‘No, Dad,’ she said quietly. ‘Not just “fond”. I love Leo. I always have for as long as I can remember. And I know I always will. So you see, even if Leo never asks me to marry him, it wouldn’t be fair to marry Roland, now would it? Not to him or to me.’
Twenty-Five
Micky was now a regular visitor to the Longden household and although he was walking out with Violet, Polly still felt his gaze following her about the room and the look in his eyes made her uncomfortable. She was careful never to be alone with him, always keeping Miriam with her when he was around. But Miriam was fast developing a life of her own, young though she still was.
‘Can I play out, Poll?’ was her constant question during the light evenings in the summer just before she was due to start school. ‘Me and Dottie Fowler are friends now. When we start school in September we’re going to sit together.’
Polly almost said, ‘That’ll be for Miss Broughton or whoever your teacher is to decide.’ But she bit back the words. She didn’t want to put the little girl off the idea of starting school. But her heart sank. Not another friendship between the Longdens and the Fowlers; it was all getting far too cosy for her liking. Even William and Bert had been seen drinking together amicably in the George and Dragon. They hadn’t had a fallout at all recently. It crossed Polly’s mind that the tragedy that had befallen their city over four years ago now had made people friendlier towards one another, even those who previously would scarcely have passed the time of day.
‘I suppose so, but don’t get near the river. It’s dirty and . . .’
Miriam removed her thumb long enough to say, with a mischievous glint in her dark blue eyes, ‘Stevie’s gone swimming in the river.’
Polly whirled around. ‘He’s what?’
‘Gone swimmin’ with the boys from Alfred Street. It’s ever so warm, he says and . . .’
But Polly heard no more. She rushed out of the house and down the street, her hair flying loose, her skirts riding up to her knees. At the bottom end of the street, she came to the River Witham flowing lazily through the city’s downhill streets. She glanced first to the left and then to the right. Then she saw them; a group of boys splashing in the water near the end of the adjacent street. One or two stood on the bank, ready to dive in and join in the fun.
‘No,’ she yelled. ‘Get out of there.’ She scrambled along the bank, holding onto tufts of grass, terrified of slipping into the murky water, of her skirts dragging her under.
As she reached them, panting and red-faced, Stevie was climbing out of the water, standing on the riverbank, dripping and anxious now. Yet the others carried on playing, ignoring Polly’s warning shouts and her threats. She reached Stevie, and for the first time ever, she slapped him across the face.
‘You – you . . .’ She couldn’t think of anything bad enough to say to him, to call him. ‘Do you want to bring typhoid on us all again? Can’t you see how mucky the water is? You haven’t the sense you were born with. You’re nine, for heaven’s sake. You ought to know better.’ She grasped his shoulder roughly and began to march him up the street. No way was she going to clamber back along the bank or allow Stevie to get back into the water.
‘Poll, you’re hurting me. And me feet. I ain’t nothing on me feet.’
‘I’ll hurt you, you little blighter.’
Behind them came the jeers and cat-calls of his friends, but gentle Stevie, still not understanding what he had done that was so wrong, allowed himself to be led away by his irate sister.
In their backyard, she made him strip naked and stand there whilst she threw buckets of icy cold water over him. Then she dragged him into the scullery and washed his hair with carbolic soap. She even made him rinse his mouth out with the soapy mixture until he baulked at the pungent taste.
Then she wrapped him in a towel and sat him by the range, made him some cocoa and sat beside him until his shivering stopped.
‘Did you – did you mean it? Will I get typhoid? Will I have – have brought it here?’
Stevie was crying now.
‘Have you swallowed any of the river water?’
‘I – I dunno.’ He hiccuped miserably. ‘I might a’ done.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to hope, won’t we? Oh, Stevie.’ She put her arms around him, her anger dying now, though the fear remained. ‘Promise me you’ll never go near the river again. You know how I still boil all the water we drink until they get the new water supply to Lincoln working.’
