Polly's Angel (5 page)

‘But he will get well, won't he, doctor?' Deirdre said, her voice heavy with pleading. ‘He was ill before, when the train near killed him, but he come to himself in the end.'

‘He's a strong man,' the doctor said evasively. ‘With good nursing he'll probably do well . . . I'll arrange for him to be admitted to the hospital in Liverpool which treated him last time. But strokes are funny things; you'll just have to wait and see.'

Chapter Two

A month later, Polly's entire life had changed completely. It was a Saturday morning and she was strolling along the pavement in Nelson Street, kicking at the scatter of leaves which had been blown along from the trees which lined Great George Square and half-heartedly watching the passing traffic, whilst from the main road ahead of her she could hear the occasional rumble as a tram passed by. She was wondering how she would ever get used to what had happened to them. Her daddy was still in hospital and Polly, her mammy and Ivan were uncomfortably squeezed into the spare room of Martin's little house, whilst Bevin had stayed in the country with his pal. Because Peader's stroke had proved to be a serious matter which would probably affect him for the rest of his life, they had had to agree to the railway company's insistence that they move out of their cottage so that another railwayman could take over the job of crossing keeper.

‘I'm sure your married son will take you in until you can find a place of your own, and you'll want to be nearer the hospital,' the official who had come to discuss matters with them had said. ‘Something like this is always a shock, but we'll see that you have some money to tide you over, since Mr O'Brady's original injury was a railway matter. What's more, if – I mean when – your husband recovers sufficiently he may be able to take up some sort of desk job in the city, but he's unlikely to be manning a crossing again. The disturbed nights, the importance of a clear head . . . In short, Mrs O'Brady, I'm sure you understand that a less demanding job would be very much better for your husband.'

Polly knew that Deirdre had agreed because in the back of all their minds there had lurked the horrible suspicion that the official did not think Peader would ever recover. And if this was so they would certainly have to leave the cottage. So because of these fears Polly had set off by herself a few days after the accident to visit the church in town and have it out with God.

‘Sure and I love me daddy as much as I love me mammy, and that lots and lots,' she told Him earnestly, on her knees in the small Catholic church in which she and her family had worshipped ever since they had left Dublin and come to England to live. ‘But me daddy's a special person, so he is, a wonderful feller; everyone says so. Why, if he hadn't dived at Grace Carbery that day and pushed her out of the path of the train, he'd never have been hit himself. And if he'd not been hit the doctors say the clot of blood that gave him the stroke wouldn't have been runnin' around loose in his head, so don't You go makin' me daddy a member of Your heavenly host when he's not had his fair share down here yet.'

She had paused for a moment to consider, and had then proceeded to tell God that much though she would like to do it, she couldn't promise Him that if He let her daddy get well she would be good for the rest of her life because she didn't think she could stick to it. ‘But I'll be as good as I can,' she promised. ‘And if it means givin' up me hens and me cat Lionel and me pig and me rabbits, and goin' to live in the city wit' that – that Monica, then I'll do that too.' She had glanced consideringly around her. ‘I'm tarble fond of Delly, but if you're set on really makin' me suffer for me daddy, then I suppose I'll have to let you take me dog too.' She gave a deep sigh and scrambled to her feet, bobbing a small curtsey at the altar. ‘But if you make me leave me pals, and then take me daddy anyway . . . Well, I just wouldn't, if I were You,' she finished on a distinctly threatening note, ‘because I can be bad as bad when the fancy takes me, so I can.'

But that had been a while ago, before the move to the city. Now, Polly knew just how much of her offer had been acceptable to God. The hens, the rabbits and the pig had been left behind with the new crossing keeper and his wife, and Lionel, Polly's ginger cat, had not seemed unduly perturbed to find himself left behind as well. And dear Delilah, though he would join them, Mammy promised, as soon as they did have a place of their own, was in the country, with Bevin and his friend Paul.

