‘Eels, thanks!’ The boys grabbed a couple each and fled. It took no more than five minutes to trade in the jam jars for a penny each and then they not only had sixpence for Benny to go to the Palmy Picture-drome, but twopence left over to buy Bull’s Eyes for them all.
‘A good day’s trading,’ Liam said with a grin.
‘Aye, we’ll happen try that one again,’ Joe agreed.
Benny grinned awkwardly. He felt guilty about tricking Daft Betty in such a way, worried her sister might find out and come after him. ‘Does that mean I’m in the gang now?’ he asked.
‘Aye, it does,’ Don agreed, his cheek bulging with toffee. ‘Fully paid up member.’ And as the four of them went off happily, arms wrapped about each other’s shoulders, Benny grinning from ear to ear, he decided that perhaps it’d been worth the risk after all. And in any case, who would ever know how he’d got the money?
Living by their wits became second nature for the entire family. Determined to keep their respectability, each Friday they redeemed Matthew’s suit and boots from the pawnbrokers before ‘popping’ them again on Monday, once the weekend was over. After the dole stopped Matthew refused to ‘go on the parish’ and accept Poor Relief.
‘We’ll manage somehow,’ Polly told him, hoping she was right. ‘You’ll find a steady job soon. I’m sure of it.’
But the only work he could get was an odd day’s labouring here and there, welcome enough but barely keeping the wolf from the door. And the few shillings Polly earned wouldn’t even cover the cost of their coal.
Life at number thirty-one wasn’t much better. Joshua hadn’t found regular work either, though he was fortunate enough to get a three-month stint in one mill before being turned off again. Big Flo stood in her pew every Sunday and sang ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,’ as if her belly wasn’t rumbling with hunger.
It was a source of great shame to Polly that often the difference between hunger and a full belly was the money they received when they pawned Benny’s best boots or even, in the end, Lucy’s Whit Walk frock.
Polly cried the day she had to ask her daughter if she might hock that, and was humbled by the child’s reaction as she bravely handed it over.
‘It was fun to wear it for that week,’ she said. ‘I don’t need it now.’
All that effort and argument, Polly thought, to buy the dress and then they were reduced to bartering it for food.
Chapter Eight
There were days during that long cold winter when Polly was driven to asking for some item to be put ‘on tick’ at Connie Green’s corner shop. Maybe half a loaf or a pennyworth of tea, which formed an essential part of their diet. She found she could get through most of the day on mugs of weak tea and a slice of bread and scrape.
‘Just to see the week out,’ she’d say, and Connie would smile and assure her that her credit was good.
‘At least you pay what you can, when you can. Not like some I could mention.’ Polly thanked her, even though it was shaming and she daren’t tell Matthew.
Her favourite time for visiting the market was midnight on a Saturday when she could pick up a quarter stone of potatoes, a pound each of carrots and onions, and a bit of tripe if she was lucky, all for a shilling. Mebbe get a few old cabbage leaves thrown in for good measure. She’d boil the tripe gently in milk and onions, for it was Matthew’s favourite meal. On one joyful occasion she bought a skinny rabbit instead which not only made them a fine stew but brought in a penny or two for the skin as well, which she sold to a woman who collected them for the glove factory.
That had been a rare treat, for the family now lived chiefly on lentil or cabbage soup, with some sort of offal or Manx kippers to break the monotony. These last she’d buy for a penny-halfpenny a pair, eight pairs for a shilling, which was the cheapest quality food she could find. And if Benny and Lucy groaned at the frequent appearance of this dish on the table, at least hunger drove them to eat every scrap.
For all she had little money to spend, and finding food for her children became an endless worry, Polly enjoyed her trips to market. She loved talking with the stall holders, enjoying the entertainment they offered.
‘Any fish you like for a tanner.’
‘Cheese of all varieties. Lancashire Mild, Lancashire Crumbly and Lancashire Tasty. Which will it be. Folks? Make up your mind quick afore it all goes!’
