Polly's War (31 page)

‘Well, aren’t I learning all the time,’ she agreed, giving Hubert the benefit of her most winning smile. ‘But we did agree sale or return, I seem to recall, so long as I took what you sent, so I’m returning them.’

‘I’ll make a note,’ Hubert growled, making no effort to produce either paper or notebook from his pocket. Polly could only assume he meant a mental one.
 

‘Mind you,’ she told Charlie later. ‘If he doesn’t remember to have the chairs collected, I’ll remind him again next week.’

At the end of each day Polly collected her grandson from Doris, as arranged, and took him home. Tired as she was after her long day at the warehouse, she fed him, changed him, bathed and burped him, then lay the baby safely in his crib, rocking it till he fell asleep.

‘Don’t I love the bones of him,’ she said whenever Charlie asked if she minded the extra work.
 

Benny himself did nothing for his son. What could he do? he thought. Looking after babbies was women’s work.

After three more weeks of this arduous regime, Polly was feeling the strain. ‘I need a night off,’ she told Benny, ‘a chance to get a bit of uninterrupted sleep.’ With some reluctance, he agreed to the crib being moved into his own bedroom.

‘How will I manage?’

‘Saint’s preserve us Benny lad, you’ll manage because you have to, as we all do. Wouldn’t Charlie and me give a gold clock for the chance of a good night’s sleep? I’m too old for this caper, so I am.’ She went on to gently remind him that he was the child’s da and as such, must take a share in his care and upbringing.

She showed Benny how to mix the National dried baby milk into the baby’s bottle, how to hold and feed him, how to sit him up and rub the little chap’s back so that he got rid of his wind. She even demonstrated how to clean his little bottom and change his nappy. Benny prayed that the baby would sleep through the night and he’d be spared the whole terrifying procedure.

It was a wish not to be granted.

He heard the first few little hiccups long before they turned into a cry. Benny lay there for some moments, only half awake, hoping the baby would shut up and go back to sleep. This proved to be unfortunate because by the time he did scramble sleepily out of bed the cry was a full-blown howl of distress. Benny hoped the noise might bring Polly running from her bed but again was disappointed. She was clearly determined that this was his shift, which seemed a bit unfair. He had to work all day too, after all.

He picked the baby up and carried him aloft down the stairs, holding him with outstretched arms some distance away, though supporting the precariously wobbly head with his fingers. He propped the child against a cushion in the corner of the old kitchen armchair while he struggled to read the directions on the tin of dried milk powder and remember Polly’s instructions. He could hardly think with the racket the baby was making, and it was some moments before he realised he hadn’t even put the kettle on and then had to rush around filling it from the tap, lighting a match to the gas, by which time the infant was screwed up into a tight red ball of rage.

In that moment he hated the child.
It
had surely killed his beloved Belinda. Hadn’t
it
been the bane of her life throughout the pregnancy, making her sick and tired, coming between them at the very start of their married life together. Yet
it
sat there, alive and well while
she
was dead, demanding to be fed as if by right.
 

He picked it up, again remembering to carefully support its tiny head as Polly had shown him. He ordered it to hush but still the scream went on, the tiny fists clenched with fury and Benny’s own frustration and rage grew, his patience threatening to slip. He was exhausted, the day at the furniture shop had been long and wearing, filled with stress and problems of one sort or another. How could he be expected to care for a small child on top of getting a new business going?

The kettle began to sing and he shoved the baby back in its corner, stopping his ears to its gasping sobs. Even as he set it down Benny realised with horror that it stank. After the feed, he’d be forced to change its dirty nappy after all. He almost ran to snatch up the kettle, anxious to put some distance between himself and the cause of his anger. As he mixed the formula, he didn’t hear stealthy footsteps on the stair, was unaware of the door opening a crack or of Polly’s eye peering through it.

