by Val Wood
Rosalie dropped sixpence into someone’s hat and wished them a happy Christmas and then watched as a group moved off together. An old woman hooked her arm into a girl’s and they walked close together in what seemed like easy companionship. They have each other, she thought, and turned away to go home to dine alone.
Polly opened her eyes to see Sonny Blake asleep in the chair across from her, his head and shoulders lowered on to his chest. She shivered; her hands and feet were numb with cold and she wriggled her toes and shook her fingers to get the circulation moving. She glanced towards the bed and thought that she could not yet believe that it was her mother lying there.
‘Morning!’ Sonny’s voice was husky with sleep. ‘How are you this morning?’
‘Don’t know,’ she muttered. ‘I’m having difficulty in believing what’s happened.’
He nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So am I.’
‘It’s Christmas Day,’ she said flatly. ‘Do you go to church?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Well, sometimes. Do you want to go?’
‘Don’t know,’ she said again. ‘I might. I might ask Mrs Walters to go wi’ me.’
He got up from the chair and stretched. ‘I have to go, Polly.’ He too glanced towards the bed. ‘I’ll come to the funeral. Do you want me to walk with you?’
Her eyes prickled. ‘Yes please,’ she said in a small, childish voice. ‘It’s at ’Northern General Cemetery, ’day after tomorrow.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Paupers’ corner.’
‘I’ll come early. It’s a fair walk; I hope the snow keeps off.’
After he’d left, she wrapped her shawl round her head, closed the door behind her and went off to see Mrs Walters. She lived in another of the courts off High Street in a room which she shared with her daughter, her son-in-law and their four children, including the boy who had been sent to fetch the doctor.
‘I was just coming for you,’ she greeted Polly as she opened the door to her knock. ‘Old Ginny is going to sit wi’ your ma and I thought you could come wi’ me to Holy Trinity. Service will have started and we might be able to pick up a copper or two when folks leave.’
Polly frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Mrs Walters grinned. ‘It’s Christmas! All ’nobs and swells’ll be there this morning and they’ll be that pleased wi’ themselves at being saintly that they’ll give summat to ’poor. I go every Christmas.’
‘Oh!’ Polly said. ‘But don’t you go in?’ She had thought that she would at least kneel down to say a prayer.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘No need. I can say my prayers anywhere and God’ll listen to me wherever I am. He doesn’t allus answer, though,’ she added cynically. ‘If He did I’d be handing out money ‘stead o’ beggin’ for it.’
They waited at the gate along with several others who were on their uppers. The women huddled into threadbare shawls and the men turned up the collars of hand-me-down coats, most of which were green with age.
The bells started to ring and the waiting crowd shuffled forward in anticipation. ‘Here they come,’ Mrs Walters muttered. ‘They’ll shek hands and smile and wish everybody season’s greetings an’ then they’ll all be off to an ’ot dinner and a glass o’ sherry.’ She gave a smirk. ‘But they’ll not enjoy it any more than us, them as are having an ’ot dinner, that is,’ she added, looking round. ‘There’s some here who’ll have nowt more than a bowl o’ soup from ‘soup kitchen.’
She moved forward with the crowd as the congregation began to walk down the path. ‘Happy Christmas, ma’am,’ she whined, holding out her hand. ‘Season’s greetings, sir. Thank you, sir. God bless you, lady.’
Polly followed her and held out her hand too, though she felt ashamed. Never in her life had she begged. Someone slipped a copper into her palm and she bobbed her knee. How humiliating. It wasn’t right, she thought. Why should some have so much and others not enough?
‘That’s it. Come on,’ Mrs Walters rattled the coins in her hand. She hooked her arm into Polly’s. ‘We’ve enough. There’s others here who need it more’n we do. Let’s go home and see how that leg o’ pork’s looking.’
CHAPTER FIVE
It was, as Polly had suspected it would be, a jolly noisy Christmas Day at the house of Mrs Walters and her family. The children were very excited, because someone had given their father a Christmas tree. ‘I’m a cab driver,’ Bob told Polly, ‘and I took this young woman to Anlaby. She said she had a tree and would I like it cos she couldn’t dress it or celebrate Christmas cos her ma had just died.’