‘I’m not asking half a crown. I’m not even asking two bob,’ another stall holder would cry, gathering a lively crowd about him. ‘Give me one and sixpence. No - forget that. One shilling and threepence and it’s yours.’ Then some scrawny old hens or a box of haddock would change hands. Not that Polly ever had a spare shilling for such a treat, but she loved to watch.
Often she’d go with Eileen, or sometimes take Lucy to help keep an eye open for bargains. They’d walk the length of the hawkers’ barrows on Oldham Street, checking every price, seeking one that was a halfpenny or even a farthing cheaper than the next. Or they’d check out Shude Hill Market and any of the other spots around Ancoats where bargains could be found.
These outings served to lighten the dull pain of their hunger. On one such occasion Polly and Lucy were standing by the black pudding stall, no more than a table with a cloth on it set by the railway arches, but giving off such appetising smells that their mouths were watering. They were counting their pennies to see if they could afford a slice each with a dab of mustard. When they found they couldn’t, Lucy went boldly up to the woman and asked if she needed any regular help.
‘I’m a good worker,’ she said. ‘I’d not complain about the long hours and I’d do as I was told.’
‘Modest with it an’ all,’ laughed the woman, warming her hands against the heat from the glowing fire in her bucket. ‘Sorry, love, wish I had a job to offer you. But keep asking around. You never know, a pretty lass like you might strike luckier than most.’ And she winked.
Poverty making her unduly sensitive, Polly flushed with embarrassment at the implication and dragged Lucy quickly away. ‘What were you thinking of? ‘It’s only thirteen you are, and still at school. Why would you be wanting to work for a woman like her?’
‘I’m nearly fourteen. Anyroad, I could leave school now since Dad is unemployed and you’ve only a bit of a job. My friend Sally has. It happens all the time, Mam. They’d let me leave if I had a job to go to, which would help a bit, wouldn’t it?’
Polly could not deny the fact, but the thought of her lovely daughter giving up her education for the sake of putting food in their mouths near broke her heart. ‘Wasn’t I wanting a fine education for you both? Who knows where it might take you? I’ll not let you leave school, not on my account.’
‘We have to eat, Mam. And what is it you expect me to do?’ Lucy protested, knowing full well.
‘Get yerself a fine job in the city, at the typewriting, or mebbe in a shop. Didn’t you dream of working at Paulden’s or one o’ them fine shops in St Anne’s Square or King Street? The kind of shop where real ladies go and don’t have to ask the price. Now wouldn’t that be grand?’ Polly looked into her young daughter’s sad eyes and saw how she bit her lip, knowing that was exactly what she wanted. She gathered Lucy into her arms and held her close for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to worry. We’ll manage somehow. Whatever happens, you must finish your education so that you at least can get out of this rat hole.’
The weeks dragged by and the weather worsened, the bitter cold of winter making itself felt. Running out of coal was not to be thought of, for without a fire the family couldn’t cook or even boil a kettle, let alone keep warm. To this end, Benny was put in charge of scouring for coal. He’d range far and wide with his sack, scouring the railway sidings and even the canal, picking up what bits he could find. It was a competitive occupation for everyone else was doing it too, including Georgie Eastwood.
‘Hey up, look who’s here. Soppy Benny Blue-Cap.’
Benny started to run but too late. Georgie and his mates had no diffi
culty in catching him, as he couldn’t run fast, being small for his age. They nicked his sackful of carefully picked coal and left him in tears. Rather than face going home with nothing, he found another old sack lying about at the back of the goods yard and started all over again.
It was dark by the time Benny arrived home but for once his mother didn’t scold him. She took in the sight of his weary face, eyes like huge sad bruises in his pinched white face, and took the almost empty sack from him with gratitude. She gave him a big warm hug and planted a kiss on his cheek which, unusually, he didn’t rub off. ‘Aw, now won’t we make a grand fire with this: What a fine young man you’re growing into, son.’