‘Right, shut up, you,’ he said, turning back to his son. And then he remembered Polly’s warning about temperature and tested the milk on his wrist. Too hot. Thank Christ he hadn’t given it to the boy. It occurred to him in that moment that the child had no name. Having a baby had always been something that would happen in the future, not now, and not without Belinda to look after it and make such decisions. They’d never talked about names. Whenever he’d brought the subject up she’d always put the decision off, saying it tempted fate to decide too soon. Now, drat it, he supposed he’d have to decide.

The baby had worked himself into a lather of hot fury and distress and was sliding down the chair. Benny didn’t know whether he should run back and shove him safely back into place or keep holding the bottle under the running tap to cool it. Desperation closed in.

‘Stay still
!’ he shouted, but the child didn’t seem to hear or understand, behaving like a termagant of balled temper. But then of course how could it understand, it was only a babby. Benny dashed across the room and caught him long before he’d wriggled anywhere near the edge but his heart was racing with fear all the same. He held the child securely in his arms, sat himself down in the chair and offered the bottle. Blessed silence fell.

The eyes closed in a bliss of contentment and Benny looked down upon his son in wonder. He marvelled at the translucent blue of the lids, the soft down of golden fair hair with just a hint of red in it, and the vulnerable pulsing hollow on the baby’s crown. Small fingers spread like tiny stars and he felt the tension ease out of the small body. As the baby pulled on the teat, Benny marvelled at his strength. He was a fighter this one. What a paddy he had on him.

‘Still some Irish blood whirling in those veins eh, little chap?’

And he was a survivor. Benny thought that one day he would have to tell his son how he’d been born in a back street on a pile of mucky snow and in the pouring rain, without any assistance save that of his own brave mother. The rhythm of the baby’s sucking was steady now, punctuated with contented little gasps. Benny found it immensely soothing, almost therapeutic to be sitting here with his son in the quiet of the night, as if there were just the two of them in all the world. Course, it wasn’t the little chap’s fault that his mam was dead. How could he even think such a thing? Neither of them had been given a choice in the matter. And he’d do well enough, that much was plain, even if he did have to make do with an amateur for a da.

‘She would’ve loved you,’ Benny said, unaware of the tears sliding down his cheeks. He’d tell him about Belinda too when the boy was old enough to understand, how lovely she was, how spirited and determined.

He chuckled softly at the memory. ‘We hadn’t two pennies to rub together and there were times when we fought like cat and dog but by heck, lad, we were in love. I worshipped the ground she walked on, and she never lost her faith in me, despite my fanciful notions at times. That’s your ma, a survivor, like you.’

The baby’s eyes opened for a brief moment, round and blue, gazing intently up at Benny as if memorising his father’s face, as if he’d been taking in every word and agreed with it, before allowing the lids to droop closed again. And not once did he pause in his sucking.

Benny tucked him closer to his chest, protectively, as if shielding the baby from a harsh world. He saw, in that moment of intense emotion, how he could best pay tribute to Belinda’s memory, by being the man she’d always believed him to be. All he had to do was work hard and be a success.

He thought of his own father, Matthew Pride, bravely fighting for his country then coming home and being the best dad any boy could’ve wished for. Benny had worshipped him.

The baby was drowsy now, sated with milk, a small bubble forming on his pursed lips as Benny withdrew the teat. He lifted his son and lay him gently against his shoulder, just as Polly had shown him. ‘Come on now, Matthew love, give yer old dad a good burp.’

In the stairs, Polly slipped quietly back to bed, tears in her eyes and a soft smile on her face.

Chapter Twenty

So far as Lucy was concerned everything changed when Belinda died. Losing her dear friend felt like the end of everything of value in her life. And she was haunted by the conversations they'd had about love.

‘Why make two people miserable when you can make one happy.’ Belinda had said.

Life suddenly seemed very fragile, as if every day must be enjoyed to the full for you never knew when it might end. Wasting it with a man she no longer cared for, who gave no indication of truly caring for her, didn’t seem the best way to spend it at all. Lucy felt as if she were living a life of pretence. Pretending she loved Tom, pretending she was happy. Yet what she truly felt was a desperate urgency to spend every possible moment with Michael. She was young still, and in love. There surely wasn’t a moment to be lost. Yet how to gain her freedom, that was the problem.

