors.

  And Charlie was delighted to see her free from her brother-in-law at last, agreeing whole-heartedly that it was important for her to set up home alone first, for the sake of her children.

  He pulled her on to his knee on the night she moved in and for a long time they sat snuggled in the wing-backed chair he had bought for her, covered in a deep wine red moquette and in excellent condition. With their arms wrapped about each other, they dreamed of their future together. There was nothing they liked more than to discuss how they might develop the business, how well the sale days at the warehouse were going, whether they should take on more market stalls as Dorrie Hughes had done, or wait till they could afford to rent a shop, perhaps one day in the centre of the city.

  His own bric-a-brac barrow was doing well enough in its own small way, particularly in household items, but he and Polly dreamed of Charlie managing the retail side of the operation, perhaps even moving into new carpets one day. if they could raise a loan for the stock.

  ‘A fine team we’d make, to be sure.’ Polly sighed with pleasure, then tried to wriggle free from his grasp. ‘Aw, but I’ve no time to be chattering here. Isn’t there work to be done in plenty? I’ve surely brought home enough bills and accounts to keep me going half the night.’

  But he wouldn’t let her go. He meant to keep her all to himself for this evening, while he had the opportunity. With Lucy out with her young man, Benny fishing in the canal, and no Joshua likely to walk in at any moment and discover them, this was the first time they’d been alone together indoors.

  ‘I don’t mind whether we wed in your church or at the register office. It’s up to you, Polly. I’ll change for you, if it’d make you happy. I’m not certain what religion I am in any case, so it’d happen do me good to start over again.’

  She gathered his hands between her own, kissing each precious thumb and finger, giddy with love for him. ‘I wouldn’t ask unless you really wanted to, but bless your kind heart, wouldn’t that make Father Donevan happy? Me too, for that matter. I think I’ve missed me own church more than I’ve realised. Anyway, we can decide all of that later.’

  They celebrated with a glass of stout each and pie and peas, eaten off their knees before a blazing fire. It was the most delicious meal she had ever tasted. Charlie wasted no time in finishing his meal so he could start kissing her all over again, whereupon Polly began having second thoughts about waiting even a day before marrying him.

  The evening continued with enough gentle bantering and kisses to make Polly’s face rosy with love, and her heart beat far too fast. Life seemed utterly perfect. Later, after Charlie had gone, Benny and Lucy arrived home to find her singing ‘The Rose of Tralee’ at the top of her voice.

  The next morning Polly was still singing as she cooked breakfast and saw them on their way, Lucy to the barrow in Oldham Street and Benny to school. He seemed to be growing taller by the day, changing from a boy into a gawky youth with legs too long for his scrawny body. But he was far more cheerful than he had been in months. He’d confessed to her that he avoided Georgie Eastwood as far as was reasonably possible, and had made no further efforts to join his or anyone else’s gang. Polly agreed this was wise, but had never told him that she’d once had a quiet word with the boy’s mother, hoping they could settle the matter peaceably between them. The woman had promised to do her best, though admitted that with a bully of a husband to deal with as well, she had little control over her son.

  As Polly saw her own son out, she again reminded him that if there was the least sign of any further bullying, he should tell his teacher. Benny simply looked at her with disbelief on his young face, and said nothing.

  ‘Can I bring Tom home for tea? Lucy asked, as she pushed the sandwiches her mother had made into her bag.

  Polly sighed with pleasure as she gladly agreed. It was so wonderful to be free from Joshua’s glowering presence and for life to be normal again. She felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from her shoulders. She was still singing as she washed up the few breakfast dishes, mind rushing ahead to the work she planned that day. When she heard the knock at the door she didn’t even trouble to stop or to turn around, simply sang out, ‘Come in, why don’t you, the door’s open.’

  ‘Well, isn’t this grand, Mary Ann? Here we are together again, after all these years.’

  As she swung round to face her father, the dish she’d been washing fell to the floor and smashed into a dozen tiny pieces.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He came whirling into her life like a dervish. That very first night he came in rolling drunk, singing ‘Danny Boy’ at the top of his lungs. Polly would have liked to lock the door on him, leave him in the gutter where he belonged, but mindful of her new neighbours she dragged him into the front room and left him there, unconscious. The next day she found him still sprawled out, seemingly dead to the world, except that he’d spewed the remnants of several pints of beer all over her new carpet.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, will you look at yourself? Why do you do it, you great Irish eejet?’

  She marched into the kitchen, filled a jug with ice cold water and flung it over his head. Murdoch shook himself like a dog and got unsteadily to his feet to stand swaying slightly before her. Even his grin was lopsided and spaniel-like, as if wishing to ingratiate himself for his misdemeanour.

