by Anne Doughty
That, Polly decided later, was the beginning of her own bad time. After Jimmy’s accident, life had been understandably harder and Polly felt it more than all the other hard times she had endured. But when Ellie died, it seemed as if this was the final blow. She felt that the loss of the one bright star that had always shone in her sky, even if she seldom had the opportunity to go out and look at it, was the one thing too many. The rest she could bear. She could struggle with dirt and poverty, hard times and fractious children, sudden grief, illness and the misery of pain and weariness, but for Ellie to be taken away was for the light to be shut off. She had no wish whatever to live in the darkness that followed.
Ellie had been the pretty one in the family and she had a sweetness of nature that matched her soft looks. Polly had loved her younger sister more than either of her other sisters or her two brothers. From the moment the news of her death came, it never occurred to her to do anything other than to make a home for Clare, for Clare was dear Ellie’s child and had something about her of her mother, though she was a far more robust and lively child than Ellie had ever been.
She was anxious about separating the two children, but she had guessed that the Hamilton’s would feel it their duty to care for their grandson and she was grateful when her brother-in-law had told her of their decision. She had always found William a difficult child to love, and while she could imagine being able to treat Clare as her own child, she was honest enough to admit that she was unlikely to manage it with William.
The death of her favourite sister would have been disaster enough for Polly, but that heartbreak came at the end of a long series of other sad and unhappy events in her life. In May of that year, 1946, Jimmy, who had held down the job at the Bakery since the Christmas of 1945, had been listed for an early morning shift. He had protested that there were no buses on his route at that hour, but when his protests were ignored, he’d got out his ancient bicycle and cycled to work. It was only a couple of days before his back played up. The doctor had given him a sick note and the Bakery had given him his cards.
Polly’s relief when Davy got a new and better-paid job only a week later was short-lived. When he brought home his first pay packet, he said he could only afford two pounds a week for his keep because he was now saving up to get married. When Eddie heard that Davy was paying only two pounds a week he wanted to know why he should pay more. He was saving up for a bicycle so that he could look for the better jobs out on the new industrial estate where there were no buses at all yet.
Only Ronnie, who seemed to take after the more kindly-natured Scotts and not the generally hard-headed McGillvray’s, came to her with his five shillings a week from his paper round and asked if he could give her a hand with anything.
She refused to take his money, knowing full well he needed it to buy the books the school couldn’t afford to provide, but his generous act made it even harder to bear the selfishness of his brothers. For the first time, she saw that the way she had gone on caring for them as they grew up meant that they now simply expected her to do as she had always done. They left a trail of things lying around wherever they went, never did a hand’s turn for themselves and, worst of all, never even thought of doing anything for anyone else.
And Jimmy, for all his good-nature, had dropped into bad habits. There was so much he couldn’t do because of his back that he often didn’t do anything at all. He never even seemed to notice when she was tired or harassed as he’d once done. He’d taken to sitting by the fire in the small back living room reading his newspaper and looking out the window at the abandoned garden which once had been his pride and joy. As often as not Eddie was there too, a pile of magazines by his chair. She had never yet seen him bend to pick them up when she came into the room to pull the table out for a meal. He never even moved to help her when she opened up the settee at night and tramped back upstairs to carry down the heavy pile of bedding which had to be stored in a corner of Ronnie’s room during the day.
The hardest part for Polly was that she knew it was her own fault. Long ago, in the letters she had written so faithfully to her, week by week, when she was in Canada, Ellie had said that she did too much for the boys. Ellie had been right. It was one thing doing your best for your family but she should have made them do more for themselves and more to help her, especially when she was working as well. Now Davy and Eddie would be looking for a wife who would do just what she had done and wait on them hand and foot.
With no help from anyone except Ronnie, the struggle to keep the place decent was a daily battle and now, on top of everything, she began to suffer hot flushes both day and night. Often she got little sleep. Weary of lying in the dark trying not to twist and turn and wake Jimmy, she’d get up and clean the kitchen or do the ironing. Sometimes she would even go upstairs to the tiny third bedroom that overlooked the road and hand finish a hem by the light of the lamp built-in to her electric sewing machine.
With her husband and sons asleep all around her, she often felt quite desolate. Those were the times she always sought comfort by thinking of Ellie, wondering when they could manage to see each other again, making some plan to save a few shillings each week so she could afford the train fare to Armagh.
Sometimes Ellie rang her from the phone booth in the Post Office.
‘It’s me, your little sister,’ she would say, laughing. ‘How are you, Polly? I’ve only got four pence worth. Tell me quick.’
Ellie could only ever afford three minutes, but the sound of her laughter would brighten Polly’s life for days. Her laughter, like her sweet smile, made you feel the world was a wonderful place to live in.
Whether it was the hardship of the war, or the cheerlessness of the months that followed, Polly didn’t know, but it seemed that her customers too were all through themselves. Certainly they had never been so hard to please. However much work she put in, however quickly she had a garment ready for fitting, they were never satisfied. They complained about the prices she charged though they were unexceptional. They insisted they wanted their item ready tomorrow. Some of them came so early for fittings that she had to keep the sitting room permanently tidy. That way there was somewhere for them to wait while she dealt with the client left standing in Ronnie’s room in front of the wardrobe with the full length mirror.
