Polly's War (13 page)

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why won’t you marry me?’

‘I didn’t say won’t, I said
can’t.
Because I’m still married to Tom.’

‘Come in, for goodness’ sake. You’re soaked through.’

So they stood in the narrow hall because she refused to go any further in case his aunt should overhear, and Lucy repeated what she had already told him. She explained how the magic of a sun-filled day at Belle Vue must have gone to her head to make her forget such an important fact. ‘I’m ashamed at even considering such a thing so soon, with Tom posted missing only a few short months ago, even though it seems longer. But that’s only because it’s years since I last heard from him. Mam says I’ll have to wait seven years, before I can get a death certificate.’

‘Seven years?’ Michael looked aghast for a moment but then had to admit that he should have known, if only he’d stopped to think. ‘I must have been carried away too, by your sweetness and your beauty.’ He kissed the tip of her nose, and she flapped a hand at him in agitation.

‘Don’t. What if your aunt should come?’

‘She’s in the parlour listening to
Band Wagon
on the wireless. I can’t help but want to kiss you.’ Lucy was suffering from much the same problem. Her hands were clenched into tight fists in her pockets so they couldn’t sneak out and betray her. Almost to her disappointment, Michael made no attempt to touch her again. They both stood for a long moment, looking deeply into each other’s eyes, not daring to reach out for each knew they might never let go.

‘Seven years is a long time,’ Lucy said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘I can’t expect you to wait for me that long. I’ll be thirty-five.’

‘Mercy, quite old, and I’ll be thirty-eight. Even older.’

‘Don’t tease me. This is awful. I shouldn’t even be thinking this way, not with Tom only just ...
 
I have to go.’

‘I’ll wait, Lucy.’ He was earnest suddenly, his eyes unnervingly solemn. ‘I don’t care how long.’

She turned quickly away, not trusting herself, making a great business of pulling up her head scarf and tying it in a businesslike fashion. ‘I’ve left the children with Doris-next-door, I must go.’

Michael attempted to rally them both. ‘Don’t worry, Lucy. We’ll sort something out. All isn’t lost yet. We can at least still be friends. I’ll wait, I tell you. I love you.’ Then he did kiss her, pulling her into his arms with a fierceness that robbed her of the last breath in her body, just as if by holding her so tightly he could make it a part of his own.

Chapter Eight

By the end of May 1946 everyone began to fear the country might be on the verge of bankruptcy which meant they all had to pinch and scrape more than ever. The ration book Polly guarded with her life wouldn’t buy nearly as much as it used to. Butter, margarine and other cooking fats had been cut from eight to seven ounces a week. Even bread was rationed now and pretty awful it was too. Greyer and tougher than the Victory Loaf due to a lack of wheat. Folk were now queuing to get divorced as well as buy sausages. What a sad mess of people’s lives war made, Polly thought.

Even so, she was pleased with the way things were going. The warehouse she’d found was large and spacious, even if the windows were still mostly boarded up and you needed to keep your coat, scarf and gloves on against the cold of a late spring.
 

 
She’d had a gas fire installed in the two offices where she and Charlie worked, which meant the pains in his joints had eased somewhat but she hoped to put proper heating in the rest of the building eventually. In the meantime she’d purchased a few paraffin heaters and urged her employees, mainly women, to wear plenty of clothes and keep moving, allowing them to take regular tea breaks in the warmth of the main office.

Polly had installed new machinery for steaming and cleaning carpets but still had plans to expand one day. Folk seemed to be itching to spend money on brightening up their homes now the war was over, and a new fashion for fitted carpets was taking hold, one she hoped to take advantage of one day. Polly dreamed of buying one or two looms to make new rugs. The problem, as always, was capital.

She’d used every penny to get the business set up again, and was reluctant to borrow from the bank until she knew how successful it would be. Nevertheless she intended to think positive. Polly believed the future to be bright. The warehouse had a good location with easy access to Castle Quay which meant transport was not a problem, so long as they acquired a van to deliver the carpets to customers. She bought a large green one and had Polly Pride Carpets painted on the side. One evening over supper she suggested it be Benny’s task to drive it. He refused.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what’ll I have to do to persuade you to see sense?’ She slammed his supper down on the table in front of him, hoping he’d take the hint that someone had to pay for it.

