Polly's War Page 5

  Joanna had placed a small chicken before him which he began, with great theatricality, to carve. ‘We all appreciate how you volunteered to do your bit, Belinda, as we have too in our different ways, even your poor mother.’ He wagged the carving knife at her. ‘But it was your own choice to join the military and run wild. A feverish whim, no doubt, that got a bit out of hand. We’re only thankful that the war is over at last, and my little girl is home again, safe and sound.’ He beamed round at everyone before sinking the knife into the plump chicken.

  ‘Feverish whim?’

  ‘This is the reality now, lass. You can forget all that daft ATS nonsense and smarten your ideas up. You’ll never catch a chap in that mannish suit, with your hair chopped off. Your mother will take you shopping tomorrow and sort you out, won’t you love? I’ve got some spare coupons I’ll willingly donate for the purpose. I’d consider it a charity.’

  If it hadn’t been for the sheen of embarrassment on George Fenton’s upper lip, not to mention Muriel Fenton’s stifled snigger, Belinda might very well have imagined she’d misheard.

  ‘I know you were never one for the glamour stakes,’ Hubert relentlessly continued, ‘but we can’t have folks thinking my lass a dowd, now can we?’ He passed her a plate of chicken. ‘Eat up, and put some flesh on those bones. Chaps round here like a bit of flesh to get hold of on a woman.’

  Belinda felt the sweep of anger run up her spine and freeze it rigid. ‘How dare you! I’m perfectly capable of buying my own clothes. And I wouldn’t dream of putting on weight simply to please a man. Besides, I’m extremely fit and intend to stay that way. There are other things in life besides marriage.’

  ‘Nay, lass. Hold your horses. Don’t take on so,’ he mildly chided her.

  Ron stopped masticating his chicken long enough to comment, ‘Dad’s only concerned for your future - that you shouldn’t let the side down like.’

  ‘Side? What side?’

  ‘We can’t have you rusting on the shelf.’ Hubert Clarke had never been one to know when to shut up and draw a line under a point. He always had to score it deep. ‘All I’m saying is that you’ve had your bit of fun. Now it’s time to settle down and be the good daughter we deserve. Marry well and provide us with grandchildren. Don’t you reckon we deserve that, George? Muriel? He appealed to the Fenton’s, busily stuffing their scarlet faces with chicken.

  For Belinda it was all too much. She was on her feet, pushing back her chair and actually gaping at him. ‘Fun? Fun, you say? Oh yes. I’ve had loads of fun these last five years. It’s been one long laugh from start to finish. What can be more amusing than picking up pieces of bodies and trying to match which bit belongs to whom. Or watching a friend’s leg turn to green slime and then seeing her hobble about on crutches when they relieve her of it. Now that really was hilarious.’

  It was unforgivable of course to relate such horror stories in front of her gentle mother, and at a dinner party.

  Vaguely aware of Muriel Fenton rushing to the bathroom, Belinda watched in fascinated horror as her mother very elegantly slid off her chair into a dead faint on the carpet, her napkin still clutched tight in her hand, as if even in an unconscious state, she must not be found neglectful of her table manners. If it hadn’t been so desperately sad, it might have been exceedingly funny.

  As it was, Belinda simply folded her own napkin, dropped it on the table, and walked from the room. She’d start looking for a job first thing in the morning, come what may, and a place of her own to go with it.

  Chapter Four

  Polly stood in line for broken biscuits with a patience born of long practice. Far from disappearing with the end of the war, queues seemed to stretch longer than ever and black marketeering was as rife as ever, causing a lot of bother in certain quarters though it was no skin off her nose she supposed, if the government lost out a bit. There were times when Polly wondered if they really had won the war or whether it was all a big con.

  ‘Are you queuing for owt good?’ a passer-by enquired.

  ‘We don’t know till we get there,’ said one wit.

