Polly's Pride (14 page)

There’d been rumours of rehousing for the people of Ancoats, but so far that was all they seemed to be - rumours. And with the need for work becoming desperate, she could see no real hope of improving their condition. Now, suddenly, Polly could see a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. Wasn’t it worth the risk?

By the time her shift was over, her mind was quite made up. She strode off down Ancoats Lane in the direction of the goods yard, turned right along Adair Street and finally into St Andrew’s Square which was close by Helmet Street Park where there was a recreation area and bandstand.

She found the house easily enough, not half so grand as she had imagined but better than her own by far. Polly stood for a long time considering the enormity of what she was about to do. There was the roll of carpet, propped up by the back door, clearly waiting for the Dolly Varden men to take it away. The opportunity was too good to miss. She knocked gently and a maid appeared, a girl of little more than fifteen.

‘Yes?’

Polly cleared her throat and asked to see the lady of the house. ‘You mean Mrs Eckersley?’

‘If that is her name.’

The maid sniffed, gaze moving over Polly as if she very much doubted her employer would allow such a scruff into her nice clean house. She seemed about to close the door until Polly stepped closer. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Wait ‘ere.’

After a long wait, Polly was shown into a neat parlour twice the size of her own. It was the finest room she’d ever seen in her life and Polly made a vow, there and then, that one day she’d have one exactly like it. Only not in Ancoats, near to a railway line, but somewhere really grand, where her children could have a big garden to play in, see green fields or a park out of the window. She drank in the sight of creamy lace curtains so thick that barely any daylight crept through to damage the fine mahogany furniture or the antimacassars on the winged armchairs, nor to dry out the aspidistra on its three-legged stand, or more importantly fade the colours of the splendid new carpet.

Polly looked down at her boots, which she’d elected to wear as more appropriate for visiting than her workaday clogs, and wished now that she’d taken them off at the back door. The woman was looking her over, making judgements as to Polly’s fitness to stand in her front parlour. She was dressed in her cleanest, no, her only dress, which fortunately had not been returned to the pawnbrokers this week. On her head was the hat she had worn at Whitsuntide, skewered firmly in place with a hatpin. She looked as clean and respectable as she could make herself, in the circumstances. Mrs Eckersley’s gaze had now returned to the battered boots but she made no comment beyond a sharp, ‘Well?’

Polly cleared her throat yet again and quickly gathered her thoughts. She’d worried a great deal about what she should say. It certainly wouldn’t do to admit that her son had been delving in this woman’s rubbish bins and that Polly’s entire family had dined on the remains of her leftover turkey. Nor would it be a good idea for Mrs Eckersley to learn that her conversation had been overheard by a small boy. But seeing the carpet by the back door had solved all her problems.

Polly meant to pass herself off as a hawker, for in a way that was what she would be if she pulled off this deal. And wasn’t
it
what her own good mother, and her less than useless father, when he was sober, had done before her? Hadn’t her parents once travelled the roads of Ulster, buying and selling whatever they could lay their hands on, in order to feed their brood before giving up and coming to Lancashire? She’d been the youngest, Mary Ann Shaugnessy, fondly dubbed Polly for short. Since so many childhood memories had been blocked out as too painful, this was as far as she ever let herself think.

‘I beg pardon, ma’am, for interrupting you, but I’ll not take up too much of your time. Good manners, Polly recalled her own mother telling her, would get you anything. The woman was now sitting ramrod straight with her hands as tightly clasped as her lips.

‘I can give you five minutes, not a second more.’

‘Indeed so, ma’am.’ Polly took a breath and launched into her prepared speech. ‘I was looking around, the square being a bit more top-notch than the rest of this area, hoping as how I might chance upon a bit of business. I buy and sell, d’you see, but only from well-bred people such as yourself. I never touch rubbish.’

She had no money to buy anything as yet, but that was a problem Polly would attend to if this meeting went well. Mrs Eckersley’s brow was creased by a frown, but it was more pensive than disapproving.