Polly realized that he didn’t know about her own mother or he probably wouldn’t have mentioned it. She saw his wife nudge him sharply in the ribs and thought that he must have been at work when Mrs Walters told her daughter why she had invited Polly to share their Christmas dinner. For his sake, she decided not to say anything: he was a decent hardworking man and clearly delighted at his good fortune at being able to give his family an unexpected treat.
The children had cut up pieces of white paper to look like snowflakes and scattered them over the tree, which just touched the low ceiling. Their grandmother had found a piece of red flannel and they’d draped that round the zinc pail which held the trunk.
‘It’s better than a present,’ one of the children said, ‘cos we can all look at it, and we can sniff at it as well. It smells’ – he wrinkled his nose – ‘sort of like ’country, all fresh and clean.’
‘It does,’ Polly agreed. The pine scent was the first thing she had noticed when she came in. That and the mouth-watering aroma of the roasting pork. ‘It’s lovely. I’ve never seen one before. Not inside.’
The children’s other grandmother, Granny Porter, arrived and was given the same story. ‘Fancy giving away a tree,’ she commented. ‘We’ll feel just like ’queen. She has one every year,’ she said knowledgeably, accepting a glass of ale from her daughter-in-law. Three other relatives arrived, so there were twelve of them to share the pork. Each of them had brought something to add to the feast. One produced apples to make apple sauce, another a bag of chestnuts, and a fellow cab driver surreptitiously took a small bottle of rum out of his coat pocket. He winked as he handed it over. ‘For ‘plum pudding,’ he said. ‘It’ll not be missed.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Bob said to him. ‘I don’t want to know about ill-gotten gains. I’ll have a little nip, though,’ he added, grinning, ‘just to mek sure it’s palatable.’
There wasn’t room for all of them round the table so the children sat on the floor with their plates on their knees and Polly said that she too would sit on the floor. She took the sixpence from her pocket, the one she was going to give to Mrs Walters, and handed it to her daughter Nellie. ‘Will you put it in ’pudding?’ she said quietly. ‘I know you’re supposed to mix it in when you mek it, but I don’t think it matters and it might bring somebody luck.’
‘Why, bless you, I will.’ Nellie was red-faced and sweaty with cooking over the fire, but she beamed at Polly. ‘I’ll push it in afore I pour ’rum over. You just might win it back.’
Polly sat in a corner with her back to the wall to eat her dinner. She was rather overwhelmed by the noise and hilarity. She had never been part of a big family. It had always been just her and her mother, but now she could see that being amongst family could be a comfort in a time of sorrow. The pork was shared out between them so there wasn’t a huge amount each, but the apple sauce and the huge mound of potatoes, carrots and turnip more than made up for the small portion of meat. Polly drooled. She had never eaten such a feast. The flesh was tender and succulent and they were all given a small piece of crisp crackling which they bit and sucked on, exclaiming at the flavour.
Then it was time for the plum pudding, which Nellie said had been steaming for three days. There were carrots and potato in the pudding to make up for the lack of fruit; there was also treacle and nutmeg and a good soaking of rum in the sauce and they all licked their lips in enjoyment. Then Polly put her spoon
in her dish to scoop up the last mouthful and scraped up the sixpence. She gave a gasp and put her hand to her mouth.
‘I’ve got ’sixpence!’ she said in embarrassment. ‘I should give it back.’
‘No, it’s yours, honey,’ Mrs Walters told her. ‘You were meant to have it. Any road, your need is greater than ours.’ She gave her a lop-sided and gap-toothed smile. ‘Mek a wish and spend it well.’
The noise grew greater and the children shouted and screamed as they chased each other round the room. The adults told them to shut up, but they too were laughing and joking and eventually Polly developed a headache and began to feel sick as the large amount of food she had consumed churned in her stomach.
‘I’m going home,’ she whispered to Mrs Walters, who was sipping her third gin. ‘I need to be with my ma.’
