Forgive and Forget (44 page)

Selina arrived as they were finishing breakfast.

‘Oh, thank goodness he’s better,’ she said with heartfelt relief as she gathered the little boy into her arms. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

‘He’s fine.’ Polly smiled. ‘Thank goodness. As it happens, Violet was right, but it still doesn’t excuse her from leaving him with you when he was poorly.’

‘I don’t mind that, Poll. But I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Where is she? I’d’ve thought she’d have come with you this morning to see how he is.’

Selina was suddenly agitated. ‘She doesn’t know about Michael being worse. I don’t know where she is. She – she didn’t come home at all last night.’

Polly stared at her, for once quite bereft of words.

‘How’s Vi?’ William asked when he sat down at the table that same evening as Polly settled Jacob in the high chair. ‘Has she heard from Micky?’

‘How would I know?’ Polly replied shortly, her lips pursed with disapproval. ‘My sister doesn’t confide in me. Never has.’

She still hadn’t been able to speak to Violet; the young woman had been missing all day. And now Polly, as was her custom at the weekend, had come to her old home to cook an evening meal for her father and Miriam.

Polly was tired; she hadn’t slept well, waking frequently through the previous night to check on Michael. The long walk to the park and back and now her anxiety – and anger – with her sister were making her irritable.

William cast her a puzzled glance but, as Polly set the plate of food in front of him, he lost interest and picked up his knife and fork.

Serving Miriam and Jacob, Polly was about to sit down herself when a loud banging sounded on their front door.

Polly felt the colour drain from her face and her limbs trembled. It sounded urgent – and serious.

Jacob, frightened by the sudden noise, began to wail.

‘Who on earth – ?’ William began and then he noticed Polly’s terrified face. Sighing heavily, he pulled himself up and went to answer the door. It was not the dreaded telegraph boy standing there but the bulky figure of Bert Fowler.

‘That daughter of yourn is no better than she should be. There’s rumours, Will, an’ I won’t have it. Not when my lad – ’er husband – is fighting for his country. Now, where is the little trollop? And where’s my grandson?’

Polly held her breath. Oh, not again, she sighed inwardly: not another fallout between the two men that might result in the police being called.

She hurried to the door and grasped her father’s arm and tried to pull him back, tried to push herself between the two men.

‘It’s all right, Poll,’ William said, with surprising calm. ‘I ain’t going to rise to it this time.’ But he faced up to the other man squarely. ‘Bert, I don’t want no more trouble. Just come in, man. Have a bite with us and let’s talk this out, ’cos at the moment, I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.’

Bert Fowler blinked. He’d been ready for fisticuffs, but it seemed William Longden had lost his fight.

‘Oh – er – well,’ he stuttered, completely taken unawares, ‘all right then.’

With amazing meekness, the big man stepped across the threshold and took a place at their table.

‘Tea, Mr Fowler?’ Polly offered. Though she was pleased that a brawl in the street had so far been avoided, she was still wary and trying to do everything she could to diffuse the tense atmosphere.

‘Anything to eat left for Bert, Poll?’ William began, but Bert shook his head.

‘Thankee kindly, but I’ve just ’ad me tea, though what our Hetty was telling me while I was having it hasn’t done me digestion any favours. But I won’t say no to a cuppa, lass.’

‘You’ll excuse me if I carry on wi’ mine then?’ William said, picking up his knife and fork again, whilst, with wide eyes, Jacob regarded the stranger who’d appeared suddenly in their midst. Miriam carried on eating and helping her little nephew to spoon his meal into his mouth as if nothing was happening.

Polly placed a cup of tea in front of their visitor and sat down again, but she did not resume eating; she guessed what was coming and her appetite had suddenly deserted her.

‘There’s a rumour going around that your Violet’s seeing another man. In fact, Will, more than one.’

William’s fork was suspended halfway between the plate and his mouth as he stared at Bert. Slowly he put his fork down. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said – ’ Bert began but William cut him short.

‘I heard you.’ He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair so that it fell to the floor with a clatter. ‘How dare you insult – ?’

