As she entered the house and closed the door, she leant against it. But there was no feeling of relief; William and Eddie were still out there in the thick of the commotion. Maybe, even at this moment, Leo was arresting them both.
‘Poll? Is that you?’ Violet called fearfully from the kitchen.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ Polly reassured her, moving into the room. ‘But it’s time you were in bed, Vi. You look done in.’
‘How’m I expected to sleep with all that racket going on? What’s happening?’
‘Some trouble near the Great Northern crossing. There was a crowd of folk trying to stop a couple of trains passing, but the police came and they got through. I think folks are going home now, so off you go to bed and don’t worry. I’m sure Dad and Eddie’ll be back soon.’
‘Did you see them? Are they all right? And Micky? Was Micky there too?’
‘I caught sight of Eddie once, but not the others.’
Violet asked no more and heaved herself up out of her chair. ‘I’ll say goodnight then.’
As Violet mounted the stairs, it was not Micky Fowler or even her father or brother Polly was thinking about.
The image that filled her mind and haunted her sleep that night was the sight of Leo standing with raised baton, ready to charge on his own people.
The following morning Polly went out to do her Saturday morning shopping for the family as usual. She approached the High Street with trepidation, but this morning the streets seemed quiet, certainly more peaceful than the previous night. Stones and broken glass still littered the ground near the signal box that had been attacked, but at both the level crossings on the High Street there were policemen on duty. Pickets hung about the gates, jeering and hooting at the officers from time to time, but the constables ignored them stoically.
‘I think the trouble’s over,’ Polly told Vi when she returned home. ‘There’s still folk about, but only the strikers and their genuine supporters. It seems quiet now, you know, orderly. I’ll cook us a nice meal for tonight and maybe Dad and Eddie will stay at home and keep out of it.’
‘Huh! Eddie stay in on a Saturday night? Fat chance!’ Violet snorted. ‘Nor Dad either. He’ll not miss his pint at the George and Dragon.’
‘As long as it’s nowhere near where the trouble was last night. You know what he gets like when he’s had a couple.’
‘You’ll not stop him if he wants to go and join in the fun.’
Polly rounded on her. ‘Fun, you call it? It wasn’t fun watching our own folk being charged by the police swinging their batons, I can tell you.’
‘You didn’t tell me that, Poll,’ Violet said reproachfully. ‘You made out there wasn’t much trouble.’
‘I – I didn’t want you worrying.’
‘What time did Dad an’ Eddie come in?’
Polly sniffed with disapproval. ‘After midnight and clattering about with no thought for others trying to sleep. It’s a wonder they didn’t wake Miriam. She’s a light sleeper at the best of times.’
‘Were they causing trouble?’
Polly hesitated and then sighed. There was little point in lying; Violet would find out soon enough. ‘Eddie was chucking stones about, but I didn’t see Dad at all. I don’t know where he was.’
Violet turned pale. ‘You don’t think he got arrested? Or – or hurt?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t have come home if he had, would he?’
‘Are you sure he did? I haven’t seen sign or sight of him this morning. Only Eddie, who grabbed a bite of breakfast and rushed off out. He wouldn’t even speak to me.’
Polly stared at her sister and then ran upstairs. She opened her father’s bedroom door and peeped around it.
The sight of the hump beneath the bedclothes and the sound of gentle snoring made her sigh with relief.
‘He’s still in bed,’ she told Vi when she went back downstairs.
‘Getting his strength up for another riot tonight, I expect,’ Violet said wryly.
‘I hope not,’ Polly said with feeling.
But Violet’s gloomy prophecy turned out to be true; the trouble on the Saturday night proved to be far worse than anything that had happened on the Friday, and was to bring sorrow and shame to the Longden family.
Thirty-Three
William appeared, bleary-eyed, just before dinnertime.
‘It’s just a sandwich for dinner, Dad, but I’ll be cooking a nice meal for us all tonight. It might be cooler then. You will be in, won’t you?’ She tried to make it sound more like a statement of fact than a question. But her father was having none of it.
