Polly's Pride (10 page)

‘Will you behave? They’ll be in for their teas any minute.’

‘Well, just one more kiss for a working man, eh?’

She made no mention of the forgotten snap tin until the children were in bed, then she showed it to him. ‘Will you take it tomorrow instead? I’ve kept the lid closed so the bread won’t be too dry.’

‘Aye. Daft of me to forget it,’ he said easily, unclasping his clogs in preparation for giving them their nightly polish.

As Polly set about the washing-up and clearing away she teased a trail of soap suds over his head and down the back of his neck till he grabbed her and pulled her on to his knee. ‘Will you lay off, wife? Can’t a chap find a bit of peace, after a hard day?’

‘Where’ve you been working today then?’
 

‘Here and there. Usual places.’

‘I went looking for you,’ she confessed, wriggling free as the kettle started to sing. ‘Pity I didn’t find you, then you wouldn’t have gone hungry all day. Where should I have gone? Then I’ll know next time you forget it.’

‘I’ll not forget it again.’ He’d make damn’ sure of that.
 

She turned to look at him. ‘You might if you were in a rush like this morning.’

There was the slightest pause before he answered which, on any other day, Polly might not have noticed. ‘Ducie Street. So no, you wouldn’t find me on the canal. Not today.’

‘That’s obviously why I missed you then,’ she quietly agreed, and as she poured hot water into the sink, stared bleakly into space for she recalled quite clearly that they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him in Ducie Street either. Not for weeks, they’d said.

They lay in bed together, comfortable and warm in the darkness, replete after their love-making. The wind rattled at the curtainless windows and the tiny bedroom was filled with draughts and creaks, but neither of them noticed. The light from a fitful moon, criss-crossed with cloud, seemed to blink at them and they smiled, for they were content and happy together as always.

It was a long time before Matthew spoke. He’d had weeks to find the right words, but still he hesitated. Yet he knew the moment could be put off no longer. It was a miracle nobody had ‘shopped’ him by now. Only the way men stuck together through hard times had saved him from that particular humiliation. They knew it might be them next time and, like Matthew, would hope to have a new job before having to face the shame of telling the wife.

‘Wasn’t Whit Week lovely? I doubt Lucy slept all week, the excitement fair bubbled in her,’ Polly murmured.

‘Aye.’ This single syllable was followed by a sigh so deep it ran the length of his body. Polly resolutely ignored it. If he’d something to say, he’d get round to it in his own time.

‘I wondered if we couldn’t take a picnic out to Platt Fields one day this summer, if the weather is kind. We could manage that, couldn’t we? A family outing would be grand, don’t you think?’ She turned to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms more firmly about his warm body.

‘I’ve summat to tell you, lass.’

‘Oh?’ She wanted to jump out of the bed, run away and hide, anything to avoid hearing his next words.

‘I’ve lost me job.’ There, it was out. He’d spoken the dreaded words. Now he waited for the skies to fall in on his world. It was common enough for marriages to collapse under the pressure of unemployment. Threatened with being half-starved or even sent to the workhouse, many a wife simply packed her bags and went off to live with another man, one who could afford to keep her. Matthew couldn’t imagine life without his lovely Polly. The pain in his chest expanded till he could hardly bear it, while he waited for her reply.

‘I know.’ she said.
 

‘
You know
?’

‘Well, I guessed. You’re not very good at hiding things. Aw, you should’ve told me right away, you daft galoot! D’you think I only love you for your riches?’

‘When did I ever have riches?’

‘There you are then. What is it your mam says? If you have nowt and you lose it, then you’ve less than nowt, so it can’t get any worse, can it?’ And her greeny-grey eyes sparkled with mischief, as if this were all some merry joke and not a question of survival at all.
 

Matthew could only gaze at her in astonished wonder, entranced by her lovely elfin face, the sheen of her fine Irish skin like pale silk in the flickering moonlight. Then he was kissing her over and over, and their lovemaking this time was more intense, so wanton and abandoned it was almost as if they wanted it stated between them that their love for each other was all the riches they required.