  ‘Shorry,’ he said, and hiccupped rudely, earning himself a further glare of disapproval.

  ‘I’ll have no drunkenness in my house.’ Ev
en as Polly spoke she recognised the futility of her words, remembering how her mother would say the very same thing. Murdoch had never managed to stay sober in all his long life. He certainly wasn’t going to start now.

  ‘Shure and would you deny me a few shimple plesh - plesh - me bit of fun?’

  ‘Fun. Fun?’ Polly’s hands itched to slap him, to knock some sense into that ignorant fool’s head. Turning from him in her exasperation, she began to pace the small room, back and forth, back and forth, her fury as sharp as a spitting cat’s. ‘You and your so-called “simple pleasures” ruined my life when you killed my lovely mother.’

  He stared at her in shock, struggling to focus his befuddled mind. ‘Tis a cruel hard thing you’re saying to me, Mary Ann. Sure and I wouldn’t have hurt a living hair on that good woman’s head. Any more than I would yours. It’s only the drink that let’s me down now and then, and for sure I’d never touch another drop so long as 1 live, if’n you asked me to.’

  ‘Like hell you wouldn’t!’

  How many times she’d heard his promises, to herself and her brothers and sisters, most of all to her mother. Within days or even hours of swearing unfailing abstinence to his dying day, he’d be found rolling out of some pub, roaring drunk and waking all the neighbours, or else collapsed senseless in the middle of the street. He’d become more familiar with the insides of the local police cells than any burglar. Whenever Polly’s mother tried to save him from himself, she’d earn herself a hail of abuse, or more likely a clip across the mouth. In drink, Murdoch Shaugnessy went right back to his bare-knuckle fighting days.

  Polly, unlike her siblings, who perhaps because they were older were better able to cope, had been hurt beyond measure to see her parents constantly at war. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d run to her mother’s aid, held her close while she sobbed, or even acted as nursemaid, tending the wounds inflicted during her father’s mad rages. There were other times she’d helped her mam to pack their meagre belongings so they could do a moonlight flit, escaping before the folk to whom they owed money could catch up with them, only to have the same thing happen all over again in the next place, and the next. Every penny Murdoch possessed, and whatever he could borrow when his pockets were empty, he spent in the local hostelries.

  It had been Polly who’d gone round begging them to stop serving her father. And Polly who’d found her mother stone cold in her bed one morning, driven to an early death by the disappointments, unfulfilled dreams and constant battles. It had been clear then, as it still was now, that her mother had simply lost the will to live, something Polly vowed she would never do, if only for the sake of her children. A philosophy of life to which she’d resolutely kept.

  As a young impressionable girl, she’d grieved deeply over the loss of her mother, laying the fault entirely at Murdoch’s door. Now a mother herself, the anger still churned in her. How dare he throw her life into turmoil yet again, just when she’d was getting back on her feet?

  Murdoch promised Polly that he was a reformed character, wanted nothing more than to be friends and make up for all his past mistakes. He said he’d no wish to hurt her or interfere in her life in any way. Polly merely snorted with disgust, told him to clean himself up, and walked away.

  He came to her again, hours later, showing every sign that he had done just that. His shirt and muffler were spanking clean, his bowler hat set square upon his head and the face beneath glowing from a judicious ducking and scrubbing. Even so, Polly barely lifted her head from the accounts she was working on, let alone comment upon this metamorphosis.

  ‘I’m thinking I could help by working for you, rather than being stuck in the house on me own or working for strangers,’ he blithely informed her. ‘I can allus carry the carpets, mebbe?’

  ‘I have Benny to do that,’ Polly said, adding more succinctly. ‘and all you’ve ever managed to carry in your entire life so far as I can recall is a pint glass.

  He offered up his saddest expression, as if she had wounded him to the heart, repeating his earlier assurance that he was indeed on the wagon now, and if she wasn’t kinder to him, wouldn’t he fall off it again?

  Polly remembered only too well how he’d always claimed it was the loneliness in him, and the hard life he’d led that drove him to the nearest bar quicker than you could say ‘God Bless the Irish’. Even so, she could barely find the patience to respond. Didn’t she have enough to worry over, without a drunken father?

  Charlie was concerned. Polly had become far more withdrawn and touchy since Murdoch’s arrival, and seemed to be taking out her frustration on him. Nothing he said quite pleased her. She had entirely lost her ability to relax, or even to laugh, and would fly into a temper in a second. He wished the old man no ill, for all he had grave difficulties keeping on the straight and narrow. Charlie did his best to help, to give Polly a break by taking him out fishing in the canal or to a football match once in a while. But even that didn’t seem to suit.

