by Marie Joseph
She could see the cottage now, a grey, tumbledown shack, with the skeleton of what had once been a barn tacked on to one side. The grass and weeds surrounding it were so tall it looked as if the building had subsided down into them. It was said that the cottage was four hundred years old, and Polly doubted if much had been done to it since then. When the snow came, it drifted beneath the ill-fitting door like the tide coming in across a beach. Polly had seen Bella sweeping it out, her hands and face purple with cold.
The door was on the latch as usual, and even before Polly had knocked and stepped inside, Bella’s high-pitched voice called out: ‘Come in, Polly. I know it’s you.’
She was sitting by the fire, sandy hair falling forward like a curtain skimped of material over her face. On her lap, the baby lay wrapped in a grey fringed shawl, as still and floppy as a rag doll.
‘He’s asleep now.’ Bella looked down at his little face. ‘He’s been crying all night with the colic. Jack said he’d throw him through the window if he didn’t hush up.’
Gently Polly pulled the shawl away from the tiny mauve face, trying to conceal her dismay. Neither of her children as babies had looked like this one lying so still on his mother’s knee. Both Gatty and Martin had been rosy, chunky babies, with rounded cheeks and dimpled limbs. Bella’s baby had a look about him as if he should be lying in a shroud in a little white coffin, the purple-veined eyelids closed for ever. Suppressing a shudder, she laid a hand on his forehead.
‘He’s not hot,’ she said, her voice warm and comforting. ‘He hasn’t got a fever.’
When Bella raised her head, Polly saw the bruise running from her chin to her ear. There were dull red marks on her neck, spaced like finger marks, and her whole face was blotched with weeping.
‘He must’ve had the stomach-ache bad to cry all night,’ she said in a dull and listless voice. ‘He kept drawing his legs up and screaming. I were at me wits’ end what to do, Polly.’
Polly’s active mind was in a ferment. ‘Never interfere between husband and wife’, was an old northern saying, but surely to stand by and do nothing was worse? And yet she’d experienced at first hand that very morning Jack’s violent nature. He was dangerous. He ought to be locked away.
‘Jack’s been knocking you about, hasn’t he?’
There. The words were said straight out, no taking them back now. Polly held her breath.
Bella was staring into the fire, unblinking, her chin uplifted, her whole body as still as if she was sitting there having her portrait painted. There was a dignity in the way one hand clutched at the buttoned-up neckline of her blouse, and a pride in the way she was obviously not going to answer.
‘Your letters are there, on the mantelpiece,’ she said at last. ‘There’s two, just the two. The postman fetched them this morning.’
‘It’s good of you to let him drop them here.’ After a small hesitation Polly spoke evenly, taking her cue from Bella. ‘By rights I think he should bring them up to the cottage.’
‘What are neighbours for?’ Bella’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. ‘You’d do the same for me.’
‘I’d do anything to help you, love.’
‘If there’s anything I ever need, I’ll ask.’ To show that all was forgiven, Bella smiled her lopsided smile again.
‘Oh, Bella.’ Polly took the letters down from the high mantelpiece. ‘This one’s from Harry, so I’ll save that.’ She pushed it into her pocket. ‘This one – well, I think I can guess what this one’s about.’ Carefully she opened it, drew out a sheet of headed notepaper and began to read.
When she looked up, her blue eyes were sparkling. ‘I’ve done it, Bella! I’ve got an interview! At the first try!’ The baby stirred, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, love, but I can’t help feeling a bit chuffed. The advertisement was only in the paper last week.’ She studied the letter again. ‘It says I’ve been short-listed. For a secretary, Bella. In an office down the town.’
It was no good. She couldn’t take it calmly, not good news like that. Striking a pose, Polly put on what she called her posh voice: ‘Take a letter, Mrs Pilgrim.’ Imaginary spectacles were adjusted on the bridge of her nose. ‘With reference to yours of the fifteenth instant, we have to inform you that your tender for the job in question is far too high. Even taking into account the cost of materials, we consider there is no justification for such an unacceptable price . . . etcetera . . . etcetera. . . .’