Chapter Seven

With the dawn came a return to commonsense, and an acceptance that it was vitally important Matthew should find regular work as quickly as possible. What he needed was a good solid job with a steady wage. He was skilled on the tugs and narrow-boats, so it was to the wharves and docks that he returned that morning, as on every other. After that, he vowed to try just about anywhere he could think of.

‘Won’t they jump at the chance to take on so fine a man?’ Polly’s love and belief in him sustained him throughout that long day and the next. But as the days and weeks passed and summer turned to autumn, then into winter, it became clear there was little work of any kind available.

Eileen lost her baby and very nearly her life six months into her pregnancy, but even from this she came back smiling, determined to find a silver lining in her dull grey world. Sitting in Polly’s kitchen with Rosie and Agnes playing at her feet, Meryl sprawled asleep on her lap and Beryl draped about her neck as usual, she didn’t offer one word of complaint except to say, ‘What a place to bring childer up, eh? If this lot survive it’ll be a miracle, or the goodness of your sad cake, Polly.’

‘I’ve none today.’ Her flour bin had been empty for over a week.

Her own children were poor, Polly thought, but Eileen’s were pitiful, dressed in clothes with more holes than cloth. Unlike Benny and Lucy, who were scrubbed regularly from top to toe, none of the Grimshaw children were clean and all so painfully thin it hurt to look at them, for all they bore the evidence of a recent meal involving jam. When she remarked upon this, Eileen merely shrugged her shoulders and grinned philosophically.

‘I do me best, and I’m just hoping and praying I don’t fall again or we’ll have even less to eat.’ Now the smile did slip, to be replaced by something very like panic.

‘Have you asked him to wear a rubber? You know, a . . .’ Polly flushed as she ran out of courage to use the correct word.
 

‘Dear Lord, if I told him how to stop making babies he’d be spreading his favours everywhere. He wouldn’t want me then. No, I’m the one who has to stop ‘em coming, if I could but work out how. I’ve tried laxatives and gin. All they do is make me feel sick. I’ve sat with me feet in a mustard bath, and even tried daft things like a wet sponge and cocoa-butter.’ She snorted with laughter, falling quickly silent. ‘God knows what I’ll do next time.’
 

‘There are safer ways,’ Polly said, knowing she shouldn’t even be talking about such things as a Catholic, for all she was a lapsed one. Yet the poor girl needed help, and the fear of her doing something desperate to herself or her next unborn child was never far from Polly’s mind. She told Eileen the address of a clinic she’d heard of which helped women, in strictest confidence, to control the size of their families.

‘You mean, they won’t tell Terence?’

Polly shook her head. ‘If you ask them not to.’

‘I wouldn’t want him to find out, see, or he’d think I was on the game again. They won’t think me - you know - loose, will they?’

‘Why should they?’

‘I don’t know.’ Eileen pulled the too-short skirt of her dress over her scrawny knees. ‘Only it doesn’t seem right to try and stop them, do it? I mean, if you don’t want water, you don’t take your bucket to the well, do you?’

Polly smiled. ‘That would make you very thirsty.’ And both women chuckled with embarrassment. ‘You’ll try the clinic? It’s above a cooked pie shop in Salford.’

Eileen frowned. ‘If it’s free, and secret, I’ll happen give it a go. Otherwise I’ll have to take me chances. Women’s lot, eh?’ And she shrugged and grinned. The subject was closed.

By the spring of
1930
Matthew felt utterly desperate. ‘

‘There’ll be more work now, with summer coming up,’ Polly had comforted him, but the more he searched, the more of a battering he took.
 

He felt as if he were no longer a man, as if he’d been robbed of some essential part of his character. Every morning he went down to the Working Men’s Institute where he would scour the papers, seeking anything that looked likely, but even if there were a job advertised, which was a rare enough event, he’d find a score or more men there before him, no matter how early he got up, or how quick off the mark he was.

