Polly's War

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Oh Minnie, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He said you and him had quarrelled last time you were together, that you’d refused to ...’ She ran out of words, of breath even as choking sobs finally doused her control.

  Filled with a new, deeper shame and guilt for robbing this old woman of her one and only joy in life, Lucy put her arms about her. Sensing the rigid shoulders, the unyielding spine, she went instead to grab the kettle and began to issue orders, as if someone had been taken ill and they must all rally round to deal with the emergency.

  ‘Sarah Jane, fetch the cups. Sean get the biscuit barrel.’ Something sweet for shock, wasn’t that right? But it was only the children, bewildered and exchanging anxious glances who dipped into it. At least the treat kept them quiet and happy while she strove to think. Poor Minnie didn’t even have the heart to suck one of her favourite pear drops.

  She’d no idea where Michael might have gone, but no, she didn’t think it would be back in the army, because of the missing foot. ‘They wouldn’t have him, would they?’ Nor did she know the names of any of his friends outside of Castlefield, or even Pansy Street for that matter. The rumours of his being a conchie had done their worst. And she didn’t expect him to go back to his old house either since it’d been flattened by a bomb. It was as they talked that the true reality of her situation finally hit Lucy as the tears slid down her cheeks. Michael was gone, she knew not where. She was carrying his child, of that she was quite certain, and since she’d no intention of ever returning to her husband, she knew she must bear it alone, just as Minnie had done.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hubert was satisfied that events were swinging his way. He could feel his tide of luck turning. His own financial situation was growing stronger by the day, greatly assisted by having taken over a small but significant clothing manufacturer which had stubbornly evaded making proper payments on a loan. Taking control of the company would make him a far greater profit in the long run which had been his object from the start. Yet another case of someone else’s grey cloud providing him with a silver lining. All most satisfactory. Some people collected works of art. Hubert preferred more substantial artefacts, like property or businesses. With his next victim already picked out, he lit a cigar and sat back in his smart leather chair with a smile to wait for events to unfold.

  He was interrupted in his reverie by the strident clang of the door bell. Hubert waited, one ear cocked for Joanna to answer it as she always used to. The door bell clanged again.

  ‘Damnation. What was wrong with the woman?’ True, losing Belinda had proved to be a severe blow to his wife and she hadn’t been the same since. Never in the darned house for one thing, her excuse being that where was the point in making a fuss about meals and her garden when there were only the two of them, a state of affairs which would now never change.

  He clamped the cigar between his teeth and strode to the door, flinging it open with a growling, ‘well?’

  He was mildly surprised to find his son-in-law standing on the doorstep, a gurgling baby propped on one hip as if he were some gyppo who couldn’t afford a pram, and despite the fact it must be well past the child’s bedtime. Class, Hubert decided, always revealed itself unless properly trained.

  ‘I’ve come to ask if you’d anything to do wi’ that fire,’ Benny bluntly announced. ‘Because if you had, I’d like to know why, since it damages your grandson as much as anybody.’

  Hubert was momentarily startled. By heck but Ron had been quick off the mark. He hoped it had been a bad one. He covered his confusion by studying the child which seemed to be surprisingly well cared for, all smartly dressed in a blue knitted jacket and balaclava. Joanna had dreamed of grandchildren, yet couldn’t quite bring herself to accept Belinda had actually given her one. Nor more could he. It came to Hubert in that moment that there was one obvious way he could curb his wife’s restlessness and make her happy for once.

  ‘Why would I harm this little chap, Benny lad. Or the business he might inherit? All I can do now that I’ve lost Belinda, is to ensure her son gets what would’ve been hers by right.’

  Hubert really had no wish to be harangued by this ruffian, whom he’d never liked. Nor had he any intention of allowing the Pride family to keep either their business or his grandson. Little Matthew's inheritance would come from quite a different source. He’d easily get custody of the child, for Joanna’s sake, when the moment came. Once he’d won his revenge over what this rogue had done to his beloved Belinda.

