Polly's War (6 page)

‘Trying to avoid us, eh?’ joked Hubert, though with little sign of good humour.

Always apt to talk too much when she was nervous or distressed, Joanna launched into a length discourse on how pleased she was that hostilities had ended, whether the authorities would be able to rebuild the terrible destruction in the city, and how dreary it had been for her to be evacuated out for the duration with Aunt Cora in Scotland. ‘But Hubert was most insistent that I be safe.’

The very idea of anyone, even a German, daring to bomb Cherry Crescent, seemed a sacrilege beyond belief. Belinda managed, against all odds, not to say so, deciding that at least the enforced evacuation would have given her father some respite. Perhaps that was his reasoning behind the idea. The thought brought a smile, and very nearly a fresh spurt of laughter, so that she had to dash off into the kitchen on the pretext of checking on the apricot pudding, to get herself back under control. She stood at the back door, sneaking a quick drag of a cigarette. This proved to be a mistake for when she returned, still coughing slightly, it brought attention firmly back to herself.

‘Don’t you agree Scotland was a good idea, darling?’

Belinda resolved to hold her ground. ‘If it suited you Mother. Unfortunately we couldn’t all escape to Aunt Cora’s. Some of us had to fight the war.’ She regretted the remark instantly as being unnecessarily unkind for Joanna looked wounded and batted her long eyelashes in obvious distress.

‘I did my bit darling. I spent a great deal of time knitting dull scarves and countless balaclavas. For the poor sailors, don’t you know.’

‘I’m sure the poor sailors were most grateful,’ Belinda said, sucking in her cheeks and wondering if she dare dash out again.

The soft mouth trembled. ‘Cora got involved with the VAD but I truly couldn’t. The sights she saw … Quite dreadful. I would have been ill, I swear I would.’ Joanna pressed a lace handkerchief to her pretty nose, which had never smelled anything more unpleasant than cheap cologne, when she couldn’t find any of her favourite Evening in Paris perfume. She looked about the table with brimming eyes, seeking understanding and ready sympathy, which she instantly received.

‘Don’t upset your mother,’ came her father’s voice from the head of the table.
 

‘I didn’t. I never meant ...’ Belinda bit her lip, hating to find herself in the wrong, on her very first night home.

Then George Fenton, obviously wishing to assist by changing the subject, enquired as to her future plans, now that the war was well and truly over. Before Belinda could think of a suitable reply, her father’s voice boomed out yet again.

‘There’s no need for any daughter of mine to work,’ pronounced Hubert Clarke, as if he were at a council meeting. ‘Ron works with me in the business, of course. Belinda will help her mother at home and get involved in some appropriate charity, to give her an interest.’ There were blotches of red on his plump face, the implications of his words plain to everyone. She would stay at home until the right young man came along. Hubert drank the last of his soup with a loud slurping noise, then smiled beneficially upon Belinda. ‘You won’t find me niggardly when it comes to giving you a good send-off.’

‘Sent off where?’ Belinda asked, in her coolest tones. ‘Haven’t I only this very day arrived back? Besides, perhaps I won’t want to stay at home. I haven’t yet decided what I might wish to do.’

‘What is there to do but find yourself a good husband, and a bit smartish like. You aren’t getting any younger.’ Hubert, as he proudly and constantly reminded his family and friends, came from Bolton so prided himself on never mincing his words. ‘Father knows best, eh?’

Belinda, used to holding her own against whole squadrons of joking men, had been responsible for the welfare of girls in her care and was no longer the shy, convent-educated girl who had gone away to war, merely smiled.

‘Really father. That all sounds rather Victorian. I’m not a child any longer, you know, and I do think I’m capable of choosing my own job. I doubt radio operators are much in demand in Manchester these days, but I hope to find something a bit more interesting than helping Mummy at dinner parties or serving at charity coffee mornings.’