Some customers didn’t show up at all. Then they rang and wanted to come when she was already booked up. Some even arrived when she was out shopping and rang later to complain. Where was she, they had come and she was out. How did she expect to keep customers if she was never there?
There were days when the phone never stopped ringing and she was up and down stairs all day. She could come no speed with anything. Whatever she started to work on in the morning was still on the ironing board at the end of the day, ready to sew, when it should have been hanging up, ready to fit. Even when Jimmy was reading his newspaper with nothing else to do, she still had to come down to the phone because these days he felt too uneasy to answer it and take a message.
But all these distresses and frustrations were as nothing when three days after Clare’s arrival, Polly heard a small voice outside her door.
‘Please, Auntie Polly, I know you are very busy, but could I have a word with you? It’s most important.’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart,’ she said, jumping up so quickly she nearly tripped over the flex of her machine. ‘Are you fed up with that jigsaw? I’m sorry, I wanted to take ye to the park this afternoon but this big fat lady is coming tomorra and I hafta finish her dress. Come inta Ronnie’s room, we can sit on his bed.’
She gave her a hug as they sat down together in the small, tidy room that seemed even smaller because of the huge wardrobe that had come from McGillvray’s after Jimmy’s mother died and his father went to live with his eldest daughter.
‘Auntie Polly,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s very kind of you and Uncle Jimmy to have me to stay with you, but I don’t want to impose on your kindness. Mummy always says that fami
lies shouldn’t impose just because they are family. So I’ve come to tell you that I’d like to go to the orphanage as soon as you have time to take me. Perhaps, if you are very busy, Ronnie could take me, when he comes back from camp tomorrow.’
Polly looked at the small, pale face and felt as if her heart would break. What could she say? What could she do? She could see the child was unhappy and was doing her best not to show it. How could she be anything else, shut up in this unfamiliar house with these noisy young men and nowhere to play except the sitting room and only when there was no one waiting.
She’d had words with both Davy and Eddie about their behaviour towards their little cousin but beyond the odd hello neither of them could be bothered to talk to her and the idea that they might play card games or read stories with her had fallen on deaf ears. She’d even pointed out to Davy that if he was going to get married maybe he should find out a bit about children and their needs. But he hadn’t paid a bit of heed to what she’d said. It was just water off the duck’s back.
‘Clare, lovey, I don’t think you’d like it very much in an orphanage. They do their best and they’re very kind, but you really need people of yer own who know all about ye and all about your dear Mummy and Daddy. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy and Uncle Jimmy had to go to see his father. Did you get lonely? Ronnie’ll be so glad to see you whin he comes home. Would ye not give it a wee bit longer?’
Clare looked up and found to her surprise that her aunt was near to tears. She was such a very kind aunt but that wasn’t the problem. She didn’t know what the problem was, but she felt as if she was shut up inside a box and couldn’t get out. If it wasn’t for Auntie Polly she’d just run away into the forest and live with the animals until someone came and found her and she could live happily ever after.
‘Clare dear, are you worried about goin’ to school on Monday? Is that it?’
Clare shook her head and looked down at her fingers. That was only a little bit of it.
‘Has anyone said anythin’ to upset you?’
‘Oh no,’ she replied promptly. ‘Davy’s always out and Eddie never says anything at all. Uncle Jimmy has always been quiet, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, love, he has, but he’s even quieter since he lost his job.’
‘Mummy says pain is very wearing and Uncle Jimmy must get very tired.’
The thought of Ellie talking to her child and explaining Jimmy’s problem was too much for Polly. She could see Ellie’s fair head bent towards Clare’s dark one and Clare listening with that intent look she always wore when she was taking in every word. But Ellie was gone, her child was without a mother, and she, Polly, couldn’t even give her the time she needed, never mind a room, or a place to play, or even a few toys to replace all those she had lost.
Polly wept.
‘Don’t cry, Auntie Polly. I’ll stay if you want me to,’ said Clare quickly, as she threw her arms round the sobbing figure. ‘I could help you hem the dress for the fat lady and when Ronnie comes back he’ll show me where everything goes and we can both tidy up for you. And I can answer the phone if you tell me what to say.’
Polly hugged her tightly, lost for any words to speak and for any way to resolve the conflict in her mind. This dear child had brought her something she thought she had lost forever when Ellie died. While she was near, Ellie would not be gone from her. But even as the thought came to her, she saw that she couldn’t begin to give the child what she needed to so she could begin to heal her own loss.
‘Don’t cry, Auntie Polly. Mummy would hate to see you cry.’
‘You’re quite right, Clare. I’m a silly old auntie,’ Polly replied, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
‘No, you’re not. You’ve been so kind. You’re a lovely auntie and Mummy always said I was lucky to have you. Would you like a cup of tea? I know how to put the kettle on, I saw Uncle Jimmy doing it.’