  Time, it seemed, had warped Hubert’s memory of his relationship with his only daughter and he now viewed it as a close one, spoiled only by Benny and not by his own machinations. He’d conveniently forgotten his part in her eviction from the shop, the very reason she’d given birth in a freezing back street with no medical assistance until it was too late. The fault, in his mind, lay entirely with this no good piece of dross who was cluttering up his doorstep.

  Benny was still glowering, as if trying to decide whether to believe his father-in-law or not. ‘If you had any hand in what went on last night, don’t think I won’t find out, and do summat about it.’

  ‘What right have thee to threaten me?’ Hubert’s carefully practised diction always deserted him under stress, revealing that self-made man though he may be, underneath he was no more than a step removed from his lowly origins in Quay Street. His mother had taken in washing to earn an honest crust, her one ambition to buy a better life for her only son. And hadn’t he clawed and cheated his way up the ladder of success ever since, right to the bloody top, if only to prove she hadn’t wasted her efforts. He certainly had no intention of being knocked off his perch by this piece of dirt. ‘I’ll thank you to take your mucky boots off my doorstep. It’s a pity, to my mind, that I ever let them stand on it at all. I should’ve knocked your clock off the first time I clapped eyes on thee. Then my Belinda might still be alive today instead of ...’

  He got no further. Snapping to attention, Benny took a step forward to shake a furious fist less than an inch from Hubert’s nose. ‘Damn you to hell, Hubert Clarke. Mam’s right. You are the lowest of the low whether you set that fire or not.’ In that moment he was very much the soldier with a power he wasn’t above using. The ferocity of the action so startled Hubert that he instinctively backed away while Matt, alarmed by the anger in his dad’s voice, started to howl. ‘Make no mistake. Our family sticks together. Take on one, you take on the lot.’ Then as the baby’s cries rose to a higher pitch, Benny smoothed his son’s head with a gentling hand, swung on his heel and marched away.

  It took till the middle of the next day before the fire brigade was satisfied the fire was completely out. When they’d finally gone, all Polly’s pent-up fury erupted in a tide of temper almost as hot as the flames themselves. ‘Will ye look at this mess? What the fire hasn’t ruined, the water has.’ She began to cry, hands outstretched, encompassing the awful scene. The new looms were a mass of charred metal while almost every scrap of wool, every bobbin and shuttle, every yard of carefully woven carpet was destroyed. Over the whole building hung a stinking pall of smoke. It looked as if the Luftwaffe had been over and dropped their last bomb. Polly stood in puddles of water and looked about her in desperation for someone to blame. Her gaze fell upon poor Benny and she at once laid into him for not having removed the waste as he was supposed to do.

  ‘We were lucky I happened to be there at the time, dealing with some bills,’ she ranted. ‘Otherwise, saints preserve us, the whole building would have come down. Have you no sense in that head of yours?’

  She regretted the words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth. The accusation was unfair and they both knew it. Benny wasn’t the only one responsible for clearing away the waste wool. He worked as hard as she did on the business, sometimes even harder for, apart from little Matt, it was his only solace. She knew that he was desperate to fill every moment of his day with work, even if it meant carrying the baby about on his hip while he did it. This was
the only way, he’d admitted to her in one unguarded moment, that when night came he could lay his head on his pillow and sleep, instead of thinking about Belinda till the pain swelled in his chest so that he could scarce breathe.

  Polly quickly apologised, putting her arms about his great shoulders and hugging him, for wasn’t he her lovely boy. But the accusation left a sour taste in both their mouths. To justify her anger and prove the reason for her flash of temper, she showed him the parlous state of the accounts. ‘We’re over-borrowed and overstocked and don’t I know full well whose fault that is. No matter what I do to try to get out of this awful mess, Hubert Clarke sticks his oar in and stops me.’