‘No, I won’t. I’m on picket duty tonight. Got to do my shift.’
‘You’d do better to be doing a proper shift at work than playing silly buggers with the strikers.’
William glowered at her. ‘I aren’t no blackleg. And you mind your language, girl. And get me a proper dinner now.’
Polly faced him squarely. ‘I’m cooking tonight. Not now. Tek it or leave it.’
William growled something unintelligible and glowered all the time he ate the sandwiches she set on the table. He went out of the house without speaking to her again.
The time passed slowly, the day getting hotter and hotter.
‘Oh, Poll, I really don’t feel well,’ Violet moaned restlessly.
‘It’s the heat. I’ll bathe your face and hands. Try and sit quietly, Vi. All this wriggling just makes you even hotter.’
‘I just can’t get comfortable. I’m the size of a house.’
But there was no escaping the heat; even Miriam, usually so energetic, was lying listlessly on the sofa not wanting to go out to play.
At teatime, when Polly was cooking the tea, the kitchen got hotter and hotter.
‘Go and sit in the front room, Vi, with Miriam. How about you play a game of Snap with her? She’s bored, poor mite.’
‘I’m too hot and uncomfortable. I wish this baby would hurry up and come. Then I could have it adopted and get on with me own life.’
Polly gaped at her. ‘Adopted? Oh, Vi, you wouldn’t.’
‘Why not? I don’t want it. And Micky’s denying it’s even his, meking out I’m some sort of trollop that doesn’t even know whose kid it is.’ Easy tears filled her eyes.
‘But I thought you loved bairns. You were always so good with Miriam when she was a baby.’
Violet grimaced. ‘I could always hand her back to you.’
‘You’ll love your own when it comes,’ Polly said softly. ‘I know you will.’
Violet shifted uneasily in her seat again. ‘Mebbe,’ she muttered and then added ominously, ‘mebbe not.’
When tea was ready, there was still no sign of William or Eddie. Polly, Violet, Miriam and Stevie, when he came home, ate together, whilst Polly plated up meals for the two missing men.
‘What’s happening out there?’ Violet asked Stevie.
‘Not much,’ the boy said, eating hungrily. The heat didn’t seem to affect Stevie’s appetite. ‘By heck, Poll, this is good.’ He grinned. ‘Mr Wilmott’s rotting veg comes in handy, doesn’t it? It’s going off quicker than ever this hot weather. I’ve brought home another boxful.’ His smile faded as he added, ‘He’s put boards on the outside of the windows tonight. He reckons there’s going to be more trouble.’
Polly and Violet exchanged anxious looks.
‘Have you seen Dad or Eddie?’
‘Or Micky?’ Violet put in.
‘No.’
‘Why does Mr Wilmott think there might be more trouble tonight? It’s been quiet all day,’ Polly persisted.
‘There’s police on duty at both crossings and a few pickets wandering about, but no trouble. Mind you—’
‘What?’ both girls chorused. Only Miriam sat eating her tea, unfazed by the conversation passing over her head.
‘They do say extra county police have been drafted in and they were closing the Great Northern station when I left work.’
‘Closing it? At six o’clock o
n a Saturday evening? Never!’
‘’S’true. All the lights were turned off. It doesn’t half look weird.’
Polly bit her lip worriedly as she cleared away the remnants of the meal and washed up in the scullery. She didn’t even try to press-gang Violet into helping her. The girl looked very weary and Polly was concerned about her.
When neither William nor Eddie had come home by ten o’clock, Polly went out to look for them. This time, she vowed, if she could find them she was going to get them to come home even if she had to drag them.
They weren’t in the George and Dragon so Polly headed up the High Street, her heart racing. There were people coming from all directions – men, women, youths and even children who, to Polly’s mind, should have been safely in bed. There were a few police constables on duty, but they were chatting and exchanging good-natured banter with the pickets. Polly searched up and down the street, determined not to return home before she had found at least one member of her family.