Polly leapt to her feet and stood in front of her father. ‘Dad, don’t. I’ve heard the rumours too.’

‘What?’ William’s face darkened. ‘Then you should have told me, girl. This is your fault.’

Suddenly, the years fell away and she was a young girl again, being blamed for her mother’s death, for Eddie’s rebellious ways and even for Violet’s unwanted pregnancy. It was a wonder she didn’t get the blame for her father landing himself in prison, she thought.

Surprisingly, Bert defended her. ‘It’s not Polly’s fault, Will. She’s got her own troubles and responsibilities.’ He nodded towards Polly, who was still standing between them. ‘You should be proud of this lass, of all she’s done for you over the years, not blaming ’er for summat that’s nowt to do wi’ her. There’s only one person at fault and that’s your Violet. If she was mine, I’d have taken the strap to her years ago.’

‘Well, your Micky’s no angel, so your strap didn’t do much good, did it?’

The two men glared at each other and Polly’s heart sank. Pushing aside her own hurt at her father’s words, she tried again. ‘Dad, sit down. Let’s talk this out and decide what we ought to do.’

Reluctantly, William sat down and now he too pushed his unfinished meal aside. Only Miriam and Jacob continued to eat as if nothing was amiss, though Miriam cast anxious glances at Polly.

‘So, come on, let’s hear it then?’

‘That Mrs Thorpe they live with,’ Bert began, ‘looks after young Michael and – ’

‘I know all that,’ William snapped testily. ‘But what’s this about Violet?’

‘Some of me mates are saying that she’s going into pubs, flirting with the fellers there and – ’

‘A’ you saying she’s – she’s a tart?’ William was on his feet again, fists clenched. ‘Cos if you are – ’

‘Dad, sit down, do, and hear Mr Fowler out.’

‘No, Will, I’m not saying that. At least,’ Bert added ominously, ‘not yet.’

‘You’d better not be saying any such thing about a daughter of mine. She’ll likely be having a bit of fun, that’s all. Pretty lass, our Violet. You can’t blame her.’

‘I can, Will, and I do. She’s a married woman with a bairn. She should be at home looking after him and waiting for her husband, not gallivanting out half the night.’

The whole night, if truth be told, Polly thought bitterly, relieved that at least Bert didn’t seem to know that bit. Just you wait, our Vi, she thought, till I get my hands on you!

She was waiting for her sister at Selina’s home late that night. By arrangement with Mr and Mrs Thorpe, she’d brought Jacob round to stay the night too and now both children were asleep in Violet’s double bed whilst Polly sat near the dying embers of the fire in her sister’s sitting room.

As she heard the back door open quietly, Polly was reminded how it had been years before, when she’d sat up late, waiting for her wayward sister to sneak home in the early hours. That had been bad enough, but this was far more serious. Violet was a married woman with a child.

Polly tiptoed to the door and the moment Violet had closed it softly behind her, Polly pounced on her, clapping her hand over her sister’s mouth to stop her cry of surprise waking the household. Even so, Violet gave a muffled shriek and grappled with her unknown assailant.

‘Shut up, Vi,’ Polly spat through gritted teeth. ‘It’s me.’

At once Violet ceased her struggling, but as Polly relaxed her hold, her sister wrenched herself away. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Grabbing me like that?’

Polly stood with her arms folded now. ‘And what do you think
you’re
doing? Staying out till all hours. All night sometimes, so I hear.’

In the soft light from the fire, the two sisters glared at each other. ‘Oh, Selina been telling tales, has she?’

‘Actually, no. She’s been covering for you, though she shouldn’t have done. No, it was Micky’s father.’

Violet’s eyes widened and, even in the half-light, Polly saw the colour flush her face. ‘Mr – Mr Fowler? He – he told you?’

‘He told
Dad
.’

‘Oh heck!’

‘Yes,’ Polly said grimly. ‘You might well say, “Oh heck!”’

Violet wriggled her shoulders – a habit Polly knew so well when she’d been caught out. ‘I’m not doing any harm. I’m only having a bit of fun. Cheering up the soldiers a bit, that’s all.’