‘Leave me be, Mam. I’ll sort my own life out.’

‘And would that include getting a permanent job, d’you reckon?’

‘Only if I must,’ Benny said. ‘I’d rather have a shop.’

‘I’ll swing for him, so I will.’

Lucy, washing her hair in the sink, kept her head down, not wishing to get involved with the argument. She wished her mother would say that living on the dole and lounging about the streets all day looking for shop premises in King Street and other places he couldn’t afford, as he’d been doing for months, wouldn’t get him anywhere. It was time her brother pulled his weight as the rest of them had to. In Lucy’s opinion Mam was far too soft with him.

Polly did indeed feel a strong urge to remind her son of how tough life had been when they were in Ancoats, how she’d sold all their worldly goods and chattels in order to start her own little business in the first place. That if she was cautious it was because she remembered those days of poverty so clearly, and had no wish to return to them. She’d imagined that life would get easier now the war was over and she could get back to what she most loved doing. But she wanted Benny with her in these exciting new plans of hers.

She glanced across at Charlie, one eyebrow raised in a plea for his support, but he picked up his knife and fork and just winked at her, grinning broadly. ‘Why should you imagine that Benny would always agree with you. Isn’t he as independent-minded as his mother, a real chip off the old block? Give the lad time to find his feet.’

Polly gave a wry smile, because of course he was and she wouldn’t have him any other way. A determined young man with a mind of his own. ‘Or enough rope to hang himself?’ she suggested, starting to laugh. Charlie was right, she should be encouraging Benny in his desire to start his own business, not putting him down all the time. Hadn’t she had a similar reckless belief in herself when she was young? She certainly had no intention of fracturing family relations purely over business matters. ‘Go on then lad, make your own way.’

Lucy, frantically scrubbing at her hair with the towel, could have wept.

Councillor Hubert Clarke was not without influence, largely due to his prominence in business and local council affairs. It was gratifying to see how eager people were to keep friendly with him, even willing to perform small tasks or favours on his behalf. Look at the way George Fenton was as anxious as he to encourage his son to court Belinda, despite her obstinate lack of interest. Yet all too often, she wasn’t even in the house when the poor boy called.

This morning they’d had their usual exchange of heated words, Belinda refusing to eat her breakfast and going off in a huff, with much slamming of doors. She’d got herself a job in an insurance office, which he thought quite unnecessary and she still stubbornly insisted on wearing those hideous trousers on her days off. Today, however, they’d returned to their favourite sparring topic: why she was spending so much time with that unemployed squaddie. He’d let her go in the end since her stubbornness was making him late for the office, which really was insupportable.

When she was gone, Hubert sliced the top off his egg as if he wished it were Benny’s head and decided it was time to start exercising some of that influence. He’d shilly-shallied long enough, which was most unlike him.

He glanced across the table to where Ron, his only son and heir sat noisily crunching toast, the sports pages of the morning paper collecting smears of jam and butter from the dishes it was propped against. A surge of irritation soared through his veins but he had the common sense to curb the impulse to insist he remove it. If he fell out with Ron who could he depend on then? The boy’s tall, rangy body was flung out with equal abandon, as if he had no pressures on him at all, unlike Hubert who felt every burden like a lead weight on his chest. At least Ron did as he was told without argument. Hubert got little if any support from anyone else, not even from his own wife, who usually hid in the kitchen during these spats. Anyone would think he was the villain, simply by striving to save their daughter from rushing disastrously into the arms of her working-class lover.

‘What do you know about this chap?’