The old lady nodded. ‘You do what you must, m’dear. Your life is your own and you’re behodden to nobody.’ She lifted her glass to Polly. ‘Good luck to you.’
Rosalie stood staring out of the sitting room window. She had only picked at her luncheon, though the goose was cooked to perfection and the accompaniments – the roast potatoes, the green peas, tender slivers of braised carrots, and sprouts tossed with butter and almonds – were beautifully served in her mother’s best china. There had been potted chicken liver served with thin toast to start with, and Cook had baked a ham, studded it with cloves and glazed it with honey. Rosalie had sat and gazed at the table full of food in front of her and thought it quite excessive.
‘Should I open a bottle of wine, Miss Rosalie?’ Martha had asked. ‘Just one glass would mebbe buck you up.’
Rosalie had considered. Normally she only drank water at mealtimes, though occasionally she would have half a glass of wine to keep her mother company. If she said yes, then Martha and Cook would enjoy finishing off the bottle.
‘Just a small glass of claret,’ she said. ‘And you and Cook can have the rest with your luncheon, or use it for sauce.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Martha said. ‘I think Cook’s got some brandy for ’plum pudding.’
‘Drink it then,’ she said. ‘Don’t waste it.’
What shall I do now? she thought, looking down at the empty street. There was no one about; the museum opposite was shuttered, its doors firmly closed. Everyone will be home, I expect, finishing luncheon, opening presents or chatting to family and friends. Then she peered forward; there was someone, a girl, walking alone just below her, wrapped in a shawl and kicking at the heaps of snow which were piled at the side of the pavement.
Impulsively Rosalie knocked on the glass. The girl looked up. She was probably her own age, Rosalie thought, or maybe younger. She wasn’t very tall and only slightly built. She put her head on one side as if asking why Rosalie had knocked. Why did I, Rosalie wondered. Am I so desperate for contact with another human being? She lifted her hand and waved.
The girl stopped for a moment, putting her hand hesitantly to her mouth, and then she waved back before continuing on her way. Rosalie turned away from the window and sat by the fire; she picked up a book but after a few minutes put it down again. She hadn’t been upstairs to sit by her mother since breakfast and Mrs Dawson had been called away last evening to visit a new mother.
‘She needs me more than you do, Miss Kingston,’ she had said. ‘I’m a midwife, after all. But I’ll come to ’funeral.’
‘I will quite understand if you can’t come,’ Rosalie had said dully. ‘Please don’t be concerned. You were here when you were needed.’
Reluctantly she climbed the stairs to her mother’s room. ‘Please come soon, Papa,’ she breathed. ‘I cannot manage this alone.’ It was only two days since her mother’s death; she had yet to attend the funeral but she felt that the world she had known was gone for ever. She was living in a vacuum, her life held by a restraining leash, the unknown future bleak and comfortless.
The day of the funerals was bitterly cold, an avenging biting chill that cut through to the marrow. ‘Too cold for snow,’ Mrs Fellowes said when, wrapped in furs, she arrived with her husband to accompany Rosalie from the house. ‘You must wrap up warm, my dear. It will be very cold by the graveside.’
Rosalie felt faint. She had never been to a funeral before and was sick with apprehension. ‘Must I go?’ she whispered. ‘Would it be wrong if I didn’t?’
Mrs Fellowes drew in a breath. ‘Of course you must! Whatever would people think if you did not?’
‘She doesn’t have to,’ Mr Fellowes interrupted. ‘What does it matter what people think? She’s only young, and I can recall a time when women never went to funerals but always stayed at home.’
Mrs Fellowes was silenced for a moment and then reluctantly agreed that he was right. ‘But it’s different now,’ she said, ‘and it is her mother, after all. There should be a member of the family there.’
‘Yes,’ Rosalie said faintly. ‘Of course. I’ll get my coat.’
Martha was waiting in the hall with Rosalie’s coat and wrap. ‘Me and Cook’ll be here when you get back, Miss Rosalie. We’ll have a hot drink ready for you and we’ve prepared refreshments in case anybody else comes back.’
