Polly's War (3 page)

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.

Chapter Two

Polly Pride was waiting for her daughter at the front door and, snatching her arm, marched her straight into the kitchen, exasperation tight in her voice. ‘So its home you are at last, you little heathen. Will ye never learn to guard that devil tongue of yours? Whatever possessed you to risk losing such a fine job? Sure and you’ll be the death of me, so you will.’ The Irish in her always came out strong when Polly was agitated.

‘How did you know?’ Lucy gazed in mortification at her mother who stood, lips pursed, arms folded, disapproval oozing from every pore. She was a fine figure of a woman still, despite being very nearly fifty, which seemed tremendously old to twenty-eight year old Lucy. There wasn’t much she missed in Pansy Street but this was fast, even by her mother’s standards.

‘Didn’t Maisie Wright tell me while we were standing in the Co-op queue, waiting to collect our divvy. She witnessed the whole pandemonium.’ Polly considered owning up to her temper being due to the fact that she’d suffered the same fate, but pride prevented her.

‘She said some awful things about me cheating on Tom.’ Lucy’s eyes filled with a sudden gush of tears, whereupon Polly’s soft heart instantly melted and she wrapped her arms about her daughter.

‘Aw, m’cushla, I’m sure she didn’t mean it. I know cleaning is not what ye should be doing, a fine intelligent young woman such as yerself. And aren’t I in the same boat so who am I to throw the first stone?’ It all came out then about Polly’s employers laying off the women to make room for the returning service men. ‘I dare say it’s fair enough and we mustn’t fret. Now the war is over we’ll get the business up and running again so we will. Once our Benny is home.’

Lucy felt a quick surge of irritation. Why was it always Benny who did the right thing and not her? ‘Our Benny might have his own ideas about that, Mam. Mebbe he won’t want to go back to cleaning and cutting carpets. Mebbe there won’t be enough work for him. The business has been closed for years. It’d be like starting all over again.’

‘Don’t talk soft. Aren’t folk just itching to buy carpets to smarten their drab homes? And won’t everything be grand for us then? I shall go looking for premises first thing in the morning, something small and cheap till we get up and running. The last thing we need is to be jobless.’ Her face clouded as she half glanced back over her shoulder down the lobby to the living room where she knew Charlie sat, reading the paper, as he’d no doubt been doing all day through no fault of his own. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘We need money coming in, me darlin’.’

Lucy’s cheeks fired hot and red with evidence of her guilt. ‘I didn’t lose my job on purpose but that Minnie Hopkins has the muckiest mind in all of Manchester. She just got me paddy up, that’s all.’

Polly snatched up a sharp knife and started hacking a fruit cake to pieces. Strictly speaking it wasn’t a fruit cake at all, since it consisted chiefly of dried egg and chopped prunes but she liked to think of it as such. She wagged the knife recklessly in her daughter’s face. ‘Seems to me you fly too easily into a paddy, so you do. You need to clip a peg on that sharp tongue of yours, madam.’

‘And where might I have got that from, d’you reckon?’

For a while neither woman spoke as each relapsed into self-righteous silence, busying themselves preparing sandwiches for the party. Polly set two slices of bread and cheese together with a couple of pickles onto a small plate and handed them to Lucy. ‘Take that out to your Gran.’

‘Why me?’

‘Why not you?’
 

Lucy carried the plate, together with a large mug of tea out to Big Flo who spent most days in the Anderson shelter that still occupied much of the back yard, waiting for the bomb that she daily expected would carry her off. She was back in the kitchen in seconds.

‘You should have stayed and made sure she ate it,’ Polly said.

‘Oh Mam. You molly-coddle her. What am I supposed to do? Ram it down her throat,’ and snatching up a plate of potted meat sandwiches, stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

Polly found her legs were trembling so much she had to sit down. Why did she always find herself criticising Lucy, making it seem that she didn’t love her at all, when she loved the bones of her. But then why did Lucy fly off the handle at the least thing? Daughters were surely difficult creatures, far more emotional and pigheaded than a son. Independent to a fault, so she was. But Polly did so wish they got on better, as well as she did with Benny for instance.

Putting her hands to her face she found them wet with tears, squeezing out between her fingers and dripping onto her clean pinny, though she really didn’t have the time. For all her brave words over starting up her business again, inside she felt a cold curl of terror. If only they knew what was wrong with Charlie. If only he was well and his usual cheery self, then it wouldn’t matter that she’d been sacked, and Lucy wouldn’t have to go cap in hand to get her job back.

‘
Polly
?’ That was Charlie now, calling from the parlour.

He always told her not to interfere, to let her children live their own life without advice or counsel from her. Wise advice in itself, if she could only bring herself to follow it. But then he was only their stepfather so how could he possibly know how a mother felt? Polly guiltily conceded that wasn’t quite fair on Charlie, for hadn’t he always supported her and been a fine father to her children, treating them as if they were indeed his own. It was simply that he’d not been quite himself lately, growing soft, or mard as he called it, in his old age, constantly complaining of aching bones made worse by his long days working on the freezing docks, so perhaps that was why he was less sympathetic. The pains had got so bad recently he could hardly walk and now had been laid off till he got over whatever it was. Aw, she was that worried about him.