In the previous October, work had begun to bring a supply of water from Elkesley, in Nottinghamshire, but it would be some time yet before it reached the city.
‘Was it – was it the water that caused the typhoid then?’
Polly stared at him, but then she realized. He’d only been four when the disease had hit the city, when their mother had died. He couldn’t have understood. At the time, she’d been as guilty as anyone of protecting the little boy from the truth.
‘Yes,’ she said now. ‘It was.’
‘I’m sorry, Poll. I won’t ever do it again.’
‘Good boy. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of all your friends.’
Stevie shrugged. ‘I’ll tell ’em why tomorrow. They’ll understand then why you was so – so mad.’
She smoothed his wet hair back from his forehead. ‘You’re a good boy usually. It’s not often I have to get cross at you, is it?’
Stevie shook his head.
‘Now drink your cocoa and forget all about it.’
But it was several days, weeks even, before Polly could stop herself watching the boy for any sign of illness. And Stevie too, though usually quiet and self-contained, was even more subdued and she knew he must be worrying inwardly too.
By September when he returned to school, taking his little sister Miriam by the hand on her first day, the fear had begun to fade, though neither of them ever forgot. And never again did Stevie go swimming in the River Witham.
A year passed by; another Christmas, another New Year and in the April, Polly was another year older.
‘Nineteen,’ Violet teased her. ‘And still no ring on your finger. You’ll be an old maid, Poll. I’ll mind I’m not still single by the time I’m nineteen.’
‘You’re only sixteen, Vi,’ Polly snapped back. Even she had begun to doubt Leo’s intentions as the months passed and he made no offer of marriage. ‘You shouldn’t be thinking of such things. And you shouldn’t be getting serious over any lad. Not yet.’
Violet’s face darkened. ‘Not over Micky you mean, don’t you?’ She paused a moment and then added suddenly, ‘What is it about him you don’t like, Poll?’
Polly avoided her sister’s gaze and wriggled her shoulders. ‘He’s trouble,’ she said shortly.
‘No, he’s not. Not now. Oh, I grant you he was a bit of a tearaway. Him and Eddie both, but after that scare about the chap they work for . . .’
‘Vince Norton.’
‘Yes, him. But there’s been no more trouble, now has there?’
‘Well . . .’ Polly said slowly.
‘And I’m sure,’ Violet put in slyly, ‘your Leo would soon have told you if there had been.’
Polly glared at her and then said primly, ‘Leo doesn’t gossip about his work or the people he comes into contact with in the course of his duty.’
Violet pulled a face. ‘But he’d’ve told you if either Eddie or Micky was in trouble, surely.’
Polly was obliged to climb down. ‘I suppose so.’
‘There you are then,’ Violet finished triumphantly. ‘They’re keeping out of mischief now.’
‘Just you mind you do, an’ all, our Vi.’
‘Oh, I can look after myself, Poll, don’t you worry.’
But Polly did worry; she never stopped. She worried about her father and his quick temper. She was fearful of Eddie getting into real trouble. And there was the constant struggle to feed and clothe the family. However was she to afford new shoes for Stevie, who seemed to be shooti
ng up ‘like a streak of pump water’, as her mother had been fond of saying when her youngsters had a growth spurt?
‘Oh, Mam,’ Polly still mourned inwardly, ‘why did you have to leave us?’
But such moments of despondency and self-pity were rare. Despite the sacrifice of her own dreams, Polly was happy, but that happiness was bound up in one person: Leo.
The months passed, summer came and went and there was another Christmas and a New Year’s Eve, the dawning of 1911 when Polly would be twenty in the April. Perhaps he will ask me tonight, Polly thought, as she dressed with care for the New Year’s celebrations in their street.
Bert Fowler had obtained some fireworks – no one dared to ask too closely just where or how he’d got them – and there was to be an informal street party around midnight. Everyone would go down to the end of the street and watch Bert set off the fireworks on the riverbank. Even Leo would be there, happy, for once, to ask no questions but to join in the revelry on his evening off.
