Polly's Pride (17 page)

Joshua was a happy man. He believed fortune had smiled on him at last in the form of the Irish woman’s stubbornness. She had achieved, at a stroke, what he had sought for years. Discord between herself and his brother. Now all he had to do was feed the resentment that had been born in Matthew, and wait upon events. Then, when the time was right, he’d give fate a helping hand.

The hawkers’ carts, many pulled by ponies, lined Oldham Street as far as Stevenson Square. Some of them had naphtha lamps swinging from the handles to light their way; others followed their instincts or the nose of their horse in the morning gloom. But despite the fact that the sun had not yet risen, the whole city seemed to be alive with bustle, hawkers and stall holders by the score, calling good mornings to each other and all apparently seeking a spot to make an honest, or not so honest, living. Polly had been quite unaware how busy the city was at this time of day.

She saw a milk cart pass by, its great churns brimful of creamy, frothing milk. Even as she watched, several of the cart holders hurried to have their jugs filled with a kit measure from the churn.

‘Bit cold this morning ain’t it?’ the milkman remarked to one woman. ‘Drink this while it’s still warm, love.’ Offering her a mug of warm milk, fresh from the cow.

One man hurried by carrying a hundredweight sack of potatoes on his back, which must feel twice that weight in the drizzling rain, but he called out cheerfully to everyone as he passed.

‘How are ya?’

‘Fairish,’ someone would call back. ‘And thee?’

‘Right champion.’

Polly decided he might have come from the bottom of Oak Street, where she knew there were several fruit and vegetable stalls, or Shudehill or Smithfield Markets. There was an old clothes market near Swan Street. Tib Street was the place to go if you wanted to buy a goldfinch or lark, but here in Oldham Street you could find just about anything you might need, and a good deal that you didn’t but were persuaded to buy by the canny hawkers. It was a prosperous shopping area, a good place to be, she decided, since it boasted many fine shops that Mancunians flocked to in droves.

They came to listen to the music emanating from Howard’s, where people with money could buy a gramophone or pianoforte, sheet music for a soiree or even take piano lessons on the top floor. The well-to-do wives of businessmen might choose a fur, a pair of shoes or new costume from such fine establishments as Swears & Wells or Jones’s. Polly’s delight in the street had to be confined to window shopping, but the very notion of being a part of this busy scene filled her with excitement. Perhaps one day she would own a fine emporium herself, selling carpets to the cream of society.

‘You’re on my pitch.’

Polly, having successfully found what she thought to be a good spot, had procured a mug of tea as she eagerly awaited her first customer. Now she gazed with dismay at a man the size of a small bull scowling at her. He had a round, bullet-shaped head topped with a thatch of red hair, and powerful shoulders that loomed menacingly above her. Her feet itched to turn and run but, mindful of everyone’s gaze upon her, she held her ground. If they saw her to be weak, wouldn’t she be bullied by them all?

She tossed back a swathe of dark hair and managed to give her famously cheeky grin. So surprising and bewitching was it, that for a moment the man looked nonplussed.

Taking advantage of his surprise, she said, ‘And here’s me thinking you couldn’t get a spot without queuing and taking your chance along with everyone else. So, who do I see then to reserve meself a grand pitch like this? She could hear titters from her audience.

Recovering himself, the man almost growled with rage. ‘I’ve stood this spot for nigh on seventeen years.’

If there’d been anywhere else to go, she would have picked up her cart and gone to it. But the street was bursting at the seams with barrows and carts of every description, and an increasing number of early shoppers. Some of the hawkers were already doing business, and this site had been the only vacant one she could find. Now she understood why. No one else dared take it.

‘Leave the little lass be, Red Warren, you great bully.’ The voice, sounding vaguely familiar, turned out to be that of the black pudding lady from under the arches. Polly had never been more pleased to see anyone in her life.

‘Pick yer fight with her what robbed me,’ muttered Red darkly. The woman stood facing Polly’s aggressor with arms akimbo, head on one side and a wry challenge in her dark gypsy eyes. ‘Robbed indeed! Don’t you remember when you was starting out, lad?’