Without taking his eyes from the paper, Ron took another bite of toast and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

Again the hot flood of fury in his veins. Hubert drew in a steadying breath, knowing it was bad for his heart to get too excited. But he could not allow his only daughter to ruin her life, ruin all their lives by making a fool of herself. What on earth did she see in this common jack-me-laddo from the worst part of town, when she could have Frank Fenton, a chemical dye works that served a good third of the textile trade in Manchester if not all of Lancashire, a large house close to Heaton Park and access to huge family wealth?

And there was no denying that such an alliance would do his own credit trading company no harm at all.

As if on cue, the young man himself appeared at the door of the breakfast room and Hubert stifled a groan. He really didn’t have the strength for any more thwarted love, not this morning.

It was Ron who spoke, again without lifting his dark head from the paper. ‘You’ve missed her. She’s just left.’

‘Oh!’ Frank looked thoroughly nonplussed. ‘I-it’s usually the other way around. You’ve both gone by now and Belinda just starting her breakfast. That’s why I popped in. It’s often a good time to catch her,’ he explained, rather lengthily.

Hubert spooned egg into his mouth, catching dribbles of yolk on his moustache. ‘I’m surprised you can spare the time. I’m in a bit of a rush myself.’

‘Er, I’ve got the day off.’

Joanna came out of the kitchen, neat in twin-set and pearls, a pink floral apron tied about her waist. She started stacking cups and plates on to a tray. ‘Hello Frank. Belinda‘s gone, I’m afraid. You can come and talk to me while I wash up the breakfast dishes. I expect she’ll be back later.’ And like a lamb, he followed her into the kitchen.

Hubert dabbed at his mouth with a folded napkin and grunted. The boy was too weak for his own good. Faint heart never won fair lady. He really couldn’t sit back and do nothing while his own daughter scuppered his chances of advancement on the City Council by going about with a chap from Castlefield, mebbe even marrying him, or getting herself into bother. At this thought, his heart began to pound and the heat in the room became utterly intolerable. Reaching across the table, Hubert snatched the newspaper from his son and tossed it aside. ‘Shift yourself. We’ve work to do.’

‘What?’ Pale blue eyes narrowed enquiringly. He knew Ron was always interested in his plans. They usually involved putting the skids under some poor fool who owed him money. Before they’d finished paying for one item, a coat maybe, they’d usually been persuaded by Ron to buy shoes to go with it, or some item of furniture for their home. Inevitably their greed led to too much debt, which Hubert never tolerated. Then it was up to Ron to sort it out, which always gave the boy a surprising amount of satisfaction. But then they hadn’t got where they were today by being overgenerous to layabouts. Quite the opposite. ‘Someone being difficult?’

‘You might say so. Fetch the car to the front.’

Hubert watched him leap up to bring the Wolsley to the door. It spent most of its time in the garage, highly polished and taken out only when there was no sign of rain. He placed his folded napkin precisely by his plate, walked from the breakfast room to collect his greatcoat, bowler hat and briefcase and, standing by the kitchen door, (he never set foot in this female domain) called out to his wife.

‘Tell Frank I’ll have the matter in hand by next week at the latest. She’ll see him in quite a different light by then, mark my words.’

Then he left the house without demanding the usual farewell on the front doorstep, largely performed for the benefit of the neighbours. Joanna stood transfixed, with her hands in the sudsy water and her eyes on Frank. She looked oddly bleak, not at all the happy expression you would expect from a mother who’d been told her daughter would soon see sense.

The family argument rumbled on at odd intervals throughout the day and the one after that and in the days following, with Benny constantly propounding his theories on how the second-hand carpet business was a dead duck. ‘Finished. Caput. Don’t waste your time on it,’ he would say whenever he could get Polly to listen.

Not that she had much time to listen, what with working long hours at the warehouse as well as looking after Charlie. Osteo-arthritis had finally been diagnosed, inflamed by a desperately cold winter, so working in the freezing warehouse had done him no good at all. Sometimes the pain was that bad he couldn’t even get up but lay in his bed moaning in agony. Polly could hardly bear to see him suffer so, and when she came home she spent hours rubbing his shoulders, back and knees with embrocation, which brought little more than a momentary relief from the crippling pain.