Polly's Pride (11 page)

‘If nobody agrees to take on six looms, the bosses can do nothing to make us.’
 

‘Aye, they bloody can!’ a man at the back of the crowd called out. ‘They could sack the lot of us and there’d be no shortage of folk ready to take our places.’

The Dove Street managers did indeed win the day as sufficient workers agreed to operate six looms. The rest were sacked, including Joshua himself, by way of retaliation for his ‘incitement to riot’.

It was a glum if united family who, for once, sat together long into the night, talking over possible ways out of their troubles. No immediate solution presented itself and they all finally retired, red-eyed and weary-hearted, to their respective beds.

Only Joshua had the strength to make a resolution. He didn’t want simply to survive but to progress, to achieve power and sway over the community; to make everyone listen to what he had to say and carry out his orders without question. He did not believe in meaningless dreams, only in realistic plans, which appeared to be in jeopardy.

In addition to settling his long-held grievance against his brother, he meant to find a way to succeed in his political ambitions. If this was not to be through a union then he’d find some other way, whatever the cost, and whoever he needed to step on in order to do so. He’d not shrink from doing whatever was necessary to achieve his own ends.

‘Can I go to the Palmy Picture-drome, Mam?’

Polly stood at the sink, hands deep in sudsy water as she rubbed a pair of socks together and considered her son’s bright face. ‘How much would that be?’

‘It’s only sixpence if you sit on the benches at the front. Or ninepence for a proper seat at the back.’

‘Is that all?’ She wiped her hands, took a purse from out of her pocket and opened it to show him. It was empty, as she had known it would be. ‘And here’s me without a penny for a pinch of tea.’ She gave him a rueful smile, ‘Mebbe next week, love, eh?’

Benny’s birthday had been two days ago, during early September, and his mother had given him a glass bobber for his marble collection. It was so big, he was sure it would win him many more. She’d also given him a lollipop to suck after his tea. Oh, it’d been a grand birthday but he knew, deep down, that marbles and lollipops were for children, and he was growing up. Benny longed to branch out and see how much more he could achieve on his own. ‘Now I’m nine, couldn’t I get a bit of a job? Earn a bit of pocket money?’

‘Ach, Benny. I promise, I’ll find sixpence for you next week.’
 

‘I was thinking I could be an errand boy, or happen get a job at London Road Station as a nipper, carrying people’s bags, unloading carts and such? He couldn’t disguise the eagerness in his voice. It was his dearest wish to work on the railway.

Polly looked at her son with a sadness in her eyes, knowing how sought after such jobs were these days, and how rare. ‘I reckon they might think you a touch young, m’cushla. In a year or two mebbe, when you reach twelve or thirteen. Won’t that be grand then for you to get a fine job at the station? And patting her son’s tousled head, she told him to go and play in the street and be a good boy. ‘Don’t be late home now, the nights are drawing in. And keep away from those big lads.’

He nodded, the lump that suddenly blocked his throat preventing any further attempt at persuasion. He walked stoically out of the house before his mother could catch sight of the tears he feared might show in his eyes. It was vital he get sixpence for the flicks. It was a Buster Keaton film and he was desperate to see it. All his mates were going, or most of them anyway. He didn’t want to be left out.

More importantly, he was even more desperate to join the newly formed Dove Street Gang. He’d asked them again this morning if he could become a member and they’d laughed, telling him he was still too young, that you had to have money in your pocket to prove you were a man. He was already sick of being nine. It was scarcely any better than being eight.

And it seemed so unfair for he knew that once they let him in, he’d learn all the gang’s secret passwords and the codes they used to send messages to each other, and also gain some protection from the other marauding gangs like Georgie Eastwood’s lot who continued to pester him. He might even learn where the good part-time jobs were to be found, who to see to get one and what to say, which he really needed to know. They’d teach him other things too, of course, about girls and something called sex, but Benny wasn’t interested in girls. Girlfriends were for cissies. He wasn’t ever going to get married, not if he could help it - except perhaps to Mary Alice Ferguson who could swim and dive amongst the rubbish in Rochdale canal as well as any lad. Not that they were supposed to swim in the canal and his dad would leather him if he ever found out. They always went in behind the electricity works, because the water was warm there from the waste they pumped in; much better than Philips Park open air baths which were always freezing.