Benny was granted an extra slice of bread with his dishful of hot lentil soup by way of reward that night. As he sat toasting himself in front of the fire he had provided, he did indeed feel like a man.
Despite vigorous effort on both their parts, neither brother managed to secure full-time employment. Joshua, having lost his job largely because of his involvement in what came to be known as the Dove Street riot, continued to be rejected in favour of a married man. Most of the mills were either on short time or demanding more of their workers and laying off the rest. Matthew considered himself lucky if he got two casual days’ labour a week, unloading coal or cotton at some wharf or other, although the money he earned barely took them above starvation level.
Joshua had now switched his allegiance to the National Unemployed Workers’ Movement, whose aim was to mobilise an army of unemployed to protest to the government. They held regular meetings at the Mission Hall.
‘He wants me to go with him,’ Matthew told Polly.
‘Will you go?’ Busily polishing her beloved sideboard, she felt a moment’s concern, not much caring for this talk of mobilising armies of discontented men.
Matthew stood beside her in the parlour, looking fidgety and troubled. As he and his brother were now in the same boat, he felt it reasonable for Joshua to expect his support. Apathy and depression were spreading like a disease but, in common with Polly, he had his reservations about militant action of any sort. ‘He says it’s the only way. There’s talk of a Means Test where your money could be cut just because you have a pensioner living in your house, or a child that’s earning, or even some decent furniture.’
He waved a hand to indicate their own few pieces in the kitchen: the deal table, horse-hair sofa and a few odd wooden chairs. Then he smoothed it over the shining mahogany of the solid sideboard with its fancy curlicues, gothic-style frame and huge oval mirror at the back. Upon it stood a glass bowl and two china dogs, all neatly set out on crocheted cream mats. He loved that sideboard, so painstakingly saved for and dearly bought, for it seemed to symbolise that they were somebody. No one else in Dove Street had such a handsome piece of furniture. It sickened him to think that if he didn’t sell it, the money rightly due to him as an unemployed man with a family would be cut.
‘This is our home, every last stick of it, and I mean to protect it, come what may. But it’s a worry, Pol. I want to do summat to support our Joshua, but I don’t want to take any undue risks. Not with you and the childer to think of. I can’t make up me mind one way or t’other.’
Polly gave the sideboard a final flick of her duster and an affectionate pat with her hand, then tucking the duster into the waistband of her skirt, turned to her husband. ‘Fond as I am of this sideboard, I’d let it go sooner than see my children starve, you can be sure of that.’
‘They’re not going to starve!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll find some damned work somewhere, without help or hand-out from anyone.’
So rarely did he swear or raise his voice that Polly felt quite shocked. Then, as if all passion had been spent, Matthew dropped into the only chair in the small room and put his head in his hands. He looked what he was, a defeated man at his wit’s end. Polly’s heart clenched with love for him. If starving herself to death would save her children and her man, wouldn’t she do it for them? But that wasn’t the way. They had to keep fighting, no matter what despair they felt.
She went and knelt beside him, stroking his hands, whispering soothing words of love. ‘You deserve better, all of you men do. I’ve read about it in the newspapers. The government is responsible for there being no work round here, through their carelessness and wrong thinking. They’ve overspent, so it’s our throats they cut.’
‘Aye, Joshua might be right. We have little control over whether we work or not, but we still have to live,’ Matthew said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if dragged from the depths of his soul.
Fear was growing inside her, fear that he might never find work again. He was only in his mid-thirties, not old by any means, but there were plenty of younger and probably fitter men coming up behind him, all going after the same jobs; those who hadn’t taken ship to Canada or Australia, seeking a better life. There were days when for two pins she’d sell everything, even their beloved sideboard, pack up her house and do the same. ‘You’re entitled to a proper living. Its not your fault there’s no work. It shouldn’t be looked on as charity but your right.’
‘How can we live on a pittance? The government believes we’re all feckless. I read the newspapers, Polly, and I’ll not have anyone say that about me.’