But now, with a fine Saturday morning at her disposal and no one to play with, for she knew none of the neighbourhood children yet, Polly was simply mooching, passing the time. If Grace had still been living in Liverpool, of course, it would have been very different. The two girls could have looked in the shop windows, discussed the clothes, imagined what they would most like to buy. Naturally, they would have talked too, discussing all their most intimate thoughts – that was one of the things about Grace which Polly missed most, someone in whom she could confide with the complete certainty that Grace would never breathe a word to a soul. And Grace would have made sure that Polly met all her pals, so that games would have been possible – though Grace, at sixteen, would not perhaps have liked games such as Relievio, which Polly still enjoyed. But the girls had been such close friends that Polly knew she would never have been bored in Grace's company.

In Dublin, too, she reflected gloomily, there would have been a
grosh
of things to do, and masses of friends to do them with. She had had her own particular pal, Tad Donoghue, who had seldom left her side and might have got her into all kinds of mischief but was still her best friend. They could have gone to the tuppenny rush at the cinema, or they could have fished in the Royal Canal, or played games with other kids in Phoenix Park, or walked along O'Connell Street looking in the smart shops and choosing what they would have had if they had found a heap of money lying in the gutter.

Because they had only been living with Martin and Monica for ten days or so – it felt more like ten
years
, Polly reflected bitterly – no arrangements had yet been made for Polly and Ivan to attend school. So they were like two little fish out of water, living on sufferance in Monica's spotless house and dreading the moment when Mammy would pile them on to a tram and take them right across the city to the Catholic school of her choice, for plainly she would not let them go to just any old school.

‘Education's important,' she had said to Polly one night as the three of them lay squeezed into the inadequate bed in the young O'Bradys' spare room. ‘I'll not have you pushed into the nearest school here just because it is the nearest. And anyway, we can't stay here for ever, we're bound to find a place of our own soon, so there's not much point in puttin' the pair of you in school just to take you out of it as you're settlin' in.'

Polly and Ivan agreed fervently with this remark, but realised that Monica did not. She could not wait to see the back of them, though they did their level best to keep out of her way, hanging round the quiet back streets and trekking across to the nearest open space to play games whenever Martin and Monica were at home.

This afternoon, however, Polly and Mammy and her brothers – Bevin too, for he came into the city each Saturday – would visit the hospital. It was no longer as worrying and frightening as it had been at first, for though Daddy could only mumble out of one side of his mouth at least his beautiful eyes looked at his little Polly with recognition and love. At first, when he had not seemed to recognise any of them, Polly had dreaded the visits, but now they were much nicer. She talked a lot and Daddy gave her his peculiar new lopsided smile, and when they went home Mammy always made sure there was something nice for tea because she said Polly did Daddy good, so she did, and never talked about the crossing cottage or her animals but only about cheerful or funny subjects, like the big fat woman in the sweetie shop who always popped an extra piece of toffee into their penny bag because their daddy was in hospital.

But right now Polly wasn't thinking as much about the hospital visit as about her lack of friends. She had always been popular with other kids and it seemed strange to suddenly find herself so alone. When she reached the cross where Nelson Street met St James Street she saw one or two other children, and looked after them a trifle wistfully, but they were all intent on their own affairs and paid no heed to her. Some were running messages, with money in their hands and bags or baskets full of shopping, and others were with their parents, walking along chattering. But none of them looked as though they needed a friend, or were in the slightest bit interested in Polly.

There were never messages for a child to run in Monica's house. ‘We're here on sufferance, and don't we know it,' Mammy had sighed on their very first day in Nelson Street when she had bought meat and potatoes and other vegetables and made a big stew for the whole family. Monica had walked into the kitchen, looked at the big pot of stew, and silently taken from her neat little shopping bag two tiny chops, the makings of a salad and a bought sponge cake. A bought cake! ‘And she wit' only one man to feed,' Mammy had said later, in the privacy of their own small room. But Monica worked in an office and didn't have the time to make cakes, Martin had said so. Still, she need not have pushed the stew to the back of the stove quite so disdainfully, telling Mammy grimly that she and Martin preferred a light meal, and that Mammy was welcome to make stew for herself and the two children, provided they ate it before Martin came home.