Aw, but he did want to work on the railways! He’d consulted his friends, Liam, Joe and Don. They were eleven and already in the gang. They’d told him to get hold of sixpence, or better still ninepence for the flicks, and then the rest would agree to let him in.

‘Did yet get it?’ Liam asked now as Benny came back out into the street. Mournfully, he shook his head.

‘What’re you going to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ The four boys began to walk dejectedly up the street. ‘We could sneak you in with us?’ they suggested, but Benny shook his head.

‘Too risky. That Mr Spaghetti, or whatever his name is, would catch me and give me a walloping. How’ll I ever get in the gang if I never have any money?’

They turned a corner and walked almost smack bang into Georgie East
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wood. He seemed bigger than ever at such close quarters. and had his pack of loyal henchmen close behind.

‘No money, eh? Well, well. There’s ways and means round that one. You have to use your wits - if you have any. Let’s see. . .’ And snatching the blue peaked cap from Benny
^’
s head, he tossed it to one of his mates who immediately threw it to another member of the gang. They played catch with it, high above his head. Red in the face, Benny ran from one to the other in helpless rage, desperate to rescue the cap before they flung it in the canal.

‘Give it ‘ere! That’s mine.’ His mam would kill him if he lost it.

Georgie grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him up against the brick wall of the ginnel, leaning so close Benny had to suffer his stinking breath. ‘Go on then, what’ll you do if I don’t?’ He gave Benny a push, sending him spinning, only for him to be caught by one of the other lads and tossed back again, like a top being whipped just fast enough to keep it moving. It went on for so long, back and forth, Benny began to feel dizzy and sick. The gang were all laughing at him, as if it were a great joke.

‘Have you got them sweets we asked for?’ Miserably, he shook his head.

He tried to run then, but Georgie grasped hold of his braces so all that happened was that he ran on the spot, like one of those daft cartoons he’d seen at the pictures.
 

‘Then it’s time you did - if you know what’s good for yer.’ A final push sent him into a puddle where Benny fell to his knees, right next to his cap. ‘When you’re man enough, you can join a proper gang. Not this miserable shower,’ Georgie said, indicating the three boys huddled together some distance away. Then hitching up his trousers with the wide leather belt, he went on his way, whistling.

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Benny, rubbing mud off his knees and wringing water out of his cap. ‘Lot of use you were.’

The three exchanged glances ripe with guilt. ‘Forget him, he’s not important. We were going to the flicks, remember,’ said Liam.

‘You mean, you were going,’ Benny dolefully reminded him. The four boys stood looking at each other for a long miserable moment, each embarrassed by the incident and not quite knowing how to save face.
 

‘I’ve an idea,’ said Joe. ‘Follow me.’ He winked, then started knocking at doors. Each time a woman appeared, he’d ask, ‘Any jam jars, missus? We’re collecting for the poor.’

‘Get off with you,’ was the usual response. Or, ‘Get to your own end o’ t’street, you little heathens.’

‘But we’re not,’ Benny protested. ‘Not what?’

‘Collecting for the poor.’

‘Aye, we are. You’re poor, aren’t you?’
 

Benny nodded.

‘There you are then.’

He still looked doubtful but then they reached the house of Daft Betty. Everyone knew Daft Betty wasn’t all there. Harmless enough, and always good for a laugh, but soft in the head. She lived with her sister Nellie, who watched out for her like a hawk. Nobody messed with Nellie Sidebottom. The boys waited until they saw Nellie go out, basket on her arm, shawl pinned tightly about her head. She was off to market and wouldn’t be back for an hour if they were lucky.

Liam nudged Benny in the ribs. ‘Go on, it’s you what wants to join. Get on with it. Live by your wits, like Georgie said.’
 