‘This is my pitch, Dorrie.’

She folded her arms, jewellery chinking as she moved, and a musky scent emanating from the folds of her long black skirts. ‘Now then, lad, you know there’s no such thing. Not unless you stand the market and pay rent for a stall, like I do. This lady is jannock - honest as oats. I know that for a fact, ‘cos her lass works for me on the tripe stall, so hurt her, Red Warren, and you hurts me.’

Polly was delighted to discover that her rescuer was none other than the owner of Dorne’s tripe and trotter stall, where Lucy was employed.

‘I’ve never laid a finger on her,’ Red hotly protested.

‘I’m glad to see you’ve that much sense at least. You know well enough that here on the streets we takes our chances for a pitch, and pick up our barrows and take a walk every now and then so’s the coppers don’t nab us for stopping too long in one spot. So how can this bit of street be thine? Has it got your name on it?’

Polly was certain, from the expressions on the faces of the other hawkers and barrow holders, that nobody else would have had the nerve to stand up to this man as Dorrie was doing. Even so, she hadn’t entirely won the match, only a round in the contest.

Red Warren stuck his thumbs in his wide buckled belt and took his time answering. His leather waistcoat rode high over a belly that had seen a few pints in its day, and his legs, encased in brown serge, were thick as tree trunks, finished off with black clogs as big as shovels. Polly did not care for the look of him one bit. His silence was long and aggrieved.

Finally he announced, ‘Fair enough, the lass can have it for today. But I’ll be watching her in future.’ And having issued his warning, satisfied he’d saved face at least, the big red-haired man climbed aboard his cart, shook the reins, and ordered his pony to walk on. Dorrie, undeterred, gold chains, bracelets and necklaces dancing, dodged a puddle and nearly collided with the hot potato man as she scuttled into the middle of the road to call after him.

‘Then you’ll have to start getting out the sack a bit earlier! She’s a sharp one, is this lass.’

Polly was laughing fit to burst by the time Dorrie came back, a wide grin on her swarthy face. ‘How do you know I’m a sharp one? You should’ve seen me dragging
myself
out of bed this morning, and struggling to get me bit of fire going.’ But the other woman only grinned.

`Then you’ll have to eat your breakfast the night before in future if you want a decent pitch. This one in particular.’

It was the way the other stall holders applauded and cheered Dorrie, even slapped her on the back, as much as this grim statement which told Polly she’d been lucky to find herself a champion on her first morning, It wouldn’t always be so.

Polly was elated. Every day that week she had risen early and gone off to Oldham Street with increasing confidence. Though she had never again managed to acquire so excellent a pitch, nevertheless she’d done well, having sold six of the carpet rugs already, mostly at a decent price despite having to barter hard. But her customers had seemed well satisfied, and she’d made a point of telling them that she’d be getting more rugs, with different patterns, in the near future. Without exception they’d shown interest.

‘Its going to work,’ she announced to Lucy, whirling her round the tiny kitchen.

Laughing, her daughter said, ‘You’ve hardly anything left to sell. What happens when you run out?’

Polly sobered upon the instant. ‘I’ll admit it’s going to take a lot of hard work to get a regular income coming in. Tomorrow I’m off to find some of those houses where folk were hit by the Crash. Even if the better off don’t use pawnbrokers, they might be glad to sell off some of their treasures in private. Discreetly as you might say.’

Her mind flew, making plans, devising schemes. She’d need to arrange transport for the carpets, then start on the cutting and sewing all over again. What sort of a task had she set herself? Could she cope? Seeing the worry come back into her mother’s eyes, Lucy put her arms about her and hugged her. ‘You can do
it,
Mam, I know you can.’

Benny piped up, ‘I’ve made up the fire and put a few more spuds in the broth. Can we eat now? I’m that hungry.’ And they all laughed.

‘Your constant cry. Come on then, Benny me-laddo, let’s eat. While we still can.’

