‘Oh no,’ she breathed and sat down suddenly. Her legs, still weak from her own illness, gave way beneath her. She stared at the doctor with wide, frightened eyes. ‘There’s – there’s Jacob, but the infection . . . ?’
‘I think it’s a risk you’ll have to take, my dear.’
‘I – I’ll send word to Mrs Thorpe’s.’
As the doctor picked up his bag, he said, ‘He’s no longer delirious, Polly, so whatever he says to you now, you can believe it. He’s – er – asking to see Leo Halliday.’
‘Leo?’ Polly was startled.
‘Yes. He asked specifically if I would ask Mrs Halliday if Leo would come to see him.’
He left by the front door leaving Polly, open-mouthed, gaping after him.
Bertha, arriving only moments after the doctor’s departure, found her still sitting in the chair by the fire, gazing into space. ‘Poll? What is it?’
‘He – Roland – has asked to see Leo.’
Bertha nodded. ‘I know. Dr Fenwick’s just told me. I passed him on my way in.’ She paused and searched Polly’s face. ‘Do you want me to ask him to come?’
‘I – I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want Leo to catch it, but . . .’
‘Leo’s stronger now and they’ve been going down like flies with it at the station. I don’t think that’ll worry him, but I think he’ll wonder what Roland wants.’
‘So do I,’ Polly said shortly.
Selina brought Jacob home at dinnertime, wide-eyed and frightened. He’d now been away from home for over two weeks and whilst either Selina or Albie had brought him to the door every evening to ask first his father how his mother was and then, recently, to ask her after Roland, he’d never been allowed to come into the house. But Selina had explained to him very gently that his father was seriously ill and that he must be a brave boy and go up to see him.
‘Mam,’ he said, coming to stand beside her knee and leaning his head on her shoulder, ‘is Daddy – is he going to die?’
Polly took a deep breath and realized that she should not lie to her son. He was a solemn four year old who’d already been surrounded by grown-ups talking of death almost daily. As she stroked his hair, Polly breathed a sigh of great sadness and yet it was tinged with relief. There was sadness because Jacob would now never get to know his father and yet there was relief too that the young child would not suffer the deep grief and desolation that so many children had experienced in losing a dearly loved father.
‘He’s very, very poorly, Jacob. I want you to go into the bedroom and stand near the door so he can see you. Can you do that, d’you think?’
The boy nodded and Polly took him by the hand and led him upstairs.
Roland was calmer than he’d been since the illness had struck. Beads of sweat still stood out on his forehead, but he was no longer delirious. His breathing was laboured and painful, but he turned his head to look at his son, a ghost of a smile lingered on his cracked lips.
‘Look after your mam, Jacob. Be a good boy for her.’ The effort to speak brought on a fit of coughing that racked his body. Jacob pulled his hand from his mother’s grasp, turned and ran down the stairs.
‘Jacob . . .’ Polly started after him but a noise from the bed made her turn back.
‘Let – him – go,’ Roland gasped out between coughs. ‘The sickroom – is no place for a boy.’
At last the spasm subsided and Roland lay back against the pillows, exhausted and with his eyes closed.
Polly moved to the bedside and began to sponge his face. ‘I’m so sorry, Polly, for how I behaved when I came home. It was – unforgivable.’
‘Nothing’s unforgivable, Roland dear. Don’t fret. Just rest.’
‘I can’t rest. I mustn’t. There are things I need to say – to do. I must see Leo. Why doesn’t he come?’
He was becoming distressed again and Polly knew she had no choice but to give way to him. ‘But why d’you want to see him, Roland?’ She didn’t add: Him of all people?
‘I want to see him, Polly. Please, indulge me in this one thing. I’m begging you.’
‘All right. I’ll send for him, if you’ll try to rest.’
He was calmer at once, as if he knew she would keep her promise and that Leo would come. She bathed him again and plumped his pillows before going downstairs. Jacob was sitting on Selina’s lap, tears running down his face.
‘I thought I should wait, but I’ll take him home, if you think it best, Polly.’
