Polly's Angel (25 page)

He was nearing the turning he wanted when he thought he saw a girl he vaguely remembered from school, Edith something-or-other. He took a long, hard stare before approaching her, however; she was so different from the scruffy kid in her worn plimsolls and ragged clothing he remembered. Yet there is always something about a person which never changes, and there it was, in Edith's sharp, knowing little face despite the smart black coat and matching hat with violets on the brim, the high-heeled shoes on her feet and the liberally made-up face.

‘Edie? D'you remember me, queen?'

The girl – only she was no longer a girl but a young lady – turned and smiled coquettishly up at him. ‘Sunny! As if anyone could forget you! You ain't changed at all, chuck – you're in the Navy now, then? Eh, I've gorra yen to join the WRNS or the WAAF meself, but I'm makin' guns in a factory on Long Lane, an' it's too well paid to throw over just 'cos I fancy meself in a uniform!'

‘I'm sure you'd look very nice in it, but no nicer than you do now, Edie,' Sunny said, taking her arm. Suddenly he felt he needed time, and a bit more information, before he approached the house in Titchfield Street. ‘Tell you what, I'm longin' to hear all the news; what say you an' me go an' get some char an' a wad – that's a cake to you, gorgeous – an' you can fill me in on what's been happenin' since I left.'

Edith was willing; clearly she had no objection to being seen with as personable a young man as Sunny. He took her to the nearest cafe, bought her what looked to him like a very sickly cake and a cup of tea, and then settled down opposite her to gather what news he could.

‘What's been happenin' to the rest of 'em? Dougie Saunders, Bet O'Flaherty, Sid Smith? Oh, and young Polly O'Brady, what's she been gettin' up to?'

‘Oh aye, you went around wi' her at one time, I remember,' Edith said. She took a bite out of her cream cake, then dabbed at her mouth with a paper serviette. It came away red with lip gloss, Sunny saw with mild amusement. He only had one use for lipstick himself – to see how quickly he could kiss it off – but he knew girls liked the stuff and this one clearly put it on with a trowel, judging by the fact that her mouth was still blood red, as was the serviette.

‘That was when we were both kids,' Sunny pointed out virtuously. ‘Tell me about Dougie, an' Bet, and Sid, then. Polly's a deal younger'n you, I suppose.'

This seemed to catch Edith on the raw. She looked up quickly, a martial sparkle in her eyes. ‘Younger'n me? Well, no more than a twelve-month, if that! She don't change much, what's more – her mam an' dad and all them older brothers make sure she don't wear nothin' decent, nor run about wi' the fellers like the rest of us. She's workin', of course – I seen her in Blackler's t'other week – but she still looks like a school kid. No make-up, hair just the same, plain sort o' clothes . . .'

‘An' Bet?' Sunny asked. He did not want to rouse Edith's suspicions and have her going round and telling the O'Bradys that he had been asking questions about Polly. Besides, he now knew quite enough to be going on with. Despite the fact that she was now fifteen years old, getting on for sixteen, in fact, it seemed that her parents were still babying – and bossing – his Polly. Better not go to the house then, particularly as he now knew where she worked. Blackler's was a big place but he was here for two more days; he could haunt the store for pretty well the whole of that time.

I'll lay siege to the bleedin' place, he vowed as Edie prattled on beside him. I'll kip down on the bleedin' floor if I have to, but I'll see Polly, and talk to her before me ship sails if it's the last thing I do!

But when the two lads set off back to the
Poppy
once more, Sunny's bright and optimistic hopes had suffered a hard knock. Despite the most exhaustive search, he had failed to run Polly to earth in Blackler's, and assumed that she must have had a couple of days off, possibly for Christmas shopping. Several times he thought he saw her – once, he walked all the way to Titchfield Street and actually hung about near number 8 – but no Polly appeared. It was a Friday, and since he had to return to his ship on the Saturday morning Sunny decided that he had done all he could, and would have to give up the search until his next visit.