‘And what sort of items would you be looking for? I think there’s an old chest of drawers in the kitchen we no longer need.’ Polly adopted a sorrowful expression. ‘To be honest with you ma’am, I don’t have the space for storing furniture and such like in my - my premises. I deal only in carpets.’ She found herself beginning to perspire beneath the woman’s searching gaze, as if Mrs Eckersley could see how close to an untruth she was straying, since she didn’t have premises of any kind, and had never come near a carpet in her life.

To Polly a carpet represented luxury and money, so for that reason alone she was keen to get her hands on it. Except she feared that at any moment the housemaid, or worse still, a great lumbering male servant, would be called upon to throw her out of the house. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I chanced to see a roll of carpet propped up by your back door.’

‘Well, indeed, that is true. What a coincidence! This new one, upon which you are standing, was delivered only this morning.’ And she indicated the glorious square of patterned red carpet. Polly took a step backwards to stand on the linoleum surround instead. She felt much more comfortable there in her boots.

‘It’s a fine piece. Oriental, I’d say.’ Hazarding a guess, since she felt she ought to sound knowledgeable. It proved, luckily, to be accurate.

‘Quite.’ Mrs Eckersley actually smiled. ‘So I threw the old one out.’ She gave a dismissive gesture, to prove it was no longer of any account and she was well enough placed to change her carpet whenever she’d a mind. Then her eyes narrowed speculatively. Doris Eckersley had married well, and her husband was justifying her faith in him by the steady acquisition of a chain of shops selling fine porcelain and tableware to the well-to-do. They still had a long way to go in their climb to the top, this house but a stepping stone along the way. Even so, Doris meant it to be so smart that well-worn carpets could not be tolerated in it. At the same time, money was not yet so easily come by that she wasn’t able to see a deal when one was offered to her. This hawker woman was of the poorest class, without doubt, but appeared clean and honest.

‘I’d want something for it, naturally.’

‘Naturally, ma’am.’ Polly’s heart skipped a beat with joy. She’d done it! In no time at all a price was agreed which proved acceptable to both parties.

‘And it must be collected without delay. Can you arrange that?’

Polly thought quickly. She still had to arrange the finance, and would need help in carrying the carpet. ‘I’ll have it collected later in the day. How would that be?’

Mrs Eckersley took a moment to consider. It wouldn’t do for this street hawker to come calling during the afternoon. but then none of her friends were expected today. She’d made a point of explaining the reason why visitors would be an inconvenience on this day to as many as were prepared to listen. They’d all be here tomorrow quickly enough, to view the new carpet. ‘Very well,’ she agreed. But if you are not here by nine, I shall have it taken away by the Dolly Varden men, and that’ll be your chance gone.’

‘Right you are,’ Polly agreed. And yours too, she thought. not entirely fooled by the gloss of respectability. Sure and wasn’t her husband probably a rogue of the first water, building his fortune on the backs of his workers? The details agreed, she took her leave and hurried at once to ‘Uncle’ Joseph. If he didn’t agree to her plan, the idea was dead in the water before she’d begun.

The old pawnbroker thought she had gone clean off her head. ‘Is it deaf I am, or are you speaking these words into my ears and they are coming out wrong in my head? Or is it mad I’ve gone, at long last?’

Polly giggled. She liked Joseph Malachi. He was a gentle, kind old man who went out of his way to help people. He’d even been known to loan back an unredeemed suit for nothing for some family event such as a funeral when its owner did not have the wherewithal to pay him back. ‘To be sure, you hear me right, and yes, I’m as sane as yourself. Which isn’t saying much, admittedly.’

The pair grinned amicably at each other. ‘Ah, well, it’s a visit to Prestwich we should both be making. But then, if they’d made me right in the head, how could I go on running a shop in this Godforsaken place?’

The banter continued, taking longer than Polly had hoped. She had to convince the old man that she was indeed serious. When she had done, he sadly shook his head. ‘I see what it is you are about, little one, but I am not the man to help you. Would that I were. I have not the funds for such a grand plan.’

Polly’s heart sank. ‘But you must help me! It would work, I’m sure of it.’