‘Oh aye. That’s what they call it, do they? Bringing comfort to the troops?’

Violet hung her head, unable to deny the accusation in Polly’s words.

‘Oh, Vi, Vi. What if you get pregnant when your husband’s away? Everyone will know it’s not his and . . .’

‘He’s not going to come back, is he, Poll?’ Violet whispered. ‘None of ’em are. Eddie’s gone for certain. Roland and Micky are out there and Stevie soon too, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She met Polly’s gaze as she added softly, ‘And your Leo’s missing.’

Even after all this time Violet referred to him as if he still belonged to her sister. And, deep in Polly’s heart, he did.

She swallowed the lump in her throat at the mere thought of the danger Leo was in. Resolutely, she kept her mind on Violet. ‘It’s got to stop, Vi. You can’t carry on like this. The rumours are getting round about you. And if Bert Fowler’s heard them you can bet it’ll be round half the city by the end of the week. Telling Bert Fowler anything is better than putting an advert in the
Chronicle
.’

Violet sighed. ‘They’re all such nice boys, Polly. So lost and frightened. They don’t talk about it much, but you can see it in their eyes. A haunted look.’ She shuddered. ‘It’s horrible, Poll. Just horrible.’

Polly was thoughtful then bluntly she asked, ‘Is it really because you want to help them forget, even just for a short time? Or is it because – because you’re missing a – a man?’

Violet gaped at her sister. ‘By heck, Poll, you don’t half give it straight, don’t you?’

Polly pursed her mouth. ‘It’s the way I’ve always been. I’m not likely to alter now. Well?’

For once in her life, Violet had to be honest. ‘Both,’ she said abruptly. Her eyes were bleak. ‘I miss his arms around me, whispering silly nonsense. I miss him loving me. I miss the laughs we had, an’ all. Micky’s not such a bad ’un, Poll.’

‘I know that now, Vi,’ Polly said softly, ‘but that’s all the more reason why you shouldn’t be unfaithful to him. You’re taking such a risk. If he finds out, he’ll half kill you.’ She sniffed and added, ‘If his dad doesn’t get to you first. And besides, he’ll make sure Micky
does
get to know the very next time he comes home on leave. Then what?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Violet said slowly, ‘Mr Fowler. Now how am I going to deal with him?’

‘And Dad,’ Polly warned. ‘Don’t forget Dad.’

Polly never found out what Violet had said to either of the two men, but somehow she’d lied her way out of a very tricky situation. Somehow she must have made them believe that she was entirely innocent. She stopped going out in the evenings unless it was in the company of a group of women from work. ‘If I’ve got Nelly and the rest of ’em to vouch for me, even Ida Norton’s wicked tongue won’t be able to spread gossip. I reckon it was her told Micky’s dad.’

‘However did you convince Mr Fowler?’ Polly asked. ‘Dad I can understand. You always could twist him round your little finger, but Mr Fowler?’

Violet grinned impishly and tapped the side of her nose. ‘Never you mind, our Poll. Let’s just say a pretty girl in tears and pining for her brave soldier husband works wonders on a man like him.’

Polly chuckled, unable to quell a reluctant admiration for her scheming sister. Really, Violet was the limit. She was relieved, but it didn’t stop Polly from keeping a watchful eye on Violet’s waistline for the next few weeks.

At the beginning of April, just before his seventeenth birthday, and when the papers were full of the news that America had entered the war, Stevie arrived home on embarkation leave.

‘Oh, you’ve grown so,’ Polly cried, hugging him. ‘And you look so smart. We must get a photograph of you in your uniform.’

Stevie grinned. ‘You’ll have a row of us on your mantelpiece soon.’ He glanced at the shelf above the range in Polly’s kitchen. Roland sat in pride of place in the centre, solemn and with a look of panic that he’d been unable to hide. To one side was Eddie – a black ribbon draped across the top of the frame. On the other side stood a more recent one of a grinning Micky. All the families she knew who had loved ones in the fighting made sure they had photos of their men in uniform, even if they had to scrape the money together to pay the photographer.