I'll write to her, Sunny told himself, and spent the best part of the train journey plotting a letter which would sound like innocuous friendliness to Polly's parents but which would somehow manage to prove to Polly that he still wanted her to be his girl. He wanted Polly's friendship, he was still very fond of the kid, but he did not want anyone, either Polly or her parents, thinking he was . . . well, serious. He wanted her as his girl all right, but had no desire to ‘go steady' if it meant cutting out the delightful interludes with other young ladies which he had come to think of as his due. After all, when there were so many pretty girls falling over themselves to be seen with a handsome blond sailor it would be a dull sort of chap who would get tied to a kid. So he decided not to overdo the eagerness, and as the
Poppy
set out for Londonderry and convoy duties in the North Atlantic he began to write the letter.

Grace reached Liverpool as afternoon was turning into dusk on a rainy February day. She looked up at the Liver birds as the big ship passed slowly up the Mersey and felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and then the warmth of them as they ran down her cold, rain-wet cheeks.

Home! New York had been grand, Sara and Brogan wonderful, but this – oh, this was home! But despite these feelings she went down to the cabin she shared with the two Carewe children and began to gather up their baggage. Presently, Mrs Carewe, with her small daughter in her arms, joined her there and soon enough the five of them were on deck, waiting their turn to descend the gangplank.

‘I can't tell you what it's meant to us to have you with us, my dear,' Mrs Carewe said as they reached terra firma once more. ‘You're efficient and kind and good, and a credit to the Strawberry Field Orphan Home, and we shall all miss you most dreadfully. But we can manage now; we'll get a taxi to Lime Street and book ourselves into a hotel, or a guesthouse, then catch the first train south tomorrow. And don't forget to write to us to tell us how you're going on.'

‘I won't,' Grace said. ‘Umm . . . some of the hotels near the station . . . well, they aren't very – very nice, you know.' She did not quite know how to tell these good, kind people that Lime Street was frequented by the sort of women that decent people tried to keep away from. ‘Some of them . . . there are all sorts come up from the docks, and . . .'

‘Don't worry, Grace,' the major said, smiling at her. ‘We've not worked amongst the very poorest people in New York without knowing that hard times sometimes produce a desperate reaction. Poor souls, just to keep body and soul together . . . But there, we'll go to a respectable place, don't you fret.'

‘Oh, I know you will,' Grace said hastily, hoping she wasn't blushing but knowing that she almost certainly was. ‘And don't think I'll ever forget you, because I never could. I'll write as soon as I'm settled . . . but I don't know whether the forces will accept me, if they don't . . .'

‘Any of the women's services would be glad to get someone as competent and experienced as yourself, Grace dear,' Mrs Carewe assured her. She took the baby's pudgy fist in her own and flapped it up and down. ‘Wave bye-bye to Gracie, dear one.'

Grace watched the little family until they had found themselves a taxi cab, got their luggage and themselves aboard, and set off down the street, then she turned her feet towards the nearest tram stop with a great warmth beginning to flood through her. She would soon be at the house she had never yet entered – number 8, Titchfield Street – yet still felt would be her home. The O'Bradys had assured her, over and over, that since they now lived in the city she must stay with them, and she meant to do so. Until she joined up, that was. For Grace was determined that she would do her duty by her country and right now, her country needed all the help it could get, even if she only scrubbed potatoes or mended the uniforms of those more able to fight.

A tram came clanking up the road and stopped alongside the small queue of people waiting at the stop. In the dusk Grace could not see the destination board clearly but said breathlessly to the short, elderly woman directly in front of her: ‘Excuse me, does this tram go along the Scottie, ma'am?'

The slight Americanism of the last word made the woman turn and stare, then she grinned. ‘Aye, tharrit does, queen,' she said in the familiar, nasal accent which Grace had once used herself, until the years with Sara had made her almost forget it. ‘What stop does you want? I'm gerrin' off at St Martin's Street meself.'

‘That'll do me too,' Grace said as they both climbed aboard. She wedged her bulging suitcase in the gap under the stairs and began to push her way further down the vehicle in the small woman's wake, for it was crowded with home-going workers at this hour. ‘I'm going to Titchfield Street – that's the best stop for me as well.'

‘Right, chuck. When you see me shovin' me way out, jest you folly,' the woman said. She settled herself with her broad bottom wedged against an occupied seat and clung on to the back of the next one with both fat hands. ‘Hold very tight, please,' she said in imitation of tram-conductors the world over. ‘We're off, queen. You goin' home? In the forces, are you?'

