Polly's Pride (48 page)

‘Well that suits me fine,’ Lucy staunchly replied, flinging her apron aside and slamming the vestibule door so hard the glass panel rattled. Once outside, all the fury drained out of her, leaving her weak and shaking with emotion. She had to go and sit on the kerbside for a minute and put her head in her hands while she wished, not for the first time, that her temper wasn’t quite so hot; inherited from her Irish mother, Polly Pride, no doubt. Oh lord, she’d done it now. What would her mam say?

‘By heck, a chap has to watch where he puts his feet on his own front doorstep these days. It’s that clean I could eat me dinner off it.’

Lucy turned to greet the newcomer with a ready smile. She liked Michael Hopkins. He was a big, well-set-up sort of chap with a friendly open face, and a thatch of reddish-brown hair that hinted at a streak of Irish blood somewhere in his veins, descended no doubt, as her own family was, from one of the immigrant Irish who had come to work in Manchester during the last century. Not that he sounded Irish. He was as Lancashire as hot pot, and never short of a jokey remark.

‘Your aunt’s got a bit of brawn for your dinner,’ Lucy told him. ‘And you’d best take care you eat it all up.’

He pulled a wry face. ‘Happen she thinks I need it,’ and with the last traces of her ill temper gone, Lucy laughed, tidying her bangs and wondering if she had any lipstick left on, for she hated to be caught looking anything less than her best.

‘If that’s the way of it, she must be blind as well as...’

‘Deaf? Daft? Or just plain cussed?’ He stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling down at her. ‘You and she been having another barny?’

‘I’ve been given me marching orders.’ Lucy screwed up her small face and rolled her eyes in a wicked parody of her employer.

‘Again?’

‘I reckon she means it this time. Says I’ve to collect me cards.’

‘I don’t think we’ve any cards to give you, have we?’

Lucy gave a rueful sigh. ‘It’s me own fault. I was a bit rude to her. I’ve not to come tomorrow, she says.’

‘By heck, that’s serious. What’ll I do without you, Lucy? Who else could I get to come every day and face my aunt’s constant carping, yet still do her every bidding with the kind of tongue-biting patience you display.’

‘I didn’t bite me tongue hard enough today.’

He grinned. ‘Let rip did you?’

‘She started it,’ Lucy protested, and then flushed with guilt at this childish remark.

Michael came to sit beside her on the kerb, resting his elbows on his knees. Lucy cast a sideways glance at the strong biceps beneath the rolled up shirt sleeves, the flush of freckles and sheen of golden hair on his fore arms. ‘She doesn’t mean half what she says,’ he explained. ‘It’s only her way of blowing off steam. I reckon she just enjoys the drama of a good row. Livens a dull day.’

Lucy gave a disbelieving snort. ‘She’s a nasty minded old... sorry but she’s got me all a-fluster. Accused me of having a fancy man. As if I would. What does she take me for? Tom could be home any day now. It’s ages since I’ve heard anything, but they say everyone’ll be home in a month or two.’

‘Ah,’ Michael attempted to look sympathetic but his heart squeezed with an odd sort of pain as he watched the way joy and sadness chased across her lovely face, flecks of gold sparkled in the hazel eyes one minute and clouded with uncertainty the next. Brown curls danced as if with a life of their own against the flushed curve of her cheek and he longed to reach out and run his fingers through them, to kiss the rosy mouth, savour the softness of her against him. He knew for a fact that Tom Shackleton had rarely penned a line to his wife for the entire duration. Such a man did not, in Michael’s opinion, deserve to possess a lovely creature like Lucy if he couldn’t be bothered to treat her with more consideration. Pulling himself back under iron control, he glared solemnly at the setts in the road. ‘It won’t be easy for him Lucy, picking up the threads of civilian life again after so long away. He’ll feel a bit at odds for a while. I know I did.’

Michael had been invalided out of the RAF in 1942, following a crash landing in a Lancaster bomber in which all the crew, bar him, were killed. He’d broken both legs which had left him with a limp, and suffered burns to his arms and chest, injuries which had taken a long time to heal. The guilt of finding himself alive while his mates were dead, never would. Consequently it was a subject he preferred to avoid since it had, at times, caused problems. Some folk could be less than kind when they saw a man walking around in civvies during wartime.

‘We’ll be fine and dandy,’ Lucy said, ‘given time, which we’ll have in plenty now this dratted war is over. Once Tom gets home I won’t need to go on me hands and knees scrubbing other folk’s mucky doorsteps.

Michael managed a weak smile, trying to imagine an existence that didn’t contain the presence of this laughing, precious girl.

‘You’ll come to the party this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘Happen.’ His eyes on hers were thoughtful.