Councillor Hubert Clarke turned a dull shade of purple. He was not accustomed to having his word flouted by anyone, least of all a daughter at his own dining table. He would have said as much there and then, had it not been for the Fenton woman taking an obvious satisfaction in his discomfort. Even so, he wouldn’t have his guests think him weak, or be bested in his own house. Hubert considered himself a man of some importance in his credit trading business, ably assisted by his son who ensured that customers kept up their regular weekly payments of a shilling in the pound for goods purchased. He’d never stood any nonsense in that department, war or no war. If they didn’t pay, he sued, or pursued them until they regretted their lack of thrift. He hadn’t become a self-made man of means without learning a trick or two. He was a man to be reckoned with in the city, with many useful contacts which served him well. He reminded himself of this fact now.

Joanna had placed a small chicken before him which he began, with great theatricality, to carve. ‘We all appreciate how you volunteered to do your bit, Belinda, as we have too in our different ways, even your poor mother.’ He wagged the carving knife at her. ‘But it was your own choice to join the military and run wild. A feverish whim, no doubt, that got a bit out of hand. We’re only thankful that the war is over at last, and my little girl is home again, safe and sound.’ He beamed round at everyone before sinking the knife into the plump chicken.

‘Feverish whim?’

‘This is the reality now, lass. You can forget all that daft ATS nonsense and smarten your ideas up. You’ll never catch a chap in that mannish suit, with your hair chopped off. Your mother will take you shopping tomorrow and sort you out, won’t you love? I’ve got some spare coupons I’ll willingly donate for the purpose. I’d consider it a charity.’

If it hadn’t been for the sheen of embarrassment on George Fenton’s upper lip, not to mention Muriel Fenton’s stifled snigger, Belinda might very well have imagined she’d misheard.

‘I know you were never one for the glamour stakes,’ Hubert relentlessly continued, ‘but we can’t have folks thinking my lass a dowd, now can we?’ He passed her a plate of chicken. ‘Eat up, and put some flesh on those bones. Chaps round here like a bit of flesh to get hold of on a woman.’

Belinda felt the sweep of anger run up her spine and freeze it rigid. ‘How
dare
you! I’m perfectly capable of buying my own clothes. And I wouldn’t
dream
of putting on weight simply to please a man. Besides, I’m extremely fit and intend to stay that way. There are other things in life besides marriage.’

‘Nay, lass. Hold your horses. Don’t take on so,’ he mildly chided her.

Ron stopped masticating his chicken long enough to comment, ‘Dad’s only concerned for your future - that you shouldn’t let the side down like.’

‘Side? What
side?’

‘We can’t have you rusting on the shelf.’ Hubert Clarke had never been one to know when to shut up and draw a line under a point. He always had to score it deep. ‘All I’m saying is that you’ve had your bit of fun. Now it’s time to settle down and be the good daughter we deserve. Marry well and provide us with grandchildren. Don’t you reckon we deserve that, George? Muriel? He appealed to the Fenton’s, busily stuffing their scarlet faces with chicken.

For Belinda it was all too much. She was on her feet, pushing back her chair and actually gaping at him. ‘Fun?
Fun, you say?
Oh yes. I’ve had loads of fun these last five years. It’s been one long laugh from start to finish. What can be more amusing than picking up pieces of bodies and trying to match which bit belongs to whom. Or watching a friend’s leg turn to green slime and then seeing her hobble about on crutches when they relieve her of it. Now that really was hilarious.’

It was unforgivable of course to relate such horror stories in front of her gentle mother, and at a dinner party.

Vaguely aware of Muriel Fenton rushing to the bathroom, Belinda watched in fascinated horror as her mother very elegantly slid off her chair into a dead faint on the carpet, her napkin still clutched tight in her hand, as if even in an unconscious state, she must not be found neglectful of her table manners. If it hadn’t been so desperately sad, it might have been exceedingly funny.

As it was, Belinda simply folded her own napkin, dropped it on the table, and walked from the room. She’d start looking for a job first thing in the morning, come what may, and a place of her own to go with it.

Chapter Four

Polly stood in line for broken biscuits with a patience born of long practice. Far from disappearing with the end of the war, queues seemed to stretch longer than ever and black marketeering was as rife as ever, causing a lot of bother in certain quarters though it was no skin off her nose she supposed, if the government lost out a bit. There were times when Polly wondered if they really had won the war or whether it was all a big con.

