Polly could not concern herself with the wider issues; her daily life was difficult enough. She worked from early morning until last thing at night, cooking for the family, washing, cleaning the house and caring for the baby. Thankfully, no one else in the family had contracted the disease and though, eventually, the citizens of Lincoln were assured that their water supply was now safe, Polly – no doubt along with many others – continued to boil all the water they used for drinking and cooking.
Polly Longden wasn’t going to take any chances.
Twelve
Polly had no heart to take the younger ones to the annual horse fair that came to Lincoln in April. The previous year William and Sarah had taken them, Stevie, just turned four, riding on his father’s shoulders to get a better view and Violet holding her mother’s hand. Only Polly and Eddie had been thought old enough to be trusted to wander about on their own. Horses lined both sides of the High Street, being trotted up and down when a buyer seemed interested. And then there was the sheep fair, and the pleasure fair that came around the same time, with all manner of stalls and rides. Polly’s favourite was the helter-skelter – climbing to the very top and then whizzing round and round and down and down, the view around flashing by in a blur. And a huge treat had been a toffee apple each. As she remembered, she could almost taste the sweet sticky toffee with the tangy apple beneath. Violet had dropped hers and cried floods of tears until Sarah, relenting for once, had bought her another.
Tears filled Polly’s eyes as she thought about the carefree happiness of that day and knew it could never come again.
‘I can’t afford for us to go to the fair this year,’ she told a tearful Stevie, ‘but we can go and watch the horses if you like.’
So, on the day the horses were due to arrive, pushing the unwieldy perambulator carrying Miriam, she took him into the centre of the city to watch the horse-trading.
‘Why, there’s hardly anyone here,’ she gasped in surprise. Only a few horses and their dealers had gathered in the High Street. ‘Where is everybody?’
Overhearing her, a man at her side said glumly, ‘Staying away, that’s what. Frightened of catching the typhoid, they are. It was the same a few weeks back at the races.’ He nodded towards the horses. ‘There’s just not the people about. Neither traders nor buyers. I reckon the sheep fair’ll be the same.’
‘What about the pleasure fair? Will it still come?’ Polly asked.
The man shrugged. ‘I dunno. It clashes with Easter this year and several of the fairground folk have regular places for Easter.’ He sniffed. ‘Still, it probably dun’t mek any diff’rence. They might not come anyway.’
But on the Wednesday after Easter Eddie came home to say that the roundabouts and shows were arriving on Monks Road. Polly had no pennies for rides and toffee apples this year. Stevie was an amiable little boy and never whined for what he couldn’t have. Somehow, young as he was, he seemed to understand their plight. Not so Violet. She tossed her curls and wheedled a penny out of her father when he came home with his wage packet at the end of each week.
On the Thursday morning Eddie and Violet disappeared soon after breakfast. Polly sighed. Instead of being able to run to the local shops and back without the hindrance of the two little ones, she had to take them with her.
‘Can we just go and look at the fair?’ Stevie was five now and would soon be starting school. Miss Broughton had said they’d have a place for him when the summer term started after Easter.
‘Maybe next year,’ Polly promised. ‘Things might be better then and we can all go. Now let’s go home. I’ll have to get the dinner ready.’
When they turned off the High Street towards their home, the street was strangely quiet. There was no sign of any children playing; no hopscotch, no skipping, no games of tag, no sound of laughing and shouting as they chased each other.
‘They’ve all gone to the fair,’ a voice floated up the street and Polly saw Mrs Fowler waving from her doorway. The Fowlers lived right at the far end of the street, near the river.
Polly parked the pram outside their own door. ‘Mind the baby for a minute, Stevie,’ she murmured and then she hurried down the street towards Hetty Fowler.
‘The fair? What d’you mean? They’ve gone to the fair?’