‘Not yet,' Grace said, smiling at the other's open curiosity. ‘I'm just back from the States, where I've been working for a while. But I've come back to join up, though.'

‘Good for you,' her new friend said heartily. ‘We'll give old Hitler the runaround, so us will! What'll it be, then? ATS? WAAF? WRNS?'

‘Well, I've applied to become a WRN,' Grace said, grabbing for a strap as the tram suddenly lurched to a halt, presumably at another stop. ‘I wrote several times, from the States, but I've not had a reply, so I suppose I'll just have to see who wants me.'

‘Hmm. Can you drive? Type? Or are you the domestic sort?'

‘I can't drive,' Grace said at once. ‘Wouldn't mind learning, though.'

‘Well, there you are, then,' the woman said as triumphantly as though Grace had just admitted that she could drive, type and also steer battleships through minefields unaided. ‘D'you favour brown? Or is navy more your style? Or that sort o' grey-blue?'

‘I think I look best in dark colours,' Grace said, wondering where the question was leading and thinking of her Salvation Army uniform, which she secretly thought very becoming.

‘Then that's settled,' the woman said. ‘You done the best thing when you applied for the WRNs. Their uniform's navy like the fellers. So that's settled.'

Just as she spoke, more passengers began to climb aboard the tram led by a group of girls who, pushing and giggling, got between her and her erstwhile companion making it impossible for them to exchange any further conversation.

Deirdre was still working in the cafe, though her hours had been cut; no one wanted to pop in for a nice high tea when it meant struggling home through the blackout so she only worked, now, until three in the afternoon. Naturally, this affected her wages and made her think of changing her job because it was common knowledge that those working for the war effort were extremely well paid. In a way it was a pity, Deirdre thought as she cleaned down tables and brushed crumbs up off the floor, because she loved the work. The customers were friendly, Mrs Ellis wasn't bad once you got used to her odd little ways, and Miss Collins was all right as well, though despite her cuddly appearance and soft Irish voice she was capable of considerable malice and you always had to take what she said about others with a pinch of salt.

However, it was not war work and Deirdre thought that as soon as it was possible she would apply for a job which would help with the war effort. For the time being, though, she simply spent more time at home, cooking, knitting, and occasionally helping Peader to sort his employer's coupons. Peader, doing his books – or rather his employer's books – in the front room was glad of her occasional help but happier still, she knew, because it meant he had company. He had always worked with other people and found being alone in the house all day dull work.

‘All right if I go now, Mrs Ellis?' Deirdre enquired when she had finished cleaning down the dining room. ‘Only it's a quarter past three and it's that dull and rainy outside that you're not going to find yourselves rushed off your feet.'

Mrs Ellis, who was counting out the float which she would leave in the till so that next morning they had some change for early customers, nodded silently, her fingers still busy amongst the ha-pennies, pennies and threepenny bits but Miss Collins, polishing glasses with a nice piece of wash-leather, said almost in a whisper: ‘Want a sultana cake, luv? Well, most of one, anyway. It'll be too stale to sell tomorrer and I don't hold with using fruit cake in trifles.'

‘Thanks very much, if you're sure no one else wants it,' Deirdre said rather nervously. It would be just like Miss Collins to offer her the cake and then to tell Mrs Ellis that Deirdre had asked for it, and with butter and sugar now on ration, making cakes at home was almost impossible. But Mrs Ellis, despite her preoccupation with small change, had obviously heard since she turned round for a moment and said: ‘You take it, Deirdre. Rose can have the bit of meat and potato pie that's left over; she's no hand at cooking, I feel downright sorry for that husband of hers sometimes.'

Rose's husband, Dick, had suffered from TB as a young man and though he had been discharged by the sanatorium as cured, he was painfully thin and weedy and had a hollow cough which made the older ladies exchange significant glances. Deirdre could imagine her own mother looking at Dick and saying, in the sepulchral voice she kept for such occasions, ‘There's a feller that's not long for this world,' whereas Peader's mammy, well known for her cheery and optimistic nature, would have announced bracingly that creaking gates lasted longer than sound ones.