‘Here, Miriam, put this scarf on and borrow my gloves. I don’t want you catching cold. Where’s Stevie?’
‘He’s gone already. Poll, will Dottie be allowed to go, d’you think?’
Despite Polly’s concern about another bond with the Fowler family, she had to admit that Dottie was a sweet-natured little girl. She and Miriam were firm friends and never seemed to fall out.
‘I expect so, though you must promise me you’ll go straight to bed as soon as the fireworks are finished and the New Year’s in.’
Miriam nodded until her curls shook.
‘Come on, then. Is Vi ready?’
‘She’s gone an’ all. There’s only us.’ Miriam pulled at Polly’s hand. ‘Oh, do come on. We’ll miss the fun.’
When Polly and Miriam stepped into the street, she was surprised by the number of people gathering at the far end near the river. Laughter filled the night air and there was a real feeling of togetherness and of hope for the coming year.
Polly smiled. This was her city, her people, and it was good to hear the laughter again and feel that everyone was looking towards a better future.
‘Come on, let’s go and find Vi and the others,’ she said as she began to walk down the street with Miriam skipping beside her.
She scoured the crowd, squinting through the darkness for sight of her family. She could see William helping Bert to set up the fireworks. And there was Eddie with his arm around the waist of a girl from Scorer Street, but she couldn’t see Violet . . .
Then she saw Leo. He too was scanning the crowd as if he was looking for someone. Her heart missed a beat and when his glance rested on her and held her gaze, he smiled and began to move towards her.
And Polly forgot all about her sister as she moved into Leo’s arms.
Twenty-Six
‘So, Polly Longden, when are we getting wed, then?’
On the evening of Polly’s twentieth birthday the following April, when they were walking home from the theatre – a special treat – Leo at long last asked the question she’d been yearning to hear.
The whole evening had been special and now Polly realized why.
First Leo had taken her to a hotel for a grand meal and then on to the theatre to see ‘The Outcast of the Family’. It was the first time she’d been inside Lincoln’s Theatre Royal and the thrill of sitting in the plush seats and gaping about her at all the grandly dressed folk had been almost as exciting as watching the performance.
And now, as a finale to a wonderful evening, Leo was proposing. Well, she thought he was.
She giggled nervously and said pertly, ‘You haven’t asked me yet, sir.’
‘D’you want me to go down on one knee in the street?’
‘Of course,’ she said teasing, not for one moment expecting him to do it.
But there, in the middle of the High Street, Leo turned to her and dropped to one knee. ‘Miss Polly Longden, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?’
‘Oh, Leo, yes – yes – yes!’
A short distance along the street, a group of men were coming out of a pub. Seeing Leo on his knee, one nudged the others and a great guffaw of laughter echoed into the night air.
‘By heck, lad, now you’ve done it. Shackled for life, you are.’
Leo scrambled to his feet and caught hold of Polly’s hand. Together they began to run, the raucous laughter following them. But for Polly, though her heart was overflowing with happiness, the laughter had died when she’d seen at the back of the group of men, the devastated face of Roland Spicer.
‘Come on, Vi, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t get up now.’
Polly was still floating on air and bursting to share her news with her sister. But all she got was a low groan and a muffled, ‘Leave me alone, I’m ill.’
‘Ill?’ Fear clutched Polly’s heart. Ever since the epidemic and Sarah’s death, any sign of illness in a member of the family brought terror to the girl. She pushed the bedroom door wider and approached the bed. Gently, she pulled the covers down and squinted in the half-light of early morning into the pale face huddled beneath the bedclothes.
‘I’ve been sick again.’
‘Again? What do you mean – again?’
‘It happened yesterday – and the day before. Oh, Poll – ’ Violet’s eyes were terrified – ‘is it the typhoid?’