‘All the kids from the street. My lot.’ The Fowlers had so many children crammed into the small terraced house that was no bigger than the Longdens Polly wondered where they all slept. The Fowlers hadn’t exactly been Sarah’s favourite family in the street and Bert Fowler and William – both quick-tempered – were drinking pals one minute and bitter enemies the next. ‘They’ve been planning it for weeks,’ Hetty was saying, ‘and saving their pennies. I thought you knew, Polly. Violet said you’d been giving her a penny each week.’
Polly gasped at the cheek of her sister. Violet knew how poor the whole family were now, even pennies were precious. She knew, too, that Polly had been refusing to take them this year, though she’d taken Stevie to see the horses. That cost nothing.
Violet, just turned eleven and now thinking herself very grown up, had tossed her curls defiantly. ‘Well, I aren’t going just to look. If I go, I’m going to enjoy mesen.’
Polly had hardly listened to the girl, never thinking that Violet was secretly planning such an escapade.
‘They’ll be all right,’ Hetty was saying, smiling her toothless grin. ‘Your Eddie’s with them and our Micky said he’d look after ’em all.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ Polly said, turned on her heel and marched back up the street, hoping that Mrs Fowler hadn’t noticed the sarcasm in her tone. She hadn’t been able to stop herself. Micky Fowler was the last person she’d trust to look after a cat, let alone several excitable children let loose on the busy city streets.
She sighed as she manoeuvred the pram into the house and pushed it through into the back scullery. Now Stevie would feel aggrieved that he’d not been allowed to go, but Violet had.
‘Violet’s been a very naughty girl,’ Polly told him as she set his dinner before him. ‘But you’re a very good boy and this afternoon we’ll go to the fair and I’ll buy you a toffee apple.’
She was rewarded by the most loving smile from her little brother.
Bother Violet! she thought. And if Dad complains there’s not enough meat for him later in the week, this time I will tell him why.
But Violet, with her saucy, coquettish smile, won over the whole family – except Polly. She brought home little gifts she’d won or bought for each of them. A piece of green ribbon for Polly. ‘I thought it’d look lovely with your red hair.’
A tiny doll for Miriam and a paper flag for Stevie. ‘You can put it on top of your brick towers.’
The final gift was for them all. ‘Micky won it for me,’ she said proudly, holding out a real coconut.
Stevie, waving his flag, asked, ‘Did you have a toffee apple, Vi? Polly bought me one.’
Violet frowned. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to the fair? That you couldn’t afford to take us all.’
‘I couldn’t, but it didn’t seem right when you and Eddie had gone with the rest of the kids. So I took him and Miriam this afternoon,’ Polly told her, trying to quell the laughter that was bubbling up inside her.
For once she seemed to have got the better of her scheming little sister. William, busily trying to crack open the coconut for them all to share, didn’t seem to notice the sisters glaring at each other.
Violet turned away with the familiar toss of the curls that said, ‘See if I care.’ Inwardly, Polly sighed. She wasn’t sure which one of them was turning out to be the most difficult to handle – Eddie or Violet.
Thirteen
The fair had helped to cheer people’s spirits a little and by autumn folks were trying to put the sorrow of the previous winter and spring firmly behind them, but the tragedy had left a gaping hole in the lives of many families who’d lost loved ones. None more so than in the Longden family.
; Though Polly did her best, she could never take Sarah’s place or have a mother’s authority over the family. For the first few months everyone had seemed to be trying to help, determined to unite the family in Sarah’s memory. But as the weeks passed Polly could see that their resolutions were fading and old ways were beginning to emerge once more; William began to grumble again about the working conditions on the railway and in particular the unfairness of his boss. Eddie, though working full-time for the greengrocer now, stayed out later and later each night. And Violet, as Bertha Halliday put it so succinctly, was becoming ‘a right little madam’.
‘Hello, Polly. My, but you’re growing up.’ Leo stood on the doorstep, handsome in his dark uniform.
Polly smiled and couldn’t stop herself blushing a little.
Then Leo’s face sobered as he said, ‘May I come in for a moment?’
