Polly's Angel (19 page)

Someone else came through the swing doors and stopped short just behind Polly's packages. It was Ivan, also heavily laden, saying in a plaintive voice: ‘Hey, our Poll, wharrabout that cup o' tea you said we'd have, eh? And them iced buns, an' all? It's hours an' hours since me dinner an now I'm that hungry me belly thinks me throat's been cut!'

Polly turned and surveyed her small brother. He was right, she had promised him tea and a bun if he came Christmas shopping with her, and he had been remarkably patient for a ten-year-old, waiting whilst she searched the big store for suitable presents for everyone. He had not suggested that they tried elsewhere either, knowing as he did that Polly, who worked part-time at Blackler's on a Saturday, got a staff discount which meant that she could buy the best without having to pay top prices. During the week she was an office junior in a very large firm of accountants on Sir Thomas Street, and on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday she went to evening classes to learn shorthand and typewriting, so no one could have said that Polly did not work hard. What was more, she gave Ivan tuppence a week pocket money, so she felt entitled to ask for help from him now and then.

‘Oh aye,' she said vaguely now, however. ‘But where'll we go, Ivan? It looks to me as if the whole world and his wife are out Christmas shoppin' this afternoon, and I don't fancy fightin' me way into one of the posh teashops and then havin' to wait hours to get served; How about if we go straight home and I make you a nice butty and a cuppa?'

She hefted her parcels again but Ivan was shaking his head. ‘No, Poll,' he said obstinately. ‘You
said
we'd go to a teashop, an' I've gorra thirst on me that can't wait till we's home. Can't we go to Cooper's, on Church Street? They do lovely cakes an' buns . . . doughnuts, an' all.'

Polly thought about reminding Ivan that there was a war on, but she had had it said to her so often now, that it was beginning to lose a good deal of its menace. Back in September, when war had been declared, they had all been very frightened indeed; Mammy had talked about going back to Dublin and Martin had joined the Navy whilst Bev, who had been about to go back to university, had thrown it all up and joined the Air Force. Only there had been a hold-up – too many young men trying to join the forces all at the same time, Peader had said wisely – and though Martin had got a ship and left his nice new house and Monica – quite quickly – Bev was still mooching around at home, neither one thing nor the other, he said gloomily, waiting for his papers to arrive.

‘Poll? Aw, c'mon, it's only fair, I've done what you said, haven't I?'

Polly, who fancied a cup of tea herself, capitulated. ‘You're right, Ivan me boy,' she said, turning in the direction of Church Street. ‘We'll go to Cooper's – why not? Mammy won't be home yet, and Daddy will be havin' a nice sit-down before he puts the kettle over the fire and the spuds on to boil. Anyway, we'll probably have to walk home – look at the tram queues!'

‘I don't mind walkin' if I've had me tea first,' Ivan said equably. ‘And you're used to walkin', ain't you, Poll? You often walk to work an' back when you want to save your tram fare.'

‘That's right,' Polly admitted. ‘But I'm not usually all hung about wit' parcels, like a bleedin' Christmas tree. And don't tell the mammy I swore,' she added hastily, ‘or you'll not have one iced bun, let alone a doughnut!'

‘It's funny how cross the mammy gets over swearin', ain't it, Poll?' Ivan enquired, trudging along beside her. He was wearing a stiff navy coat much too big for him, grey socks which hung wrinkled around his ankles where they tended to end up if he forgot to put on his garters, and a large checked cap. When war was declared Blackler's had decided to do a half-price sale and the O'Bradys had been at the head of the queue which had formed on the first morning, thanks to Polly's advance information, so Ivan was now wearing on his back clothing which, his mammy had said gloomily, might have to last him for several years if the shortages being predicted came to pass.

‘Swearing's wrong,' Polly said judiciously. ‘Only what with the war, an' all, Ivan, us young folks have to relieve our feelings somehow. Only not in front of mammies and daddies,' she added. ‘Come on, best foot forward!'