And now to add to her concerns, she and Lucy had both got the push.

‘I’ll not be a minute love. I’ll just see to these sandwiches then I’ll fetch you a cuppa.’ She stood up, dabbing her eyes on her pinny, knowing that the minute she’d done the washing up and got this food ready for the party, she still had to clean through. Saturdays were her only chance and she was never one for giving a lick and a promise as many women in this street were. Polly Pride liked her house to shine, from top to toe. She allowed no room for a speck of dust, nor self-pity either.

Soon as they got the business going again, they’d all feel more secure, she told herself sternly as she set out spam sandwiches on a plate. Life would get back to normal at last and Charlie could have a nice warm job indoors instead of working on the wharfs, which he hated. Polly was quite sure that’s what had made him ill in the first place. Or he’d caught some nasty bug from that filthy river.

When she was quite composed again, she picked up the plate of sandwiches and followed her daughter outside, biting back a further admonishment as Lucy shunted and banged plates about on the long trestle tables. Borrowed from the local Sunday schools and covered with well-darned sheets in varying degrees of whiteness, these straddled the cobbles down the centre of the street. Pop-eyed children hovered close, small tongues licking rosy lips as they waited for the magic hour when the celebrations and, best of all, the eating, could commence, her own grandchildren among them.

Polly’s hands stilled in their jiggling of plates and folding of napkins, greeny-grey eyes growing soft as she watched them, eager to help for once. Young Sean, three years old, the image of his dad with his straight fair hair, and Sarah Jane, all dark and sulky, a budding Veronica Lake, tugging at her skirt.

‘When can I put me party frock on?’

‘As late as possible then you don’t spoil it.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Have a banana sandwich then.’

 
Sarah Jane pulled a face. ‘It’s not banana. It’s boiled parsnip with banana essence in it. I saw you make it.’

‘Aw, who’s a little clever-clogs then? Is it hungry you are or not?’

‘No.’

‘Please yourself.’ Polly set the plate close by her granddaughter’s elbow, knowing she would take one the minute her back was turned.

Larders had been ruthlessly raided for this day. Not since before the war had there been such a spread and none of the children could remember anything but war. When it was over, hearts would still ache for loved ones not yet come home and some, like Doris Mitchell from next door, would never see her son safe home again.

Oh, but what was she complaining of? Sure and wasn’t she the lucky one? She had all her children and grandchildren safe and well. Charlie might be overworked and a bit below par but he’d mend so he would, and at least he’d been too old to fight. Benny would be home soon, along with Lucy’s Tom and they’d all be happy as Larry.

And then it came to her, why her daughter was so scratchy today. ‘Are you afraid that Tom’ll no longer feel the same about you, after all this time away?’

A moment’s silence and then Lucy nodded, eyes brimming with tears.

‘Aw, me little one, won’t he love every hair on your head, just as we all do,’ but as she made to hold her close again, Lucy turned stiffly away, as if rejecting her mother’s comfort.

Polly clenched her hands, trying not to mind for she knew there were many such concerns this afternoon, despite the sunshine and joy of the day. When would their men return? Would they be different, or damaged in some way? Would there be work for them to do? And how would each family cope with the changes? Some women were reluctant to give up their own jobs, while others dreaded the return of an almost forgotten husband. And there were those simply concerned over whether their menfolk would bring their own ration book. For an hour or two at least they could all enjoy the celebrations and forget about the aftermath of war and the new worries that peace might bring. Bellies would be filled, and some pleasure could be found in an otherwise grey life

Conceding at last to the warm weather, Polly unbuttoned her cardigan, the wool of which had long since lost its stretch, this being the third garment it had supplied in six years. She’d go and take it off in a minute, have a good wash and put on her Sunday best. ‘Is nobody going to make some tea? I feel like I’m chewing sawdust.’

Lucy laughed, her ill temper melting beneath her mother’s good humour and the sunshine of this special day. ‘I’ll make it.’ She hurried indoors and grabbed the kettle, filling it from the single cold tap over the sink.

She really ought to go upstairs and start getting washed and changed herself but her mind was still on how next week’s bills would be paid. It would mean eating into her savings but then how was she to know that her mam would be laid off too, on the very same day. Life was cruel. It would be difficult enough for Tom when he came home, and she’d made it no easier by losing one of her best paying customers. Two children to feed and her wages more than halved. Mam was right. She should guard her tongue better.

For a long time Lucy hovered by the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil, her mind turning over the problems, worrying about her children, about Tom and how it would be for them after a married life spent mainly apart. She even found herself anxiously going over Polly’s business plans. All wishful thinking, in Lucy’s opinion. Once, Polly Pride Carpets had been busy and prosperous, had made them enough money to escape the mean streets of Ancoats and move them up in the world to a smart new house in Cheetham, but since the outbreak of war nobody had wanted carpets, even if such an item could be found, and the family had been forced to move again, to a more modest house in Castlefield for all it was better than many in Pansy Street, where Charlie could get work on the wharfs and the womenfolk too.