Polly tried to smile at her son as she said softly to Selina, ‘I think it’d be best. Thank you.’
‘Come along, my poppet. Let’s go and see Uncle Albie on his stall. He might let you help him for a while.’ She smiled at Polly. ‘He likes helping at the market.’
Polly nodded, her throat too full to speak. Was he going to follow in his Uncle Eddie’s footsteps and be a market trader? She just hoped that he wouldn’t fall in with a bad lot like Eddie, but with Albie Thorpe as his mentor that was unlikely.
The house was quiet when they’d gone – unnaturally so. Polly was restless. There was nothing else she could do for Roland except bathe him and give him fluids. Her own strength was returning gradually, but she was overwhelmed with fear and guilt. She’d brought the infection into their home and, in his weakened state, Roland had succumbed to it. And now he was going to die. The doctor had implied as much. And then there was Roland’s insistence that he wanted to see Leo.
Why? What on earth did he want to say to him?
There was a soft knock at the door and Leo was standing there. ‘Is it true? Is Roland asking to see me?’
She nodded and held the door open for him to enter. ‘He’s in the little bedroom at the back. It’s – it’s where he was sleeping whilst I was ill and he’s been too ill to move him back to the front room.’ Her voice broke. She covered her face with her hands and swayed.
Leo grasped her arms to steady her, but she shook him off. ‘No, no, don’t,’ she whispered, almost as if she was afraid Roland might suddenly appear downstairs and see them together. ‘Just – just go up to him. See what he wants. I’ll wait here.’
She sat down and it seemed an age before Leo appeared again. She’d heard the low murmur of their voices from the room above, but she’d not been able to hear what was being said.
When Leo came back into the kitchen, she twisted round to ask, ‘What did he say? What did he want?’
Leo sat down. ‘I’m not going to tell you everything, Poll. Not now. Maybe one day I will, but not now. It wouldn’t be right. Suffice to say two things: one, we’ve made our peace and two, he’s asked me to stay here with you until – ’ he pulled in a deep breath – ‘until the end.’
Polly gave a sob and covered her mouth with her hand, staring at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘It’s all my fault,’ she gulped. ‘If I hadn’t been so stubborn about keeping on me job, I wouldn’t have caught the flu and he wouldn’t have got it neither.’
‘Poll, you have to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens. The infection’s been rife through the city. Unless you both – all three of you, if it comes to that – locked yourselves away in isolation for several months, you couldn’t have escaped it. Now,’ he said more firmly, ‘who is there who’d like to see him? Jacob’s been, hasn’t he?’
Polly nodded.
‘What about his family?’
‘There’s no one.’
‘Your family then? They’re fond of him, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but they might not want to because of catching it.’
But Polly was wrong: they all came. Trooping up to the bedroom and coming down again solemn-faced or in tears like Violet and Miriam. Even Micky came, bringing a scared Michael. But the seven-year-old went upstairs, clinging to his dad’s hand.
It was as if Roland had waited to see them all; he’d hung on to say whatever he’d wanted to say to Leo and now it was left to Polly to sit by his bedside and hold his hand until peace came to him. She was the only one he
wanted in the room, though he was safe in the knowledge that Leo was downstairs ready to help Polly.
He couldn’t talk very much; already he was exhausted and the telltale rattle had begun in his throat. Hearing it, Polly clung to his hand, willing him to fight, willing him to get better. But the brave soldier – the gentle man who should never have gone to war – could not win this battle. At three o’clock in the morning he slipped quietly away.
Polly went downstairs and hearing the door opening, Leo stood up and held his arms out to her in comfort. Without a moment’s hesitation she went to him and allowed him to enfold her into his strong embrace. She laid her head against his shoulder and wept.
Sixty-Eight
More people attended Roland’s funeral than Polly had expected. Her family were all there, of course, but she had not thought that Nelly and Ida and several others from the factory would attend. But they all remembered him as a well-liked and respected foreman – and latterly manager – who’d always treated them fairly and even stood up to the employers on their behalf on occasion. They’d missed Roland when he’d volunteered, for his place had been taken by Harry Barnes, a boss’s man, as Nelly called him, who’d made the workers’ lives a misery.
