Forgive and Forget (23 page)

‘Oh, it’s so hot,’ Miriam whined. ‘Can I go and swim in the river with the others?’

‘No, you can’t,’ Polly snapped, feeling frazzled herself. ‘Want to catch typhoid like our mam did?’

The little girl’s eyes widened and her lower lip trembled.

Contrite, Polly swept Miriam into her arms. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s this heat. It’s making everyone bad-tempered.’ She felt the child’s forehead. ‘You are hot, aren’t you?’

‘I keep going to the lavvy and I feel sick,’ Miriam wailed.

Now Polly was anxious. Rumour was rife that the hospitals were crowded with children suffering from heatstroke. One or two had even died, Polly had heard, and the thought terrified her.

‘Go and lie down on your bed and I’ll fetch some water to cool you down. You should keep drinking plenty and I’ll sponge you down.’

‘Will the water make me poorly, like it did Mam?’

‘No, no, not now,’ Polly reassured her swiftly. ‘The water’s quite safe for us to drink. I still boil it anyway.’

What she didn’t tell her sister was that there were rumours there might be a shortage of water if this heatwave persisted and there was no rain.

It seemed that Polly and little Miriam were not the only ones made fractious by the heat. William arrived home in a state of excited agitation.

‘We’re going on strike.’

‘What!’ Polly stared at him in horror. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s a national strike being called.’

‘Who by?’

‘The Transport Workers Federation.’

‘And who are they when they’re at home?’ Polly slammed his evening meal in front of him, wishing she had the courage to tip it over his head.

Strike indeed! She wished she could go on strike and put her feet up if only for a day. But no, women were expected to carry on with the housework and look after the family, no matter what.

‘What it says. It’s a collection of several unions that banded together.’ William grinned and thumped his fist on the table. ‘Gives us more strength. More clout.’

‘And who were you thinking of clouting? You’ll end up in jail one of these days if you don’t stop using them fists of yours. You and Mr Fowler both.’

William sprang up, towering over his daughter. ‘You watch your tongue, girl. Just show a bit of respect for your father.’

Polly, all five foot nothing of her, squared up to him. ‘I’ll show you respect when you deserve it. Strike, indeed. Whatever next?’

Suddenly, William’s anger died. He was strangely pensive as he said quietly now, ‘You’re so like your mam, Poll. That’s just what she’d’ve said. Miriam might look like her, but you’ve got her spirit. I pity the feller you marry, ’cos he’ll never wear the trousers in his own house.’

Accustomed to her father’s sudden mood swings, Polly smiled. ‘Oh, I think Leo can stand up for himself, don’t you?’

William eyed her, gave a grunt and then sat down. ‘So – you reckon you’re going to marry young Leo, do you? Bring a copper into the family. What d’you reckon our Eddie will think to that?’

‘Eddie won’t have any say in the matter,’ she said sharply. She paused and then asked, ‘So what’s started all this?’

‘You read the papers now, don’t you?’

‘When I’ve time.’

‘Remember the seamen’s strike back in June.’

‘Ye-es.’

The seamen had gone on strike in the middle of June, joined by all the workers employed by shipping companies. Under the enormous strain that the strike was causing, by the end of the month the employers had had to give in to the union’s demands. The seamen had won their battle and, encouraged by this, a wave of strikes hit Liverpool when the dockers walked out. In support, the seamen again walked out. The unrest had spread to transport workers and now, it seemed, the railway workers were involved.

She’d read all about it in the newspaper, but not for one moment had Polly envisaged trouble coming to Lincoln. This was the sort of thing that happened in other parts of the country, not in her city.

William was sitting gazing into the distance, making no move to start his meal.

‘What’s the matter, Dad? Aren’t you hungry? I know this heat makes you lose your appetite, but it’s your favourite steak and kidney pie.’

‘It’s not that, Poll. It’s just – well – there’s going to be trouble. I can see it coming and if there is, then me and your Leo will be on opposite sides of the fence, so to speak.’

Polly stared at him in horror and then sank into a nearby chair as her legs gave way beneath her.

‘I just hope you know what you’re doing, Dad, that’s all. You’re getting a mite too friendly with Bert Fowler all of a sudden. He’ll lead you astray, he—’

‘Don’t you think I’m man enough to make up me own mind? I don’t need to follow what others say.’

‘That’s exactly what you are doing—’

‘You mind your tongue, girl. I’ve told you afore, I won’t have any cheek from you or else . . .’

Polly stood on the hearth and faced him, her arms folded in front of her. The unrelenting heat was getting to them all, making everyone fractious and quarrelsome. ‘Oh aye, or else what, Dad? You’ll throw me out? I don’t think so. Where’d you be without me to do your cooking, your washing and cleaning the house to say nothing of looking after Stevie and Miriam? And, by the way, she’s sick. But I don’t expect you’ve had time to notice that, ’ave ya? Too busy organizing a strike so you can all have a nice few days’ holiday.’