  Not that Polly minded queuing. Here at Campfield market it gave her time to look around and chat with friends. Polly had always loved markets, had stood one herself in her younger days. Just watching Billy the Potman juggle with his dinner plates and beat down his own prices never failed to make her laugh. What a showman! He should be on twice nightly at the Queens. When she’d queued at the butchers and got a nice long red skinned polony for tea, she’d take a little saunter down Tonman Street. She might find a cheap frock for Sarah Jane.

  ‘There you are. Don’t eat em all at once,’ Madge Sullivan cheekily remarked as she deftly spun the bag to produce an ear at each corner and handed it over to Polly. Her wide girth seemed to fill the space behind the stacked stall, leaving her skinny husband hardly room to breathe let alone reach biscuit tins.

  ‘Fat chance with my lot.’

  ‘Got home safe Poll, ‘ave they?’

  Polly explained about Tom being missing, and Madge tried to assure her that there was still hope. Other women in the long queue chipped in with tales of various friends and neighbours whose loved ones had come home, against all odds, and she nodded in agreement, without actually believing it possible. For all she’d been an incomer from Cheetham Hill, the folk of Deansgate Village had accepted her as one of their own, Madge Sullivan included. She loved the intricate network of canals and railways arches, the locks and bridges, and the wide sweep of the Bridgewater viaduct striding across it all.

  ‘Millie Bradshaw’s husband had been missing for four years when he turned up, nice and ninepence and just as brash.’ Madge leaned closer over the biscuit tins, causing them to wobble perilously and a few stray biscuits to fall on the stone setts where they were gobbled up by an opportunist dog. ‘And how’s your lad, Polly. I hear he’s home safe and sound, at least?’

  ‘Hey, missus, we’ll be here till next Preston Guild if you don’t get a move on,’ said one chap, clearly growing impatient with this feminine chit-chat. ‘I’d like to get served today, if its all t’same to you.’

  ‘Why don’t you save your breath to cool your porridge. You’re lucky if you’ve an house to go to. There’s plenty who haven’t.’

  Polly, anxious now to get away before the rest of the queue lost its good will and turned nasty, said, ‘Benny’ll be bright as a new pin and raring to go, once he’s had a good rest, so he will.’

  ‘Yer a lucky woman.’

  ‘And isn’t that the truth?’ She hurried away, making no mention of her worries over Charlie. Nor did she refer to the rebellious stand her son had taken the minute he’d arrived home for good, threatening not to come into the business with her at all. Not that Polly gave much credence to such daft declarations of independence for all it’d shaken her a bit at first. Like a slap in the face it was, but then mebbe she’d rushed him, hadn’t put it quite right, nor properly outlined her plans. Why, she hadn’t even mentioned her dreams to go into selling new carpets. Full of grandiose schemes he may be but in his mother’s opinion he could do no better than stick with the family business. Wouldn’t he come round fast enough once he’d had time to settle? For this reason alone she preferred to keep these family concerns private.

  She sauntered down Tonman Street, enjoying a bit of rare time to herself. At a second-hand stall she found a frock for Sarah Jane - blue gingham. She’d look a picture in it. To avoid any squabbles between her precious grandchildren, Polly bought a gaudy glass bobber for Sean’s marble collection, then treated herself to a mug of hot Vimto, which went down a treat. After that, she turned off by St Matthew’s Church and made her way along Liverpool Road where she’d heard of a warehouse to let. If she could get at least a part of it at a rent she could afford they’d be up and running in no time.

  Charlie could work indoors again and be his own boss, which he preferred, and Benny would soon see the sense of coming in with her. Pity Big Flo was no longer the woman she’d once
been, or she’d have given him an earful for rejecting such a fine offer. Wouldn’t she just. But the loss of her own three sons, one after the other over the years had finally turned the old woman’s mind. Didn’t even know what day of the week it was half the time, poor old soul. Pride Carpets was still remembered though, a name to be reckoned with.

  The warehouse had already been taken the landlord informed her, but softened her disappointment by mentioning another he’d heard going vacant, over towards Knotts Mill. Polly decided to take a look while she had the time. After all, Big Flo was being well taken care of. She’d left Benny in charge, giving Lily Gantry who usually sat with the old woman while Polly was working, a morning off.