Polly hadn’t realised how hungry she was after a long day working in the open. But watching her children quickly spoon the tasty broth into their eager mouths, she slowed down, letting them take more from the pot but taking no extra herself. The only money coming into the house now was whatever she and Lucy could manage to earn.

‘I wish Dad was ‘ere,’ Benny said, suddenly looking solemn. ‘When is he coming home, Mam?’ Benny did not understand this argument between the two adults in his life.

‘Soon, love. Never fear,’ Polly said, truly believing it.

Polly tried the streets around the Horsfall Museum which were a notch or two above her own Dove Street district. Here lived some of the white-collar working class with aspirations to better themselves still further. Other houses belonged to shopkeepers and small business proprietors. From these people she hoped to increase her small stock of carpets. She went the length of Every Street, before finally admitting defeat.
 

Polly was working her way along Adair Street when a girl crossed over to say hello. ‘You’re the one who bought that carpet off my employer, aren’t you?’
 

When Polly agreed that she had indeed bought Mrs Eckersley’s fine carpet, the maid added a choice piece of gossip, much to Polly’s delight.

‘You’d never believe what happened after that! All her friends were so jealous, they started buying new carpets for
their
parlours. By heck, there’s some folk with more brass than sense! So if you’re looking for more, I’d try knocking on a few of her neighbours’ doors. They’re throwing out good carpets like a man with three arms.’ And the girl went off, chuckling, swinging her shopping basket in time to her laughter. Polly called her thanks after the departing figure and almost ran to St Andrew’s Square where at last she managed to buy not one but five large squares of faded but quality Wilton carpet.

Bless you, Mrs Eckersley. These will feed my family for months! she thought.

But however glad she was to find more stock, she needed Matthew more than ever.

Over the following weeks, Polly worked harder than ever, and soon came to the decision that she could spare a little of her takings to win her husband back. She had surely earned enough at least to redeem his armchair from Joseph. It was one of the items the kindly old Jew had agreed to take, knowing how fond Matthew was of it.

As soon as she could scrape enough together, she handed the money over, for all it hurt her to do so, since every penny she earned should really go back into the business. She and Lucy, ably assisted by Benny, half dragged and half carried the heavy chair down Dove Street and in at their front door. Few people paid any attention as this was a common enough sight, save for the odd droll example of Lancashire humour.
 

‘Eeh, set that chair down here a minute, Poll. I could do with a rest.’

‘You want to put wheels on that thing, then it’ll follow you home.’

‘And more poignantly from Bet Sutcliffe, ‘Hock it as many times as I do mine, and
it’ll soon
know the way home by itself.’

Was this what she had sunk to, she who had taken such pride in her home, determined to keep it clean in order to prove herself better than those who had been defeated by poverty. Polly pulled herself up short. She wasn’t defeated. Wasn’t this what it was all about: Fighting back. And she meant to win.

Once the chair was installed, though not in the empty parlour but in the kitchen where once the horse-hair sofa had stood, and the fire stoked up to celebrate the occasion, Polly set off to her mother-in-law’s house. She’d tell Matthew how well she had done, how the idea was definitely going to work, and to prove it she’d got his chair back. He was probably itching to come home by now, the daft galoot, and this would give him just the excuse he needed.

‘He’s not here,’ Big Flo told her, keen satisfaction in her voice. ‘He’s gone to the NUWM meeting with our Josh, and they won’t be back till late. He’s standing up for his rights, as you should stand by him.’

‘Or he should stand by me,’ said Polly, annoyed that he’d broken his word about keeping away from militant meetings, then ashamed to find herself slamming the door of number thirty-one as she left.

Chapter Twelve

The meeting looked like going on for ever. Joshua had spoken with genuine fervour, urging the men to action, to make their feelings felt to the politicians who resolutely refused to listen.
 

‘All the government cares about is making a reduction in benefit for the poor souls out of work. So if you’ve relatives with a bit o’ brass,’ Joshua pointed out, ‘a child earning a few bob or a stick of furniture you can sell, they’ll cut your relief still more. The Means Test is causing outrage the length and breadth of the land, no less here in Manchester. We have to do something about it. We have to stand together.’