Forgive and Forget (7 page)

Eddie shook his head. ‘Leo put a good word in for me yesterday and told me to go and see Mr Wilmott last night after he shut the shop.’ He grinned up at her cheekily. ‘That’s why I was late home.’

Polly blinked and smiled ruefully. ‘Oh, well then. I’ll let you off.’ She wagged her finger at him. ‘Just this once, mind.’

He stood up. ‘It won’t be much, Poll. Only pennies, but you can have whatever I get. Leo said some of the customers are quite generous with tips.’

Polly’s face brightened. Now she remembered. Leo had worked for Mr Wilmott, the greengrocer just round the corner on the High Street, at nights and weekends in his last year at school. ‘It was good of Leo to recommend you, Eddie. Mind you don’t let him down.’

‘I won’t, Poll.’

He pulled on his cap and his shabby overcoat. ‘I’ll be off then.’

That night, when Eddie came home, he was dragging a bag bursting with vegetables.

‘Oh, Eddie . . .’ Polly began, but he reassured her quickly. ‘I ain’t stolen it, Poll. Mr Wilmott clears out all his fruit and veg on a Saturday night that won’t keep till Monday morning. He’s given me all this.’

As Polly peered into the sack and pulled out fruit and vegetables, she saw that they were indeed past their best. Yet, when she’d discarded withering outer leaves on the cabbages, cut out the squashy pieces on the potatoes and the brown spots from apples that had been stored since the previous autumn and dealt with all the other items in the sack, there was still a lot she could use.

She grinned up at Eddie. ‘Things is looking up, Eddie.’

On the following Monday morning, Polly opened the front door to find the foreman from the glue factory standing there.

‘Oh, Mr Spicer – come in, please.’

‘I – er – won’t if you don’t mind, Polly. I – um . . .’

The man was ill at ease, twisting his cap between nervous fingers.

‘Of course,’ Polly said, understanding at once. No one – except perhaps the doctors and nurses – understood just how the disease spread and no one wanted to take unnecessary risks.

‘I just came to ask if you’d be coming back to work, Polly. I’ve managed to keep your job open for you so far, but – but Mr Wainwright’s pressing me . . .’ His voice trailed away.

Mr Wainwright was the manager of the glue factory and Roland Spicer’s boss. A strict, dour man with no sense of humour, Mr Wainwright had little kindness or understanding in his soul.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to come back at all. I’ve got the little ones to look after now that me mam – me mam . . .’ Her voice broke and she dipped her head.

Roland bit his lip. He ran his hand nervously through his mousy hair and his hazel eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry to come like this, Polly, but Mr Wainwright insisted.’

Polly looked up again and brushed a stray tear away with an impatient gesture. Most of the time, she was coping well, but just now and again, when someone showed concern, the loss of the woman who had been at the heart of their home hit her hard.

‘An’ me dad’s in the hospital – well, the Drill Hall. He’s getting better, but I don’t know when he’ll be home.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’

Polly’s voice trembled as she said, ‘But you’d better tell Mr Wainwright I won’t be coming back.’

‘I’m sorry, real sorry. You’re a good little worker and – ’ he smiled shyly – ‘I’ll miss your cheery smile. We – we all will.’

‘That’s nice of you, Mr Spicer.’

‘Oh please – call me Roland. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you will let me know, won’t you? And if you find you can come back, then you come and see me. Promise?’

Polly nodded and smiled, but as she closed the door after him, she was thoughtful.

Call him Roland, she thought. Now what was all that about?

‘Where did you get that, Violet?’

‘What?’

‘That pink ribbon in your hair. Where did you get it?’

Violet faced her sister insolently. ‘I bought it.’

‘
Bought
it? What with?’

‘Money, stupid. What d’you usually buy things with?’

‘And where, might I ask, did you get the money from to spend on fripperies when I’ve scarcely enough to buy food for us all?’

Now Violet was avoiding Polly’s stern gaze. The older girl was standing with her arms folded, her eyes blazing. ‘Where, Violet?’

Violet shrugged. ‘Eddie gave me threepence from his wages for me birthday next week.’