  She could see by the thin white line above tightly compressed lips that Benny might be beginning to share her lack of trust in his father-in-law. Yet still he stepped in to defend him. ‘It’s certainly true that he’s an awkward old sod. He and Belinda didn’t get on at all well. But he’s lost her, for God’s sake! Now he insists that he wants to help provide a sound business to pass on to his only grandson. He told me so himself.’ Benny picked up a hunk of scorched wool and crumbled it in his hand. ‘Some heritage.’

  Polly was about to express her doubts that Hubert was capable of such a sentiment when a voice from the door interrupted her thoughts. ‘The boy’s right. My grandson is more important to me than you might imagine. Isn’t all of this partly your own fault, Polly Pride, for buying those looms.’

  ‘I would say you’re right there,’ she agreed, turning to face her accuser. ‘And my fault for getting involved with you, Hubert Clarke, in the first place. But like the phoenix, we’ll rise from the ashes, see if we don’t.’

  ‘What with? Are you properly insured, lass?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘But will that be enough? Insurance folk can be a touch choosy how much they cough up in a case like this. By heck,’ he said, walking about and poking at charred beams with the point of his stick, coughing when he caused a shower of sparks and soot to fall all about him. ‘Proper mess, eh? I thought I’d come over and express my sympathy. But I can see that even when you’ve cleaned up, you’ll have to re-equip and restock. Cost a mint, that will. Then there’s the lost income while the business is closed. Never rains but it pours, eh? Of course, if there’s any way I can help,’ he offered, smoothing the dust from his fine worsted suit. ‘You have only to say the word.’

  ‘We’ll manage, thanks all the same.’ Polly suffered Hubert’s gloating presence for the longest half hour she could imagine before he finally took his leave, coldly refusing his offer of the services of Ron, his odious son, to help with the clearing up. Benny was itching to give Ron a ‘ good seeing to’ but Polly managed to persuade him against such a reckless act.

  Hubert had no sooner gone than Lucy arrived, looking wan and slightly dishevelled, as no doubt they all were. Polly went to her at once and mother and daughter put their arms about each other for a comforting hug, indulging in a quiet weep. But it was Lucy who was the first to rally.

  ‘Come on Mam. You tell us what to do and we’ll do it. We won’t be beaten by this.’ She’d come to help clean up along with Polly’s stalwart band of workers, all eager to do their bit. There’d be plenty of time later to think about her own problems. Minnie Hopkins was at the ready with her sweeping brush, even Uncle Nobby and Aunt Ida were there with mopping buckets and mops, ‘to swill out t’muck,’ as they kept repeating. Polly could only smile with gratitude at this rallying of support.

  Charlie too had come along to help, which caused her to huff and puff some more, telling her husband he wasn’t fit enough to be out and about, let alone working in a burned out shell of a warehouse. But Charlie was adamant he was perfectly capable of helping to root through the mess and spot anything of value which might have survived.

  They worked all day and the best they could salvage were a dozen or so bobbins of singed wool.

  ‘At least it’s a popular colour,’ Maisie joked. ‘Your favourite pink beige.’

  Benny flung down the pile of spindles he’d just been sorting, not a decent one amongst them and rubbed a tired hand over his face, blackening it even more. ‘Let’s go and have a jar. I reckon we all need one. Mebbe things won’t look so bad in the morning.’

  But when the insurance assessor arrived the following day, his verdict was far from reassuring. The site had been examined by both the firemen and the police, he said and without doubt, arson was suspected. Without actually accusing her point blank, the steely quality of his stare made it clear to Polly who he considered had set the match.

  ‘Saints alive, you don’t think ... You can’t imagine that I’d set light to me own warehouse.’

  The inspector cleared his throat, somewhat noisily. ‘I understand you’re suffering a slight financial embarrassment at present?’ His expression bore a mask of professional sympathy, as if inviting her to confess all.

  ‘Who the hell has told you that?’

  ‘It’s generally bruited abroad that you’ve been chopping and changing suppliers, yet not settling outstanding bills. Your credit status at present, Mrs Pride, is, I believe, in a sorry state.’