‘Oh, Polly.’ Bella’s tired eyes lit up. ‘You are a caution! You never told me you were going in for a job.’
‘I never told nobody.’ Polly folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. ‘I only wrote off for a bit of a lark. You know me.’
‘You’ve told Harry though?’
‘No, I’ve not.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Oh, I’ll tell him if I get it, but Harry’s narrow-minded about married women working. He reckons women get themselves a meal ticket when they get married. My mother’s the same.’ She laughed. ‘I suppose you could say that’s the only thing they agree about.’
The baby began to whimper, and Bella lifted him against her shoulder, rubbing his back with little circular movements. ‘I never knew you could do shorthand and typing.’ She adjusted the shawl to cover the baby’s tiny purple feet. ‘I knew you were a lot cleverer than me, but shorthand and typing. . . .’
‘Certificates to prove it.’ Polly’s tone was lofty. ‘Stuck in a drawer somewhere. Mind you, it’s a long while back. I got married when I was seventeen, you know, but it’s like riding a bicycle or swimming – once you’ve done it you never forget the knack. Anyway, it’ll likely be filing and answering the telephone at first.’ She grinned. ‘Bella, it’s fifteen shillings a week! Just imagine what I could do with fifteen shillings coming in regularly every Friday! I’ll be home before Gatty, and not long after Martin. He’s old enough at eleven to let himself in after school. You know how sensible he is.’
For a moment, a disturbing picture of Martin taking the key from beneath the big stone outside the door and letting himself into a cold room with a firelighter and a heap of coal and logs in an empty grate, dampened her spirits. But only for a moment. ‘I’ll tack a white collar on to the neck of my best navy-blue dress,’ she said, ‘an’ cut my hair with the nail scissors.’ She held out her hands, roughened and red from years of washing with nothing but a washboard to help her. ‘I might even start putting polish on my nails.’ She grinned mischievously, ‘Pink to make the boys wink.’
The expression on Bella’s thin face was wise and knowing. ‘You’ve missed all that, haven’t you, Polly? You’re always laughing and joking, but underneath what you’ve really wanted to be is a secretary with a white collar on your frock and finger nails painted pink.’
Polly blinked in surprise. She’d only known Bella for a year, since she’d appeared one day pregnant and subdued as Jack Thomson’s wife. And yet beneath that drab downtrodden exterior was an awareness that startled her sometimes. Guilt flooded Polly’s heart.
‘What about you, love?’ she asked quietly. ‘Isn’t there something you’d rather be doing than living out here in this crumbling ruin of a house?’
Tact had never been Polly’s strong point. In fact, her mother had often said that when tact had been given out, their Polly must have been on the back row and got missed. So when Bella’s face crumpled and her eyes swam with tears, Polly was all contrition.
‘Here, give me the baby.’ She held out her arms, then sighed as the weightless little body was handed over. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, love. You know me, always putting me big feet in it.’
‘How old do you think I am, Polly?’ Tears as thick as glycerine ran down Bella’s bruised face.
Jiggling the baby up and down, Polly determined this time to be careful. ‘Twenty?’ she ventured. ‘Maybe twenty-one. No more than that, definitely.’
‘I’m not sixteen yet.’ Putting her head down, Bella allowed her anguish to take over. ‘I’ve only been left sch
ool two years.’ Her mouth dropped open, showing decayed, uneven teeth. ‘An’ I’m not married neither. Jack has a wife somewhere. He’s supposed to send her money regular, but he never does.’ Her tinny little voice rose in a wail. ‘God knows how she’s managing, but she’s stopped bothering him. If the courts can’t make him pay up, then I suppose she thinks she’s flogging a dead horse.’
Polly pushed the letter deep inside the pocket of her coat. She felt as if she could have been felled with a feather. Bella fifteen! Oh, my God! She stared transfixed at the wizened little face. Bella must have looked middle-aged from the day she was born.
‘But your mother?’ Polly sat down on the horse-hair sofa drawn up at right angles to the fire. ‘What does she have to say to all this?’