‘No, he didn’t. He’s giving everything to me. At least Eddie’s
trying
to help.’

‘Oh yes?’ Violet laughed sarcastically. ‘Nicking half Mr Wilmott’s stuff. That’s really trying, that is.’

‘He’s not nicking anything. On a Saturday night Mr Wilmott always sells stuff off cheap – fruit and veg that won’t be fresh enough to sell by Monday morning. You know he does. Mam often used to go down late on a Saturday to the shops and the market just to pick up cheaper food. And he only gives Eddie what he couldn’t sell.’

‘You really think,’ Violet persisted, ‘that Mr Wilmott gives him
all
that?’

Polly blinked. ‘Maybe it’s instead of money.’

‘Huh!’

Violet was deflecting the questions from herself, but Polly was sharper than that. ‘We weren’t talking about Eddie. I’m asking you where you got the money to buy ribbon.’

‘I told you—’

Polly gripped Violet’s arm. ‘So it was you, was it? You took the money, didn’t you? It wasn’t Eddie at all.’

‘Let go. You’re hurting.’

‘I’ll hurt you all right. Have you spent it all?’

‘I never took—’

‘Don’t make it worse by lying. Where’s the rest of the money? Surely you haven’t spent it all on yourself, you greedy little girl. A whole two and fourpence. Me mam could have fed us for a week on that.’

It was perhaps an exaggeration, but the younger girl wasn’t to know.

Violet glared into her sister’s eyes. ‘I never touched the tea caddy—’

Polly’s eyes narrowed and her voice was quiet now but all the more menacing as she said slowly, ‘Who said anything about the tea caddy?’

The two girls stared at each other for a moment before Polly, holding the smaller girl with one hand, delved into Violet’s apron pocket. Her hand closed over a few coins and she pulled them out and thrust them under the girl’s nose. ‘You little liar! You’re a thief and a liar, Violet. Aren’t you ashamed, with our mam scarcely cold in her grave and Dad—?’

With a cry, Violet twisted free of Polly’s grasp and ran towards the door. Pausing briefly, she turned back and spat, ‘And what are you going to do about it? Get your precious Leo onto me?’

With that she ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her, leaving Polly gazing down at the one shilling and five coppers in her hand. A piece of ribbon hadn’t cost that much, she thought, and wondered what else Violet had spent their precious money on. Sighing, she slipped the coins into her own apron pocket.

No more putting money in the tea caddy, she thought. At least, not until Dad gets home.

Polly’s world was now bound up with housework, caring for the little ones and praying that her father survived; if he didn’t it would be the workhouse for them all, for sure. The responsibility for the family lay heavily on her. She had no free time, no time to read or to play; she’d had to grow up very quickly. Outside the family circle, there was only Bertha in whom she could confide. She’d even lost touch with her schoolfriends. How she yearned to be back at school, sitting in the classroom or playing in the schoolyard. Such happy carefree days that she hadn’t appreciated at the time.

But one afternoon after school had finished, Miss Broughton, her former teacher, knocked on the door.

‘Oh, please come in, come in. That’s if you’re not afraid of catching—’

‘Goodness me, no.’ Miss Broughton smiled as she peeled off her gloves and sat down in the chair near the range. ‘I just came to see how you were coping, Polly. I heard about your mother, my dear. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

Polly shook her head, biting her lip. Then the words she’d held back for so long came bursting out. ‘I don’t want to sound disloyal to my dad, specially not while he’s in hospital. Miss Broughton, I did so want to stay on at school, but he made me leave. Said being a teacher wasn’t for the likes of us.’

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear he said that and, I have to say, I don’t agree with him. You’d have made an excellent pupil teacher, Polly, my dear. I’d already spoken to the head about you and he was willing to give you a trial. And I was ready to give you whatever extra tuition you needed out of school hours.’ She sighed. ‘But you had to leave and now, I suppose . . .’ Her voice faded away.

‘No,’ Polly said dully. ‘There’s no chance now. With Mam gone, there’s only me to look after the little ones.’