  ‘Don’t pander to him,’ she stormed after one such outing. ‘Once Murdoch has his feet under our table, he might never take them out. And I want him out of here!’

  ‘He’s your da,’ Charlie softly reminded her. ‘I thought you’d promised to give him a chance? He hasn’t had a drink for seven days now. Perhaps he’ll make it this time.’

  Polly clenched her fists, restraining her fury with difficulty. ‘Ye can’t believe a word he says. The man destroyed me mother’s life. D’you want me to put out the welcome flags? Say I love him? Well, I don’t.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘I can understand how you must feel. But it might help if you mebbe let bygones be bygones. Let the past be forgotten.’

  Polly made a sound half under her breath that Charlie thought just as well he hadn’t quite heard. Then she grabbed a loaf of bread and started to hack it roughly into pieces. He gently took the knife from her hands. ‘Shall I do that so you don’t hurt yerself, or even the bread? You put the kettle on, love.’ A thought struck him. ‘Where’s he sleeping - with young Benny?’

  ‘No, he is not. For the first time in his life Benny has a bedroom to himself. I couldn’t deny him that pleasure. Lucy has moved in with me.’

  There was the slightest pause before he went on. ‘I see. Well, that’s all right for now, I suppose. But Benny will have to share a room with him eventually, after we’re wed. I’m sure he won’t mind.

  Polly stared at him wide-eyed. ‘By the saints above, Da had better not still be with us by the time we marry! Sweet Mary and Joseph, aren’t I tearing me hair out already?’ She couldn’t believe Charlie was even saying such things. Why couldn’t he see that Murdoch had ruined everything? Tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. ‘I wanted to have some time on my own with my family about me. Now it’s all gone wrong. Sure and I’ll have him driven away in the paddy-wagon if he steps out of line just once.’ She shook the knife so hard a great blob of margarine landed on the stone-flagged floor, and Charlie took that off her too.

  ‘Whatever you say, Polly.’ It seemed better to agree with her right now.

  Big Flo and her fellow matriarchs were still working at the carpet warehouse, and Polly kept herself equally busy, either helping with the sewing, organising the next Sale Day, searching out more stock, or checking on Lucy at the hand cart on Oldham Street. It all added up to a considerable work-load but she loved it and wouldn’t have had it any other way. Once she had more money coming in, then she could afford to take on extra staff and life would get easier. For now she had to attempt to be in three, if not four, places at once. The one benefit was that the more she worked, the less time she had to spend in the house with her father.

  Big Flo informed Polly, in her usual blunt manner, that although she was in favour of doing one’s duty and honouring one’s father and mother, Polly would do herself no favours by harbouring a drunkard in the house. ‘Beware the demon drink, that’s what we Methodists believe.’

  Perversely, this made Polly jump to Murdoch’s defence. �
��He says he’s reformed, that he’ll never touch another drop. I’ve agreed to give him a chance.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ Big Flo sagely remarked.

  Unfortunately Polly’s lack of faith in her father was proved to be justified. She came to dread arriving home, despite her pride and joy in her new home, for she never knew what might be waiting for her. If she was lucky he was senseless, and she only had the bottles and mess to clear up. On other days, she found he’d generously invited some of his drinking pals round, irritating the neighbours with a noisy shindig the like of which they’d never before witnessed. On one notable occasion she found every cup and plate in her tiny kitchen smashed, together with two wooden chairs. The result apparently of a drunken brawl. Vomit and blood streaked the walls and the stink of the place almost made Polly want to throw up herself. She screamed at him, letting all her pent-up emotion and rage soar to the surface.

  ‘Will you get out of my house this minute! Get out!’

  This time there was no maudlin response, no begging for her to understand or promise to be good. Instead he pushed her roughly out of his way, knocking her back against the wall. ‘Shut your blathering and make me some tea. I’ll not be told what to drink, or which friends I might invite home by me own daughter,’ he informed her, arrogant in his drunken state.

  Polly could see the danger signals in his eyes, recognise the spark of stubbornness that indicated the depth of his addiction, but she stood up to him, as she always had done.

  ‘This is my house. I pay the rent. I haven’t worked hard all these years to have you mess it up for me.’ Had she not been so filled with rage, she would have wept at the utter destruction around her. Any moment now Benny or Lucy might walk in. What would they think she had brought them to? Jumping from the frying pan into the fire evidently. Would she never be free?