  The future, Polly steadfastly decided, was bright.

  Benny didn’t quite share his mother’s belief that family responsibilities were good for him. Fond as he was of his grandmother, Big Flo was an old woman. She’d had her life and he was young and eager to be out and about to savour his freedom. What sort of a homecoming was this, to sit in the back yard with a seventy-nine year old who was only tuppence to the shilling.

  He’d been shocked when he first saw her. Once a big woman, with arms on her like an all-in wrestler, she now seemed shrunken and wizened. When Benny took her the meal his mother had left keeping warm between two plates over a pan of boiling water he found her, as usual, staring into space in the shadowy depths of the Anderson Shelter, a strangely blank expression upon her face. The place had that sweet-sour smell of decay, of mustiness and the old tippler closet against which it leaned. It made him want to puke. On a table beside the old woman’s chair, lay a large book covered in newspaper clippings.

  ‘He was my son tha knows,’ Big Flo reminded him, with a hint of her old sternness.

  ‘Aye, course he was.’ He stared at the face of his own father, Matthew Pride, who’d been killed in the riots back in the thirties, protesting over the means test. Ancient history so far as Benny was concerned. He remembered grieving for him though as a young boy, and hating having to live with his uncle Josh, who’d taken over their lives completely. In the end, so far as he could remember, Josh too had turned a bit queer in the head, but Benny had no wish to live his life gazing backwards over his shoulder. Look to the future, that was the way.

  ‘Did you know my lad then?’ The wrinkled face broke into a childish grin, false teeth clicking with pleasure, as if this were a new discovery. Benny stifled the desire to say how would he not know his own father, but instead set the tray quietly before her.

  ‘See, Mam’s made you some nice lentil broth. Eat up,’ he urged in jollying tones. ‘Put some flesh on them old bones, eh? You should come inside, Gran, where it’s warm.’ The damp was getting to him already. Why didn’t his mother pull the shelter down.

  ‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’ Big Flo’s voice boomed out, as forceful as ever. ‘Thee’s nobbut a lad. Fourteen next week, Joshua Pride, so don’t get high-handed wi’ me. Yer not too big fer me to clock you one.’

  Oh lord, Benny thought. Now she thinks I’m my own uncle. ‘All right, don’t get upset. Eat your dinner before it goes cold.’

  Big Flo showed no sign of touching the food and after a long silence in which Benny struggled to think what to say that wouldn’t make matters worse, he came suddenly to a decision. ‘How about a walk? That’ll put some colour in your cheeks. Fresh air, that’s what you need.’ He couldn’t bear to stay another minute stuck in this Anderson Shelter. He’d go as daft as her.

  He went upstairs and brought the old woman’s coat and hat, changed her felt slippers for a pair of sturdy shoes, tucked a scarf about her neck. ‘Exercise is good for you, Gran. Do us both good, eh? How about a tram ride? You like going on the tram, eh?’ He’d go down to the city council offices, ask about jobs, or shop premises to rent, then he could do a bit of buying and selling on his own account. He had his demob money burning a hole in his pocket. There must be something good he could do with his future besides steaming and cleaning old carpets. Some way he could be independent.

  Big Flo was remarkably easy to steer, if a bit wobbly, rather like an old car that kept stalling. Only once did she enquire where they were going and Benny told her the truth, that he was seeking employment. Unfortunately this set her off on the tale of the hungry thirties again and all the way in the tram she scolded him about his false pride over Polly working when he wasn’t.

  ‘I’m Benny, not Matthew,’ he tried, but she wasn’t listening so he gave up, humouring her as best he could.

  He parked her on a bench, just outside the rating office, instructing her sternly to sit tight while he went inside. ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ he told her as he disappeared through the door.

  He only needed a small shop, just to get him started. In truth that would be all he could afford, though once he’d a bit more saved up, he’d go for something bigger. What he was going to sell in the shop he wasn’t too clear. Clothing maybe. Or better still, furniture. Whatever he could get his hands on. There’d be a good future in retailing once the utility rules were lifted. One shop, two shops, who knows where it might lead?