‘And you’re so young too,’ Miss Broughton murmured. ‘But don’t give up hope, Polly. You never know, perhaps when you’re older, when Stevie and the baby are both at school, perhaps then . . .’

But to the young girl that seemed an age away; she couldn’t even imagine such a time.

‘And in the meantime, Polly, keep up your reading. I’ll lend you some books, if you like. And read the newspapers if you can. Newspapers are a great source of education.’

‘I will,’ Polly promised, but the promise was made half-heartedly. When on earth would she have time to read? But she did not voice the thought to her former teacher. Miss Broughton meant it kindly.

William was discharged from hospital, but he was still not strong enough to return to his labouring job on the railway.

He came home the day before Violet’s birthday, but there were no celebrations for the eleven-year-old as William sat huddled by the range, weakened by the illness and feeling the cold more than normal. But he was getting better, Polly told herself. Soon their little family could return to normal. Well, not as they’d known it before, of course. Life would never be ‘normal’ again, not since they’d lost their mother. But at least, if her dad got back to work, she’d be able to manage better.

As Polly bustled about the kitchen and the scullery, Eddie came to stand on the hearth in front of William. ‘Dad – Mr Hopkins ses I can leave school at Easter instead of waiting till summer. He ses if I work hard from now till then I can get me certificate, an’ Mr Wilmott ses I can work for him full-time.’

William looked up slowly. His voice was dull and lifeless as he said, ‘That’s good, Eddie. But what about the lad that works for Mr Wilmott usually?’

Eddie hesitated a moment before saying, ‘He got the typhoid. He – he’s not coming back.’

Polly, overhearing, moved closer. ‘Little Benny? Don’t tell me he died, Eddie.’

Eddie nodded. ‘Last week, Mr Wilmott said. They took him to the County, but it was too late. Bit like—’ He broke off and looked down at the floor, but they all knew what he’d been going to say. ‘Bit like our mam.’

William glanced at Polly, bitterness in his eyes. ‘Mebbe his mam cooked him a nice breakfast, did she?’

Polly swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. She opened her mouth to speak, but already William had turned back to Eddie.

With the thought of his Sarah still on his mind, William said, ‘Is it what you want, lad? It’s not what your mam would have wanted for you. She had high hopes you’d stay on at school. Mebbe get an apprenticeship.’

Polly turned away, feeling a shaft of jealousy. She couldn’t help it. Why was it always boys who got the chances? She’d been forced to leave school when she’d
wanted
to stay on, forced to work in a smelly glue factory. And now, at thirteen – nearly fourteen, she reminded herself – her life for the next few years was mapped out for her and she’d have no say in the matter. She’d be expected to stay at home and run the household; trapped in a life of drudgery that was none of her making.

She stalked back into the scullery and plunged her hands into the sink, not trying, for once, to stem the flow of tears that plopped into the hot washing-up water.

William was improving. Even the doctor said he was ready to go back to work whenever he liked. But no one could pull him from his lethargy. He was content to sit gazing into the fire, letting Polly wait on him hand and foot.

At last the girl could stand it no longer. She stood on the hearth looking down at her father as he sat slumped in his chair. ‘Dad, this won’t do. We’ve no money left at all.’ In fact, there’d been no money for weeks and they were existing on the half-rotten fruit and vegetables that Eddie brought home on a Saturday night, and the few pence Mr Wilmott paid him. Even if he started fulltime work after Easter as had been promised, the young boy’s wage would not stretch to feeding the whole family.

William raised soulful eyes. ‘I can’t seem to get going, Poll. If only yar mam was still here . . .’

Polly bit back the rising anger and tried valiantly to sound sympathetic. In truth, she was becoming increasingly impatient with her father’s apathy. She felt as if the whole weight of responsibility for the family rested on her slight shoulders, though she had to admit that Eddie was doing his bit now, even if it was to ensure he got his own way. He was going to school every day and working in the evenings and at weekends for Mr Wilmott. And, as far as she knew, he was handing over every penny he earned. He was certainly bringing home the only food they had. Now Polly hadn’t even any money to buy flour to make bread.