Selina and Albie came to take care of Jacob, and even the Fowler family came, and several from the street where Roland had lived all his life made up the congregation. There were three men, still in uniform, who’d served at the Front with Roland. Somehow they’d heard of his death and had travelled from London and Liverpool to attend. Polly couldn’t think how they’d got to know, until one of them said that Leo had got in touch with them. Nancy Miller and Celia Broughton were there too. Though neither of them had known Roland, they came to support Polly and Jacob. And right at the back of the church Polly noticed Bertha, Seth and Leo slipping into a pew at the last moment.
After the interment in a chilly, windswept cemetery, they returned home, where Polly, with Violet’s help, had laid on a spread for anyone who came back to the house. It seemed as if most of them had, relishing the prospect of a warming cup of tea and a bite to eat. They crowded into the terraced house, standing with cup and plate balanced in their hands whilst they chatted in desultory tones.
‘He was such a good son to that mother of his. God rest her soul,’ Nelly Rawdon said, clasping Polly’s cold hand in hers. ‘But she didn’t deserve such devotion. She was a miserable old bat, though I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’
‘And you’ve got a lovely son to remember him by.’ Ida nodded and then added, with deceptive nonchalance, ‘But I ’spect you won’t be on your own forever. Pretty young widow like you.’ She glanced around Polly’s front room as if searching for a particular young man.
‘Ida,’ Nelly chided warningly. ‘This ain’t the time nor the place for your speculations.’
Polly smiled weakly and vowed silently that no one should ever hear a word spoken against Roland and certainly not from her lips. The man who’d come home from the war had not been the real Roland and she would never tell anyone what had happened behind the lace curtains of their home. Only Leo knew and she wanted it to stay that way.
‘Michael, take Jacob upstairs and play with him would you? There’s a love,’ Violet, handing round sandwiches and cakes, said, ‘I’ll fetch you down when everyone’s gone.’
‘But, Mam, we’re hungry,’ the boy began.
‘Go on with you,’ Violet pushed him towards the stairs. ‘There’ll be plenty left for you and Jacob, I promise. Now take the little lad out of this.’
‘Do as yer mam ses, Michael,’ Micky said. ‘And I’ll take you and Jacob to the park later.’
‘Can we play football, Uncle Micky?’ Jacob piped up and when promised they could, both boys clattered up the stairs.
‘What fine boys they are, Micky,’ Ida said, sidling up to him. ‘You must be so proud of your son.’ There was a definite accent on the word your, but Micky only grinned and assured her that he certainly was and of his little wife, who’d coped so magnificently whilst he’d been away fighting.
Ida began to say something, but Nelly broke in saying loudly, ‘Aye, she were a little trooper. Worked like a good ’un, she did at the factory, even though she’d been used to better things in that fancy shop in the High Street. But for all that, she was soon one of us, weren’t she, Ida?’ Nelly dug a sharp elbow into Ida’s ribs. ‘Vi could stand up to old misery guts, Harry Barnes, even better than us lot who’ve been there years. She’s a way with her, all right.’
Ida was nodding vigorously. ‘Aye, she certainly had, specially with all the . . .’
‘Right, Ida Norton, time you and me was going home.’ Nelly almost snatched the plate out of Ida’s hand and grasped her arm in one smooth movement. ‘Bye, Micky. Glad to see you back, lad, safe an’ sound. Now, don’t you go catching this flu, will yer?’
Micky winked at Nelly and grinned. He was fully aware of the tales that Ida Norton would have liked to tell him about Violet’s antics whilst he’d been away. He’d heard them all from his dad or the fellers in the pub. But he didn’t care. He’d been to hell and back in the trenches and he’d survived without serious injury. Whatever Vi had been up to in his absence didn’t unduly worry him; she was still here waiting for him and as ready and willing for his loving as she’d ever been.