‘It’ll be no holiday, girl, if this goes ahead. There’ll be no pay and if the employers—’

‘What? What d’you mean, no pay? How do you expect me to feed a family of six on nothing? And there’ll be another mouth to feed before long – in case you’d forgotten.’

William shot her an angry look. ‘I only wish I could,’ he muttered morosely, before adding, ‘but the strike won’t last long. They’ll have to give in eventually.’

‘Oh aye. Who? The employers – or the strikers?’

William glared at her again, but this time he made no reply.

‘Where are you going?’

Polly grabbed her father’s arm as he made for the door.

‘Out.’

‘I can see that, but where?’

‘Nowt to do wi’ you.’

‘I think it is.’

He whirled round and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her. ‘I said,’ he muttered through gritted teeth, ‘it’s nowt to do wi’ you.’

‘You’re going to join the picket line, aren’t you?’ The railway workers were now on strike and even workers from other trades had joined them. Picket lines were on duty near the level crossings on the High Street. Day after day the hot weather was unrelenting and a feeling of unrest and a strange excitement hung over the city.

‘What if I am?’

Polly folded her arms and glared at him. ‘Well, if you are, I wash me hands of you. I want nowt to do with any of it.’

For a brief moment William hesitated. Then his frown deepened and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Please yarsen.’ He turned away and slammed the door behind him, leaving Polly staring after him.

‘What’s that noise?’ Violet asked. ‘It sounds like a swarm of bees. Oh, Poll, don’t let bees get into the house. I hate bees.’

Polly cocked her head on one side to listen. ‘They’ll not get in here, Vi, I shouldn’t worry.’ Then she went to the door and opened it. Returning to the kitchen, she said, ‘It looks like there’s a lot of people at the top of the road. I’ll just go and see what’s going on.’

‘It’ll be the strikers, Poll.’

They exchanged a worried glance. ‘And Dad’s out there somewhere with them. And Eddie too, more than likely. What if . . . ?’

‘You stay here, Vi. I don’t think you’d better take your little walk tonight. And don’t let either Stevie or Miriam leave the house.’

It was already gone nine o’clock and the two younger children were in bed; Miriam because of her age and Stevie because his work as delivery boy for Mr Wilmott tired him and he went willingly to bed now of his own accord, especially on a Friday night. The following day would be busy, there were always a lot of deliveries on a Saturday.

‘Be careful, Poll,’ Vi said, her voice quavering with anxiety. ‘There might be trouble. Mr Fowler’s bound to be there and if they’ve both been drinking . . .’ The suffocating heat was affecting Violet, now nearing the final month of her pregnancy, badly. Only in the cool of late evening when it was dark did she venture out to get some fresh air. But tonight she was going nowhere.

Polly left the house and walked up the street. At the top end, near the High Street, she could see crowds milling about. She hesitated and then, making up her mind, walked on.

As she rounded the corner, she stopped and put her hand out to the nearest wall for support. The High Street was thronged with hundreds of people, mostly men, standing in groups. She edged her way along the wall, trying to find her father or Eddie. Slowly, she made her way along the fringe of the crowd until she came to the Midland station’s level crossing, but she could see no sign of either of them. So, she moved on, further up the street until she came to the second level crossing, which served the Great Northern line.

She could see at once what was happening; the crowd were preventing the gates from being opened to allow two waiting trains to cross the High Street.

‘This lot aren’t all railwaymen,’ she muttered. ‘There’s others here that have nothing to do with the strike. They’re just here to cause trouble. Just like at the sports.’

Anxiously, she scanned the faces, searching for her father or Eddie, but now the light was fading and she couldn’t pick out anyone she knew. Except Leo. Suddenly, she saw him standing in a group with other officers. She gasped as a senior officer shouted, ‘Charge!’ and the line of police moved forward, their batons raised.

To Polly’s horror, as they reached the milling crowds they began to hit out indiscriminately. Men, a few women, and even one or two youngsters, tried to flee from the whirling sticks. A man fell to the ground, his forehead bleeding. One of the constables was hit on the head by a stone. Women’s screams rent the air and men yelled and shook their fists, but the gates were opened and the first train edged its way forward.

Jeering and hooting from the crowd directed at the train driver and his colleagues now drowned the cries of fear. People crowded forward again, but both trains passed over the crossing and gathered speed. No doubt, Polly thought, the driver and his companions were relieved to escape safely.

Now that the trains had gone and the gates were opened once more for road users, Polly thought that the trouble would be over, but just then she heard the sound of breaking glass and saw that a mob of youths were throwing stones and bricks at the signal box. Through the gloom she saw the old signalman duck out of sight as a stone was hurled through the broken window and rattled onto the floor of the box.

Polly turned and hurried away, anxious now for her own safety. Nor did she want to be thought to be taking part in the demonstration that was rapidly getting out of hand. It was bad enough that members of her family were already involved, for amongst the hooligans throwing stones she had, at last, seen Eddie.

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.’