Polly's Pride (31 page)

‘The bugger r-raped me. He give me this child.’

‘Who?’ Polly hardly dared ask, for some part of her was already supplying the answer.

On the faintest breath of remaining life, it came. ‘Your b-bloody brother-in-law. He f-forced himself upon me. The day we swapped clothes. H-he thought I were you.’

The enormous effort this took Eileen resulted in a bout of coughing and retching that seemed unlikely ever to stop. Polly could hardly bear to watch but sat holding Eileen’s hand all night, offering what comfort she could and praying with all her strength.

But
d
espite everything possible being done, by dawn Eileen was dead. Like many another desperate woman before her, in attempting to rid herself of an unwanted child, she had succeeded only in ending her own life.
 

Polly put her head in her hands and sobbed out all the misery that welled in her heart. A still, frail figure, like a small wax doll, Eileen was borne away and given a pauper’s funeral, since her husband didn’t even have the money to bury her. Polly at least made sure it would be a decent Christian one by persuading the nurse to record the death as caused by blood poisoning, with no other explanation.

Eileen was gone, and Polly seemed to be the only one to weep for her.

On learning of his wife’s death, Terence dabbed away a tear which he managed to squeeze out, blew his nose, then moved in with his ‘fancy piece’, who fortunately was landlady of the Bull and Bear so he’d be sure of regular food and beer. Unfortunately she wasn’t too keen on children, so the four girls were taken into a home, probably the same one that already housed Polly’s previous neighbours, the Murphy children.

It was not until the house next door again stood empty that Polly saw the carpets, neatly stacked in the back bedroom.

‘She tried to keep things going for you,’ Lucy explained, sniffing back tears. ‘We both did, as a matter of fact. Eileen took out the barrow while I looked after her children and helped a bit with the sewing, though Eileen did most of that too.’

Polly was dumbfounded. All those endless months of grieving and she’d been completely unaware of the machinations going on right under her nose. Polly had found the carpet trade hard enough work, even with Big Flo helping. For Eileen to attempt it as well as see to her family and do much of the sewing in the evenings, must have been crippling. The thought of such selfless friendship brought fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.

She was even more astounded when Lucy handed her a small draw-string purse which jingled with coins.

‘What’s this?’

‘The takings. She bought the odd bit of carpet, if someone offered it to her, but didn’t have the nerve to go round houses as you did. Instead she saved every penny she could. Eileen always said it was your business, so the profit was rightly yours too, which you might need one day when you were better.’

Polly opened the purse and looked inside. She could hardly believe the evidence of her own eyes. This money could surely save them, herself and the children. ‘So while I sat in a stupor, you two were working the market for me?’

Lucy nodded.

For a moment she could barely speak. Typically, when she did, it was Eileen’s welfare which most concerned her. ‘I hope she took proper pay for her work?’ Lucy assured her that each week Eileen had taken out the sum Polly had always paid her.

‘But that was nowhere near enough, not for all the extra work she was doing. She should have taken more.’

‘Eileen was happy with what she earned.’ Lucy smiled. ‘She said it was the most pay she’d ever earned in her life for keeping her legs crossed, and you were her best friend so she owed you everything. No one else had ever cared twopence for her.’
Lucy
was crying now, searching up her sleeve for a damp hanky, and Polly gathered her close.

‘Oh, Lucy love, what a mess.’ She felt humbled, stunned by her friend’s foresight and generosity. It brought back memories of the painful, lingering death she had suffered, and through no fault of her own. Polly sat down quickly on a stool and put her face in her hands. What was it Eileen had said with her last breath? That Joshua had raped her.
Your bloody brother-in-law forced himself upon me.
Could that be true? If it were, no wonder she’d wanted rid of the child.
 

But was Joshua capable of such a despicable act?

Without further consideration, some instinct told Polly that he most certainly was. He was a man riddled with contradictions. He may claim to be devout but Joshua Pride was nothing short of a nasty-minded, power-hungry bigot. Not only did he tolerate no other form of worship than his own, but he bullied the entire family into sharing his beliefs whether they wanted to or not. Hardly a Christian way of going about things. He allowed them no freedom, either of opinion or movement; insisting they obey his every command. Worst of all, he over-reacted when the children were naughty, not simply because he made no effort to understand them, but because, being young and naturally rebellious, they were harder to keep under control and he resented that fact.
 

What he had done to Benny had been unspeakably cruel, for which Polly would never forgive him. From that moment on she had seen him with new eyes.

As for herself, he’d actively encouraged her to continue to grieve and remain a prisoner by her own fireside. The blinkers off now, she recalled her futile efforts to shake herself free from her depression; the times she had put on her coat or shawl and he had taken
it
from her. The few occasions she’d got as far as the corner shop and he had scolded her afterwards, as if she’d committed some crime.

She remembered her trip to the tram stop in an effort to find and seek comfort from Father Thomas, and met Charlie. Then how Joshua had brought her back home like a wandering puppy. He’d kept her virtually a prisoner, both in mind and body, ever since Matthew’s death, constantly telling her that she was incapable of coping or of living her own life, or even looking after her own children.

Polly recalled the day of the attack on Eileen with particular clarity. He had
wanted
her
to go out, positively urged her to do so, against all his previous warnings. She’d taken Eileen’s advice and gone to find Charlie, then foolishly panicked and run home again like a lost child.

In the meantime Eileen had suffered an attack meant for her, simply because she had dressed in Polly’s shawl and skirt in order to act as decoy.

‘Oh, dear God, what have I done? Polly moaned.

The truth was that Joshua, her own brother-in-law, had raped her best friend. And that act of violence had led, indirectly perhaps but all too certainly, to Eileen’s untimely death. Not for one moment did Polly doubt her story. How could she, since he had used violence on her too? In any case, why would Eileen lie, knowing she was dying?