‘My mother, whoever she were, left me. Dumped me on the doorstep of an orphanage when I was a baby.’ Lifting the edge of her skirt, Bella wiped her eyes. ‘I ran away, an’ if the police ever started looking for me they soon stopped. I got work on a farm across t’other side.’ She jerked her head in the direction of Pendle Hill. ‘Across the moor. All found and no questions asked. That’s where Jack found me.’ Her voice rose in a kind of triumph. ‘He used to walk across the moors to see me, an’ oh, I thought he was lovely. I used to sneak out to meet him, then when I told him about the baby I thought he would never come again.’ Her chin lifted. ‘But he just picked me up and carried me all through that deep snow last winter. The road was blocked, but he carried me through the drifts till we got to where the snow-plough had reached, then it was all downhill past your cottage to here, an’ he put a poker to the fire making it blaze up, an’ I saw the pots on the dresser an’ the rug on the floor, an’ it was like heaven, Polly.’
She held out her arms for the baby. ‘They’re my family, Polly, like Harry and Gatty and Martin are your family, an’ this is my house. So don’t belittle Jack, Polly, ’cos I won’t listen.’ Her tears had dried now as she rocked backwards and forwards. ‘He took the place of God for me that day he fetched me here, an’ he’s done more than what God’s ever done for me, ’cos Him up there’s done nowt!’
But all that didn’t give Jack Thomson the right to knock his wife about, Polly muttered to herself as she climbed back up the hill. No more than it gave him the right to mess about with the young half-witted girls at his place of work.
Her fingers curled round the letters in her pocket, and she ran the last stretch to the cottage, arriving breathless and panting with a stitch in her side.
Harry wasn’t much of a letter writer, but she read the two sheets of lined paper three times before she was satisfied.
Kew Gardens was a revelation to him. There was a pagoda, and a Palm House built like a glass palace, with palm trees from all over the world growing inside. And some day, when he got a step up, he might be allowed to work inside. In the meantime, he was happy to be sweeping leaves, trundling his wheelbarrow along the miles of paths. Honoured to be working there, his words implied. Polly folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope. No more mention of the ‘digs’ he’d found, but then, wasn’t that Harry all over? A bite to eat and a place to get his head down at nights and he was satisfied. Sighing, Polly turned her attention to the second letter.
Tracing her finger round the signature, she felt her spirits rise again. Manny Goldberg. . . .
Manny Goldberg lifted his head as the last of the three interviewees was ushered into his office. It was raining outside, soot-laden rain falling from a leaden sky, and yet this girl, this young woman coming towards his desk was all bright colour, from her corn-gold hair to her scarlet coat. When she smiled, Manny had the fanciful thought that she had brought sunshine in with her.
He looked down at her letter, open on his blotter. Older than the two other girls he’d seen, and married. Vague about her speeds, but definite about her willingness to work hard. Promising him her undivided loyalty if only he’d employ her. Swearing he’d never regret it, in fact. Manny smiled. This was no stereotyped letter drafted as part of a commercial course at the Technical College. Maybe that was why he’d disobeyed his instincts and offered her an interview. Maybe this was why he needed now to be on his guard.
Emmanuel Goldberg had seen the cotton mill as a going proposition. Its fairly recent closure had left its interior free from the attentions of vandals, and once the looms had gone and his sewing machines installed in their place he’d known he’d be ready for business.
Raincoats were what Manny intended to produce. Drab, lined, utilitarian coats: functional, necessary, heavy and drab. Facings, linings, buttonholes and pockets all individually sewn so that only one machinist ever handled the finished article.
Motioning Polly to a chair, Manny folded his hands together on his blotting pad. ‘You know we make raincoats, Mrs Pilgrim?’
‘Oh yes.’ Polly gave him a dazzling smile. ‘You should be on to a good thing hereabouts, Mr Goldberg.’
Manny blinked. She had a dark brown, husky voice, this Polly Pilgrim, and her skin had a bloom on it like a peach. Just for a fraction of a second he let his thoughts wander to his own daughter, Miriam, insisting on staying in Germany to be near to her sweetheart even though the Nazis had been in power for almost a year now. Given differing circumstances, this girl would have stayed too; this girl, like his Miriam, would take her freedom completely for granted.