  ‘Stockton. The name is Mrs Charlie Stockton. Polly Pride is only the name I use for my business.’

  ‘Ah, as you wish.’ He managed a smile which did not reach his eyes. ‘Nevertheless, I am correct, am I not?’

  Drat him and drat the man who’d put her in this mess in the first place but Polly could not deny it. By going about seeking new suppliers while still in debt to Hubert Clarke, she’d made herself appear to be the guilty party.

  The Insurance Company couldn’t pay out, he explained, until after a more intensive investigation had taken place which might, he admitted, take months. The authorities still had a great deal of work on their hands assessing bomb damage and which houses could be made fit for occupation. Civilian fires were given somewhat lower priority. It was made plain to Polly that although they may not have sufficient evidence to prosecute, they were deeply suspicious, their doubts such that they could delay payment for as long as they wished.

  Certainly long enough to leave her business in ruins.

  No matter how many hours Polly and Benny might pour over the accounts which they did every night in the kitchen of number 32, Charlie putting in his twopennorth, nor however fervently she might plead her case with the bank manager, the truth of the matter was that Polly had more debts than she could handle, more stock than she could sell and the only successful part of her operation, the manufacturing of carpets, was now defunct. Even her carpet cleaning and beating machines were gone, reduced to rubble in the fire. The result was indisputable. Pride Carpets was no more, and all her workers were now without jobs.

  ‘You mean we’re all on the cob’n coal?’ Maisie asked.

  Polly admitted that yes, they would indeed have to collect the dole, if they couldn’t find other work. ‘But you’ll all get your jobs back, just as soon as I’m up and running again.’ Didn’t she know how hard it was to get work? Hadn’t she suffered the indignity of unemployment herself back in the thirties, not to mention the endless worry of where the next shilling was coming from to put in the gas meter.

  ‘A hungry sow won’t follow an empty bucket.’ This from Joyce, ever blunt, and revealing the doubts they all felt that Pride Carpets would ever rise again from the ashes.

  ‘What about us?’ Charlie asked, when Polly expressed these concerns to him. ‘Where will we find the next bob or two for the meter?’ The question silenced her completely.

  So it was that when Hubert Clarke came round with his proposal, she was in no position to argue.

  ‘You might as well admit, Polly lass, that you’re done for,’ he cheerfully informed her. ‘But I’ll not see you go bankrupt.’ He smiled magnanimously, going on to outline in painstaking detail how he would be willing to take over the company, generously agreeing to keep both herself and Benny on, as employed managers. ‘Admittedly the wages I could offer would be much less than y
ou are getting now. But there’ll always be a place for you both in Clarke Enterprises.’

  Polly felt not the slightest degree of gratitude and made no bones about telling him so, which caused him to smile all the more as he took out his pocket book and reminded her of the sum still outstanding.

  ‘Take the blasted furniture back, why don’t you? That’ll more than cover the debt, surely to God,’ she said.

  Hubert sadly shook his head, agreeing that he must of course take possession of the stock. ‘But with the added interest, even if some of the furniture wasn’t damaged from standing in your damp shop, it would barely cover a fraction of the debt.’ He also pointed out that she had no other choice, since she couldn’t afford to re-equip or restore the warehouse following the fire, nor any longer pay the rent on the shop premises.

  So saying, he took over her business, lock, stock and balloon backed chairs. Polly refused his paltry offer of a job, thereby leaving the building for the last time with nothing but her pride.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When the knock came to the door, instinct told Lucy who it would be.

  ‘If that’s our Michael ...’ Minnie cried, jumping up from the table where she’d been peeling potatoes.

  Lucy pressed the older woman gently down again. ‘More likely Tom.’ She was surprised that it had taken him this long to come round. The children had not been sent to school for three days and she’d been grateful for Minnie’s offer of accommodation for them all until she’d made up her mind what she wanted to do. Much of that time Lucy had spent with Polly down at the warehouse, where all she’d built up over the last two or three years seemed to be unravelling.