‘But that’s Polly’s job,’ her aunt replied, managing a weak smile.
Clare laughed and jumped up from the edge of the bed. She began to sing ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, and let’s have tea.’
It was one of the first nursery rhymes Mummy had taught her and every time they read it or sang it she would remind her that her Auntie Polly was really called Margaret, but because when they were all little she was always putting the kettle on she’d got nicknamed Polly and now no one ever called her anything else.
They made tea together and sat drinking it in the quiet sitting room. For an hour or more no one called, the telephone didn’t ring and neither Uncle Jimmy, nor Davy, nor Eddy arrived back. Polly and Clare talked about many things, Polly’s childhood, her sisters, especially Ellie, about going off to Canada with Uncle Jimmy in a big ship, so big you could go for a walk, or go shopping just as if you were on dry land.
Clare’s eyes rounded in delight as Polly described her first winter in Canada, driving in a sleigh with real jingling bells, just like the song, and rugs to wrap yourself in and the swish of the runners over the snow. She took it all in and asked question after question, wanting to know every little detail of Polly’s Christmas treats, the presents she had and the decorations she put up in their tiny apartment.
For a little space of time for both the child and the woman, the pain of loss and loneliness was comforted and eased. But it was not healed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Clare tried, she really tried, to like the school that Ronnie had once attended. But actually, she hated it. It seemed such a noisy place with buses and lorries rushing past outside and crowds of children pushing and shoving in the corridors. Worst of all her, class teacher was a young man who waved his arms and shouted at them if they didn’t put up their hands the very moment he asked a question.
Some of the children made fun of the way she talked and called her ‘La-di-da.’ She’d never heard the expression before and didn’t know what it meant but she knew it wasn’t a very hopeful sign that she might make friends with these rowdy children. She wondered what Miss Slater would say if she saw them elbowing their way into the queue for the lavatory or the canteen. But Miss Slater was far away in Armagh and it looked as if she would never see her again.
Every time Clare thought about her home, her school and the places she knew, she felt tears trickling down her nose. Even when she was trying her hardest not to cry they just seemed to escape without her knowing and once they got going there didn’t seem much she could do about them.
Once, a girl who sat near her, caught her wiping her eyes and called her a cry-baby and she thought how angry Mummy would be at someone being so unkind. But thinking about Mummy made her cry even more, so she ran away and hid in the lavatories until a teacher came calling her name and she had to come out.
Every day when Auntie Polly hugged her outside school, she made up her mind to do better, but every afternoon as she was swept downstairs and out to the broad pavement where she waited to take her home, she knew she hadn’t managed one little bit better than the previous day.
Apart from Auntie Polly, the only brightness in Clare’s life was her youngest cousin, Ronnie. The very first thing he did the Saturday after he came back from camp was to take her into Belfast and walk her round all the booksellers in Smithfield Market looking for any of the books she had lost and any others she might want to read.
He had only two shillings to spend but whenever he found something she wanted he’d tell the man in charge that there was a missing page and that no one else would want to buy it. That way they ended up with a whole bag of books. What did the odd missing page matter if you knew the story anyway, Clare said, as they came back on the bus. But Ronnie only smiled.
Every evening, just before her bedtime, he’d come down from his room and say; ‘How about tuning in?’
They worked their way up and down the dial, short wave, medium wave and long wave, laughing when all they got was a sudden ear-splitting blast of static. One night they picked up a radio cab in New York and anot
her night an ambulance in Belfast.
Sometimes they listened to music, pop music from the Light Programme and Radio Luxembourg or classical music from the Third Programme. When they tuned in to the Third Programme, Ronnie liked to guess what the pieces of music were called, so often they had to wait quite a long time till the orchestra, or pianist, had finished playing so they could find out if he was right. Clare heard Schubert and Mozart and Strauss for the first time.
Classical music, as Ronnie called it, was very strange at first. To begin with, Clare found it very loud and often there were such sudden explosions of noise that she jumped violently. But as time passed she was less surprised at what the music did, she began to expect certain things to happen and then to feel very pleased with herself when they did. She always knew when the end of a piece was getting near because the musicians seemed to play faster and faster and get very agitated. Often they ended up with a huge noise and the moment they stopped the audience would clap furiously. That, she enjoyed. It really did sound as if they were having a wonderful time.
But some music was sad. One night there was something playing that was full of violins and before she knew what was happening there were tears dripping down her nose again and Ronnie had to lend her his hanky.
‘What’s wrong, Clare? Why does the music make you so sad?’
But even to Ronnie she couldn’t explain that it was because of walking past the grey houses every day. The music just jumped over them and ran away, far, far away to somewhere wonderful. It was the thought of that somewhere wonderful and not being able to go there that made it more than she could bear.
The worst experience of all was the evening when they heard the announcer say that they were about to hear a piece by Shostakovich. Ronnie wanted to try it because he’d never heard the name before, so while the audience coughed and the orchestra made funny noises, they settled down to listen. In was only moments later that Clare clamped her hands over her ears.