‘Are you queuing for owt good?’ a passer-by enquired.

‘We don’t know till we get there,’ said one wit.

Not that Polly minded queuing. Here at Campfield market it gave her time to look around and chat with friends. Polly had always loved markets, had stood one herself in her younger days. Just watching Billy the Potman juggle with his dinner plates and beat down his own prices never failed to make her laugh. What a showman! He should be on twice nightly at the Queens. When she’d queued at the butchers and got a nice long red skinned polony for tea, she’d take a little saunter down Tonman Street. She might find a cheap frock for Sarah Jane.

‘There you are. Don’t eat em all at once,’ Madge Sullivan cheekily remarked as she deftly spun the bag to produce an ear at each corner and handed it over to Polly. Her wide girth seemed to fill the space behind the stacked stall, leaving her skinny husband hardly room to breathe let alone reach biscuit tins.

‘Fat chance with my lot.’

‘Got home safe Poll, ‘ave they?’

Polly explained about Tom being missing, and Madge tried to assure her that there was still hope. Other women in the long queue chipped in with tales of various friends and neighbours whose loved ones had come home, against all odds, and she nodded in agreement, without actually believing it possible. For all she’d been an incomer from Cheetham Hill, the folk of Deansgate Village had accepted her as one of their own, Madge Sullivan included. She loved the intricate network of canals and railways arches, the locks and bridges, and the wide sweep of the Bridgewater viaduct striding across it all.

‘Millie Bradshaw’s husband had been missing for four years when he turned up, nice and ninepence and just as brash.’ Madge leaned closer over the biscuit tins, causing them to wobble perilously and a few stray biscuits to fall on the stone setts where they were gobbled up by an opportunist dog. ‘And how’s your lad, Polly. I hear he’s home safe and sound, at least?’

‘Hey, missus, we’ll be here till next Preston Guild if you don’t get a move on,’ said one chap, clearly growing impatient with this feminine chit-chat. ‘I’d like to get served today, if its all t’same to you.’

‘Why don’t you save your breath to cool your porridge. You’re lucky if you’ve an house to go to. There’s plenty who haven’t.’

 
Polly, anxious now to get away before the rest of the queue lost its good will and turned nasty, said, ‘Benny’ll be bright as a new pin and raring to go, once he’s had a good rest, so he will.’

‘Yer a lucky woman.’

‘And isn’t that the truth?’ She hurried away, making no mention of her worries over Charlie. Nor did she refer to the rebellious stand her son had taken the minute he’d arrived home for good, threatening not to come into the business with her at all. Not that Polly gave much credence to such daft declarations of independence for all it’d shaken her a bit at first. Like a slap in the face it was, but then mebbe she’d rushed him, hadn’t put it quite right, nor properly outlined her plans. Why, she hadn’t even mentioned her dreams to go into selling new carpets. Full of grandiose schemes he may be but in his mother’s opinion he could do no better than stick with the family business. Wouldn’t he come round fast enough once he’d had time to settle? For this reason alone she preferred to keep these family concerns private.

She sauntered down Tonman Street, enjoying a bit of rare time to herself. At a second-hand stall she found a frock for Sarah Jane - blue gingham. She’d look a picture in it. To avoid any squabbles between her precious grandchildren, Polly bought a gaudy glass bobber for Sean’s marble collection, then treated herself to a mug of hot Vimto, which went down a treat. After that, she turned off by St Matthew’s Church and made her way along Liverpool Road where she’d heard of a warehouse to let. If she could get at least a part of it at a rent she could afford they’d be up and running in no time.
 

Charlie could work indoors again and be his own boss, which he preferred, and Benny would soon see the sense of coming in with her. Pity Big Flo was no longer the woman she’d once been, or she’d have given him an earful for rejecting such a fine offer. Wouldn’t she just. But the loss of her own three sons, one after the other over the years had finally turned the old woman’s mind. Didn’t even know what day of the week it was half the time, poor old soul. Pride Carpets was still remembered though, a name to be reckoned with.