‘But you must. Everyone will be there, the whole street. There’s pies and sandwiches, jellies and all sorts of goodies. Even Mabel Radcliffe has contributed a whole ounce of butter and a plate of home-made sad-cake. What d’you think of that?’

‘Miracles will never cease. She’s not known for her generosity isn’t our Mabel.’ His blue eyes were twinkling now, no longer solemn.

‘Starts sharp at three.’ And so filled was she with the coming joys of a new life with her husband, that Lucy impulsively kissed him full on the lips, then wagged a finger teasingly in his face. ‘No arguing. Mam will have your guts for garters if you don’t show up.’

‘That settles it then,’ he agreed, needing to clear his throat before he could get the words out properly. ‘Your mam isn’t one to cross. I’ll be there.’

Lucy drew in a deeply happy sigh and, giggling like the young girl she still was at heart, skipped off down the street, joining in a game of hopscotch on the way as if she truly were a child revelling in the joys of life, before reaching her own front door quite out of breath.

Watching her go, Michael thought Tom Shackleton was a very lucky man.

About Freda Lightfoot

How did you first get published?

Writing started as a hobby while I was bringing up my two daughters. My first sales were of children’s stories and articles. After that I wrote over fifty short stories and articles for women’s magazines. I followed these with five historical romances for Mills & Boon before breaking into mainstream fiction with Lakeland regional sagas. I’ve now written over forty books, many of them bestselling historical sagas.

Where do you get your ideas?

From life is the simple answer, but really I don’t quite know. From people, from things that have happened to me or my family. Details change of course, get turned upside down, and I constantly use a writer’s favourite two words ‘what if’. For instance, in
‘Polly Pride
’ Polly sells all the family furniture in order to finance a second hand carpet business when her husband can’t find work during the depression. My great aunt Hannah did exactly the same thing, although the outcome was entirely different. So I asked
 
- what if her husband objected?

Do you use real places for your settings?

My characters sometimes live in a fictitious village or street, which allows some scope for my imagination, but it is placed in as accurate a setting as I possible. I enjoy research and spend a great deal of time seeking out those little details to create a true sense of place. This might include which hills my heroine might walk over, the birds or flowers she might see at any given time of year as well as national and global events. I take a great many photographs, draw maps and talk to people who have been involved in the type of industry or lifestyle that I am trying to recreate. A strong sense of place is essential for the kind of sagas I write, as it is a form of social history.

How long does it take you to write a novel?

When I first started it usually took about nine or ten months. Now I can write one in six as I like to bring out two books a year. This naturally demands long hours at the computer, plus many extra hours on research. But I don’t mind as I love writing and am never happier than when I am weaving stories in my head or on screen.

How do you relax?

By reading, of course. I also enjoy pottering in my Spanish garden and walking in the countryside, or campo as it is called here. In England I love going to the theatre as I’ve been greatly involved in amateur dramatics over the years.

What do you enjoy reading?

I love historical fiction. As a young girl I read everything published by Anya Seton, Jean Plaidy and Norah Loft. Now that historical fiction is back in fashion I indulge myself when not writing by reading my favourite authors: Elizabeth Chadwick, Philippa Gregory, Susanna Kearsley, Kate Morton, Rachel Hore, Anne O´Brien and many more.

Where were born, and where have you lived since?

I was born in Lancashire, and brought up behind my parent’s shoe shop. I still remember my first pair of clogs, made by my father. Writing was always a dream, but considered rather exotic so I qualified and worked as a teacher until moving to the Lake District in the early years of my marriage. While my children were young I opened a book shop and became far too busy reading catalogues and being a mum to find time to write. After nine years of this I moved out onto the Lakeland fells for a ‘rest’ and became thoroughly involved in rural life, keeping sheep and hens, various orphaned cats and dogs, built drystone walls, planted a small wood and even learned how to make jam. The Good Life was on TV at the time. Fortunately the weather was so bad I was forced to stay indoors a good deal, which gave me ample time to write. We then moved to Fowey in Cornwall where we lived for a number of years, and loved it, using it for the setting of some of my books. Now I’ve abandoned my thermals, built a house in an olive grove and spend the winters in Spain, although I still like to spend the rainy summers in the north-west of England.

What are your plans for the future?

To keep on writing.
 

Thank you for all your kind messages telling me how much you love my books. Your comments are very important to me, and your reviews. I listen and take note. Many of you have been with me since my career took off back in the late eighties with my historical romances with Mills & Boon, followed by my historical sagas with Hodder, and I do appreciate your loyalty. And please do join me on my
Freda Lightfoot Books
page where I love to chat.
 

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