He sat down, placing his helmet carefully on the table and waited whilst Polly made a cup of tea. When they were both seated, Polly said, ‘You look very serious, Leo. Is something wrong?’
‘I hope not, but I thought I’d better come and have a word.’
Polly waited, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he must hear it. Though whether it was from fear of what he might be about to say or from his nearness, even she could not have said.
‘It’s about Eddie.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Eddie? Why – what’s he done?’
‘I’m not sure he’s done anything. Not yet.’ He paused, whilst he stirred his tea, not meeting her questioning gaze. ‘It’s just – he’s mixing with a bad crowd. They roam the streets at night, shouting and generally making a disturbance. We’ve had a few complaints from residents and the lads have been warned. But, as yet, they’ve done nothing criminal. I suppose I really shouldn’t be telling you this, but I don’t want to see Eddie in trouble. You’ve got enough to cope with.’ He raised his eyes and looked into hers. ‘You’re a lovely girl, Polly, and doing such a great job looking after all the family.’
Now it was Polly who dropped her head in embarrassment. ‘I’ll have a word with him,’ she said softly. ‘And I won’t mention that it was you who told me. No one need know you even called.’
Leo rose and picked up his helmet. Polly got up too and for a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Leo seemed to shake himself, murmuring, ‘I must go. I’m on duty at two. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Thank you for coming.’
Polly wondered how she could broach the subject without letting Leo down, but the matter was made easier for her by another knock at the door as the family was having tea that evening.
‘I’ll go,’ Eddie said, scrambling up from the table and knocking against it in his haste.
‘Careful,’ Polly scolded. ‘You’ll have the teapot over.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ William looked up from his meal.
‘It’ll be Micky for me.’
‘Who’s Micky when he’s at home?’ He paused and then snapped, ‘I hope it’s not that Micky Fowler from the end of the street. You know we don’t get on with the Fowlers. I aren’t havin’ him in here.’ Polly hid her smile; Bert and William must have had another of their spats. Only last week they’d rolled home from the pub late at night, their arms about each other’s shoulders, holding one another up. But now . . .
‘He’s just a mate, Dad,’ Eddie shouted back over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, we’re off out.’
Polly saw her chance. ‘Bring him in for a cuppa, Eddie. He can wait while you get ready.’
William glowered at her, but Polly leant closer and whispered, ‘It’s what Mam would have said. She liked us to bring friends home so she could see what company we were keeping. And, be fair, Dad, just because you don’t get on with the father now and again dun’t mean we should bar the son, an’ all.’
William glared at her, grunted and then went back to his meal, jabbing a piece of meat viciously with his fork.
The Fowlers lived opposite the Hallidays and the difference between the two families was extreme. Whilst Seth Halliday was a peace-loving, law-abiding man, the Fowlers were trouble with a capital T. There was a brood of children – Polly had lost count, but she never seemed to see Hetty Fowler when she wasn’t pregnant. Hetty was a mousy, plain little woman, who seemed to spend most of her time standing in the doorway of her home, watching the comings and goings of her neighbours.
Micky was the second eldest, a year older than Polly and he’d gone to the same school. As a youngster he’d pulled her pigtails and called after her on the way home, but all that had stopped one winter evening when the children in their street had been having a friendly snowball fight. Polly threw a snowball that hit Micky on the forehead. For a moment he stood still, stunned to think that a mere girl would dare to throw one at him. Then he scooped up a handful of snow and bore down on Polly. She squealed, half in fun, half afraid, and began to run. But Micky was older and bigger and soon caught up with her. He grabbed her and rubbed the snow in her face and pushed it down her neck.
Incensed and smaller though she was, Polly turned on him with a fury that lent her strength. She hurled her wiry little body at him. Caught of balance, he fell flat on his back into the snow, with Polly sitting astride him and heaping the snow on top of him. At last, her revenge complete, she got up, laughing. ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, Micky Fowler.’