Rosalie nodded. She couldn’t speak. She felt that her breath was gone from her and besides, she had nothing to say. She hoped that no one would come back to the house, for she couldn’t possibly indulge in polite conversation. All she wanted to do was climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Polly was full of anger. Why, she kept thinking. ‘Why? Why? Why?’ Why should it happen to my ma? She’s never done owt to harm anybody. She was allus full of life and merriment. And now she’s gone. Gone and left me on my own. She clasped her fingers together so tightly that they hurt. It’s not fair.
She stifled a sob as Sonny took her arm and led her towards the funeral cart. There were no flowers, but Polly had laid her mother’s one and only hat on top of the coffin. Her mother had bought it second hand from Rena’s shop in the days when Rena sold used clothing, before she started to sell only the latest fashions. The hat was a riot of feathers, fruit and flowers, and Ida said it cheered her up whenever she brought it out of the cupboard.
‘Nice touch, that,’ Sonny said kindly. ‘I remember Ida was wearing that hat the first time I met her.’
‘When was that?’ Polly could hardly recall a time when Sonny wasn’t around.
‘Eight years ago.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t you remember? You were there; you’d be seven ... eight? It was summer and I’d gone to Pearson Park with some friends. They’d taken me out to celebrate my birthday. I was eighteen. We’d had a few drinks and eyed up some ladies.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And then I saw Ida in that hat and made a comment about it. We sort of stayed together for the rest of the afternoon.’
‘Yeh!’ Polly said. ‘I do remember now. You gave me a humbug and it stuck to my teeth.’
Mrs Walters had joined them and she bent to whisper in Polly’s ear.
‘Don’t know if I’ll mek it all ’way there,’ she croaked. ‘My rheumatics are playing me up today and this cold weather don’t help, but I’ll come as far as I can.’
They rattled up the High Street, the cart juddering on the cobbles. People in the street stopped as they went by; men doffed their caps and women stood silently, their gossip stilled until the small procession had passed. They crossed into Lowgate and then cut to Silver Street and Whitefriargate, and here again shoppers and business people paused in their rush and chatter until they had passed by. They continued over Monument Bridge, which Polly’s mother had always called by its old name of Junction Bridge. Fortunately the swing bridge was closed to river traffic this morning; had it not been they would have had a long delay as the lock gates below them in Princes Dock allowed the waters of the Humber, and the many large vessels waiting on it, free passage to Queen’s Dock, one of the largest docks in the country. Once across, they proceeded northwards along Prospect Street towards the edge of the town.
Polly glanced down Albion Street,
where the elite of the town lived. She had walked along it after leaving Mrs Walters’ house on Christmas Day, not wanting to go home immediately as she had known the night would drag, wandering aimlessly into areas that she didn’t know. She had passed the Hull Royal Infirmary as they were doing now and had crossed over into Albion Street to see the fine houses and the Royal Institution and museum, which she had been told held a whale and a turtle that had been found alive on the banks of the Humber.
The snow here had been thick, she supposed because few people had walked on it, and she had kicked at it with her boots, annoyed because it hadn’t turned to icy slush as it had in High Street. Someone knocked on a window and for a moment she thought they were admonishing her. Then she saw a fair-haired girl looking out of one of the houses. She stopped and stared; the girl was dressed sombrely in dark clothing, and Polly was mystified. If I lived here and had plenty of money I’d wear bright clothes, red or pink and blue. I wouldn’t wear dark like she’s doing.
The girl had waved, but she didn’t smile, and Polly, after a momentary hesitation, had waved back before walking on. She’d turned back to look again, but the figure at the window had gone.
Now she glanced down the street as they passed and saw that there was a funeral carriage outside one of the houses. Two black horses were harnessed to it and they stamped their feet and snorted, tossing the black plumes attached to their headbands as they shook their heads.
Oh well, Polly sighed. Everybody has sorrow, even them wi’ plenty of money, but at least they’ll ride to ‘cemetery and not have to walk.
‘Can we leave now?’ Rosalie said, coming back into the drawing room. She was dressed in her outdoor clothes and wanting to get the day over and done with. ‘Is it time?’