Lucy, unaware of all this, thought Polly wept only over the carpets. She put her arms came about her. ‘Don’t cry, Mam. Eileen wanted you to make something of yourself, and now you can, thanks to her.’

As the tears flowed, Polly could only nod her head in agreement. Eileen had constantly urged her to pull herself together, if not quite so brutally. Now, thanks to her friend, whom she would miss to her dying day, she did indeed have the means to start up her business again. She even had a few stitched rugs ready for her first day’s trading. Polly hugged her weeping daughter close.

‘You’re right. It’s time to stop crying, m’cushla. We have work to do. Time to make a fresh start. If Eileen isn’t to have died in vain, then from now on, you and me are going to be very busy.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Polly might very well have moved into Eileen’s house there and then, was tempted to do so, but still stunned by her friend’s death, couldn’t get her thoughts together quickly enough. And then Benny arrived home in obvious distress with his jacket torn. While she scolded him for it, annoyed that he wouldn’t explain how it had happened, another family had moved in, beating her to the house.

The woman stood on Eileen’s doorstep that very same evening, arms folded, cock-a-hoop with her success in finding somewhere to house her large brood. She looked as worn out and encumbered with children as Eileen had been when she’d first arrived, or poor Mrs Murphy before her.

But this time, although Polly made herself known and was as friendly as politeness dictated, she vowed not to become too involved with her new neighbour. She offered no treats of sad cake in her kitchen, no gossipy chats over countless cups of tea. It seemed Eileen had barely been laid to rest before strangers were occupying her kitchen and sleeping in her bed, and Polly wanted none of it.

Sighing with regret, she turned her attention to her son’s woes. ‘I’ll not have you fighting. Whatever possessed you?’ And she became embroiled in a fierce discussion over whether she should go and complain to his teacher about the damage. In the end Benny was so clearly upset by this threat, that Polly felt forced to back down.

‘Well, take it off then and let me stitch it. I’ll not have a child of mine going about with his elbow out.’ Benny obediently peeled off the jacket, hoping his mam wouldn’t demand further layers to be removed, or she might discover that there was more to worry over than a torn sleeve.

Polly had indeed missed all the obvious signs of a genuine problem for her son. Absorbed in her own distress, the tears fell unchecked as she stitched, dampening the worn cloth of the jacket, while her mind inevitably replayed the events of her friend’s death and the implications surrounding it.

Could Joshua’s bitter grievance over religion truly have driven him to such lengths? All because she, a Catholic, had married into a non-conformist family? The man was sick. Polly paused in her stitching of the patch, staring through the window at the rain-sodden back yard, remembering Benny’s agonies as he’d been marched up and down, the pain in her own arm as Joshua had twisted it. A wave of sickness filled her at the memory and she had to wait till it eased before continuing, tight-lipped. with her sewing.

If he really did mistake Eileen for her, why had he done nothing to rectify his mistake since? Was he biding his time? Watching and waiting for the right moment, so that he would in no way be implicated should some terrible accident befall her.

For the first time it occurred to Polly that Matthew’s death might not have been an accident after all. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins at the very idea. Could Joshua possibly have engineered that too? No, surely she was letting her imagination run away with her? How could he know that Matthew would be there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, trapped like an injured animal under the stampeding crowd? And Joshua was nowhere near Matthew at the time of his death. Wasn’t that what he’d told her?

But what if that weren’t true?

‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ she cried, hearing the tremor in her own voice. If that were the case then he was not only a bigot and a heartless rapist but a murderer too.

It all seemed much too far-fetched to take in and she fought against the idea as fanciful, born of her natural distress and alarm.
 

In that moment she ached for Charlie, for a friend to rely on and provide the support she needed. Yet she knew, deep down, that he could very easily be much more than a friend. He wanted her, she could see it in his eyes, and had discovered she was not indifferent to such emotions herself. One day soon she would go to him, as she so longed to do. But first she had some issues to resolve.
 

Polly heard the sounds of her brother-in-law’s boots on the linoleum as he returned home, and bent her head to her sewing with a fervent vow to keep a sharper eve on him in future. Despite the very real grief she felt for her lost friend, Polly knew she must not allow grief to overwhelm her. This was no time for falling back into that trap.

The first thing she did was carefully to count out the money that Eileen had left her. There was more than she had expected: sixteen pounds, ten shilling and ninepence in fact, which would set her up grand. The very next time Joshua went to one of his meetings, she put on her shawl and announced that she was off out too.

Big Flo looked anxious. ‘Where to this time? He’ll ask, soon as he gets in.’

‘Tell him you don’t know because I didn’t tell you. Get your coat on, Lucy. You’re coming with me. It’s not too soon for you to learn a bit of business.’

‘What sort of business? Nay, Polly, thee’s not off with that carpet nonsense again? He’ll flay me alive for letting you wander,’ Big Flo wailed, following her to the door.

‘Like you once said yourself, this isn’t Strangeways and you’re not my jailer. Neither is Joshua.’ Then Polly was striding along Dove Street with such a determined spring in her step that Lucy had to run to catch up with her. Big Flo stood on the doorstep waving a ham-like fist and shouting for her to come back this minute, if she knew what was good for her.

The empty shop on Ancoats Lane had been taken long since, of course, but the landlord, delighted to see her again, knew of something which might be equally suitable. ‘Not a shop,’ he told her. ‘But costing less in consequence. It will happen be just the ticket for you.’

He rifled in a chest of drawers, found a rusty old key and led Polly and Lucy along Ancoats Lane, down Store Street and through a maze of interconnecting streets quite near the railway arches. Finally he stopped by a tall, soot-darkened red brick warehouse. Some of the casement windows were broken. There were many such buildings now in Manchester, following the slump.