He looked across the room at Polly. At her white, drawn face and thought yet again how lovely she was and how life had dealt her a rough deal. He’d never understood why she’d married Roland, good man though he’d been, but now maybe she’d have a chance at real happiness given a decent interval. He hoped so. Deep in his heart, he still loved her and he always would, but that was a secret that only he and Polly shared. But he’d watch out for her; he would always watch out for her.
When they’d all gone except for Violet, Micky and Leo, Polly loaded two plates with sandwiches and cakes and called the boys down.
‘I’d best be going too, Poll.’ Leo put his hands on her shoulders as footsteps clattered down the stairs. ‘If there’s anything I can do – anything at all – just let me know. Promise, now.’
Polly nodded. ‘I will and – and thank you, Leo.’
As the front door closed behind him, Violet said softly, ‘He still loves you, you know. I don’t think he’s ever stopped.’
‘Not now, Vi,’ Polly whispered. ‘Now’s not the time.’
It seemed to those around her, to those who loved and cared about her, that it was never going to be the right time for Polly to face up to the love that still existed between herself and Leo.
Roland’s will, made before he’d left for the Front, had left all his worldly goods to Polly. Her name was now on the rent book and she had a little money in the bank. But a week after Roland’s funeral she returned to school and the job she loved. She buried herself in work and caring for Jacob.
She saw little of Leo and that was how she wanted it. The riots and their consequences had faded into the past. Her father had regained his job and was holding on to it even after the war had ended, for many of those who’d enlisted had not returned or had come back so badly maimed they could not take up their old employment. And the bitter memories were fading, if not quite forgotten. That time was rarely spoken of now, for a greater, more widespread catastrophe had overtaken their city, one that had left countless families mourning loved ones.
Even Polly had forgiven Leo for his part in her father’s arrest and imprisonment and, it seemed, so too had William.
In midsummer of 1919 he came to Polly’s home one evening after work.
‘Hello, Dad,’ she said, surprised to see him on the doorstep. Her face clouded. ‘Something wrong?’
‘Now, lass, why would you always be thinking sum-mat’s wrong?’
She smiled wryly. ‘Well, I’m not very often honoured by a visit from you without an invitation, am I? Are Stevie and Miriam all right?’
‘They’re fine. And Miriam’s turning into a wonderful little housewife. She looks after us a treat
.’ He smiled slowly at her. ‘Almost as good as you did, Poll.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she’s better than ever I was.’
William shook his head and said seriously, ‘No, Poll, no one could have done a better job than you – not even your poor mam, God rest her soul. I never realized it at the time, but you had such a heavy burden to bear and I didn’t help you like I could have done – like I should have done. I wasn’t a very good dad, Poll, I know that. Yar mam always kept me on the straight and narrow, but after we lost her, well, I went a bit wild. You did your best, but no one could have expected a slip of a girl to keep me in check.’ He looked straight at her and held her gaze. ‘What I’m trying to say to you, love, is that whatever happened to me was me own fault. It wasn’t yours and – it wasn’t Leo’s neither. The lad was only doing what he had to: his duty. It’s time to move on. It’s time you made it up with him, Poll.’ He leaned across the table towards her. ‘D’you know summat, lass, that lad has never had another girl. Not even after you upped and married Roland. He’s always loved you – and he still does. And – ’ he leant back in the chair again – ‘if I’m not mistaken, you still love him.’
As she opened her mouth to speak he put up his hand, ‘And don’t try to deny it, Poll, ’cos I won’t believe you and neither will anyone else who’s got eyes in their heads.’
Quietly, she said, ‘I wasn’t going to, Dad, but it’s not even six months since Roland died and – and . . .’ Her head drooped.
‘And?’
Hoarsely, she whispered, ‘I can’t stop blaming myself for Roland’s death.’
‘Eh? What on earth d’you mean? He died of the flu, like a good many more.’
‘He caught the flu from me, Dad. I brought it into this house – to a man weakened by the war – and he caught it from me.’
‘Oh, Polly, Polly, why must you go on blaming yourself for everything? It wasn’t your fault you caught flu and he got it too. He could have got it anywhere.’
Forgive and Forget Page 37