He’d got up and, soaking wet and humiliated in front of the other children, including his younger brothers and sisters, he’d slunk home.
Next day, Polly’s right eye was red and swollen so much that it was almost closed.
‘Who did that to you, Poll?’ William had demanded and even Sarah had tried to get her to name her assailant. But Polly had kept her mouth firmly closed; she was no telltale. She’d fight her own battles.
She fully expected retaliation and kept a wary eye out for Micky Fowler at school. She saw him in the distance in the playground, but he seemed to be avoiding her. At home time her heart was pounding. Now he’ll get me, she thought. Polly walked home through the gloom, trying to keep her footing in the freezing snow and ice. She heard footsteps trudging through the snow and glanced over her shoulder. It was Micky Fowler following her. She pulled in a deep breath and turned to face him. Whatever was coming to her, she thought, better get it over with.
Micky sauntered towards her, whistling, his hands in his pockets.
‘All right, Poll?’ he greeted her. He stopped in front of her, but made no move to touch her. Softly, he said, ‘Sorry about your eye, Poll. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was only a bit of fun.’
Now, closer to, she could see that he had a red scratch on his left cheek running from the corner of his eye right down almost to his chin. He touched it gently. ‘Reckon we’re quits, though, eh?’
‘Did – did I do that to you?’
‘Yeah. Reckon there must have been a bit of grit or a pebble in the snow when you pushed it in my face.’
‘Then I’m sorry too, Micky.’
Through the deepening darkness she saw the flash of his white teeth as he grinned. ‘You’re a little firebrand, Polly Longden. I won’t be crossing you again in a hurry.’
She’d laughed and then they’d turned and walked together to her front door, she to step into the house, he to walk on to the end of the street. And from that day she’d never had any bother with Micky or with any of the other lads.
Any trouble between the two families had been between the two men. Bert Fowler was as quick-tempered as her own father was and even more ready to get into a real fisticuffs. He worked on the railway too and was a big union man. Bert and her father should have been bosom pals, Polly had always thought, seeing as how they were so alike. They were both quick to grumble about working conditions, rates of pay and so on. They even fought for the same causes, so why did they keep falling out? Perhaps, she thought, with sudden insight, it was because they were so alike. At times the very name of Bert Fowler was like a red rag to a bull for William. And now, i
t seemed, was one of those times.
In an effort to pour oil on troubled waters, she suggested, ‘Mek the lad welcome, Dad, why don’t you? Mebbe he’s not like his dad. Let’s give him a chance, eh?’
William growled but said no more.
‘I can go now, Poll.’ Eddie paused in the doorway. ‘I’m ready. He dun’t need to come in.’
But Polly followed him to the door and, as he opened it, she plastered her most winning smile on her face. Peering over Eddie’s shoulder she said, ‘Hello, Micky? Come on in and ’ave a cup of tea.’
For a moment the boy blinked in surprise then he grinned. ‘Don’t mind if I do, Poll.’ And without waiting for further invitation, he stepped inside.
Deliberately, Polly ignored the look of thunder on her brother’s face.
Of course, Polly saw Micky often; she could scarcely avoid it, living in the same street, but she’d not seen him close to for months. He’d grown and filled out from the skinny urchin she remembered at school. He was a little taller than she was – though not as tall as Leo – and his shoulders were broad. He still had the same wide, cheeky grin and his black hair was slicked back beneath the cap that he now pulled off his head.
‘So, what a’ you doing’ these days, young Micky?’ William asked and Polly knew he was trying to be civil. But he couldn’t prevent the edge in his tone.
‘Oh, this and that,’ he said and winked at William.
The older man stared at him for a moment. His tone was even sharper as he said, ‘I mean, where do you work?’
Before Micky could reply, Eddie butted in. ‘Time we was off, if we don’t want to miss the beginning.’
Micky got up. ‘Going to the theatre, we are. Ain’t we posh all of a sudden?’
Forgive and Forget Page 7