The pair of them turned into Church Street and headed for Cooper's, but before they had reached that haven of tea and buns, Ivan gave a squeak. ‘Polly, you ‘member that feller Mammy telled you never to go out with again? The feller wi' the yaller hair? That's him, ain't it?'

Polly stopped short and followed the direction of his pointing finger. Ahead of them, a tall figure strode jauntily along the pavement, a figure topped with a good deal of wheat-coloured hair, though some of it was hidden beneath a sailor's hat.

‘I think you're right, so I do,' Polly said, suddenly beginning to snatch the parcels from her young brother's arms. ‘Yes, I'm sure it's Sunny . . . Oh, give me the stuff you're holdin', Ivan, and then you run and stop him for me! 'Cos I can't get up any real speed wit' all these bleedin' packages in me arms!'

‘Oh! But Mammy said—' Ivan began, only to be abruptly cut short.

‘When Mammy said that I was only a kid, and there wasn't a war on! He's in uniform – a sailor's uniform – if I don't stop him now I might never see him again! Run, Ivan, there's a good feller!'

Ivan accordingly dumped the rest of his parcels in Polly's arms and set off at a canter along the crowded pavement, dodging the people and shouting apologies as he went. Polly, with bumping heart, leaned against the nearest shop window and prayed that Sunny would not suddenly disappear as abruptly as he had done over two years ago, after the row with her mammy.

He had not disappeared at first, of course. Despite her promises, she could not simply shut her eyes to the tall, yellow-topped figure which lounged outside the school, popped up when she was doing Mammy's messages, appeared in church, head devoutly bent, eyes fixed burningly upon hers. But although she shed many tears over it, she had been true to her promise. Not a word had he got out of her for all his pleadings, and whenever possible she had avoided him altogether. And then one day she realised that she had not seen him for a week . . . two . . . three. She had asked her friend Alice to find out what had happened to Sunny Andersen and after a while, Alice had reported back that he had left the ‘Pool. No, she did not know where he had gone, but she had been told that he and his mother had moved out of the old house. Did Polly want Alice to go round and ask the people who lived there where the Andersens had gone?

But Polly's conscience, which had been extremely uneasy over her tentative enquiries, had made it clear that asking for news of his whereabouts from his old school pals was one thing, cross-questioning the neighbours quite another. So Polly said no, it didn't matter, that it was best left, and Alice, greatly relieved – for she had never thought Sunny a good influence on her friend – had put the whole matter of Sunny's whereabouts out of her mind.

But right now Polly could see Ivan haring along the pavement and the yellow head bobbing along, the distance between the two lessening, and it occurred to her that after so long, the feeling between herself and Sunny must have changed. In the time since her mammy had put a stop to their friendship Sunny would undoubtedly have had several other girlfriends. And she had been friendly with several boys, though she knew that none of them had come anywhere near being as good a friend as Sunny had once been. So what would happen when they met up again? Would they seem like two strangers, or would they fall immediately into the happy friendship – no, it had been warmer than mere friendship – which they had once shared?

But it seemed she was not to find out, for suddenly she realised that Ivan had turned round and was heading back towards her – and that the yellow head in the jaunty sailor's hat had disappeared.

‘The bloody feller must have gone down a side street, or into one of the perishin' shops,' Ivan panted, coming up to her once more and beginning to reclaim his parcels. ‘Cripes, I never run so hard before . . . not through a crowd o' people doin' their Christmas shoppin', that is. Sorry, Polly, but I did me best.'

‘So you did, Ivan,' Polly said, realising that she was not sure whether to be glad or sorry that her brother had not caught up with her old friend. ‘Oh well, mebbe it weren't him, after all. But I've not forgot me promise and after all that runnin' I reckon you deserve an ice as well as a couple o' cakes. Let's get into Cooper's and bag a table before they're all taken.'