‘I didn't understand . . . but surely, just this once . . .' Mammy had faltered, and Monica had heaved an exaggerated sigh and said that on this occasion the family might eat their stew in the kitchen later, since she and Martin intended to go out to the cinema.

‘But there's enough stew here for all of us, dear,' Mammy had said, her beautiful eyes filling with tears at the snub. ‘Surely just this once . . .'

Monica had not even answered. She had gone over to the stove and had begun to arrange her two little chops in the gleaming new grill-pan, behaving as though she were the only person in the kitchen – in the world, in fact, Polly thought crossly now. And after that, Mammy hadn't liked to cook anything after about four o'clock, since the smell of cooking made Monica wrinkle up her nose and glance around her as though she suspected them of harbouring a pig or worse.

‘Polly me love! I thought I might catch up wit' you if I hurried.' It was Mammy, in her brown coat and hat, with her shopping basket in one hand and the other firmly gripping Ivan's small paw. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked bright-eyed and happier than she had done for some time. ‘Oh, Poll, you'll never guess what! One of the nurses who's been lookin' after Daddy called round just now, to tell me of a house she's seen which is goin' for a reasonable rent. Me and Ivan's off to take a look at it right away – want to come along, alanna?'

Polly clasped her hands to her breast, just like all the heroines of her favourite storybooks did when they heard wonderful news. ‘Oh, Mammy – you never said you'd asked anyone to look out for a house . . . Oh, it 'ud be so grand to have somewhere of our own again! Yes, please, I'd love to come. Where is it? I'm after hopin' it's near a school where me an' Ivan might go – and as far away from Monica as possible,' she added, grinning widely at Ivan, who was hopping up and down and looking every bit as excited as she felt. ‘Will it hold the lot of us? Will it suit Daddy when he's better and can come out of hospital? Oh, janey, I'm excited, so I am!'

‘I don't know anything about it, alanna, except that it's not far from the Scotland Road, because Nurse Fry had been shopping up there, and cut through Titchfield Street to visit an old aunt who lives thereabouts. That's when she noticed that one of the houses was to let. So now, if you've finished askin' me questions, we'll make our way to the tram stop.'

A couple of hours later, three members of the O'Brady family stood on the pavement outside the new house, for Deirdre, having closely examined every inch of the place, had talked to the landlord. After a little genteel haggling the two of them had agreed a rent and Deirdre had paid a week in advance and meant to move her family in as soon as possible.

‘Of course Titchfield Street isn't as smart as Nelson Street, but wit' your Daddy not working and money being tight it's all we can afford,' Deirdre said half-apologetically, looking up at the terraced house which was to be their home. ‘But sure and you'd have to look a lot further to find a house so convenient, and wit' room for us all! There's a jigger along the back so's we can reach the yard, and there's a decent Catholic school just up the road, on Silvester Street, right next door to St Sylvester's, so we shan't have far to go of a Sunday, and the best shops for bargains I ever did see are on the Scotland Road, no more than a brisk walk away. Why Monica went and chose to live out on Nelson Street . . . But there, we're all different, praise be to God, and no doubt she prefers the – the quieter side of the city. Now we'll catch a tram back to Nelson Street and tell Martin we're movin' out just as soon as I can arrange it.'

‘There's kids next door,' Polly told Ivan joyfully as they crossed Limekiln Lane and dived into Tenterden Street. ‘In fact, there's kids everywhere, round here. We're goin' to like livin' here, Ivan me lad!'

‘You're right about kids everywhere,' Deirdre said rather dubiously. ‘I don't know when I've seen more kids all in one spot,' she said, her voice sinking. ‘Or dirtier ones, come to that. Why, that child's wearin' nothing but a petticoat.'

The children, however, treated this remark with the scorn they felt it deserved. ‘They's playin' out, Mammy,' Ivan said reproachfully. ‘No one wears good clothes when they's playin' out.'