‘No, no,’ Polly tried valiantly to make her tone sound reassuring, but inwardly she was as frightened as her sister was. ‘You ain’t got a headache, have you?’
‘N-no.’
‘Tummy pains or a cough?’
‘No, no.’
‘And there ain’t a rash?’
Violet shook her head.
Polly bit her lip, staring down at the girl lying wan and lethargic in the bed. ‘You’d better see the doctor ’cos I don’t know what it is.’
‘We can’t afford a doctor, Poll, and I can’t stay off work neither.’ She pulled herself up off the pillows and swung her feet to the floor, but the moment she stood upright she began to retch again. Polly flew to lift the bowl from the washstand and thrust it under her sister’s face. But nothing came up and, after a moment, Violet lay back against the pillows.
‘Get me a bit of dry toast, Poll. Maybe if I just have something in me stomach.’
A memory stirred in Polly’s head. ‘Get me a bit of dry toast, love, will you?’ It was her mother’s voice she was hearing from the past. Polly had been just thirteen and had carried the toast up to her mother’s bedroom before going off to school. And then, only weeks later, Sarah had told all the family that she was to have another baby; the baby that had been Miriam.
And now here was Violet asking for dry toast.
‘Oh no – no!’ Polly whispered as her legs gave way beneath her and she sat down heavily on the end of the bed, staring at Violet.
‘What?’
‘Toast,’ Polly said in a daze. ‘You – you feel you want some toast?’
‘Yes. What’s wrong with that? But if you’re too busy to bring me some, then I’ll—’
‘Oh, Vi, it’s not that. It’s—. Vi, when did you last have your Auntie Rose?’
‘Eh?’ Violet looked startled. ‘I don’t know – weeks ago.’
‘How many?’
Violet shrugged. She wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember, but still unconcerned, whilst Polly’s fear swelled.
‘Vi, has Micky been doing – you know – to you?’
Now the younger girl was puzzled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Oh Lord, Polly thought. She doesn’t know. I should have told her ages ago. If she’s pregnant – and I think she is – it’ll be my fault because I’ve left her in ignorance. Not for the first time since their mother’s death did Polly feel the burden of responsibility heavy on her shoulders.
Quietly and calmly, she explained how babies were made and as her voice faded away, Violet began to cry hysterically. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Oh, Polly, you should have
told me! Micky said it was all right – that I was his girl. He said he’d be careful. I – I didn’t know he meant that. I thought he meant he wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘When, Vi? When did he—?’
Between hiccuping sobs, Violet said, ‘The first time was New Year’s Eve. We was at his place. Everyone else was out in the street, counting down to the New Year. I – I was a bit tipsy . . .’ Her voice faded away.
Polly remembered the night so well. Standing in the dark street with Leo’s arms around her. He’d worked over Christmas and so had the night off. Together they’d watched the fireworks that Bert Fowler was letting off at the end of the street, watching the bright shower of sparks cascading into the night sky and Leo whispering in her ear. ‘I love you, Polly Longden. Happy New Year.’
But now those wonderful memories were tarnished by what Violet was telling her. Whilst Polly had been so happy, Micky Fowler had taken advantage of her naive and innocent sister.
‘The first time? Do you mean you’ve let him do it again since? How many times?’
Fresh tears welled and Violet screwed up her face. ‘Whenever we was alone somewhere. When you went out with Leo and – and Dad was in the pub and – and . . .’
Violet threw herself against the pillow and wept. Stiffly, Polly rose from the bed and went downstairs.
Gone was her delirious happiness of the previous night. Once more she would carry the blame for the tragedy that had befallen the family.
And this time there’d be the shame to bear too.
Twenty-Seven
‘Oh, Mrs Halliday, whatever am I to do?’
Bertha bit her lip, debating whether to tell the distraught girl her own sad little story. Even now the memory of that dreadful day when her grandfather had disowned her was as sharp as if it had happened yesterday. ‘What will yar dad do, love? Will he throw her out?’
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