  He marched smartly along the dimly lit corridor, boots ringing on the tiled floor. There were several men already waiting at the office to which he was directed, and a young woman tucked behind a newspaper. Benny ignored them all, stood at the small square window and pressed the bell. He could see the head of a man bent over a book into which he was writing in crabbed lettering. The clerk did not even glance up at the sound of the bell.

  Benny pressed it again.

  A woman in a tweed skirt and grey cardigan glanced briefly in his direction before returning to clacking the keys of an ancient typewriter. Benny wasn’t used to being kept waiting, particularly by civvies. He drummed his fingers on the window ledge but neither paid him the slightest attention. A curl of anger started deep in his belly. He’d risked his life for idiots like this, pen pushers who’d hardly taken their backsides off their easy chairs.

  With one sharp knuckle he rapped on the window again. ‘’Scuse me,’ he said in stentorian tones. No response, save from the woman who, without pause in her typing, half glanced at the clerk, then quickly away again. Benny decided that either the man was stone deaf or pig ignorant. ‘I haven’t all day to stand here.’

  From behind him came a stifled snort of laughter. He rounded upon the perpetrator, and stopped dead.

  Bright blue eyes danced with merriment above the open newspaper, in the kind of classical face that might be plain or beautiful, perhaps depending on her mood, or on those who looked upon it. She was certainly arresting. A fresh, almost schoolgirl grin with a straight nose and a neat chin. The kind of face you could get to enjoy looking at. One that showed good breeding and class. The kind of girl Benny Pride didn’t usually get anywhere near.

  ‘I’ve been here two hours,’ she said, twisting her mouth into a moue of disbelief. Relaxed again, it became once more a wide, laughing mouth, one he experienced a strong desire to taste. ‘And it’s not the first time. I’ve been here more times than I care to recall. It’s always the same. He deals with you eventually. In his own good time. You just have to be patient.’

  Benny was slowly gathering his wits. ‘Two hours my foot. Nobody makes a monkey out of me.’

  The girl giggled and ran her fingers through ridiculously short, honey gold hair. Benny preferred long curls that fell enticingly over a girl’s face, and red heads rather than blondes, more the Rita Hayworth type but it suited her all the same, no doubt about that.

  ‘I shouldn’t think anyone would try,’ she said and Benny puffed out his chest, aware he’d developed a good physique while in the army, and that this girl seemed to appreciate the fact.

  He rapped on the window again, harder this time, meaning to impress. ‘Hey up. I’d like a word, if you don’t mind.’ He’d no intention of being ignored while those bewitching cornflower blue eyes were fixed upon him.

  The clerk lifted his head and adjusted his spectac
les to briefly consider Benny. ‘Wait in line. You’ll be attended to in due course.’

  In one fluid movement, Benny pushed up the small window, stuck his hand through the gap and grasping the man by the only bit of collar he could reach, hauled him to his feet. ‘Stand up when you speak to me,’ he bawled, in a voice the men in his platoon would have recognised. ‘Straighten that tie, jump to it, and get your bleedin’ hair cut.’

  The clerk’s jaw hung with shock as his dazed eyes took in the size of Benny, yet found himself quite unable to free himself from the clenched fist that held him in an iron grip. ‘I b-b-beg your pardon?’

  ‘No bloody pen-pusher tells me to wait in line. Is that understood? I’ve done all the waiting I’m doing. Six years of it. Now the sodding war is over and I haven’t helped win it to wait about for fools like you to walk all over me.’

  ‘Bravo,’ cheered the girl softly from behind him, followed by a smattering of applause from the rest of his audience.

  Benny’s hand tightened on the collar, pulling the alarmed face closer to the window. His voice now was low, but uncompromising. ‘You’ll deal with this young lady first. She has been waiting fer two hours! You’ll call her ma’am, and you’ll be polite. Then you’ll deal with me.’ Benny ignored the fact that there was a queue of men waiting before him. That was there problem. ‘And you’ll call me Sir. Have you got all of that? Is that simple enough for your small clerk’s brain to understand?’