He sounded so fierce and strong again, much more like her Matthew, that she laughed, resting her cheek against his and breathing in the beloved scent of him. ‘They’d have me to deal with if they dared say any such thing about my man.’
‘Aye, well, the last time I went to a meeting I lost me job. I can’t see how going to another will bring it back.’
So it was decided between them, Matthew would have nothing to do with the meetings, nor militant protests of any kind. He calmly informed Joshua he’d no interest in politics. ‘I want no trouble. I want only to earn a bit of brass and feed my family.’
In truth Polly couldn’t disagree with this. Didn’t history tell them over and over how being militant led only to trouble? She’d be proud of a man who fought for his rights, but at least this way her husband would be safe. There was no shame, she told herself, in being poor.
Despite the everyday trials and tribulations of poverty, the Pride family were happy enough and coping. Just about. They faced each day as it came, and what they didn’t have, Polly thought, they’d do without and not weep over.
If there was harshness for those still at the mill, or worse for those on the dole, it was more than made up for by the goodness found on their street. Everyone did what they could to help their neighbours. If you were desperate for a slice of bread, a dab of marg or spoonful of sugar, somebody would be sure to share with you what little they had, if only because it might be them asking next week.
Polly knew that Christmas was not going to be easy this year. Usually she started putting a bit by each week, once the clothes bought for the Whit Walks were paid for. Last year had been bad enough: this year all their savings had been used up on simply surviving.
There wouldn’t be a great deal in the way of food or winter fuel, though Benny did his best to help, bless him. The children had grown used to the careful placing of pieces of coal on the small fire, and the freezing cold nights when they wore every layer of clothing they could lay their hands on. If they were lucky, and there’d been a good fire for once, they’d get a hot brick to warm their feet when they went to bed, but even that would be cold by the early hours, the worst part of a winter’s night.
Polly and Lucy had spent weeks hooking a new rag rug to put before the parlour fire. It was made out of scraps of old clothes, which in themselves were becoming harder to come by these days, but Polly had been determined to have it finished in time. She always had a new rug for the parlour come Christmas, putting the one it replaced in front of the range in the kitchen, and the old one from there she’d promised to Eileen this year, since she hadn’t time to make one with four children to see to.
Polly wished there was more she could do to make Christmas special for her family
. It was important that it should be different from any other day of the year, or what was the point of it? How this could be brought about she hadn’t the faintest idea, but she was determined to try. Even if they didn’t have a single present between them, she meant it to be happy.
‘We could go to the market last thing on Christmas Eve and see what we can find?’ she suggested, and Eileen eagerly agreed. ‘Good idea. We might be able to find a chicken, or even a goose. Then we’ll buy lots of presents for the children. A spinning top for our Agnes, paints and a drawing book for Rosie, and a ball each for the twins ... ‘
‘. . . some blue ribbons for Lucy, and a new football for Benny . . .’
‘. . and apples and pears, enough for everyone.’
‘Oh, yes, and a juicy orange each, or maybe tangerines. Ach, and I do so love nuts! It wouldn’t be Christmas without a bag of nuts to chew on.’ Dreaming of what they might buy at the market made it all seem possible and enlivened many a dull afternoon.
In the event, as the two women set off, arm in arm, they didn’t have enough money between them to buy a rabbit each, let alone a goose and all those longed for presents. Nevertheless they did indeed have a wonderful time at the market. The air was clear and frosty, and instead of the stink of soot and smoke they smelled the tantalising aroma of the black peas stand, warmed their backsides by the hot chestnut cart and recklessly bought a tiny bag to share between them as a treat - afterwards filled with guilt at such an extravagance.
Late in the evening Polly managed to buy some bruised cooking apples with her careful hoard of money, and even some wheat flour which on Christmas Day she made into huge Yorkshire puddings, one for each of them, with onion gravy. She would dearly have loved to offer meat to follow, but it was not to be. Undeterred, she had the meal ready and waiting by the time Big Flo and Joshua came home from chapel and the children from mass.
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