But seeing that glimpse of someone who might well have been Sunny Andersen had definitely started something so far as Polly was concerned. She ate an ice and two doughnuts and drank several cups of tea and she laughed and joked with Ivan and marvelled at his ability to eat her under the table, but all the time she was wondering, wondering. She was almost sure that it was Sunny she had seen which meant that he had come back to Liverpool, even though, since he was in uniform, this might well be only a flying visit. And she was fifteen, going on sixteen – surely that was old enough to meet up with a young man who had once been her good friend? She had promised her parents that she would avoid Sunny, have nothing to do with him, but she had only been thirteen then, and in school. Now she was working, earning her own living. That must mean, surely, that she could choose her own friends?

‘Poll, is there another cup o' tea in that pot?' Ivan suddenly shouted, his face only inches from hers. ‘Dear God, girl, is it deaf you're goin' now you're gettin' old? Because I've asked you ten times if I've asked you once!'

‘Oh . . . sorry, I was just thinkin',' Polly excused herself, reaching for the pot and taking off the round brown lid. ‘I'll get the waitress to bring some more water, then we can both have another cup.'

‘I t'ought you must be thinkin' about that Sunny feller, moonin' across the table wit' a soppy smile on your 'ole face,' Ivan observed, when the waitress had supplied them with another jug of hot water. ‘And I ‘membered Mammy hadn't liked him overmuch. Mebbe I shouldn't have chased him for you, Poll.'

‘It's ages since Mammy said she didn't like him,' Polly said, pouring tea. ‘Anyway, it probably wasn't him at all – you know what it's like when you t'ink you know someone – when you catch them up it's always someone else altogether. Thanks for tryin', though, Ivan. You're a good little feller, so you are.'

‘Tha's okay,' Ivan said magnanimously. He smiled hopefully. ‘D'you want the last doughnut, Poll? Only there's a chink left in me belly just about the size o' that doughnut!'

Tad was saying goodbye to Dublin and the life he had known there, standing on the station platform and waiting to board the train which would take him across the water to join up. He looked wistfully at Angela as they stood in the pale wintry sunshine, hand in hand and neither far from tears, because their friendship had become a precious thing to them and they both, he thought, dreaded the separation to come. But for him there was the consolation of seeing Polly again – a Polly almost full grown and not the ten-year-old who had left Dublin almost six years ago – whereas for Angela there was nothing like that to look forward to. She would be terribly lonely – though he hoped that she might make more girlfriends, for he had always been aware of her lack of them. Polly, he also remembered, had had a
grosh
of girlfriends as well as a great many young fellers like himself, but that had been Polly the child, of course. He could not imagine her as a young woman, but he reflected that he could once have said the same of Angela, who had only been a kid, really, when they had first met. Now she was a beautiful, rather serious girl, seventeen years old and she had never wavered in her affection for him. Polly, on the other hand, he reminded himself sternly, had not just wavered, she had taken up with some English feller, and though she scarcely ever mentioned him now, Tad had not forgotten Sunny Andersen, even if she had. So he would meet Polly, he hoped, and renew their friendship, but it would not – could not – be the same sort of friendship that he shared with Angela, for he and Angela meant to get married one of these fine days, when they were old enough and when he could afford it, of course.

Affording it might not have been all that far away either, had it not been for the war, for in the years since he had joined Barnes's garage Tad had become a first-rate mechanic. What was more, Mr Barnes told anyone who would listen that Tad had flair. ‘He ought to be workin' wit' a racin' team, 'cos there's no one in Dublin can mend a puncture faster, and he's the quickest worker I've ever had on the oil changes. But there you are, it's happy he is wit' us, thank the good Lord.'

Only then the war had started, and Tad had got restless. Polly's letters, which had continued to come across the Irish Sea with great regularity, even when Tad's replies were less reliable, constantly referred to the war. They had a blackout over there, and the government said that food would be rationed, though it had not happened yet. But they had closed all the places of entertainment – picture houses, theatres, ballrooms – which seemed uncommonly mean to Tad – and to Polly as well. She had written discontentedly: