Polly's Pride (26 page)

‘I’m all right. Let me be,’ Polly protested, but his claw-like fingers dug deep and she could not free herself.

‘Here, mister, what’s your game?’ Charlie stepped forward, taking a challenging stance as if ready to knock to the ground this man who dared take such liberties with his new friend.

‘It’s all right,’ Polly hastily intervened. ‘I’m coming, Joshua. It was only that Matthew would want me to . . .’ She struggled to recall what it was her husband would want her to do, and where exactly she’d meant to go. Why had she been waiting for the tram? Who was this young man and why had she talked so freely to him? Had she thought he was Matthew? No, her lovely Matt was dead. But he would want her to go on living. She must explain. ‘Joshua, I need. . .’

‘Looking after, I know that. You
and
the children. You’ve no need to fret. I will decide what’s best for you all. You’re certainly not fit to take care of yourself at present. Now stop being foolish and come along home at once.’ Tightening his grip on her arm, Joshua marched her along Ancoats Lane. Polly dared glance back only once, to see Charlie standing watching, his mouth agape. He’s missed his train, she thought. Moments later they turned a corner and it was as if he’d never existed.

Joshua jerked her to a halt and glared furiously into her face. ‘What were you thinking of, wandering off like that? Who was he, that man?’

‘Nobody. I don’t know. He was waiting for the tram too and we got talking.’ Not for the world would she tell him about the tea and toasted teacake.

‘You’ll not do that ever again, do you hear? I won’t have you talking to strange men. He’ll think you’re a whore!’

Polly actually laughed out loud at that, struggling to free her arm, though without success. ‘Isn’t that the daftest thing I ever heard? Why would he think such a thing when I was only being polite?’

‘You’re not even wearing your shawl or coat. You aren’t at all yourself. If you were, you’d know well enough that it isn’t proper for a woman to walk abroad half dressed.’

Polly subsided, ashamed. What he said was all too true and she was instantly filled with doubt and fresh confusion. Even the stranger had been concerned about her. Why hadn’t she thought to take better care of herself? Once she’d been happily in control of her own life and family, now she couldn’t even judge what was right and proper. She must be sick indeed.

Joshua led her firmly back to her own fireside, only to vent the rest of his wrath on his mother, for not keeping a proper eye on her.

‘Nay, this isn’t Strangeways,’ Big Flo protested. ‘And I’m not her jailer.’

But somehow the message registered deep inside Polly that it wasn’t wise for her to wander about the city alone. Who knew what might become of her, without Matthew there to guide her? She’d been ill, hadn’t she? Joshua was right, she really shouldn’t go out on her own, not until she was fully well again. But for a moment, with that cheerful young man in the cafe - what was his name, Charlie Stockton - she’d felt almost like her old self. Just for a few moments she’d felt life stir in her again. Was that so wrong?

Surprisingly, for once, her mother-in-law was sympathetic as Polly sat shivering by the fire trying to make sense of it all. ‘Our Matt hasn’t gone for ever, lass. He’s only crossed over to the other side a bit soon. You’ll see him again, mark my words. The Good Lord will see to that.’ Polly looked at Flo with bleak agony in her eyes. ‘I wish that could be tomorrow.’

‘Nay, lass, don’t even think such things. There’s warm blood in thy veins. Give thanks for that.’ And the old matriarch wrapped her chunky arms about the thin frame to hold Polly close while the tears flowed, and somehow Polly found comfort against the pillowing warmth of her mother-in-law’s bosom.

Attending chapel three times every Sunday was a ritual about which Joshua was adamant, as cast in stone as if it were the eleventh commandment. Polly, like the rest of the family, had so far offered no significant protest, but the following Sunday morning, when he announced
it
was time to depart as usual, she astonished them all by refusing.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ The set of her jaw revealed the old Polly, the one willing to stand her ground against him. But then she’d been managing to avoid taking quite so many sleeping powders for a few days now, pouring them away when Joshua wasn’t looking.

He glowered down at her, eyes narrowed. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My children are Catholics, like me,’ she said, the tone of her voice seeming to indicate that she was reminding herself of that fact, as well her brother-in-law. ‘Not Methodist at all.’

He turned away as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Put on your coat, Benny, and don’t stand there dithering. It is ill mannered to be late for chapel.’

Polly stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, a pensive frown creasing her brow. She stared at her brother-in-law as if seeing him clearly for the first time. ‘You know very well that I was brought up a Catholic, and for all my failings I’ve brought my children up to be the same.’

His mouth twisted in contempt. ‘And why was that, I wonder? Because of the fine example your parents set, a worn-out ineffectual mother and a drunken father? I hardly think they were the best people to decide upon the well-being of your soul.’ His sardonic tones made Polly want to curl up and die.

Joshua continued, relentless in his scorn. ‘No wonder you were anxious to marry into our family. Even your mother failed you by taking the easy way out into death. At least at Zion Methodist you will not be allowed to follow in their footsteps. Hard liquor is not permitted, nor is morbid self-pity. It will improve the state of your health, as well as the good of your soul if you put on your coat and accompany us. And get a move on, we haven’t all day!’

If there was one thing Polly hated above everything, it was to recall that part of her life; a time when she’d felt powerless against the incomprehensible brutality of the adult world. Even now the memory of her childhood served only to resurrect an appalling sense of inadequacy, and she shrank a little inside. Yet she continued to outface him for another half minute. But as he thrust Benny and Lucy ahead of him out into the street and she heard her daughter’s protesting cry, saw Benny’s frightened glance back at her, Polly’s spine grew rigid as steel.

‘You can take a horse to water. . .’ she said, walking past him, head in the air, striving not to hear his stifled laughter.

As she sat on the hard polished seat of the pew, the memory of her drunken father and dead mother a terrible vision clogging her mind, Polly remained steadfastly silent throughout every hymn and prayer. A small show of rebellion, perhaps, but the best she could manage right then.

Seeing how Polly suffered, Lucy did her best to be equally obedient and not cause trouble, as her mother seemed to wish, but it was all most worrying. Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she had been to mass. Then one day she saw Father Donevan in the street and he tackled her on that very point.

‘And why have we not seen you in church recently, Lucille Pride:’ he demanded. He always called her Lucille, which Lucy hated. It wasn’t even her real name.

She stared unblinkingly up at him, wondering how to explain. “Honour thy father and thy mother”, the Bible stated, but it said nothing about uncles, so far as she was aware. Yet like Benny and his wariness of Georgie Eastwood, Lucy had learned to be equally circumspect and cautious in the way she dealt with Uncle Joshua. Her earlier show of defiance had become somewhat muted, largely because her mother had become completely cowed by the new regime. And for all Lucy’s own hatred of him, which she didn’t fully understand or feel comfortable with since he was family, after all, something inside her shrank from standing alone against Joshua. Perhaps the priest could be an ally and supply the support she needed.

‘It’s an answer I’m waiting for, Lucille. Will you be telling me or must I go and have words with your mother?’

Panic-stricken, the words tumbled over themselves in her urgency to prevent such an unspeakably awful development. ‘No, no, you mustn’t! Don’t go on at Mam. She’s enough on her plate right now. You’d have to ask Uncle Joshua, he’s the one in charge.’

The priest nodded understandingly. ‘Indeed to be sure, but ‘tis you who are responsible for your own beliefs, Lucille.’ Why wouldn’t he understand? How could she explain the insidious power of her uncle and his dictates, seemingly so well meant and issued in such soft whispers, not least his endless little sermons, yet in reality taking no account of anyone else’s feelings or opinions. ‘He wouldn’t even let my mother get on a tram,’ she tried, thinking she could at least get some help for Polly, but Father Donevan only clicked his tongue in sympathy.

‘Joshua is indeed most protective of her. I understand and applaud such care and consideration.’

Lucy wanted to protest that her mother didn’t need protecting, not in that way. Her father’s accident had happened over a year ago and she could sense her mother was striving to pull herself out of this terrible depression. But how to explain all of that to a stranger? How to secure the help her mother needed?

She became aware that the priest was still speaking. ‘She has always been stubborn, has Polly, although indeed she suffered a terrible blow losing your father in that shocking way. But you could all gain great comfort from the church, if you would but try. Perhaps your uncle has not quite understood how necessary it is for you to attend mass regularly. You must explain.’

And as Lucy opened her mouth to ask if he wouldn’t come and do that task for her, she felt a hand grip her arm. ‘Ah, there you are, Lucy. Your mother and I were wondering what had happened to you.’

Something in the way he said ‘your mother and I’ chilled her, as if he was not only caring for Polly in her grief, but that in some way they formed an alliance against her, Polly’s own daughter.
 

‘I was only talking to Father Donevan,’ she protested.

Joshua offered the priest what might pass for a smile. ‘Not saying anything untoward, I hope? I trust you explained what good care I’m taking of you all.’

The old priest found himself nodding. ‘She was indeed. I was wondering if perhaps we might see a bit more of her at St. . .’

‘Dear me, is that the time? You must forgive us but Polly is not herself at the moment, as you will appreciate, and gets into quite a panic when Lucy is late. We must talk some other time. Good day to you.’ And Joshua strode briskly away, his hand still firmly clasped about Lucy’s wrist.

The old priest watched them go with troubled eyes. He recalled many fierce arguments in the past with Polly Pride during her rebellious years when she’d married outside the Faith, but she’d never refused its blessings for her children. It surprised him that she did so now.

Father Donevan had not been blind to the veiled implication that he was interfering in matters which did not concern him. Nothing in Joshua Pride’s words had been in any way rude or disrespectful, yet he’d felt a disdain there, a sardonic disregard for the true Church, and for the child in his care. But then, Joshua was a Methodist and outside Father Donevan’s jurisdiction, so perhaps the man had a right to object. It would be a pity to lose two fine young people like Lucy and Benny, but perhaps this wasn’t the moment to interfere in family matters. The children were clearly being well fed and taken care of, which was achievement enough in these difficult times.

Having salved his conscience and convinced himself he should do nothing to interfere at present, the old priest turned his attention to what his housekeeper might be producing for his supper and went on his way.

Back in number twenty-three Joshua gave Lucy a stern lecture about not gossiping to strangers about family business.

‘But Father Donevan isn’t a stranger. He’s my priest!’

‘He
was
your priest. But since you have developed such a taste for religion, we can put it to good effect.’

Lucy faced him with an expression of outraged defiance on a young face so like Polly’s in that moment, that Joshua’s temper increased tenfold. He slammed the Bible down on the table before her. ‘You can learn the entire Book of Samuel. That should teach you not to tittle-tattle.’

Lucy bridled, blue eyes flashing with matching anger. ‘If it’s a penance you want from me, then I’ll do my own, thanks very much. “Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” There,’ she said, on a high note of defiance, ‘that’s a penance!’ Whereupon she stuck out her tongue in a childish show of temper and stormed from the room.

That night, as Lucy lay beside her mother in the big brass bed, she told her what had occurred, unable to disguise a very real sense of exhilaration. Polly listened carefully then cradled her daughter close, worrying over how this had all come about, even as she worried over how she could put things right. Although she might chide Lucy for lack of respect to her elders, for disobedience and not showing suitable gratitude to the uncle who had fed and clothed them, inside she was tormented by a growing anger. How dare he treat her precious child in such a way, simply for wanting to worship in the way she believed? Who in God’s name did he think he was, lording it over the lot of them?

Lucy echoed her own thoughts, whispering fiercely into her ear, ‘Mam, can’t you see what he’s doing to us, to you in particular? He’s punishing you, determined to control every step we take, and make our lives a complete misery. You’ve got to stop taking any more of those powders. You have to get better.’