She lay beside Tom night after night, longing for Michael’s touch, for the excitement only he could instil in her, regretting ever having given him up simply for the sake of duty. Each morning she went about her daily routine like some sort of clockwork toy, cooking and cleaning, doing what was necessary without thought or reason, without even the chance of escape to the Gaumont with her lovely friend. Inside, her heart lay heavy and sick, robbing her of the last of her appetite.

 
Following their agreed parting she’d caught no more than a glimpse of Michael in the distance. Lucy convinced herself that he’d forgotten all about her, filled his life with other things, whereas she couldn’t get him out of her mind. One evening she was so wrapped up in these thoughts that she put salad cream on the table instead of custard.

‘I don’t think this goes with rhubarb tart, Mam,’ Sarah Jane giggled and Lucy dashed about, trying to remember what she’d done with the custard jug.

‘How could you cope with Benny’s baby, when you can’t even manage a simple meal?’ Tom said, his voice thick with sarcasm, as so often these days. ‘Get off to bed soon tonight, then you’ll be more awake tomorrow.’

‘I’m not tired. I’m fine.’

‘Do as I say. The children can see to themselves for once, and you can do the washing and clearing up tomorrow. Go to bed.’ And she did, for it seemed easier to obey.

It was Whit Sunday and Polly had invited the entire family to lunch. Lucy and Tom began it with their usual morning toast and mug of tea taken largely in silence, which even so somehow led to an argument. It all started innocently enough. Tom complained about there not being enough butter on his toast and Lucy laughed, saying it was actually margarine and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even seen any butter let alone had the money to buy it. That inflamed him and he accused her of mocking him for not earning enough money to keep them.

She felt cowed by his dominance of her, by his constant carping and criticisms. Yet something of the old Lucy still remained, buried deep beneath the damaged self esteem. Now she experienced an unexpected surge of rebellion at being repeatedly bullied, even by a husband scarred by war. Benny had been bullied as a boy but he’d won through in the end. Maybe she would too, if she held her nerve. She waited until the children were upstairs getting dressed and she was tying his best tie for him. ‘I was thinking of getting a job,’ she announced, without giving herself time to think. ‘Maybe that would help.’

‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘I mean it. I’m bored out of my mind stuck here at home. It’s not as if there’s enough to do, what with our Sean now at school. I’ve worked for years. I like working and having a bit of money in my pocket. Besides, we could surely do with a bit extra. We could happen afford butter then, eh?’ And she smiled, trying to keep what she saying light.

‘There you go, accusing me of keeping you short.’ Tom bridled at the implied criticism.

Lucy hastened to assure him. ‘That’s not what I meant at all. I like having a bit of pocket money of my own, or to spend on the kids, that’s all. And as I say, I like working.’ Yet as so often before Tom absolutely refused to listen to her point of view or even to discuss the matter. ‘You’ll stop at home, where you belong. You’re not even managing the housework very well. How could you possibly cope with a job as well.’

‘I’ve told you, it’s because I’m bored. Why can’t I work? I could easily get my old job back with Minnie Hopkins.’

‘So that’s it. You’re still pining after lover-boy.’

Lucy sighed but was determined not to rise to the bait. ‘All right then, maybe Mam could find me a job at the warehouse. Everyone else is working for the family business, why not me?’

‘Because you have childer and a husband to look after.’

It was no good, she could feel the pointlessness of the argument in her bones and afterwards would wonder what had possessed her to battle on. She smoothed his tie into place, handed him his hat and raincoat. ‘I overheard you telling Lily Gantry at the funeral, that you spent years in that prisoner-of-war camp in Germany, yet you told Michael and me that you’d crossed over the Alps into Italy
after
you escaped, and then made your way through France. Where, exactly, were you held then?’ The thought had come out of nowhere, but she couldn’t doubt that her words had hit home by the way he flinched.