He controlled his thoughts, getting back to the business in hand. ‘I don’t believe in wasting time, so we’ll leave the interview until I’ve seen you turn out a letter.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve an appointment in ten minutes which should take me till lunchtime, so I’ll dictate the letter then you can come back at let’s say two o’clock and type it.’ His smile was fleshy and kind. ‘Can you get yourself a bite to eat before then, Mrs Pilgrim?’
Polly nodded. ‘There’s no problem there, Mr Goldberg.’ Taking out the lined notepad specially bought for the purpose, she unfastened her coat, licked the end of a pencil and assumed what she hoped was an expression of impressive intelligence.
‘Dear Sirs.’ That was easy. Polly’s pencil skimmed over the familiar outline. ‘With reference to yours of the twenty-fifth inst. . . .’ That wasn’t much of a hardship, either. Mr Goldberg seemed to be taking it slowly, then abruptly he gathered steam.
Gripping the pencil hard, Polly battled on. When he dictated a longish word she wrote it in longhand to make sure, then found she was lagging behind. Feverishly she tried to catch up, flipped over a page and felt the sweat begin to trickle down her sides as she realized she was getting hopelessly behind.
Thank God she had a freak memory, she told herself. If he didn’t ask her any more questions when the dictating was finished, she could go somewhere quiet and sort it all out before she came back at two o’clock to type it.
‘Yours etcetera.’ At last Manny stopped. ‘Got all that down, Mrs Pilgrim?’
‘Yes, Mr Goldberg.’
Manny started to doodle on his blotting pad. ‘That’s the typewriter you’ll be using, over there in the corner. Two carbons and a top copy. If I’m not here when you come back, just carry on.’ He glanced through the window. ‘Well, at least it’s stopped raining, and I do believe the sun’s coming out.’ He spread podgy hands wide. ‘Bad for my business but I ask you, what can you do?’
It was a joke, Polly supposed, but she daren’t risk even a smile. She knew she couldn’t let her concentration slip even for a second. She had to get out of the room before he said another word. Standing up, she closed her notebook and went to get her coat.
Manny stared at her in surprise. One of the first things he’d noticed about this bright faced and quite beautiful young woman had been the serenity of her expression. Now the vivid blue eyes were glazed as she gathered up her handbag, pushed the notepad inside and began to back away from his desk.
‘Back at two o’clock, Mr Goldberg.’
The husky voice was high with what sounded like hysteria, and before Manny could blink twice she had gone, almost runni
ng from the room.
Manny shrugged wide shoulders and reached for the telephone. ‘Now what brought that on?’ he asked himself, dialling with a podgy finger.
Robert Dennis saw the young woman before she saw him. She was sitting on a bench overlooking the Garden of Remembrance, just inside the park gates, bending her head over a notepad balanced on her handbag, scribbling furiously. Her coat was as scarlet as the poppy wreaths that would be piled beneath the memorial in a few weeks’ time and, framed by a backdrop of darkly glossy rhododendron bushes, she made a picture that gladdened the eye.
As drawn to her as if she’d been magnetized, Robert sat down at the far end of the bench. Taking off his brown trilby he closed his eyes, lifting his face to the watery sun.
At the age of forty-nine, Robert Dennis’s hair was liberally streaked with silver. It had started to go that way in the mud of the trenches of Flanders Fields, but his face had stayed smooth, so that a second glance showed him to be a man barely into middle age. There was no corrosion of bitterness in his heart, in spite of the fact that the left sleeve of his coat hung loosely over an arm severed just below the elbow. The same philosophy had kept him on an even keel since the death of his wife four months ago. If anyone had told Robert Dennis he was a counter of blessings, he would have laughed in their faces; if they had said he was a brave man, he would have walked away in disgust. At a time when so many of his contemporaries were lying dead in well-tended graves over in France, at a time when so many who had returned were now searching for work, Robert Dennis told himself he was a lucky man. His job in local government, in the Education Offices opposite the Library, was secure. He had a house, small but big enough for his needs, and if at nights he sometimes awoke shouting in the darkness, from a nightmare in which he heard again the screams and moans of his wounded comrades, for the past few months at least there had been no one to hear him.