Benny swallowed, then tapped gently on the door. Betty came at once, all sunny smiles on her friendly round face. ‘Hello, Betty,’ he said. ‘We’re collecting jam jars for the poor. Do you have any?’ Betty had. Giggling, she led them into the back kitchen and showed them the darkest corner of Nellie’s cupboard where several jam jars were carefully stacked, waiting to be taken back to the shop.

‘Eels, thanks!’ The boys grabbed a couple each and fled. It took no more than five minutes to trade in the jam jars for a penny each and then they not only had sixpence for Benny to go to the Palmy Picture-drome, but twopence left over to buy Bull’s Eyes for them all.

‘A good day’s trading,’ Liam said with a grin.
 

‘Aye, we’ll happen try that one again,’ Joe agreed.

Benny grinned awkwardly. He felt guilty about tricking Daft Betty in such a way, worried her sister might find out and come after him. ‘Does that mean I’m in the gang now?’ he asked.

‘Aye, it does,’ Don agreed, his cheek bulging with toffee. ‘Fully paid up member.’ And as the four of them went off happily, arms wrapped about each other’s shoulders, Benny grinning from ear to ear, he decided that perhaps it’d been worth the risk after all. And in any case, who would ever know how he’d got the money?

Living by their wits became second nature for the entire family. Determined to keep their respectability, each Friday they redeemed Matthew’s suit and boots from the pawnbrokers before ‘popping’ them again on Monday, once the weekend was over. After the dole stopped Matthew refused to ‘go on the parish’ and accept Poor Relief.

‘We’ll manage somehow,’ Polly told him, hoping she was right. ‘You’ll find a steady job soon. I’m sure of it.’

But the only work he could get was an odd day’s labouring here and there, welcome enough but barely keeping the wolf from the door. And the few shillings Polly earned wouldn’t even cover the cost of their coal.

Life at number thirty-one wasn’t much better. Joshua hadn’t found regular work either, though he was fortunate enough to get a three-month stint in one mill before being turned off again. Big Flo stood in her pew every Sunday and sang ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,’ as if her belly wasn’t rumbling with hunger.

It was a source of great shame to Polly that often the difference between hunger and a full belly was the money they received when they pawned Benny’s best boots or even, in the end, Lucy’s Whit Walk frock.

Polly cried the day she had to ask her daughter if she might hock that, and was humbled by the child’s reaction as she bravely handed it over.

‘It was fun to wear it for that week,’ she said. ‘I don’t need it now.’

All that effort and argument, Polly thought, to buy the dress and then they were reduced to bartering it for food.

Chapter Eight

There were days during that long cold winter when Polly was driven to asking for some item to be put ‘on tick’ at Connie Green’s corner shop. Maybe half a loaf or a pennyworth of tea, which formed an essential part of their diet. She found she could get through most of the day on mugs of weak tea and a slice of bread and scrape.

‘Just to see the week out,’ she’d say, and Connie would smile and assure her that her credit was good.

‘At least you pay what you can, when you can. Not like some I could mention.’ Polly thanked her, even though it was shaming and she daren’t tell Matthew.

Her favourite time for visiting the market was midnight on a Saturday when she could pick up a quarter stone of potatoes, a pound each of carrots and onions, and a bit of tripe if she was lucky, all for a shilling. Mebbe get a few old cabbage leaves thrown in for good measure. She’d boil the tripe gently in milk and onions, for it was Matthew’s favourite meal. On one joyful occasion she bought a skinny rabbit instead which not only made them a fine stew but brought in a penny or two for the skin as well, which she sold to a woman who collected them for the glove factory.

That had been a rare treat, for the family now lived chiefly on lentil or cabbage soup, with some sort of offal or Manx kippers to break the monotony. These last she’d buy for a penny-halfpenny a pair, eight pairs for a shilling, which was the cheapest quality food she could find. And if Benny and Lucy groaned at the frequent appearance of this dish on the table, at least hunger drove them to eat every scrap.