The crowd seemed to be growing by the minute. Surely, she thought, folk should be going home now, not coming out.
It was just past eleven when she noticed lines of policemen marching up the High Street to join those already on duty. Polly gasped as she saw them draw their batons and advance towards the milling crowd, who responded with cat-calling and jeering. The unrest spread like a tidal wave up the street as far as High Bridge.
Suddenly there was a great roar from the crowd. Polly shrank back into a doorway and watched in horror as a line of policemen charged the crowd with batons raised. People fled in all directions, though some gangs of youths stayed to fight. Blow after blow rained down from the police batons and the crowd retaliated by picking up anything to hand and hurling it at the oncoming officers; bottles and bricks flew through the air, smashing onto the ground or finding their mark on a policeman’s helmet. The skirmishing continued. The sound of breaking glass shattered the night and cries and yells from both sides grew to a crescendo. The police – far more in number than the city force – charged again and again. Batons flailed and fists flew.
As Polly watched in terror, the rioters, for that was what her fellow citizens had become in a matter of moments, began to attack buildings. Their main target appeared to be the offices of the railway companies, but then they hurled bricks and stones at the shop windows of innocent traders. Street lamps were smashed and now several policemen and a few of the troublemakers were being led or carried away, blood pouring from open wounds.
Polly was close to the railway offices in St Mark’s Square when she heard the plaintive wail of two women, clutching the arm of one of the rioters. The man was holding something that was alight at one end.
‘No, no, please don’t throw it. Our homes will catch fire.’
Polly gasped as she recognized the man with whom the women were pleading. She ran forward, pushing her way through the crowd. ‘Dad, what are you doing?’
Before William could answer one of the women grasped Polly’s arm. ‘Stop him, miss. Please stop him. He’s going to set the offices on fire.’
‘Oh no, Dad, no!’
‘If he does – ’ the second woman was in tears – ‘our cottages’ll likely catch fire. We’ll lose our homes.’
Polly hung onto her father’s arm. ‘Come away, Dad. Come home.’
With a growl, William hit out at her, catching her on the shoulder. ‘Leave me be.’ But he dropped the lighted missile and disappeared into the crowd. In the darkness, she lost sight of him again.
‘Thanks, luv.’ One of the women touched Polly’s arm. ‘But you get yarsen home now, lass, and lock yar door. ’Tain’t safe to be out on a night like this. I don’t know what’s got into folk. Really I don’t.’
‘’Tis the heat. It’s made ’em like a lot of madmen,’ her companion muttered. ‘Come on, Flo, let’s get back inside. I reckon we’re all right for the moment.’
Polly hurried back into the High Street to try to get home, away from the terror, when she heard shouting and breaking glass. She squinted through the gloom and saw the dark shapes of youths throwing stones at shop windows and then they put their hands through the shattered glass and snatched the goods from the window displays. She couldn’t see what they were taking, not in the dark, but she knew the shops well; boots and shoes, confectionery, clothes, even wine, which would no doubt fortify and fuel the rioters and cause more drunken rampaging through the streets.
She paused, unable to believe what was in front of her; a fat, red-faced woman shouting raucous encouragement to the vandals. Polly bowed her head and hurried on. All around her now was the sound of breaking glass, of shouting and uproar. Figures were running to and fro, hurling bricks and bottles, causing damage and destruction just for the hell of it.
This had nothing to do with the strikers’ genuine fight for better conditions, Polly thought. This was an unruly hooligan element that had seized upon the chance to make mischief. And what mischief! Polly was appalled and frightened too. A young woman was no longer safe on the streets on her own at this time of night. She hurried on again, bending her head so as not to be recognized; she didn’t want anyone to think she’d been involved in the trouble.
Near the Midland station she could hear a bell being rung and heard more shouting and shrieks of laughter. She paused and looked up in horror at the signal box. Three men had got into the box and were pushing out the window frames and were smashing the inside workings with a lump hammer.