‘Such faith you have. Such ambition. I remember when I was young feeling just as hungry for success, for a new world for myself and my lovely Ruth.’ Joseph scratched at his beard, polished his glasses and set them carefully back in place, winding the wires around his ears. Polly could hardly breathe as she watched, sensing the hard thinking behind this little ritual. After what seemed an age he looked up at her, placed the tips of his forgers together, and smiled. ‘I will do what I can. As for the rest, you could always try talking to my friend Izzy. Now
there
is a man with more money than sense. He might very well help since he was born a fool and is now a rich one.’

It took another hour to find Izzy Barnard, and more precious moments to explain her scheme all over again and capture his interest, but Polly finally felt success was within her grasp. Then it was back to her house, with many preparations and arrangements still to be made. She was in a lather of anxiety that the task be completed before Matthew’s return. Finally the money was being counted into her hand, Polly found two likely lads in the street, and at long last the roll of carpet was propped up in one corner of her own front parlour. She had done it!

But that was the only item in the room.

Everything else, every other stick of furniture the family owned, had been sold in order to provide the necessary capital to pay for the carpet and set up her business. Every single chair, the deal table, the horse-hair sofa, even the beloved sideboard, had gone. The only item Polly had not sold was a small but battered tin trunk in which she kept a few family mementoes such as Benny’s first pair of clogs, a lock of Lucy’s hair, and a photograph of her mother. Upon this she laid out their frugal meal that night, and around it placed four orange boxes she’d got from the market. All she had to do now was wait for Matthew and the children to come home.

For the first time in his life, Matthew was struck speechless. He stared at his wife and then at his empty home, appalled disbelief on his face. Polly, watching her husband’s reaction, experienced the first stirrings of doubt.

‘Don’t fret, it’s me what’s done this, not the bailiff.’ She turned to her children, hoping to win Matthew round if she had him on her own for a minute or two. ‘Would you two like to go out and play?’ But for once neither had any desire for freedom. Whatever madness had beset their mother today, they wanted to hear of it.

‘Well then, will you all sit down and eat yer supper while I tell you what I’ve done and why?’ A hint of trepidation had crept into her voice, yet Polly struggled to remain resolute in spite of the dark fury that tightened Matthew’s jaw as he listened to her halting explanation.

She went through the whole story twice, so great was her nervousness and so anxious was she for them not to miss the significance of
it.

She explained how she’d come by the idea from Benny’s tittle-tattle. She told of her visit to the house, the deal she had struck with Mrs Eckersley, and how she had managed to get a good price for their furniture from Joseph and his friend Izzy. ‘And I still have a bit o’ money left to buy more carpets and set us up in business.’ When her voice finally faded into silence, the expression on her husband’s and children’s faces were indeed a sight to behold.

Benny’s mouth had dropped right open and was evidently fixed there. Lucy’s blue eves seemed to have grown to twice their size, and as for Matthew - one glance at her husband told Polly that Eileen had been right. Never had she seen him in such a terrible rage. Perhaps she had put her case badly.

Haltingly, she began again but he had heard enough. With a kick from one heavy clog he sent the tin trunk toppling. Its lid broke off and clattered over the stone-flagged floor, sending baked potatoes rolling to each corner of the kitchen. But not even the ever-hungry Benny dared make a move to pick one up. His father rarely, if ever, lost his temper, but the lad was sure that if he moved a muscle it would be him that Dad would kick next, right into the middle of next week.

‘I’ll not eat my tea off a tin box, nor sit on a bloody orange box!’ Matthew shouted, loud enough for the whole street to hear if they’d a mind to listen. Then he was striding from the house and the only sound was that of the front door slamming shut and the striking of his clogs on the setts, sending sparks flying all the way up Dove Street.

Peace descended uneasily upon the small house. Polly drew in a trembling breath, gathered up the baked potatoes and gave them a quick rub with a clean cloth. She set them back in their dish. Lucy had righted the tin trunk and Benny was struggling to fit back the lid, a terrible sinking sensation in his stomach.