He asked among the barges at Castlefield, the warehouses in Water Street, Irlam Park Wharf, Stanley Street, and any number of other wharves till he quite lost count. He talked to all the big firms, including the Bridgewater Department of Ship Canal Company itself, among others.

Never had he known it so bad. He stood in a crowd of men every morning, like cattle to market, all praying for work. The word would go out that a foreman was looking for a couple of gangs. Backs would straighten, eyes would brighten and in ten minutes or less it was all over with the foreman having picked his favourites, as always. If Matthew had had the money in his pocket he’d have paid for a bit of favouritism himself. As it was he would jam his cap more firmly in place to hide the fear in his eyes, thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and stride to the next dock, walking a little slower each day as hope gradually diminished.

He even swallowed his pride and called on his old boss at the narrow-boats to ask for his job back, but to no avail. All he managed to find was the odd day of casual labour here and there, for which he was grateful, but nothing regular. With nowhere near a living wage coming in, he felt close to despair.

Within months of the start of the New Year, there were rumours of a financial catastrophe that became known as the Wall Street Crash. It had taken place over in America a few months previously, and began to have an effect even in Lancashire. It ruined a good many cotton barons who lost their shares or invested capital, their savings disappearing overnight. Add to that the problem of increased competition from abroad, Ghandi conducting his boycott of British goods, cotton in particular since his own people produced it now, that it began to look as if the industry was in its death throes. Cotton districts began to resemble ghost towns.

And then, to the dismay and terror of the entire street, Dove Street Mill announced its intention of laying off more than a quarter of its workforce. The workers were instructed that in future they’d be expected to run six looms, instead of the usual four.

Even Joshua’s job was at risk.

Matthew was astonished. ‘But you’re well thought of, a tackler no less. Why would they lay you off? They’ll still need you to fettle the looms.’

‘I was told that since I’m a single man, my need is not so great as a married one with a wife and family to keep. They’re the ones, apparently, who need the work while I don’t. In addition I live with my mother who has a pension of ten shillings a week, so you see how well off we are.’

Polly listened, appalled, for it seemed like the beginning of the end. But at least the two brothers were in entire agreement for once regarding the selfish greed of the bosses and politicians. Who else could they blame?

‘If we’d had time to get a decent union going,’ Joshua said, ‘they’d never have dared do this to us.’
 

The union was new and raw, a mere fledgling power against the might of the bosses. And since not every cotton worker was a member, largely ineffective. Many folk were only too willing to operate six looms rather than face the alternative of no work at all. It caused dissention between families, open brawls in the street, even a near-riot on one occasion outside Dove Street Mill.

Joshua stood proud on his soap box, gesticulating wildly and shouting at colleagues and neighbours, many of them women since it was they who normally did the weaving. But there were men there too, supporting them, needing the money their wives brought in; spinners with a deep knowledge of the industry; and other tacklers employed by the mill to be in charge of a number of looms. In addition there were those whose jobs were linked in some other way to cotton, perhaps in engineering, chemical dyeing or transport.
 

Joshua brandished a fist. ‘You should have listened to me in the first place. Now we must all stand firm, as one against the bosses.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ one woman shouted. ‘My husband’s unemployed and I’ve childer to feed, which is more than you have Joshua Pride.’
 

 
A chorus of agreement rippled through the angry crowd, the words pricking deeply at Joshua’s rawest spot. As a young man he’d enjoyed walking out with one or two attractive girls but those relationships had come to nothing. Women, he’d discovered, were fickle creatures and although he enjoyed, and took, his pleasures like any normal male, he didn’t regret his single state. It gave him more time to concentrate on the business of the chapel which was far more important to him. But he hated this lack of a wife to be used as a weapon against his perfectly sound arguments. He stuck firmly to his argument.