Nearby, the offices of a brewery, housed in railway buildings, were under attack. The windows had been smashed and then, to Polly’s horror, she saw a man throw a burning missile through the broken window. Flames soon flickered from inside.
‘Fire, fire,’ Polly shouted, but her voice was lost in the hubbub. She struggled forward, trying to find someone who would help, but the mob was so dense here she couldn’t push her way through. She saw shadows against the blaze, which had now taken hold inside the building. Two men were trying to put it out, but no one else in the crowd moved to help them. They were fighting a losing battle as flames and smoke belched out of the broken windows. The shout went up and Polly saw the glow climbing into the night sky.
Polly watched for what seemed an age, but the fire grew worse and folks stepped back away from the intense heat. At last she heard the noise of an approaching vehicle and heard a clanging bell. A fire engine arrived and the crowd, fearful of being run down, parted to let it through.
The firemen began to tackle the fire amidst shouting from the crowds.
‘Let ’em rot.’
‘Let it burn.’
‘We’ve shown ’em.’
Slowly, the blaze was brought under control.
She should go home, Polly knew, but she’d still not found Eddie. More than anything now she wanted to find Eddie. She’d found William only to lose him again and having seen his actions with her own eyes, she was disgusted and angry with him.
‘He’ll have to take his chances,’ she muttered. ‘He’s brought it on himself.’
But Eddie was another matter.
The crowd was thinning; many were slipping away to their homes, realizing that things were getting out of hand now. The wanton destruction of property and businesses that had nothing to do with the railway companies and the looting from vandalized shops were both criminal offences.
Again, Polly took refuge in a doorway. She knew she should run home as fast as she could, but she couldn’t drag herself away. She had to stay; she had to see for herself what was happening.
Thirty-Four
Polly remained half-hidden in the doorway as she heard another sound getting louder, coming closer and closer. The sound of marching feet. She gasped as she saw lines of soldiers marching down the High Street with bayonets fixed and pointing outwards in front of them coming straight towards the crowd. And it seemed to the frightened eyes of the girl that they had no intention of stopping. At the sight of the advancing soldiers, the crowd’s raucous shouts and jeering fell stran
gely quiet as they faced the grim reality. They were no match for armed men and they knew it.
As the soldiers came to a halt a short distance away from where she was standing, Polly saw the officer in charge move to speak to the chief of police. After some discussion, one of the officers stood on a box and addressed the milling crowd. If they didn’t disperse immediately, he told them, and go back to their homes, the Riot Act would be read by a magistrate, who was standing beside him. The streets would then be cleared by the military.
A murmuring ran amongst those who heard his message. More and more people began to drift away. As the message was relayed, Polly could see that the gangs of youths were dropping their missiles and slinking away down side streets, the looters still carrying their ill-gotten gains, their defiant laughter ringing through the night.
Polly felt someone grip her arm and a voice whispered in her ear. ‘What the hell are you doing out here, Poll?’
‘Eddie! Oh, thank God. Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?’
He was dragging her away towards the corner of their street. ‘Come on, we’re going home. Now.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
‘I dunno and we’re not waiting to find out. Come on, Poll, let’s get out of here.’
As they hurried away and turned into their street, Polly asked, ‘What on earth are you doing getting involved in all that? It’s nowt to do with you.’
Through the darkness, Polly saw his white teeth shining as he grinned. ‘You know me, Poll. Always game for a bit of bother.’
‘Well, you’d do well to stay out of it. Specially with soldiers charging down the street with bayonets at the ready.’
Eddie’s tone was more thoughtful as he said, ‘Yes, I could quite fancy a bit of that mesen.’
Polly twisted round. ‘What?’
‘Bein’ a soldier. I reckon that’d suit me.’
Polly groaned. ‘Oh, don’t joke, Eddie. I’ve enough with Dad and Leo being on opposite sides. Where’s it all going to end?’
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